How the Birds Got Their Wings

The fastest way to safety is to fly away from danger.

It was early morning, the time just after dawn when the birds hopped down from their trees to scavenge the earth for bugs and worms. This was the safest time for them, the time when predators slept in their dens, exhausted from a night of stalking sleeping prey; and because there was safety in numbers they blanketed the forest. The only sound was that of their small feet hopping over dry leaves, or the occasional snap of a twig under their feet. Each ate its fill, and then began the slow climb back up to the highest branches.

There came a growl from deeper in the forest, and then screams as a leopard sprang from the shadows. Hundreds of birds scrambled for the trees while others tried to hide in the underbrush. The leopard’s attack was swift, and soon the forest was filled with feathers and blood as he ate his fill. For none of the birds had wings—they were tiny, helpless creatures who could climb, but none could fly. When the attack ended the leopard lay on the forest floor beneath the survivors; he sat there licking his paws and then his face. Snapping his tongue over his teeth, he got up and lumbered back into the forest.

The birds looked down where they had been feeding—the feathers of their brothers and sisters still floating on light breezes. When they were sure the leopard was gone, one little bird was the first to speak, “We need to see the diviners. We need to make ebó. We cannot live like this any longer. One day, we will be wiped off the face of the earth.”

The other birds agreed.

It was late afternoon before they gathered their courage to travel. They hopped from branch to branch, a great, chirping cloud that moved through the canopy. When they came to the edge of the forest, one by one they dropped to the earth and ran toward the city. Not even the leopard had the courage to travel there. Humans had weapons and would kill the overgrown cat on sight. The birds were small, tiny, and humans regarded them with curious ease as they moved, in mass, to the old diviner’s home.

Mofá was surprised to see hundreds of birds outside his front door. “What are you all doing here?” he asked.

The little bird that spoke first in the forest spoke first to the old man. “We have come to see you, Mofá. We want you to divine for us, and we want to make ebó. The leopard hunts us relentlessly, and if it continues the day will come when we are no more on the earth.”

He opened his door wide and invited the creatures inside. They blanketed his sitting room while he took the smallest bird back to his divination room. After a lengthy prayer to the orishas, he cast his cowries on the mat and marked the letter that fell. “Odí Obara, 7-6 in the diloggún. Indeed, you must make ebó if you are to survive!”

“What must we do?” asked the little bird.

“Bring me a rat, a fish, a young chicken, and a rooster. Bring me sticks and twigs and dried leaves from the ground. We will make ebó to Elegguá, and he will save you and all your kind from death.”

The birds canvassed the village looking for the items for their ebó. None of the humans touched them; they regarded them with a careful curiosity as they saw them all entering and leaving Mofá’s home. They knew something special was in the works. Early that evening as the sun slid down the western sky, Mofá finished their ebó and gave to each bird a packet of powder. “Go home,” he said. “And before you go to sleep rub this powder over your bodies. Stay home for seven days—do not go anywhere on the ground, but stay high in the trees. When you wake up the morning of the eighth day there will be the miracle you seek.”

The birds thanked the diviner and ran back to the forest; they climbed the tree closest to its edge and ran over the twigs and branches and leaves. Every morning when they awoke, they ate only the nuts and berries and bugs they could catch high in the trees; and every morning, the leopard, looking hungrier and hungrier, ran through the woods looking for the birds. So it went for seven days.

On the morning of the eighth day, the birds awoke to find wings had sprouted over their bodies, and as they tried to climb down the trees their wings began to flap—they took flight.

Since that day the leopard has given up trying to feed on the birds, because when he sees one sitting on the earth, before he gets to it the bird has flapped its wings and taken flight.

And that is how the birds got their wings. They made ebó and took to the skies.