Obatalá Rewards Odé

The afternoon sun sailed high in the sky, but in the forest, with the thick branches and foliage of ancient trees blocking the sun, it seemed twilight as Odé tracked his prey in silence. The damp forest floor held a leopard's footprints, and they were fresh; wetness from the earth was only beginning to seep into their borders. The air was humid and sticky, and Odé broke into a sweat; he wiped his brow with the back of his hand as he stared ahead into the woods, but his hand was as wet as his face, and he only smeared the sweat into a thin sheen on his skin. He was tense; every muscle in his body felt tight and contracted as he walked carefully, avoiding thin twigs and dry leaves whose crunching underfoot would betray him.

It was then that he saw the leopard that left the footprints in the dampness—it lay lazily in a ray of sunlight breaking through the canopy overhead. Odé crouched, and slowly, he loaded his crossbow with a single arrow whose head was thin and razor sharp. He inhaled as he pulled back on the cord and held his breath as he took aim. He didn't exhale until the arrow was slicing cleanly to its mark.

The leopard's head arched back in pain as the arrow stabbed his chest; and then, it fell in a crumpled heap. It was dead.

Odé exhaled and smiled. He never missed his mark.

The hunter spent the next hour skinning, gutting, slicing, and quartering the animal's meat. When he was done, he wrapped everything in the pelt and went to see his orisha, Obatalá. Odé gave a major portion of all his kills to that orisha, for Obatalá was an old man, too old to hunt for himself. And of all the orishas on the earth, Odé loved him the best, as if he were his own father. “Obatalá will be pleased,” he thought as he walked to his house.

Together, Odé and Obatalá sat on the orisha's front porch, sipping refreshments his servants brought. Obatalá was an old man, and stooped under the world's weight, but there was something fresh about his face. True, the onyx skin was wrinkled and creased, and even his creases were wrinkled; and his hair was as white as sheep's wool. But his eyes sparkled with a youthful energy, and Odé knew it was the ashé of all creation that flowed in his veins, keeping his mind as youthful and sharp as it was in his youth, and his body as healthy as a teenager's.

“Odé,” said Obatalá, smiling, “as always, you are quite generous. You bring so much fresh meat to my house. Do you ever keep any for yourself?”

“Of course, father!” he said, grinning like a small child just complimented on a job well done. “I spend all day in the forest hunting. My meat-house is stacked with fresh, salted meats. I can only eat so much myself! It makes me happy to take care of you like this.”

“You are more thoughtful than my own children, Odé.” A shadow crept over Obatalá's face for a moment; it seemed to darken with sadness. But before Odé could say a word, Obatalá shrugged it off and asked him, “Will you be going to the white festival in town this weekend?”

“What white festival, father?”

“This year, everyone in town is gathering for a festival, and the theme is my personal favorite—white cloth.” Obatalá gestured to himself with open palms, fluttering his hands from his neck to his waist. Odé smiled; Obatalá was always immaculate in his whites. “Surely you don't spend so much time in the woods hunting that you don't know about it?”

“No, I didn't know.”

“Well, you must go! And take some of the fine animal pelts you cure and tan in your spare time. You could sell them for a ransom! They are so flawless and well-preserved.”

Odé smiled and looked to the west. The sun was setting. “It's late, father. I need to go home.”

Obatalá rose and embraced the young man. “May God bless you in all you do. And don't forget about the festival. It is unseemly for you to be in the forest all the time. Have some fun!”

Odé promised he would, and left. Obatalá pursed his lips and sighed as his friend left.

The day of the festival came, and Odé dressed himself in his best whites. Unfortunately, his best whites were among the worst of his ragged clothes, and as he looked down on himself, he frowned. “Everything I own is ruined by stains from the animals that I kill. I have nothing nice to wear.” Still, Odé thought it would be fun to spend a day in town among friends and acquaintances, so he left his small hut and walked to the festival.

On a small hill overlooking the village, he stopped. Even though he was still some distance away, he was close enough to see all the villagers dressed in their finest whites. Under the brilliance of the sun, they glowed with a clean, fresh light. He sighed.

“Why do you sigh, Odé?” asked Obatalá.

Odé jumped at the sound of his voice. Only moments before, he was alone. “I can't go there, Obatalá. Look at them.” He gestured toward the town and all the people garbed in fresh, white linens. “Their clothes are so nice. And mine,” he said, gesturing to himself, “are ragged and stained with blood. I'm just going home.”

“Wait.” Obatalá put his hand on his shoulder, and Odé froze where he stood. The orisha's touch sent a powerful current coursing through his body; each hair stood on end, and his skin tingled. Although he'd never felt that before, he knew it was ashé, and he knew Obatalá had plenty of it. “You have always taken care of my needs. Never have you asked anything in return. Now let me take care of you.”

What happened next was a mystery, and not even Odé could remember the words Obatalá uttered, or the gestures he made; he did remember that for a moment, there was a blinding white light, and the world ceased to exist before him. Then he was standing in the center of town, and everyone at the festival was gasping and laying their heads on the ground in reverence.

And when Odé looked down at himself, he could not stand his own brilliance; he wore fabrics so fresh and so white that they had to be made from the same stuff as the sun, and they glowed with a bright, fiery light that could only be supernatural. From the hems of his collar to the hems at his feet, the fabrics were studded with crystalline stones that gathered the light, and winked as stars.

For that day, Obatalá had imbued his friend with ashé, and at the white festival, there was no villager better dressed than he.