Shangó's Imprisonment

Oyá's love for Shangó was an obsession. At the mention of his name, her pulse quickened; and when she saw him from a distance, her heart beat wildly. His touch, no matter how fleeting, brought dampness to her secret places. “I love him so much,” she told herself; but she knew that his heart belonged to Oshún.

Passion consumed her; it clouded her mind and dimmed her judgment. “I will put him someplace Oshún can never find him, a place from which he will never escape.” She paced inside her palace like a caged beast. “I will keep him there as long as it takes; I will keep him locked up until his heart belongs to me, and no one else!” Her eyes glazed with desire, and something resembling madness, as she plotted.

The next day, her army rose up and stole Shangó away to the land of the dead.

She kept him in a small house with both the windows and doors barred; she surrounded it with the souls of the dead, and at the front door, made Ikú stand guard. “No one gets in but me,” she said. “And no one leaves without my consent.” Ikú and Oyá had pacts, and although Ikú knew it was an orisha she imprisoned in the land of the dead, the spirit of death had no choice but to comply. Of all that existed in both worlds, only Oyá had the strength to fight Ikú and win. Ikú did not like to fight and lose.

Shangó was a prisoner for longer than he cared to remember; but every night, Oyá came to visit him, and they made love until both were exhausted. In time, Shangó learned that Oyá's skills in bed far exceeded those of any other women he loved, including Oshún. Bit by bit, his heart warmed to Oyá.

Oshún was the first to notice Shangó was missing. Every night, it was his custom to come to her; and they would spend the evening hours locked in love's embrace. Often, he slept through the night in her arms. When he didn't show up the first night, Oshún wasn't worried; she knew he had other lovers. A week passed and still, Oshún was not fearful. Shangó had a wife, Oba, who needed his attention occasionally, and Oyá was a sometimes demanding mistress. Weeks passed with no word, and when the kingdom lamented Shangó's disappearance, Oshún knew something was wrong.

“Shangó can't be missing,” she told herself. “He can't!”

For days, Oshún searched the kingdom for Shangó; and her searching was futile. Finally, she went to Elegguá, for he was the one orisha who knew everything, and she told him, “Elegguá, I am afraid.”

“Why are you afraid, Oshún?” he asked her.

“Shangó is missing. He is nowhere to be found, and already the kingdom mourns him as if he were one of the dead.”

“That,” said Elegguá, “is closer to the truth than you know. For Oyá has stolen him away to the land of the dead. She made her legions of souls kidnap him, and they took him to their world.”

“No!” Oshún's hands fled to her heart. “But Shangó is immortal, as are we. He can't die. The souls of the dead don't have enough power to hold him in their kingdom.”

Elegguá agreed. “But Ikú does. Shangó cannot die; nor does he fear the souls of the dead no matter their legions. But Ikú . . . only that spirit frightens him. Death is stronger than anything. And Oyá has a pact with Ikú. Until Shangó gives up his womanizing ways, Oyá has forced Ikú to stand guard at Shangó's prison, and he cannot escape.”

Oshún's eyes narrowed. “If you knew all this, why did you not tell anyone?”

Elegguá laughed. “I didn't tell anyone because no one asked me. Now, there is a way to release Shangó . . .” Elegguá paused. “But unless you ask me, I won't tell you.”

Oshún stomped her feet, and sighed. “Fine. How can we release Shangó?”

“Not we,” said Elegguá. “You.” And in quiet whispers, Elegguá told Oshún how to trick Ikú so she could free Shangó.

It was late evening when Oshún gathered all she needed to free Shangó; and with fear in her soul, but love in her heart, she ventured into the land of the dead. Oshún was not afraid of egun (ancestral spirits), for she was a vibrant orisha, full of life, who loved worldly things; but in the land of the dead, the pleasures of the living were absent. The place made her shiver with distaste.

None of the dead dared question her presence, for Oshún had the ashé to wither even their own miserable souls. Hope of a new life was all they had, and since that was the only thing that made their existence tolerable, Oshún, as the owner of all that made life worth living, had the power to destroy them. As she passed, they threw themselves to the ground in reverence; and because she lifted no one, they were afraid to lift themselves.

Passing through their land to Shangó's prison was easy.

Only Ikú challenged Oshún as she approached the prison. “I stand guard here on Oyá's orders,” Death said. “You cannot be here.”

“And who are you guarding?” demanded Oshún.

“You have no power here, lady; nor do you have the right to make demands of me in my own world. Turn back while you still can.”

“Go back?” Oshún asked. “Now?” Innocently, she crossed her hands over her heart, and she smiled at the wicked specter. “But I come bearing gifts, Ikú. I brought you something.”

Ikú's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If you have brought me anything, I doubt it is a gift, Oshún. You have no respect for my ways, or the work I do.”

“Oh, but I do,” she said, seductively. She threw her shoulders back, lifting her ample breasts, and she breathed in deeply, which only made them seem fuller. Oshún reached up to caress Ikú's face, softly, and she tried her best not to let the cold, clammy skin repulse her. “I have always . . . respected . . . you.” Ikú shivered with desire.

“Then show me what you bring?” Ikú smiled, but the smile was more of a fetid crack across the bony face; Oshún shivered, but Ikú thought she, too, shivered with desire.

From her basket Oshún pulled out nine racks of roasted pork, nine bottles of honey, and nine bottles of rum. “You must be famished, Ikú, and I thought we could have a little picnic here in your world.” She spread a white sheet on the ground, and sat, offering Ikú her hand. Death knelt, and then sat, and feasted on Oshún's gifts greedily. He never noticed Oshún failed to eat.*23 Alone, Ikú drank all nine bottles of rum, and when he was thoroughly sauced, he fell into a deep, drunken sleep.

Satisfied he would not awake, Oshún stole Ikú's keys, and released Shangó. As they passed the souls of the dead, they were still prone on the ground—none dare rise without Oshún's blessing. She blessed not a one.

Back on Earth, far away from Ikú's kingdom, Oshún lay on a riverbank and reached up for Shangó's hands. She spread her legs seductively and whispered, “Make love to me, my King.”

But Shangó had spent nine weeks in the land of the dead; and every night Oyá came to him, and their lovemaking was passionate and powerful. After so many weeks away from life and all it had to offer, Shangó found comfort and solace at her breast, and he yearned for Oyá's embrace, not Oshún's. He looked at her, and then turned away. “I can't. I'm in love with Oyá.”

Shangó left Oshún laying there by the riverbank, and sought out the arms of Oyá that night. Thunder and lightning rumbled in the skies, mighty winds and terrible tornadoes touched the earth, and rains beat the forest as Oyá and Shangó both screamed in ecstasy. And for many years, even though Oshún tried her best to reclaim Shangó's affections, he belonged to Oyá.