The Birth Of Ikú

From the Olodu Ejioko (2)

Evening shadows lengthened as the sun set on the first day; they stretched over the earth beneath a rich black velvet cloth that unrolled from the eastern sky. Soon everything was dark, and animals, heavy-eyed and fatigued, lay down to rest. They slept, lost in dreams.

When the last creeping thing closed its eyes, something else on the earth awakened. As shadows deepened, something umbrous and sinister slipped through; it congealed slowly, rising and taking form: Ikú.

At first she was nothing more than a shadow, a whisper in the night air, insignificant and intangible. But the darkness continued to gather itself, becoming solid. It created a body. She looked down at herself and felt her new form with eager hands. Ikú was pleased. It was soft but firm; her flesh was smooth and seductive. Wide hips swayed sensually as she relished in her existence. Chills coursed through her body as she felt her full breasts meant for suckling children and tempting men. The color of her skin was darker than the night; she held her hands up to the starlit skies and saw that her own blackness was deeper than the velvet of space. Though she reeked of danger, she was every woman’s dream and every man’s desire.

She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply, and called more of the darkness to herself; it became solid, whipping and folding over her form until she was wrapped in whole cloth made from the cold night air.

Ikú studied the night. Though she could not see far, she knew there was something vast hidden in it. She wanted something that was out there, although she didn’t know what that something was, and while she thought about that, her belly rumbled. She craved . . . she didn’t know. So for countless hours Ikú just stood there and waited to see what would come after the darkness.

Sunrise came, and as Ikú watched the mottled light erupt in a cacophony of colors on the horizon, she knew birth. This is how all things begin, she thought. Like the sunrise. It all begins with birth. Everything comes from darkness, as did I, and erupts fresh and new in the world. But how do all things end?

Ikú walked through the world, losing herself in its beauty, and after she walked for some time and had crossed over a hill, she spied a herd of animals grazing, feeding off the fresh young grasses. She felt again the emptiness in her stomach, the rumbling that insisted she do something, and there, she realized what she must do: I must eat. As the animals themselves were doing, Ikú bent down to graze on the earth; the sweet grasses filled her, but they did not sate her. While she pondered this, she saw other animals in the trees, biting at the colorful fruits in their branches.

This is what I must eat, she thought, to feel full. So Ikú walked up to the trees, annoyed when all the animals fled her presence; she reached up into a tree and grabbed some of the brightly colored fruits that hung there. As she bit into them, she was pleased. Sweet juices flooded her mouth, and once again what she ate filled her stomach but did not sate her. Again, she stood there and pondered that mystery.

Ikú could take the emptiness she felt in her stomach no more. Anger flared up within her, and she went on a rampage, eating and gorging herself on every grass, vine, and fruit she could find. The more food she ate, the hungrier she became, and as her hunger grew, so did her anger. It swirled about her like an icy wind, and soon she noticed that everything she touched turned black and withered; it died right there with her touch. Anger left her; sadness came. This is how all things end, she realized. They end with me, in death.

From deep in the forest she heard a primal, hungry growl, and a painful scream that was cut short; she forgot what she was thinking and ran toward it. She saw a leopard and another fallen animal that she could not recognize, so torn beyond recognition was it, and she watched, amazed, as the leopard’s blood-soaked lips and teeth tore again and again into the animal’s flesh. Hungry growls turned to purrs of satisfaction, and Ikú thought, That is what I must eat to feel full. Ikú felt the cessation of life deep within her being and knew, This is what I am. I am the bringer of death. Without a sound, she descended on the leopard; with her hungry touch, it fell dead, and she gorged herself on its flesh, fat, and blood. For the first time her hunger was gone, but still, she wanted more.

Ikú went on a rampage over the earth, gorging herself on its animals until she could hold no more. But nothing sated her hunger, which angered her more. And one by one, she set out to eat every animal that lived, crept, or crawled on the earth, never noticing that for each animal she ate, yet another sprang up somewhere to take its place. All Ikú knew was that the world was her personal buffet; her greed continued to grow, and she continued to eat. But while she gorged herself, Ikú could never really feel full.

So intent had Ikú become on filling herself that she missed the creation of humans. For centuries their race had grown, never knowing disease or death. In the beginning, humans grazed only on the grasses, grains, and fruits given freely by the earth. Ikú felt the death of each of these but paid it no mind; it was no different than the death brought to these things by the animals on which she herself fed. But in time humans learned, as had Death, that the animals were good for food as well. As the first band of hunters killed their first prey, Ikú felt that death, although she had not brought it about. She followed the scent of blood and saw these new two-legged animals feeding on another with four, and wondered who had such power equal to her own.

For years Ikú watched humans evolve, and in time the first of their kind grew weak and died of old age. Death felt this passing, as she had that of the first blade of grass and the first animal formed on earth, and as she tasted the death of the first human she realized that for the first time she was full. Her hunger had finally abated. The meat was sweet and fulfilling, but in time the hunger returned, and Ikú set out to eat her next human.

She fed freely, and great cries were heard over the earth and in heaven. People who had never known death now faced it every day, and Ikú, in greed, slaughtered humans in the prime of their life. She found that the younger humans were the sweetest, their meat the softest and tastiest, and the life of a child was rapturous. Powerless, humans resigned themselves to a fate of continual death and watched as Ikú picked them off one by one.

It was during this time that Ejioko incarnated among mortals. At first Ejioko saw the wisdom in death, for not even humans could be allowed to propagate and live forever, as they would destroy the earth in a matter of centuries. Yet Ikú was intoxicated by the scent of human flesh and, if allowed, would one day wipe out the whole world. The orishas, as well, were concerned, for all the hard work they had put into the world was being swallowed up by this one being. Ejioko divined and came up with a solution. He marked an ebó of one goat, sacrificed to Eshu (a manifestation of Elegguá), its meat cooked with a thousand small pebbles, and also a rooster for Elegguá, to be sacrificed the following day.

That day, they gathered and sacrificed, and as night fell over the earth, they sat around a fire and cooked the goat’s meat with the pebbles. They feasted silently, eating around the stones. The air was thick with their fear as they watched the darkness for any sign of Ikú. Sleep, however, overcame them, and as they sat ringing the fire, one by one they slumbered. Finally, the last human closed his eyes. Ejioko tied Elegguá’s rooster close to the fire so it would not escape and would stay warm during the cold night, and then he settled in and waited for the enemy to arrive. But despite wanting to stay awake, he, too, fell into a deep sleep. In the last hours before sunrise, Ikú came; quietly, like a leopard stalking its prey, she crept into the camp, cloaked by darkness. The fire was but a collection of embers, yet it was still hot, and she knelt beside it to warm herself. She took in a deep breath, enjoying the scent of so many sleeping humans crammed into one space.

But something smelled different.

Ikú followed the strange scents; sniffing at the air in short, rapid bursts, she came to Ejioko’s side. He looked human, delicious in his slumber, but there was something different about his odor. Carefully she touched his face, almost a loving caress, and then she knew. It’s the soul of an immortal trapped in human flesh! She licked her lips hungrily. This one will sate my hunger for a long, long time.

Then Ikú traced the other scent back to the fire. Sitting off to the side was a large pot of stewed goat’s meat, still warm and steaming. She looked around at the sleeping humans and saw that each had a gourd of the meat sitting at their side. So this is what humans eat, she thought. They love the goat’s flesh, as do I.

Knowing that Ejioko would fill her so she could eat no more, she decided to feast on the stew first. She took her first bite, and as she bit down something hard in the meat shattered her teeth. She cried out in pain.

What are these animals? she gasped, spitting out a mouthful of tooth fragments and stones into her hands. They can eat rocks? They are getting stronger! What has this immortal taught them? It was then that the rooster tied to Elegguá’s shrine awoke and felt Ikú’s presence, and it crowed in fear. Everyone around the campfire awoke, grabbing their weapons and letting out their own fearful cries. Ikú ran away from the humans that day, afraid of the race that had evolved to eat stones with their own teeth. So afraid was she that she never again lifted her own hands against those who could eat such hard food.

Since that time when Ejioko taught humans how to fight death by making ebó, Ikú has been afraid to feast freely on humans. She can eat only by the graces of the orishas, who say who, when, and where their children on earth may be taken. And those who live by the orishas’ will do not suffer untimely death; they see to it that those who make ebó live the full lives granted by Olódumare.