The Death of the Egungun Priests

Alapiní was one of the eldest priests of egun in Cuba, and Molo, who was crowned Elegguá, was his wife. Theirs was a troubled partnership; for eleven years, the two were married, but each day that came drove a wedge deeper into their marriage. As are most of Elegguá's children, Molo was curious about everything her husband did, from his daily affairs to his religious duties; and Alapiní, ever the henpecked husband, was weary of his wife's constant questions and accusations.

Conversations were never happy and were always strained.

One day, Alapiní was working very hard to ignore his wife, and Molo was working very hard for her husband's attention. He was too busy to care. In eleven days was the huge egun masquerade, and he needed to prepare.

He was making preparations when Molo asked, “Alapiní? What are you doing?”

Alapiní stood at the door to his egun shrine, unlocking it. “I'm going into my sacred room for egun, the one you are not supposed to look inside.”

Molo sighed. Whenever her husband went inside his room to address egun, he was in there for hours, and she was bored. “Will you be long?”

It was a simple question, but it distressed Alapiní; his wife was overly concerned about his religious affairs. Being uninitiated to egungun's cult, she had no business in them. For a moment, he was angry, but he took a deep breath and said calmly, “No, I won't be in here for long. In eleven days, we have our feast for egun, and I want to take their clothes outside to air. The room gets stale, and the clothes and scarves need to be fresh for the ceremony.” It was too much explanation for his wife, as far as he was concerned, but the words just came out without feeling or emotion. Alapiní felt as if he were explaining things to a child, and it aggravated him.

He opened the door just a bit and backed into the room, glaring at his wife. She averted her eyes; what was inside was not for her to know. She thought to herself, “What is it about that room that is so secret?”

“She's not even an initiate,” Molo whispered to his ancestors. “Why does she need to know anything about what we egungun priests do?”

Without another word, Alapiní came out with bolts of cloth draped over his arms. Freeing one hand, he relocked the door with difficulty and went outside to hang the multicolored fabrics on tree branches. She followed him.

Molo noted that there were dark storm clouds in the distance. “It looks like rain.”

“It's not going to rain,” he answered.

“But the clouds are in the west, and look at your cloth. It is blowing toward the east.” Gently, the materials he hung were flapping in the breeze. Alapiní knew that Molo was right about the direction the winds blew, but the clouds were too far away to bring rain here. “The wind will bring the rains,” she insisted.

“Not today, Molo.” Alapiní's voice was terse. He was aggravated with his wife. In silence, he finished hanging up the clothes and scarves and colored fabrics. The silence was strained. Without looking at his wife, he said, “I have to go into town. I'll be back later.”

“But it's going to rain, dear husband,” she mocked under her breath. Alapiní did not hear her.

While Alapiní was gone, the winds picked up; they blew frantically, whipping and turning egun's cloths in the air. The dark storm clouds that earlier were miles away billowed and twisted in the sky, and soon, it was dark. Lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled in the distance. As the first drops of rain fell, Molo was outside, gathering her husband's things.

“I told him this would happen.” If Alapiní were here, she would have nagged him relentlessly.

Instead, she was alone, and Molo brought everything indoors silently. She draped the fabrics over a chair, and looked toward the door to the egun shrine. Curiously, it was ajar.

Molo looked from the door to the fabrics, and back again to the door. Before she realized what she was doing, she had gathered them up in her arms and walked to the room. “I can close my eyes and take them inside. I won't see anything,” she reasoned. She did just that: she closed her eyes and opened the door blindly. “But how will I know where to lay them? What if I lay them on a candle? What if I set them on top of an ebó? That will ruin the fabric.” She reasoned that one quick glance would do no harm, just one peek to find a safe place to set her armload of fabrics.

She looked inside the room.

What she saw both surprised and unimpressed her. “Why is all this so secret? It's a stick, a stone in a terra cotta dish, a bundle of sticks, and a bunch of masks hanging on the wall.” A funny feeling fluttered in her chest and reddened her cheeks; it was a mixture of embarrassment and shame. Molo would never let anyone meddle in the affairs of the Eshu priests; and because of her curiosity, she had just overstepped her bounds. “There is no reason for my husband to know I've seen his secret things,” she said to herself. Not wanting to lie to him, she closed her eyes tight and walked into the room to lay the fabrics on the floor. “If he is angry that I went in the room, I will just tell him that I went in with my eyes shut. That will not be a lie! What he assumes is his problem.”

She was just closing the door when her husband burst in; her hand was still on the forbidden doorknob. She opened her eyes in surprise. “What are you doing, Molo? Where are my fabrics and cloths?” Alapiní was wet from the rain, and he stood there dripping on the floor, looking ridiculous all wet like that with anger twisting his face.

“I told you it would rain.” She walked past him, holding her hands behind her back and looking at him innocently. “You should change. You're getting the floor wet.”

Alapiní grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. Her eyes were wide with fear. “Where are my things?” He emphasized each word. “My egun cloths are gone!”

She wretched her arm free and jumped back. It was a reflex against his sharp voice and menacing stare. “They're in your room. It started to rain so I decided to do you a favor and put them in there for you before they were ruined.”

“You went in my egun room?”

“My eyes were closed.” She rolled her eyes at him.

“You went in my sacred room?” It was both a question and an accusation.

“Yes, I went in your room.” Molo was afraid; in all their years of marriage, this was his only rule for her. She lived by this rule. Now that she had broken this rule, even though she did him a favor, she was afraid of the anger that flushed crimson in Alapiní's face.

“You, woman, are cursed. Death is the punishment for breaking the rules of our cult. In eleven days you will be sacrificed in the bushes for the dead. Egun will drink your blood and eat your flesh. And there's nothing neither I nor anyone else will do to save you.”

Alapiní banished his wife that night; he threw her out of the house with only the clothes on her back. She left quickly.

In fear, Molo did what she knew to do; she sought out Eshu, her spiritual father, and asked him for a consultation. Eshu smiled. “Molo, you must make ebó to egun so they don't take your life.”

Her eyes were wet with tears and her face pale and streaked where they burned her skin. “What do I give them, Father?” It broke Eshu's heart to see his priestess in such a state.

Eshu thought for a moment. “The day before the festival, at the same bush where your husband and all the egungun priests sacrifice to egun, make ebó to the dead. On a large fishing net with a red ribbon tied to it, give those spirits eleven jícaras (the dried gourds into which offerings are poured) of rum, eleven jícaras of beer, and eleven jícaras filled with fried foods. Then leave, and don't look back.”

Molo did as Eshu advised, and the day before the great masquerade, she laid out a feast for egun. She turned and walked away without looking back.

Eshu was hiding in that bush as Molo made ebó; and when she walked away, he came out of hiding and looked at the foods she prepared. “Excellent,” he said. Eshu walked to the ebó and waved his hands over the offerings. Magically, they multiplied eleven times over, and there was enough food, rum, and beer for a small army.

Eshu sought out Alapiní, who was busy with his preparations. As Eshu approached, he whispered, “You are very hungry, Alapiní.” When he was next to him, Eshu heard the man's stomach rumble.

The old man was surprised when he saw the orisha standing before him, and he went down to the floor in reverence. Eshu lifted him. He heard the priest's stomach rumble again. “Alapiní, what is this? You are hungry. You must eat!”

“There is no time to cook, Eshu. At least, I do not have the time now. My wife is gone. The masquerade is tomorrow, and I must meet the other priests soon to prepare.”

“Strange,” said Eshu. “Someone prepared a huge feast already. It is laid out beside the bush where all the priests meet to feed egun.”

“Really?” His stomach rumbled again, more insistently; it was almost painful.

“Yes, someone did. There must be 121 jícaras of beer, 121 jícaras of rum, and 121 jícaras of deliciously fried foods set out on a huge net. Someone went through a lot of trouble.”

“Then let me call the other priests, and we will feast as we prepare!”

Eshu smiled, and went away.

The priests gathered at the bush. Greedily, they ate.

The next day all the priests, including Alapiní, were gathered again at the bush; the opening ceremonies were about to begin. An evil smile crept on Alapiní's face when the eldest priest asked, “Where is the sacrifice for egun?”

“The sacrifice is my wife!” Alapiní said.

Everyone murmured among themselves; this was blasphemy. They were in disbelief at Alapiní's words. The eldest priest held his hand up, palm open, and commanded, “Silence!” Everyone was quiet. “Alapiní, this is no time for games. Why would you say we are sacrificing your wife?”

“She broke our rules, and entered my sacred shrine. I cursed her and her life. For her blasphemy, it goes to egun. Those are our laws, and the laws of egun.” He paused. No one spoke. “They are ancient laws; it's true they haven't been used in centuries, but a law is still a law and as priests, we must follow it.”

Eshu came from nowhere and stood among them. The eldest tried to drop down in reverence, but Eshu held his hand up, forbidding him. Turning his back on the elder, he looked at Alapiní, addressing him as the others listened. “You are sacrificing your wife? You are sacrificing my priestess?”

“Yes. It is our rule.”

“So be it,” said the eldest priest. “We will sacrifice your wife to the ancestors we serve. It is the law. It is an ancient law, but we all know that our laws have never changed. It is still a law, and we must follow it.”

Eshu addressed the assemblage of priests. “Did not his wife make ebó to the dead yesterday? I believe it was a huge ebó: 121 jícaras of rum, 121 jícaras of beer, and 121 jícaras of fried foods. She offered that ebó in penance for the evil thing she did. I am sure egun will pardon her. Surely you all saw that ebó.”

“That was a feast for us, not egun,” said the eldest priest. “Alapiní invited us all to that feast. And while we appreciate the meal, the dead had no part of that. We cannot pardon her for feeding us.”

“No, that ebó was meant for egun, not their priests. Alapiní lied to you all!” Eshu insisted.

“Eshu,” Alapiní roared. “You told me that a feast had been laid out!” His face was twisted with anger and pale with fear.

“Yes, a feast had been set out, but you, Alapiní, misinterpreted what I said, and you ate food that was meant for the ancestors you serve.” Alapiní's mouth fell open when he realized what Eshu said was true. “And all of you ate as well.”

Everyone was silent. No one dared breathe a word.

“And correct me if I am wrong,” continued Eshu, “but I believe that the price for eating food that was meant for the dead . . . is death. Is that not one of your most ‘ancient laws'?”

A great roar went through the crowd; and it died as suddenly as it began. For their offense, and their unwillingness to pardon Molo, egun came and claimed as their ebó . . . the lives of all the priests who were there. The spirits all ate; the priests all died; and with no one left to perform the sacrifices, Molo's life was spared. They spared her because she made ebó.

And this, some say, is how the cult of egungun died in Cuba. Once all the priests were dead, there was no one to initiate anyone else into their mysteries.