The Moon, the Sun, the Fire and the Water

The Sun, the Moon, the Fire, and the Water

From the Odu Irosun Meji (4-4)

If the diloggún is not consulted, one does not know his destiny; and even if one knows his destiny, without ebó it is nothing.

The moon set and the sun had yet to rise. Campfires died until there were only embers; soon even those were gone, and there had been no rain in days. In that thick twilight before morning, darkness swathed the earth like rich, black velvet, and in its midst stood four umbrous figures. They were the spirits enlivening the sun, the moon, the fire, and the water. While standing on earth as shadows, the elements they ruled slept; and there they formed a motionless circle. Their only light was that of a thousand pale stars, useless but still comforting as they hung in the sky. Everything was quiet; the only sounds were their breaths, deep and hollow. The silence was strained, for days the four spirits argued about who was the greatest and who had the most ashé. Their arguments proved futile, and one by one they went to see the diviners in heaven.

Now, they waited on earth. After a time, a gentle luminescence rose between them; at first it was a subtle glow, almost imperceptible, but it grew and chased the shadows away. Something took shape inside that light, and the four figures stood in the presence of an old man, Olofin.

One by one they bowed, putting their heads to the ground while waiting for him to bless and lift them. Stiffly he moved, lovingly he embraced each. The old man smiled at each of them.

With a voice too youthful for his aged form he said, “It is time to settle your arguments. Have you made your ebos?"

“I have!” The first spirit who spoke was the sun, and the other three forms fidgeted nervously.

“I made my ebó—I was first, and I know I will be the most powerful! It is my destiny to light the daytime sky, to bring light and warmth and joy to the world Olódumare created.”

Of course it was a lie.

While in heaven the sun had gone to the diviners before he came to earth, and the old men in heaven told him that his power would be great. “You are the ball of light in the sky, the one who destroys the darkness and warms the world. It is your destiny to be powerful. Still, to ensure your place and power in nature you must make ebó. You must sacrifice to Elegguá.”

All the sun heard was, “It is your destiny to be powerful.”

“If that is my destiny,” he reasoned, “then there is no need to make ebó!”

Olofin smiled, but weakly. He knew it was a lie. The sun had not made ebó, but he said nothing.

“And the rest of you? Have you all made ebó?”

“I made my ebó,” said the spirit who was the moon. “And there is more to power than raw strength, Sun. Mine is the light that shines in darkness; I am she who inspires poets to write and lovers to love. I bring magic, mystery, and romance into the world. Therein lies true power.”

It was a lie, the moon had not made ebó.

As had the sun, she went to see the diviners and they told her, “Your power is great. You inspire poets and lovers and dreamers. To lock in your good fortune and your ashé, you must make ebó to Elegguá.” The moon heard only this, “Your power is great,” and she paid no mind to the ebó she needed to offer Elegguá.

Olofin smiled again, weakly. The moon’s dishonesty concerned him but he said nothing.

“And you? Have you made ebó?” He looked at the spirit who was the fire.

He puffed his chest up proudly, beating it with his fist when he said, “I have made my ebó, Olofin. Of all gathered here, it is I who am the most powerful. I will become the fire in the storm, the lightning that flashes from sky to earth. I will become the fire that warms men on cold, moonlit nights, and I will be the fire that cooks their food during the day when the sun shines. And I will be the fire that consumes and destroys when the hearts of men become cold and angry. That is true power.”

Of course the fire lied as well. In heaven the diviners told him to feed Elegguá a goat and three roosters, but that seemed like too much trouble to the fire.

Instead he offered Elegguá a single rooster before leaving heaven. He was in a rush; he had no time to make ebó. Fire was rash like that, always moving and never thinking. Once again Olofin smiled, but in the pale light the shadows deepened it into a frown.

A partial ebó was as good as no ebó, and sometimes, for teasing the orishas Elegguá, it was even more dangerous.

“And what about you?” He turned to the creature that was the water. “Have you made your ebó?”

Shyly, looking at her feet, she said, “Yes, Father. I have made ebó. Elegguá asked for a bolt of dark cloth and a bag of sharp things, knives and machetes. He asked for a goat and a rooster. I have given him all for which he asked.”

Olofin smiled; it was deep and radiant.

“As you have made ebó, so will you be blessed.” As quickly as he came, Olofin’s light winked out; and the darkness was instant. It seemed their eyes snapped shut, and ghostly lights danced in their vision before the night swallowed them up.

The spirits who were the sun, the moon, and the fire fidgeted nervously while the water felt her way through the night.

She remembered her own time on the mat with the diviners. Their words to her were simple, “Of all the elements, you are the one most stable and the one most delicate. Your power will be simple, to refresh the world.”

She thought to herself, “My power is to be simple when I am surrounded by so much greatness.”

It was disheartening; but still, she made ebó. Now that she knew the diviners promised the sun, the moon, and the fire great power, she chose to leave and not watch as they received their ashé. And she would receive her own ashé alone, far away from them all, if at all.

When water was gone into the shadows, the sun turned to the fire. “She left. The water left. She is too weak to stand with us; she fears our power. Did you really make ebó?”

“Of course I did.” His voice wavered. “Did you?”

“Didn’t all of us?” asked the moon. Her voice was soft and unsure.

“When do we settle this?” asked the sun. He was impatient.

“Now!” said Elegguá. The orishas stood hidden in shadows; no one knew he was there listening the entire time. Darkness melted like thin sheets of ice as the moon gave off a pale, silvery light; slowly she rose until she was floating high above the earth.

“She did make ebó,” said the sun.

“Didn’t you?” asked the fire.

The earth was covered with a light luminescence.

The water, who had walked some distance away, looked up at the sky and sighed. “Her ebó must have been great. She is beautiful.” She kept walking, her footsteps easier in the silver light.

A thin sheen of sweat rose on the sun’s brow as he felt heat rising in his belly; he held out his arms—they were glowing. Warmth and light grew until he was lighter than the air; slowly, he lifted off the ground until he floated in the crack between the earth and sky. Bit by bit he slid up the eastern horizon; the sunrise that morning was brilliant, so brilliant that he paled the moon’s soft glow.

He stood in the east as she sank in the west and he yelled to her, “My power is great! I shine brighter than you, moon!” The water stopped again and watched the sunrise; she watched until the sun’s light hurt her eyes.

“His ebó must have been greater. His power pales the moon.” Turning away from his glow, she continued to walk.

Elegguá watched as she did. The fire burst into flames, and quickly he spread. Heat and smoke rose to the sky while everything he touched blackened and withered.

“Look at me!” he screamed to the brightening sun and fading moon, “This is true power! I can destroy everything and my smoke blots out the sky in which you live!”

It was true, thick, black smoke rose like curds to the sky, and quickly the world was thrust into a hazy twilight no matter how brightly the sun and moon tried to out shine each other. The air was hot, thick, and too acrid to breathe.

Elegguá shook his head sadly, and as fast as the wind he went running to the water.

“Where are you going?” he called out.

“Away,” said the water.

“Their powers are great, indeed. Their ebós must have been greater than mine. I will never be as beautiful as the moon, or as bright as the sun, or as strong as the fire.”

“Oh, but you will,” said Elegguá. “For you are the only one who made ebó! The other three spirits lied.”

He wrapped the water in her black cloth and handed her the bag of machetes and knives.

“And as the only one who made ebó, you are the only one who can put out the fire and save the world!” Something happened to the water as she looked at Elegguá with confusion in her eyes; each element boasted of making ebó to seal in a powerful destiny, yet she made ebó just because Elegguá asked, and Elegguá said they lied.

She spoke not a word and he offered no answers as her body wavered and spread over the earth; for the first time she felt and knew her power, as she was the great sea; she was all the rivers and lakes of the world.

As she spread she lashed out at the fire; and the fire ran and climbed to higher ground while the sun laughed and the moon snickered at his fear.

When her spirit filled the lowest parts of the watery world, still she spread and became the humidity in the air, the gentle vapor that rose to create white clouds. These darkened, and soon her black cloth unfolded until the earth found itself in twilight in which neither moon nor sun could be seen.

“Your power is greater than that of the fire, and it is greater than those of the sun and moon,” Elegguá called out to her, “because you were the only one who made ebó!”

Both spirits looked at each other fearfully as the water overpowered them in the sky. Her bag of machetes and knives ripped open from their weight and they fell to earth; and she, not wanting them to slice the creatures that crept on its face, reached out to grab them. She fell herself, first as gentle raindrops and then as powerful sheets of water drenching the earth.

Over the fire she poured, and the fire, unable to burn through the water, died until he was but a few embers, and even these went out as they were soaked.

“For making ebó,” said Elegguá over the pounding rain, “your power has become the greatest in the world!” The rain stood on the earth in shock; everywhere she looked there was water, some salty and some fresh, but most of the world was hers; and still, the sun and the moon were blotted out.

“It doesn’t matter what one’s destiny is,” said Elegguá, “because if ebó is not made, the blessings are never firm. Water owns this world; water saves this world; water will always be the most powerful thing in this world.”

Thus was the water’s ashé sealed on the earth, and she was able to overcome the power of any element in the material realm.