The Mountain

The mountain believed itself to be powerful and did not make ebó; thus did it fall.

Beneath the cold, salty sea the mountain stood; it was rooted in its depths, poking through the upper waves. When Obatalá came down on the golden chain to separate water and earth, the mountain was the first to rise, his gentle water-worn slopes and rounded top no longer brushing the waves. He touched heaven. He was the crown of all creation, or so he thought.

The mountain believed itself to be powerful.

One by one the animals came, each offering a sacrifice to survive in the new world. Obatalá molded humans by the sea, and the mountain watched; he was there when they opened their eyes on the rolling, churning surf; and when they turned their faces to the mountain and saw the sun shining down on them through its peaks and slopes, they fell prostrate on the earth and worshipped all of heaven. The orishas taught them all they knew about the world, but more importantly, they taught the humans how to worship and make ebó. Soon the elements of creation did the same—they made ebó and fought for supremacy in the material world. The wind, the rain, the ocean, the sun, the moon, the stars, the air, and the earth—all these made offerings to the orishas hoping to increase their lot in life. All, that is, except for the mountain.

The mountain believed itself to be powerful and did not make ebó.

As the years passed the sea rose up and sank back, eating at the mountain’s foundation; so angry was she that he rose free of her grip that she tried, bit by bit, to bring him down. The mountain was unafraid. The earth was jealous; she stood in his shadow and hated how everyone looked up at the mountain and down on her. Slowly she shifted beneath his weight hoping to bring him down; tiny cracks opening deep in the earth. The mountain was unmoved. The sun was angry that people looked at the mountain lovingly, but turned their eyes away and hid from him in the mountain’s shadows; and the moon was jealous that he reached so high as to brush her stars. With his heat the sun baked the mountain’s surface, and at night the moon sent falling stars to crash in his face. The wind, the rain, the storm, and the lightning—they, too, took offense at the mountain’s arrogance and they did what they could to erode its surface. The mountain barely noticed.

“You cannot hurt me, not any of you!” he called out. “For I am the greatest in the world—I am stronger than any one of you!”

Such did he anger them that they all, at the same time, doubled their efforts. The earth shook in anger, all her cracks coming together and creating a huge crevice that yawned out to sea; and the water rose up as the earth rumbled and shook, sending a great typhoon crashing into the mountain. The sun bore down with all its might, and the winds and the rains gathered into a storm so angry that the world trembled in fear. It all happened quickly, and in a matter of minutes the mountain crumbled, its cries of anger shaking to the very foundation of heaven. When the world again grew quiet, the mountain was no more.

For the mountain believed it was powerful and did not make ebó; thus did it fall.