The Story of Elegede

Elegede was dreaming, and it was sweet: Orúnmila held her in his arms. They were powerful, strong; and she felt desire rising like heat in her loins. He kissed her, and her body relaxed, becoming soft and pliable in his embrace. “I love you,” he whispered in her ear. Elegede shuddered, and awoke.

It was like this every night. Elegede dreamed of Orúnmila while he lay in bed with his wife, Oshún Olólodí. “But not for long,” she thought to herself, hugging her pillow and laying back in her bed.

The morning was still young when Oshún Olólodí awoke; and she lay still for quite some time, staring at a blank wall while the world of sleep and dreams faded from her thoughts. She took a deep breath, and called out, “Orúnmila? Husband? Are you awake?”

There was no answer.

Lazily, she rolled over. His side of the bed was empty. The sheets were rumpled as if he'd thrown them off carelessly, and she reached out to touch them. They were cold; Orúnmila had risen hours ago. “Orúnmila?” she called out. She heard quick footsteps coming down the hallway. They weren't her husband's footsteps.

The door opened after a quick, polite knock and Elegede stood at the side of the bed. “Orúnmila left early this morning, mistress,” she said, bowing her body slightly in subservience. Oshún sighed and looked at her servant. She wasn't a pretty woman, but she wasn't homely, either; she was short, almost stout, but had a handsome enough face. Although she'd never married, she had wide, childbearing hips that some men would find attractive enough, but instead of marrying and serving a husband, Elegede chose to serve Oshún as a housemaid, and Oshún was happy to have her on her staff.

“When did he leave, Elegede?”

“He left hours ago, mistress, long before the sun rose. I packed his bags last night, and carried them to his horse this morning. He didn't want to wake you, so I saw him off for you.”

Oshún pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. She snuggled back into her pillows and asked, “How long will he be gone this time?”

“At least a week, mistress.” It was a lie. Orúnmila told Elegede he'd be gone only a night, and would be back in the morning; but Elegede was hoping Oshún would do something stupid, like go hunting. Orúnmila hated it when she went hunting. It was a man's pastime, not a woman's, and Orúnmila threatened to leave her if she didn't stop doing such manly things. “And then,” Elegede thought to herself, “Orúnmila will be all mine.” She felt a familiar fire burning in her loins; Elegede wanted his affections so badly it hurt.

“Good,” said Oshún, “I needed some time to myself anyway.” She rolled over on her other side, and that was the last thing she remembered before falling asleep again. She dreamt of the hunt.

Oshún slept until late in the evening, and when she rose, Elegede was busy preparing the evening meal. “Will you be eating in your room, Oshún?” she asked, plating the food for her.

“No, Elegede, I'm not hungry tonight. I'm going out.”

“Out, mistress? This late? It's dark outside.”

“Yes, I am going out,” she said, and then, in a whisper, “I am going hunting. I need you to prepare my horse.”

“Hunting!” Her voice was loud, surprised, and Oshún cringed at its volume. Everyone in the household would hear her. “I'm sorry, mistress,” she said, almost a whisper. “But the forest is a dangerous place, especially at night, and you know how your husband hates it when you do such things. They are . . . unseemly . . . for a woman of your stature.”

Oshún stood to her full height, her shoulders thrown back and her head held high. She took Elegede's chin in her right hand. “You let me worry about my stature, Elegede. And you worry about preparing my horse.” With a flick of her wrist, she released Elegede's chin and she stumbled back just a bit. “I'll be ready as soon as I get my machetes. Hurry along, now!”

“Wait until Orúnmila hears about this!” Elegede thought to herself. “He won't be rid of Oshún and her manly ways fast enough!”

For hours, Oshún Olólodí rode her horse through the forest; she was not so much hunting as she was enjoying her freedom in the cool, moonlit night. A white owl rode on her shoulder, its head turning from side to side, an eerie 180-degree twist that delighted Oshún to no end. With one hand she held the horse's reins, and with her other, a razor-sharp machete, its hard steel glowing in the moonlight with an eerie, preternatural sheen. Moments like these were her happiest, and she lost herself in the shadows.

She let the horse stop at a riverbank so it could drink, and then, on the other side of the river, she saw the buck. It, too, was drinking from the water. For just a moment, Oshún's eyes locked with the deer's; she eyed it hungrily, and the deer eyed her fearfully. Then it broke into a fast run.

“Go!” Oshún cried, digging her heels into the horse's side. It took off into a fast trot, and still gripping the reins with one hand, she held her machete high, the rush of the hunt upon her. The owl took flight above the deer, and even when Oshún lost sight of the beast, she knew her owl could see it, and she followed its flight instead.

The deer ran fast, but the horse ran faster, and with Oshún following the owl's flight, the distance between them closed quickly. When her steed was side by side with the deer, she gave a final lunge, dealing a fatal blow as she brought her machete down on its neck. She stopped, letting out a great cry of triumph as the owl landed on her shoulders. “We are a good team,” she said to the bird, and its only answer was a single “whoop” that echoed through the forest.

The owl fluttered back into a tree while Oshún made quick work of the carcass with her knives, gutting, skinning, and quartering the animal so it was easier to carry. When she was done, carefully she removed the antlers, her favorite part of the kill. She wrapped everything in the animal's hide and quietly rode home.

Not that she had to walk quietly into her own house. Her husband, Orúnmila, was away on business, teaching his babalawos (initiates) the secrets of Ifá, and divining for his many clients and godchildren all over the countryside. Oshún loved her husband, but she loved him even more when he was away. Orúnmila felt it was unsightly for such a beautiful woman, and the wife of a babalawo, to be out and about hunting like a man. But Oshún Olólodí loved the thrill of the hunt, and in truth, with her owl, horse, and machetes she was better than a man at running down and killing her prey. The hunt made her feel powerful, alive.

Still, there were servants, and she didn't want her servants ratting her out to her husband. So before she came inside, she slipped off her bloodstained hunting clothes, and in the river, with her owl keeping a lookout, she bathed and scrubbed herself clean. Only when she was dried and dressed did she dare go home.

She was startled when her servant Elegede met her at the door. “How was your hunt, mistress?” she asked.

“It was wonderful,” she said, almost dreamily, as she handed Elegede the pelt-wrapped venison and antlers. “I think you should cook the meat for tomorrow night's supper. And have the antlers prepared for my husband. He loves them as much as I do.”

“And when Orúnmila asks where it all came from?”

“Tell him you bought it at the market. That is what you always say, no?”

“You know he's right,” the servant called out to Oshún as she walked to her chambers. She followed her briskly, still carrying the pelt. “It is unseemly for such a beautiful woman to be out and about at night, hunting.”

Oshún turned; her voice was icy and terse when she said, “That is none of your business, Elegede. What I do concerns me and no one else. Do you understand?” Her demeanor was calm, but her eyes betrayed her anger. They bore into Elegede with a stare that was primal.

“Yes, mistress. Your secret is safe with me.” She was trembling fearfully when she answered Oshún.

Satisfied with Elegede's answer, she said, “I know I can trust you. We are women, you and I. We all have secrets from our men.”

“Yes,” thought Elegede as Oshún walked away. “But only secrets are secrets.”

Orúnmila returned early while Oshún Olólodí was still sleeping; her late night hunt in the forest wore her out tremendously. But Elegede was waiting for her master's approach. For years she served the couple, and although Orúnmila had no love for the homely woman, she was consumed with desire for the elegant man. He was surprised when he saw Elegede by the front door, waiting for him.

“Did anything interesting happen while I was gone?” he asked as she took his bags from him.

“As a matter of fact, something interesting did happen, sir,” she said. In whispers, she told Orúnmila of Oshún's late-night hunt. Orúnmila was not pleased.

Alone in their bedroom, Orúnmila woke Oshún gently. She smiled when she saw her husband sitting on the bed and reached out sleepily to embrace him. “You are home,” she said, still groggy from her late night.

“Yes, and you are still in bed. Why are you sleeping so late?”

Oshún sat up, caressing her husband's head lovingly with one hand. “I can barely sleep at all when you are away, husband,” she said smiling. Orúnmila smiled back. Even first thing in the morning, his wife was beautiful when she awoke.

“Perhaps the reason you cannot sleep is because you are out all night hunting?”

Oshún pulled her hand back, and froze. For what seemed an eternity there was silence between them, and then she stammered, “You know?”

Orúnmila stood up and looked out the window as he spoke. “We have talked about this so many times that I'm tired of speaking, Oshún. You are my wife. I am a priest, practically a king in this land. I know you grew up hunting; and I know there are few in the world more skilled with the machete than you. But it is unseemly for my wife to be out and about in the forest hunting like a man, and at night. You promised me you were done with your old ways.”

She took a deep breath before she spoke. “How did you know? Did Elegede tell you?”

“Elegede is your servant, not mine. Why would she betray you?” Angrily, Orúnmila stormed from the room.

“Why would she betray me, indeed?” Oshún asked herself.

That same day, Oshún dressed and went to visit her sister, Yemayá Achabá. It was a long journey to her sister's house, but Oshún rode her horse hard and furious over the countryside. When she arrived, her clothing and hair were disheveled from the ride, but she did not stop to refresh herself before knocking on Yemayá's door. She was concerned when she saw Oshún's weary, ragged face. “To what do I owe this honor?” Yemayá asked her sister.

“I have problems at home,” Oshún said.

“And you need my advice?” asked Yemayá. Oshún was proud; and if she were here, asking for her advice on problems at home, then those problems must be great indeed.

“I need more than your advice, Yemayá. I need your ashé. You are a diviner, and this is a problem that needs divination.” Slowly, sitting beside Yemayá, she told her sister all that transpired—she told her about her hunting, and about how Orúnmila discovered the hunt when he returned home the next day. And then, she froze. “Wait,” she said. “My servant Elegede told me that Orúnmila told her he would be gone for a week, and yet he was home the very next morning.”

“And, of course, your servant knows everything that you do?”

“Not everything,” said Oshún, frowning wickedly. “But she did know I was going hunting. I had her prepare my horse, and she was waiting for me when I returned home.”

“You may have discovered the rat yourself,” said Yemayá. “But, you're right—we should divine. The oracle will tell us everything going on that you don't know about.” And there, on that late afternoon, Yemayá cast her shells on the mat and told Oshún everything she needed to know.

Riding her horse back home, Oshún was so lost in thought and anger that she barely noticed how late it was. The skies were darkening, and red eyes peered from the forest; hungry growls broke the silence. Oshún felt no fear; she was strong, powerful, a predator in her own right, and nothing frightened her. “Of course, it all makes sense,” she thought as the cold night air ripped at her hair; the horse was galloping faster and faster, driven by the tense digging of her heels into its sides. “Elegede is a young woman still, and never has she had a man that I know of. Of course she wants Orúnmila for herself. He is, after all, very handsome.”

Her blood was hot as she raced home, and when she arrived there, she jumped off her horse so quickly that it was startled and almost fell. She burst into her own home, the door slamming hard against the wall, leaving a dent. “Elegede!” she yelled; her voice made the walls vibrate. “Orúnmila!” There was no answer. The house was silent. Quickly she ran from room to room, but the house was empty. Her anger quelled itself into confusion. “Where is everyone?” she yelled again, this time knowing there would be no answer.

She ran back outside to the stables, where Elegede spent much of her free time brushing and pampering the horses. “Elegede!” she yelled. Again, no answer, but she saw that all of the horses were gone. And then, she heard a gentle gallop coming around the side of the house. She ran to the sound, and saw Elegede casually riding one of her own horses.

“Elegede!” she yelled, running up to the horse and grabbing its reins. “What are you doing on my horse? Where is Orúnmila?”

The servant smiled. “He is out looking for you, mistress, as are the rest of the servants.”

“They are out looking for me? Why are they looking for me?”

Again, Elegede said, “They are all out in the forest, looking for you. Your husband is very worried.” She pursed her lips and shook her head from side to side, as if Oshún were a child and should be ashamed.

Oshún's eyes narrowed into slits as her grip on the horse's reins tightened. “And why is my husband looking for me, Elegede?”

She smiled an evil smile. “Because you have been gone all day and most of the night, and he thinks you have been out hunting.”

Oshún stood back, still holding the bridle. “And why would he think that?”

“Because I told him that's where you went.”

Anger flashed red behind Oshún's eyes, and the world seemed to dim; still, she held her composure, and only shook a bit when she asked her servant, “Why would you tell him such a thing?”

Elegede loosened her own grip on the horse's reins, and crossed her arms across her breasts arrogantly. “Because you don't deserve a man such as Orúnmila. You spend all your time looking for ways to sneak out into the forest at night, to hunt. You act like a man. You dress like a man. He needs a woman to love him and bear him children. He needs me, and not you!”

Her words stung, and Oshún broke. In a movement so quick it seemed a blur, she pulled a short knife from the waist of her pants and sliced the horse's flesh. It was a superficial cut, nothing mortal, but the beast bucked in fright and pain; Elegede, who was not holding the reins, flew off the horse and landed headfirst. Wildly, the horse galloped away, the cut's sting driving him mad; and Oshún saw, emotionlessly, that Elegede's head lay at a morbid angle. Her neck was broken.

Oshún buried her with no more concern that that of a dog burying its own waste.

Later that night, Oshún was sleeping peacefully in bed, more peacefully than she had in weeks when her husband woke her up, angrily. “Oshún!” he said, his voice firm, “Where have you been? We've been out all night looking for you.”

Sleepily, Oshún lifted herself up on one elbow and smiled innocently. “If you must know, husband, I have been at my sister's house all day. It is a long journey, and I got home late. No one was home to tell me what was going on. What was I to do? I went to bed.”

Orúnmila drew in a sharp breath. “Did you not notice all the horses and servants were gone?”

“I did. And that's exactly why I didn't know you were worried about me. Everyone was gone. So I went to bed.”

“Were you hunting again?” he asked, angrily.

“No, I was at Yemayá's house. Send a servant in the morning to ask her if you will. Send Elegede. I don't care.”

“Elegede is not here,” Orúnmila said. “She separated from the group last night while we were looking for you, and she's not home yet.”

“I'm sure she'll turn up,” Oshún said. “Now, can I go back to sleep?”

Orúnmila left the room. He waited for Elegede to return. He wanted to know why she would say Oshún was out hunting if, indeed, Oshún was at her sister's house. When morning came and still she did not return, he was worried.

Orúnmila sent a servant to Yemayá's house that morning; and he returned with the news that, yes, Oshún spent all afternoon with her sister. By late evening, the horse Elegede rode returned, and when everyone saw it returned alone and with a gash in its side, they all feared the worst for the servant. The next day everyone searched, and when no sign of her was found, they mourned Elegede as one of the dead. Oshún feigned sadness, but inwardly, she was pleased.

And days later, in the spot where Oshún buried her servant's broken body, a vine poked through the soil. She regarded it curiously, and watched as the vine grew daily, sprouting green leaves and finally fruit. First, they were a golden yellow, and as they swelled and ripened, they turned a delicious orange. It was the birth of the pumpkin, and it was born of Elegede's treason, and Oshún's anger.