Myths of Ife · 4 of 9

II. The Descent

Arába speaks:

I am the voice of Ífa, messenger

Of all the Gods: to me the histories

Are known, and I will tell you of the days

Of the Descent. How Old Arámfè sent

The Gods from Heaven, and Odudúwa stole

The bag—my king has told you. . . For many a day

Across unwatered plains the Great Ones journeyed,

And sandy deserts—for such is the stern bar

Set by Arámfè ’twixt his smiling vales The Gods arrive at the edge of Heaven. And the stark cliff’s edge which his sons approached

Tremblingly, till from the sandy brink they peered

Down the sheer precipice. Behind them lay

The parched, forbidding leagues; but yet the Sun

Was there, and breezes soft, and yet the mountains—

A faded line beyond the shimmering waste—

Called back to mind their ancient home. Beneath

Hung chaos—dank blackness and the threatening roar

Of untamed waters. Then Odudúwa spoke:

“Orísha, what did we? And what fault was ours?

Outcasts to-day; to-morrow we must seek

Our destiny in dungeons, and beneath

That yawning blackness we must found a city

For unborn men. Better a homeless life

In desert places: dare we turn and flee

To some lost valley of the hills? Orísha,

What think you?” Then spoke Orísha whom men call

The Great: “Is this Odúwa that I hear—

My mother’s son who stole Arámfè’s gift,

And thought to filch away the hearts of men

With blessings which were mine to give? For me,

The arts I know I long to use, and yearn

To see the first of toiling, living men

That I shall make. Forbidding is our task,

You say—but think, ere we return to peace

And Heaven’s calm, how boundless is the fate

You flinch from! Besides, is Godhead blind?

You think

Arámfè would not know? Has Might no bodes

With eyes and ears? . . Dumb spirits hungering Odúwa sends Ojúmu with the Bird, For life await us: let us go.” So spoke

Orísha; and Odúwa hung a chain

Over the cliff to the dark water’s face,

And sent Ojúmu, the wise priest, to pour

The magic sand upon the sea and loose

The five-clawed Bird to scatter far and wide

Triumphant land. But, as Earth’s ramparts grew,

Ever in the darkness came the waves and sucked

Away the crumbling shore, while foot by foot

Lagoons crept up, and turned to reedy swamps

The soil of hope. So Odudúwa called and Olókun and Olóssa. Olókun and Olóssa to the cliff

And thus he spoke: “Beneath, the waters wrestle

With the new-rising World, and would destroy

Our kingdom and undo Arámfè’s will.

Go to the fields of men to be, the homes

That they shall make. Olókun! to the sea!

For there your rule and your dominion shall be:

To curb the hungry waves upon the coastlands

For ever. And thus, in our first queen of cities

And secret sanctuaries on lonely shores

Through every æon as the season comes,

Shall men bring gifts in homage to Olókun.

And you, Olóssa, where your ripple laps

The fruitful bank, shan see continually

The offerings of thankful men.”

The months

Of Heaven passed by, while in the moonless night The Bird makes the Earth, Beneath the Bird toiled on until the bounds,

The corners of the World were steadfast. And then

Odúwa called Orísha and the Gods

To the cliff’s edge, and spoke these words of sorrow:

“We go to our sad kingdom. Such is the will

Of Old Arámfè: so let it be. But ere

The hour the wilderness which gapes for us

Engulf us utterly, ere the lingering sight

Of those loved hills can gladden us no more—

May we not dream awhile of smiling days

Gone by? . . Fair was drenched morning in the Sun

When dark the hill-tops rose o’er misty hollows;

Fair were the leafy trees of night beneath

The silvering Moon, and beautiful the wind

Upon the grasslands. Good-bye, ye plains we roamed. The Gods descend. Good-bye to sunlight and the shifting shadows

Cast on the crags of Heaven’s blue hills. Ah! wine

Of Heaven, farewell” . . . So came the Gods to Ífè.

Then of an age of passing months untold

By wanings of the Moon our lore repeats A sunless World.

The dirge of wasting hopes and the lament

Of a people in a strange World shuddering

Beneath the thunder of the unseen waves

On crumbling shores around. Always the marsh

Pressed eagerly on Ífè; but ever the Bird

Returned with the unconquerable sand

Ojúmu poured from his enchanted shell,

And the marsh yielded. Then young Ógun bade

The Forest grow her whispering trees—but she

Budded the pallid shoots of hopeless night,

And all was sorrow round the sodden town

Where Odudúwa reigned. Yet for live men Orísha creates man. Orísha, the Creator, yearned, and called

To him the longing shades from other glooms;

He threw their images into the wombs

Of Night, Olókun and Olóssa, and all

The wives of the great Gods bore babes with eyes

Of those born blind—unknowing of their want—

And limbs to feel the heartless wind which blew

From outer nowhere to the murk beyond. . .

But as the unconscious years wore by, Orísha,

The Creator, watched the unlit Dawn of Man

Wistfully—as one who follows the set flight

Of a lone sea-bird when the sunset fades

Beyond a marshy wilderness—and spoke

To Odudúwa: “Our day is endless night,

And deep, wan woods enclose our weeping children.

The Ocean menaces, chill winds moan through

Our mouldering homes. Our guardian Night, who spoke

To us with her strange sounds in the still hours

Of Heaven is here; yet she can but bewail

Her restless task. And where is Evening? Oh! where

Is Dawn?” He ceased, and Odudúwa sent

Ífa, the Messenger, to his old sire

To crave the Sun and the warm flame that lit

The torch of Heaven’s Evening and the dance. . . Arámfè sends fire, the Sun and the Moon. A deep compassion moved thundrous Arámfè,

The Father of the Gods, and he sent down

The vulture with red fire upon his head

For men; and, by the Gods’ command, the bird

Still wears no plumage where those embers burned him—

A mark of honour for remembrance. Again

The Father spoke the word, and the pale Moon

Sought out the precincts of calm Night’s retreat

To share her watch on Darkness; and Day took wings,

And flew to the broad spaces of the sky—

To roam benignant from the floating mists

Which cling to hillsides of the Dawn—to Eve

Who calls the happy toilers home.

And all The Age of Mirth. Was changed: for when the terror of bright Day

Had lifted from the unused eyes of men,

Sparks flew from Ládi’s anvil, while Ógun taught

The use of iron, and wise Obálufon

Made brazen vessels and showed how wine streams out

From the slim palms. And in the night the Gods

Set torches in their thronging courts to light

The dance, and Heaven’s music touched the drum

Once more as in its ancient home. And mirth

With Odudúwa reigned.