CHICKEN NEWS from the BUTTERFLY TREE #9

© JUNE 10, 2005

The raccoons are present: as brassy and arrogant as night planes in a star spangled sky, They leave markings around the chicken yard to let me know they are still lurking nearby, but they have avoided the open trap with its small can of dog food. I imagine them laughing about my meager and primitive attempts to capture them.

I am, convinced they know they’re trespassing and stealing, and perhaps even know they aren’t supposed to. But, after all, it is their nature, just as similar behavior is apparent among some of the human species. I do believe the raccoons mean to challenge property lines, and what is left of human decency, just for the fun of starting a good fight. They are not good neighbors!

I believe that as evolution continues, raccoons will become, in the course of time, large shrewd predators who make a terror of forests, small towns and slum neighborhoods. I also believe they will carry their wicked karma and vindictive souls with them across generations—perhaps the way some. humans do. When I look down from my second-story windows, I'm glad for the distance between us. I do not want to reincarnate as a raccoon!

But truly, this is not another tirade against the little beasties, for luckily no ducks or chickens have been killed, maimed, or eaten this month. So I have invited my storytelling compadre, Rosemary Sheppard to put us all in touch with what is going on in the minds of Gods and Tricksters . . . about our problems and our planet .. . . please ask permission before forwarding this to anyone. . . as it is copyrighted material.

Thanks. (The God named here is called ELLAGUA . . . el-uh-gua)

ELLAGUA SAVES HIMSELF

© 2005 by Rosemary Sheppard

Every millennium or so the heads of state of the world's pantheons gather for a summit meeting. Their favorite place for this is Mt. Olympus, where Hera always outdoes herself in serving the best in ambrosia for her travel weary guests. Her accommodations, which include nymphs and satyrs to look after the Senior Gods’ every need, are excellent.

The only god who doesn't like the accommodations is Jehovah, who prefers more austere living conditions. But the other deities will not even consider a conference in the desert, which would consist of burning bushes delivering homilies on morality instead of athletic contests between young naked humans for entertainment and a diet of manna instead of ambrosia.

But this year as the gods are gathered around the long table chatting each other up and filling in details of their lives and bragging about their miracles, their conversations are interrupted by rumbles, roars, explosions and occasional screams all drifting up to them from earth.

Abruptly Woden stands up, making his wolf scramble to keep from under his feet, and his raven to flutter and land on the rim of a large crystal bowl of ambrosia. If Woden had been looking, he would have seen a scowl furrow deeply between Hera's brows.

But he doesn't see. Instead he growls, “Who was it invented gun powder anyway? Wars were bad enough when the ultimate weapon was a magic sword.” With his one eye he glares around the table and Confucius has the grace to look shamefaced and mutter to his neighbor that it was just for firecrackers. But Woden isn't paying attention to him either.

“Weapons of mass destruction? How did that happen? What god is dumb enough to let his humans self-destruct to that extent?”

Now that statement leaves the table quiet except for the flutter of wings as the raven hops back to Woden’s shoulder.

Jehovah, who has been eating flaxseed and plain yogurt, sighs heavily. “What can you expect when you set examples of promiscuity for your mortals? Family values that's what's needed.”

Since at least two of Zeus' daughters are virgins, Zeus doesn't take this remark as pertaining to him. He gives the nymph who is serving him grapes a pinch and leans back on his throne with a little smile.

“What's your problem, Woden? The fun of being a mortal is entirely bound up in how many of your fellow mortals you can kill. The more you kill the more babies you can make with the wives of your enemies. It's what heroes are made of. And its been going on since we made everything.”

Woden turns a bitter eye on his host. “It seems to me that none of you has been paying attention. These are wars worthy of gods. These are wars that will rid us of all humans and I don't need to tell any of you what that means.” He slumped back down on his throne and began feeding his pets out of his own golden dish of ambrosia.

Jehovah looks smug. “You know who it is that causes the trouble as well as I do. It's your tricksters. I got rid of mine five thousand mortal years ago. Sent him to hell and good riddance.”

Woden is thinking of Loki, and a hard line, that could not be mistaken for a smile, splits his lips. Kukulkan, who has taken in his ambrosia with one swallow is looking at Woden's raven with hungry eyes, but he is thinking about certain monkeys living in his own underworld.

But The Great Spirit is thinking about Coyote and Brer Rabbit and that he doesn't have any hell to send them to even if he wanted to. But the gods are nodding, looking at each other as if they are pleased to have found an answer to to two different problems.

Jehovah's pleased with himself, so he's offering space in his hell to those deities who have no hells of their own.

But Great Spirit likes Coyote and Brer Rabbit. Eternity will be mighty lonely without them. But it looks like he's outnumbered. He looks up and down the table and shakes his head sadly. “We can't decide the fate of the world,” he says, “without Africa.”

“I'm here,” says Isis haughtily, but then she smiles. “I know you mean Olodumare. (Oh-low-do-mar-ee) He never comes to the summit.”

Now the satyr that has been rubbing the feet of the Great Mother is relieved to hear this. And that's because the god rubbing the feet of the Great Mother isn't a satyr at all, but the great Ellagua, himself, first among the great tricksters of the world, in disguise as a satyr. And it's been more than good luck that he had decided to come. Olodumare likes his solitude and so he leaves the running of his world to Ellagua, well, some of the running to the other Orishas, but mostly to Ellagua.

Since Ellagua isn't the head god he's not invited to the summit. But he goes anyway. He always goes and it's always fun. But while he's sucking on the goddess' toes, he's thinking that he had better head home fast.

Because if these gods get to Olodumare before he does, then Olodumare might just agree to get rid of his trickster, just so those pesky gods will go away. Ellagua gives that mother goddess a kiss on the sole of her foot and disappears.

It doesn't take long for the head gods of the world to decide to talk Olodumare into giving up his trickster for the sake of peace in the world .

So when the head gods of all the world travel through Africa looking for Africa's head god they come to a crossroads.

“Now what?” asks Zeus who never travels far from home and who had planned to spend the day watching the pre-Olympics shows on TV. Now he's feeling pretty grumpy.

There's an old African man sitting on a stool next to the road so he asks him and he's being fairly polite. “Which way to Ifa, old man?”

But that old man just sits there.

Now Jehovah is not so polite. “Tell us the way or I'll smite you.” he snarls.

But that old man just sits there.

Great Spirit takes Brer Rabbit out of the inside pocket of his buffalo robe and he's listening to him. He reaches into the pocket and draws out three Cuban Splendor cigars. “For your trouble, old man,” he says very politely.

That's when the old man stands up. He takes the Cigars, sniffs them, then taking a sulfur tipped match lights one. And if he notices that the host of gods is getting impatient he doesn't show it. He points ahead.

“You can go ahead,” he says. Then as the host begins to surge forward, he adds, “Or you can go back.”

All of the gods are scowling now. Even the Great Spirit, who asks, “Could you, please, give us clearer directions?”

The old man says, “Or you could take the left, but if I were you I would go the right way to Ifa.” And with that he picks up his stool and disappears into the forest.

Now the head gods argue about the meaning of this and then decide to turn right, which they do, and its not long before they reach the holy city of Ifa with its shining white palace gleaming on a hill above the city.

Isis says, “ We should really have our next convention here. This is quite lovely.” But no one hears the remark because they are all hurrying up the hill to the palace.

When all of the head gods and goddesses of all the pantheons of the world arrive at the door of the palace of the great Olodumare, they are surprised to find that there are no guards. The white walls of the palace gleam as if they have just been painted, the driveways are swept, the shrubbery clipped, the lawns mowed and raked. Yet the place seems deserted. It feels as if no one is at home or has been home for thousands of years.

Jehovah marches up and pulls the bell cord and is rewarded by a clamoring of bells and pipes and rattles; a sound that circles through the palace and does not disappear from hearing for a good three minutes.

The gods wait and then a furious Jehovah rings again. He waits only for the noise to begin to fade before he pulls the cord again. This time a door reaching from ground to firmament slowly and silently swings open. There is at least an acre between the two door panels and when they are open to the fullest they frame a diminutive old man who is scowling and waving a crutch which he obviously needs to hold himself upright.

“Well,” he growls, “Explain yourself. Why are you making such a racket? It's enough to wake the dead. But if you want to talk to them you've come to the wrong place.” And with a wave of his hand begins the closing of the great doors.

That's when Jehovah's long white hair begins to swirl around his face as lighting and thunder roar. He lifts a thunderbolt to throw at the little gatekeeper, but Isis grabs his arm. “No Jeb NO!”

Woden grabs his other arm. Tears are running down his cheek. “Calm down, god. We can't risk another war between us. Remember Ragnarok.” A shudder runs through his body that causes the cape he wears to ripple like waves on a river.

Great Spirit pushes by them. Brer Rabbit is riding on his shoulder and whispering in his ear. “Ah ahh Gatekeeper. I've got a gift for you! And he reaches inside the buffalo robe to the inside pocket, puts Brer Rabbit back and removes a large bottle of rum and thrusts it towards the little man. “For your trouble.” he says. The gatekeeper grabs the rum and the door begins once again to open.

The gatekeeper goes through the door without a glance behind. He doesn't care if the gods follow or not, but he's very busily balancing his crutch on the top of his head so he can use both hands, one to drink with and the other to hold on to a huge cigar from which emits puffs of fragrant smoke.

Now a head god's palace is not like any ordinary palace; with long hallways, doors leading to rooms, with other doors leading to other rooms, walls hung with tapestries and pictures, statues every where and windows with curtains. Once a person steps into a god's palace she steps into a world that is furnished with rolling clouds against an azure sky. The gods are, of course, on top of the clouds walking quickly to keep up with the gatekeeper.

But none of the gods find this difficult and catch up with the gatekeeper when he stops at a mountain peak thrust through the clouds. “This is it” he says and would have disappeared if Jehovah had not caught him by the sleeve of his robe.

“You will tell your master that we are here because if we must find him ourselves you can believe me that the consequences of your behavior will be rued by you for more than an eternity.”

The gatekeeper scowls and straightens his shirt. “I'm on my way, Boss, to do just that. In the meantime why doesn't everyone take a seat.” He gestures to a large ebony oval table surrounded by as many ebony chairs as there are gods in this convention. He blows a bit of smoke in their direction and disappears.

The gods have barely seated themselves when a large African god wearing a rainbow colored bathrobe appears at the head of the table. He's holding a cup of coffee and smoking a cigar. Only the Great Spirit notices that the cigar is a Cuban Splendor.

“ I can't imagine that you have need of me, that my trickster Ellagua, or one of the other gods in my pantheon could not handle, this. Oh, if you are thinking of holding the next convention here. I will be out of town so it is quite impossible. Now with your permission, I have work to do so I'll send you all back to Olympus.”

But before he could wave them away the gods as a group hold on to the table and Olodumare is forced to sit at the head of his own table.

“You need to hear us out and together we have a decision to make. This is the type of matter that will need the consensus of all of the gods before we can move. So with your permission we will all speak on this matter until it has been solved.”

Jehovah is the first god to talk and then the others. And most of the gods are nodding their heads.

When all the talking's done, Olodumare who's been sitting there with his eyes closed stands up and stretches. “Now let me get this straight, y'all believe that if we dump our tricksters our humans will stop warring with each other? You do understand that that will mean the end of free will, don't you?”

At the shocked expressions of his fellow gods, Olodumare nodded. “I thought not. You have forgotten that the tricksters are here to balance our will in the human conscience. Without them there can be no free will, only our will. ” He sits back down.

One by one the gods rise from the ebony chairs and disappears. Finally only Great Spirit is left. He reaches into the inside pocket of his buffalo robe and brings out three more Cuban Splendor cigars and hands them to Olodumare. “For your trouble,” he says. And he vanishes.

Of course its Ellagua who's standing there lighting a cigar. He's thinking that it's lucky that the gods turned right at the crossroads. If they had turned left they would have found a different Ifa. A city noisy and smelling of humans and cattle. And a castle grimy with pollution with a sign permanently etched into the front door. Gone Fishing.

THE END

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