Why Butteflies No Longer SingCreative WritersUpdated on May 28, 2015 View more like this | Visit MORRISTOWN, NJ | Contact Don Kissil |
WHY BUTTERFLIES NO LONGER SING
Maya Folk Tale Retold By Don Kissil
(Who some say is): Chak Itz’aat, Utzil Winik*
*An Ancient Mayan language phrase that translates into
“A Great Wise one, and a Good Man”
Word count =1,796
Rev. 5-7-15
An earlier version of this tale was presented in my 1991 Novella entitled: “The Caretaker of Seibal”
While my Mom was driving me to school that morning, I looked out of the window and saw this old looking woman riding this crappy looking bike. It did not look like our bikes today, cause it had no hand breaks, had those fat tires, a basket mounted in front and was painted this funny orange color.
She came up alongside Mom’s car and smiled at me. I was curious and rolled down the window to get a better look. She was wearing a long flowing coat that had orange and black butterflies printed all over it. Kinda strange and maybe weird about all that together too, I thought!
Now I’m a kid who likes science and her long colorful coat reminded me of those Monarch butterflies that I’d seen pictures of on my home computer.
So when I got into my classroom and after saying hi to my friends, but before I told them about who I’d seen, who do you think showed up? Yes, it was the old lady on the bike.
Our teacher said she was a storyteller, who knew a lot about an ancient civilization and we should listen up and be quiet. Then our classroom settled down, and the old woman began.
First, without saying a word, she carefully and slowly opened her pack that I’d seen in her bike basket. And from it she withdrew what looked like a tiny statue of the most colorful butterfly I’d ever seen. She placed it on our teacher’s desk.
Then she pulled out and put on this bluish-green mask that looked like a big bird. It covered her whole head except for her mouth and eyes. I’m already caught up in the whole drama of this, when she began to speak:
"Would you like to hear a story about our Maya gods, and why butterflies no longer sing?”
“Yes!” we all said, almost together.
* * *
And, as she softly spoke, I casually glanced over at our teacher’s desk, and as the morning sunlight simmered through our classroom windows, it almost seemed as if those tiny butterfly wings suddenly began to grow.
“Well”, the storyteller said, “maybe some of us think they still do sing, but we just don’t hear them. But I am old enough to remember when they did.
"So, long ago when the Bacabs, those are the gods who hold up the cardinal points of the sky, looked down from the heavens..."
"Hey, wait a minute, what are the cardinal points of the sky?" one of our classmates asked.
“Well now” and she took a deep breath, “we must then go back into the history of my Maya people.”
The old storyteller took some colored markers and clean white paper out of her pack and turned to our blackboard. She tacked the paper up so we could all see, and began to draw as she talked.
“According to my people the whole world is really three worlds. There is Ka'an, the upper world or the heavens; there is Lu’um the world we exist in, and Xibalbá, the underworld, or the scary place where the Lords of the Night and Death live.” And she drew the three worlds.
“But what’s that got to do with the cardinal points,” the kid interrupted.
“Where we live on earth, there are four directions - that is, North, South, East and West. Another name for these four directions is called the Cardinal Points. Some of you have learned in the scouts to read a compass and those compass points are the same directions. Our Maya forefathers, in their writing, described each of these cardinal points by a different color.
Then she drew a globe, that she said was the earth, and with a different colored marker she began to teach us some real Maya words and colors.
“The Maya call our North direction by the color white. The Maya word for North is Xman, and Sac is their word for white. The direction East is Lakin and its color is red or Chac. South is Nohol, with yellow or Kan as its color. And our West is Chikin. Its color is black, and Ek is Maya for black.
“But our people once believed that there were really five Cardinal Points. In addition to those four directions, there is one that goes right through the center of the earth. Its color is blue-green and its word is Yax. Our ancestors called that direction the Wicah Chan or the World Tree. That’s the Maya name for a tree we call the Ceiba or Kapok tree.”
I was glad she drew all those words and colors on the paper so we didn’t have to try to memorize them. But as she continued her story about the Bacabs and the Cardinal Points, it suddenly all became clear.
And as I thought about her explanations, I happened to glance again over at the butterfly statue on our teacher’s desk. For some reason it looked like it had grown to two or three times its original size and its wings spread out like it was about to fly. I blinked my eyes a few times to make sure what I was seeing, and stared at it for a few minutes but nothing more happened and it did not take off. I snapped out of it as she continued with her story.
“And because the Maya believed that the world was flat instead of round, they believed that there was one Bacab for each of the five of the Cardinal Points. Each Bacab had the job to hold up Ka’am so that it would not fall down into Lu’um, and so that Lu’um would not fall down into Xibalbá. Get it?"
* * *
"Well, from where the Bacabs live up in the heavens, as they watched the earth's children laughing and singing at play, they suddenly became sad. They thought, someday these children will grow old, their skin will wrinkle, their teeth will fall out and their hair will turn gray. These lovely young girls with their shiny black hair will grow ugly and fat and the throwing arm of the boys will fail. And the Bacabs view of the world below suddenly grew even darker.
"Each of the gods grew sadder and sadder as he saw a different part of his world grow dim. The playful puppies will become blind, mangy dogs. Those wonderful flowers - the golden yellows, flaming reds, sky blues and dusky purples - will fade. The leaves from the trees, already having turned the brown color of the earth, will dry up and fall.
“But as the gods also watched the play of the sunlight on the earth and the grey shadows of the mountain animals jump from cliff to another rocky ledge, and how the summer wind made the clouds as white as ground cornmeal, they decided together, that they must do something to gladden their hearts and also bring some joy to the earth’s children.
"So they began to gather things they saw all around them. The Bacab of the Wicah Chan took a spot of sunlight and a handful of the azure-blue from the sky. The Bacab of the North took the whiteness of the snow that touched only the highest of the Maya Mountains. The Bacab of the West took as his favorite color, the blackness of a beautiful young girl's hair. The Bacab of the South took the umber of the falling leaves, the yellow of mustard flowers, the red, purple and orange of wild flowers and the green of a newly sprouted corn field. The Bacab of the East reached down and plucked the brightest red from the rising sun.
“They put all they had gathered into a little bag. As an afterthought, the Bacabs also put in all the songs that the birds sing."
"
How could they do all that?" one kid in class asked.
"They can do anything they want, they are the gods," another answered.
"Then," continued the storyteller, "The Bacabs came down from the heavens and sought out the grassy spot where the children were playing. The Bacabs called out to them saying:
`Children, this tiny gift is for you. Open it. There is a nice surprise inside.’
"The children opened the bag, and all at once hundreds of many-colored butterflies flew out. They danced around the children's heads, settled in their hair, and fluttered up again to taste every nearby flower. The children were enchanted, saying they had never seen anything so beautiful and as the butterflies began to sing, the children listened, enraptured.
"But when a nearby song bird heard this, he settled on the shoulder of the Bacab of the East and whispered:
"`It is not right for you to give our songs to these new pretty things. When you made us, you told us that each of us would have his own gift of song, and now you have given our gift away. Isn't it enough that you have given your new playthings all the colors of the rainbow?'"
"`You are right,' said the Bacab of the East. We made one song for each bird, and we should not have taken what belongs to you.'"
"So the Bacab of the East spoke to the other Bacabs and together, with a gentle wave of their hands, they quieted the songs of the beautiful butterflies. And that's why some people and children too, think they are silent.
But if you listen, really carefully, beyond the flutter of their beautiful colored wings, you may still hear their little songs."
All the kids in the class applauded and thanked the storyteller, and she smiled that we liked her story. But as she got up to leave she did something even more amazing.
With a simple wave of her hand, over the top of our teacher’s desk, like the Bacabs did in her story, I could swear the now large butterfly began to slowly shrink back to its original size.
She packed her pack with all the papers and markers, picked up the tiny butterfly statue, placed it inside her pack and in her still gentle quiet voice said:
“Thank you and good bye:”
On the drive home, when my Mom came to pick me up, I couldn’t wait to tell her what I saw and heard, but I don’t think she would believe me.
#
Maya Folk Tale Retold By Don Kissil
(Who some say is): Chak Itz’aat, Utzil Winik*
*An Ancient Mayan language phrase that translates into
“A Great Wise one, and a Good Man”
Word count =1,796
Rev. 5-7-15
An earlier version of this tale was presented in my 1991 Novella entitled: “The Caretaker of Seibal”
While my Mom was driving me to school that morning, I looked out of the window and saw this old looking woman riding this crappy looking bike. It did not look like our bikes today, cause it had no hand breaks, had those fat tires, a basket mounted in front and was painted this funny orange color.
She came up alongside Mom’s car and smiled at me. I was curious and rolled down the window to get a better look. She was wearing a long flowing coat that had orange and black butterflies printed all over it. Kinda strange and maybe weird about all that together too, I thought!
Now I’m a kid who likes science and her long colorful coat reminded me of those Monarch butterflies that I’d seen pictures of on my home computer.
So when I got into my classroom and after saying hi to my friends, but before I told them about who I’d seen, who do you think showed up? Yes, it was the old lady on the bike.
Our teacher said she was a storyteller, who knew a lot about an ancient civilization and we should listen up and be quiet. Then our classroom settled down, and the old woman began.
First, without saying a word, she carefully and slowly opened her pack that I’d seen in her bike basket. And from it she withdrew what looked like a tiny statue of the most colorful butterfly I’d ever seen. She placed it on our teacher’s desk.
Then she pulled out and put on this bluish-green mask that looked like a big bird. It covered her whole head except for her mouth and eyes. I’m already caught up in the whole drama of this, when she began to speak:
"Would you like to hear a story about our Maya gods, and why butterflies no longer sing?”
“Yes!” we all said, almost together.
* * *
And, as she softly spoke, I casually glanced over at our teacher’s desk, and as the morning sunlight simmered through our classroom windows, it almost seemed as if those tiny butterfly wings suddenly began to grow.
“Well”, the storyteller said, “maybe some of us think they still do sing, but we just don’t hear them. But I am old enough to remember when they did.
"So, long ago when the Bacabs, those are the gods who hold up the cardinal points of the sky, looked down from the heavens..."
"Hey, wait a minute, what are the cardinal points of the sky?" one of our classmates asked.
“Well now” and she took a deep breath, “we must then go back into the history of my Maya people.”
The old storyteller took some colored markers and clean white paper out of her pack and turned to our blackboard. She tacked the paper up so we could all see, and began to draw as she talked.
“According to my people the whole world is really three worlds. There is Ka'an, the upper world or the heavens; there is Lu’um the world we exist in, and Xibalbá, the underworld, or the scary place where the Lords of the Night and Death live.” And she drew the three worlds.
“But what’s that got to do with the cardinal points,” the kid interrupted.
“Where we live on earth, there are four directions - that is, North, South, East and West. Another name for these four directions is called the Cardinal Points. Some of you have learned in the scouts to read a compass and those compass points are the same directions. Our Maya forefathers, in their writing, described each of these cardinal points by a different color.
Then she drew a globe, that she said was the earth, and with a different colored marker she began to teach us some real Maya words and colors.
“The Maya call our North direction by the color white. The Maya word for North is Xman, and Sac is their word for white. The direction East is Lakin and its color is red or Chac. South is Nohol, with yellow or Kan as its color. And our West is Chikin. Its color is black, and Ek is Maya for black.
“But our people once believed that there were really five Cardinal Points. In addition to those four directions, there is one that goes right through the center of the earth. Its color is blue-green and its word is Yax. Our ancestors called that direction the Wicah Chan or the World Tree. That’s the Maya name for a tree we call the Ceiba or Kapok tree.”
I was glad she drew all those words and colors on the paper so we didn’t have to try to memorize them. But as she continued her story about the Bacabs and the Cardinal Points, it suddenly all became clear.
And as I thought about her explanations, I happened to glance again over at the butterfly statue on our teacher’s desk. For some reason it looked like it had grown to two or three times its original size and its wings spread out like it was about to fly. I blinked my eyes a few times to make sure what I was seeing, and stared at it for a few minutes but nothing more happened and it did not take off. I snapped out of it as she continued with her story.
“And because the Maya believed that the world was flat instead of round, they believed that there was one Bacab for each of the five of the Cardinal Points. Each Bacab had the job to hold up Ka’am so that it would not fall down into Lu’um, and so that Lu’um would not fall down into Xibalbá. Get it?"
* * *
"Well, from where the Bacabs live up in the heavens, as they watched the earth's children laughing and singing at play, they suddenly became sad. They thought, someday these children will grow old, their skin will wrinkle, their teeth will fall out and their hair will turn gray. These lovely young girls with their shiny black hair will grow ugly and fat and the throwing arm of the boys will fail. And the Bacabs view of the world below suddenly grew even darker.
"Each of the gods grew sadder and sadder as he saw a different part of his world grow dim. The playful puppies will become blind, mangy dogs. Those wonderful flowers - the golden yellows, flaming reds, sky blues and dusky purples - will fade. The leaves from the trees, already having turned the brown color of the earth, will dry up and fall.
“But as the gods also watched the play of the sunlight on the earth and the grey shadows of the mountain animals jump from cliff to another rocky ledge, and how the summer wind made the clouds as white as ground cornmeal, they decided together, that they must do something to gladden their hearts and also bring some joy to the earth’s children.
"So they began to gather things they saw all around them. The Bacab of the Wicah Chan took a spot of sunlight and a handful of the azure-blue from the sky. The Bacab of the North took the whiteness of the snow that touched only the highest of the Maya Mountains. The Bacab of the West took as his favorite color, the blackness of a beautiful young girl's hair. The Bacab of the South took the umber of the falling leaves, the yellow of mustard flowers, the red, purple and orange of wild flowers and the green of a newly sprouted corn field. The Bacab of the East reached down and plucked the brightest red from the rising sun.
“They put all they had gathered into a little bag. As an afterthought, the Bacabs also put in all the songs that the birds sing."
"
How could they do all that?" one kid in class asked.
"They can do anything they want, they are the gods," another answered.
"Then," continued the storyteller, "The Bacabs came down from the heavens and sought out the grassy spot where the children were playing. The Bacabs called out to them saying:
`Children, this tiny gift is for you. Open it. There is a nice surprise inside.’
"The children opened the bag, and all at once hundreds of many-colored butterflies flew out. They danced around the children's heads, settled in their hair, and fluttered up again to taste every nearby flower. The children were enchanted, saying they had never seen anything so beautiful and as the butterflies began to sing, the children listened, enraptured.
"But when a nearby song bird heard this, he settled on the shoulder of the Bacab of the East and whispered:
"`It is not right for you to give our songs to these new pretty things. When you made us, you told us that each of us would have his own gift of song, and now you have given our gift away. Isn't it enough that you have given your new playthings all the colors of the rainbow?'"
"`You are right,' said the Bacab of the East. We made one song for each bird, and we should not have taken what belongs to you.'"
"So the Bacab of the East spoke to the other Bacabs and together, with a gentle wave of their hands, they quieted the songs of the beautiful butterflies. And that's why some people and children too, think they are silent.
But if you listen, really carefully, beyond the flutter of their beautiful colored wings, you may still hear their little songs."
All the kids in the class applauded and thanked the storyteller, and she smiled that we liked her story. But as she got up to leave she did something even more amazing.
With a simple wave of her hand, over the top of our teacher’s desk, like the Bacabs did in her story, I could swear the now large butterfly began to slowly shrink back to its original size.
She packed her pack with all the papers and markers, picked up the tiny butterfly statue, placed it inside her pack and in her still gentle quiet voice said:
“Thank you and good bye:”
On the drive home, when my Mom came to pick me up, I couldn’t wait to tell her what I saw and heard, but I don’t think she would believe me.
#
