III. THE WAR OF THE GODS.

III. THE WAR OF THE GODS.

	Arába continues: Oíbo, I will tell and chronicle A second chapter from the histories
The fable of Earth, Water and Forest	Bequeathed from other times. . . A tale is told How God in the Beginning sent three sons Into the World—Earth, Water and the Forest— With one and twenty gifts for Earth and men That are the sons of Earth; and all save one The Forest and the Rivers stole; and how God promised to his first-born, Earth, that men Should win the twenty gifts again by virtue Of that last one, Good Humour. And this is true: For in those years when Ógun and the Gods Made known their handicrafts men learned to seek Thatch, food and wine in Forest and in River
Strife between Odúwa and Orísha	Patiently. So Man prevailed; but in those days Came strife and turmoil to the Gods—for still For jealousy and pride Odúwa held The bag Arámfè gave to Great Orísha. Often Orísha made entreaty; oft A suppliant came before his brother—in vain; Till once when Odudúwa sat with Ógun p. 28 In that same palace where the Órní reigns, The sound of drums was heard and Great Orísha Approached with skilled Obálufon, and said: "The time has come to teach Arámfè's arts "To men. Give back the bag (for it is mine!) That I may do our Father's bidding. Else, Have a care, is it not told how caution slept In the still woods when the proud leopard fell, Lured on by silence, 'neath the monster's foot?"1 Then was Odúwa angered exceedingly: "Am I not king? Did not Arámfè make Me lord of Gods and men? Begone! Who speaks Unseemly words before the king has packed His load."2
	Orísha and Odúwa called
brings war to Ífè.	To arms their followings of Gods and men, And on that day the first of wars began In Ífè and the Forest. Such was the fall Of the Gods from paths divine, and such for men The woe that Odudúwa's theft prepared; But little the Gods recked of their deep guilt p. 29 Till darkness fell and all was quiet—for then Returned the memory of Calm, their heritage, Of Heaven born and destined for the World; Gloom, too, with the still night came down: a sense Of impious wrong, ungodly sin, weighed down Warriors aweary, and all was changed. Around, Dead, dead the Forest seemed, its boughs unstirred; Dead too, amidst its strangling, knotted growth The stifled air—while on that hush, the storm's
Arámfè tries to stop it;	Mute herald, came the distant thundrous voice Of Old Arámfè as he mused: "In vain Into the Waste beneath I sent my sons— The children of my happy vales—to make A World of mirth: for desolation holds The homes of Ífè, and women with their babes Are outcast in the naked woods." But when The whirling clouds were wheeling in the sky And the great trees were smitten by the wind, Thundrous Arámfè in his ire rebuked His erring sons: "At my command you came To darkness, where the Evil of the Void— Insentient Violence—had made its home, To shape in the Abyss a World of joy p. 30 And lead Creation in the ways of Heaven. How, then, this brawling? Did the Void's black soul Outmatch you, or possess your hearts to come Again into its own? For Man's misfortune I grieve; but you have borne them on the tide Of your wrong-doing, and your punishment Is theirs to share. For now my thunderbolts I hurl, with deluges upon the land— To fill the marshes and lagoons, and stay For aye your impious war."
but fails.	Dawn came; the storm
	Was gone, and Old Arámfè in his grief Departed on black clouds. But still the wrath, But still the anger of his sons endured, And in the dripping forests and the marshes The rebel Gods fought on—while in the clouds Afar Arámfè reasoned with himself: "I spoke in thunders, and my deluge filled The marshes that Ojúmu dried;—but still They fight. Punish, I may—but what can I Achieve? In Heaven omnipotent: but here—? What means it? I cannot tell. . . In the Unknown, Beyond the sky where I have set the Sun, p. 31 Is He-Who-Speaks-Not: He knows all. Can this Be Truth: Amidst the unnatural strife of brothers The World was weaned: by strife must it endure—?" Oíbo, how the first of wars began, And Old Arámfè sought to stay the flow Of blood—your pen has written; but of the days, The weary days of all that war, what tongue Can tell? 'Tis said the anger of the Gods Endured two hundred years: we know the priest Osányi made strange amulets for all The mortal soldiers of the Gods—one charm Could turn a spear aside, a second robbed The wounding sword of all its sting, another Made one so terrible that a full score Must flee—but not one word of the great deeds, Of hopes and fears, of imminent defeat Or victory snatched away is handed down: No legend has defied, no voice called through The dimness and the baffling years.
	But when
	An end was come to the ill days foreknown To Him-Who-Speaks-Not, remembrance of the calm Of Heaven stole upon the sleepless Gods— p. 32 For while the Moon lay soft with all her spell On Ífè of the many battles; while With sorrowful reproach the wise trees stood And gazed upon the Gods who made the soil The voices of the Forest crooned their dreams Of peace: "Sleep, sleep" all weary Nature craved, And "Sleep" the slumbrous reed-folk urged, and 'twixt The shadow and the silver'd leaf, for sleep
Ógun asks Odúwa to give back the bag to Orísha.	The drowsing breezes yearned. . . . And with the dawn Ógun, the warrior, with his comrades stood Before the king, and thus he spoke: "Odúwa, We weary of the battle, and its agony Weighs heavy on our people. Have you forgot The careless hours of Old Arámfè's realm? What means this war, this empty war between One mother's sons? Orísha willed it so, You say. . . 'Twas said of old 'Who has no house Will buy no broom',1 Why then did Great Orísha Bring plagues on those he made in love? In Heaven Afar Arámfè gave to you the empire, p. 33 And to Orísha knowledge of the ways Of mysteries and hidden things. The bag You seized; but not its clue—the skill, the wisdom Of Great Orísha which alone could wake The sleeping lore. . . The nations of the World Are yours: give back the bag, and Great Orísha Will trouble us no more." But neither Ógun Nor the soft voices of the night could loose Odúwa from the thrall of envy: the rule Of men and empire were of no account When the hot thought of Old Arámfè's lore Roused his black ire anew. The bag he held; But all the faithless years had not revealed Its promised treasures. Bitterly he answered:
Odúwa refuses;	"These many years my brother has made war Upon his king; while for the crown, its power And greatness, I have wrought unceasing. To-day My son—hope of my cause, my cause itself— Wearies of war, and joins my enemies. Weak son, the sceptre you were born to hold And hand down strengthened to a line of kings Could not uphold your will and be your spur Until the end. Is it not said, "Shall one Priest bury, and anon his mate dig up p. 34 The corpse?"1 No day's brief work have you undone, But all my heart has longed for through a life Of labour. So let it be: God of Soft Iron! Upon your royal brow descends this day The crown of a diminished chieftaincy, With the sweet honours of a king in name— For I go back to Old Arámfè's hills
and trans- forms to stone,	And the calm realm you prate of." Then Odudúwa Transformed to stone and sank beneath the soil, Bearing away the fateful bag.
taking the	And thus,
bag with him.	Beneath, through all the ages of the World A voiceless lore and arts which found no teacher Have lain in bondage.