The Whistling Vicuna

The Birth of the Whistling Vicuna

I was recently asked how the Whistling Vicuna came to be. It’s a long story, so get a cup of tea and a crumpet or two, and have a listen.               

         In the wilds of the Andes Mountains, there dwelt an Ecuadoran shaman. The shaman was a lonely man. Being a shaman, of course, the people of his area were frightened of him. He wore a mask of fierce countenance, with big red eyes and dripping teeth. He also had turtle shell rattles attached to his ankles so he made lots of noise when he walked. Added to that, he had a great cape of pampas grass that he wore. It was made in the shape of great wings, and the seed pods of the pampas grasses dragged the ground and made a hissing noise as he went by. Of course, the grass tail scratched away his footprints, so the people thought that his feet never touched the ground. That’s a pretty important attribute to have, if you are an Ecuadoran Shaman.

One day, as the shaman was sitting (alone, of course) in his hut, he had an idea. This is what shamans are good for, having ideas. They don’t raise crops, or hunt, or weave, or do any of the things the other people of the area do to make a living. He did, however, make a big production out of calling the sky for rain and calling the earth for food, and of calling the vicunas for wool. He danced mightily and sang terribly. Not that his voice was bad, mind you, he just really got into his work. He always wore his mask of the fierce countenance and his great cape of pampas grass when he meddled with nature, just like a good shaman is supposed to do. And, naturally, rain would fall, crops would grow, and the vicunas would have thick wool for the weavers.

      Anyway, the shaman had an idea. To get rid of his loneliness, he would steal a boy from Bolivia, and raise him and train him in the ways of a shaman. Now, this practice isn’t as bad as it sounds. A shaman would always go to a neighboring country and talk with the local shaman, who would point out a likely boy. The boy was usually a very poor orphan boy who no one wanted to take care of. So rather than allowing the youngster to become a naughty boy that steals people’s things, a shaman would take him to raise.

      So, the shaman made the long trip to Bolivia, talked to a local shaman, and found a lad that was apt to be taught the ways of the shaman. Our shaman crept up on the boy as he slept and caught him up in a sack of woven tree vines. The shaman whacked the boy in the sack with a big stick three times, told the boy to be very quiet, and set off for his home. And as he was wearing his great cape of pampas grass, there were no footprints to show which way the abductor had fled, so the local people were very properly frightened and talked a lot and pointed at the ground a lot, but really that was all. None of them wanted to undertake the perilous journey to find a boy nobody wanted anyway.

      As the years passed, it became very apparent that the boy was quite adept at being a shaman’s apprentice. He quickly mastered the “getting of ideas” part of his training and was of immense help in keeping his master well fed. And, as the boy was an artist, his masks of the fierce countenance were fierce indeed. His masks of the fierce countenance were so terrifying, in fact, that he single handedly defeated an invading group of miscreants from Peru who had come to steal food and wool. He put on his most terrifying mask and hid on a hilltop, watching the invaders advance. When they got to the base of his hill, he stood up and asked in an awful voice, “Which of you would like to be eaten first?” The Peruvians stopped in their tracks at the sight and sound of this Hill Monster. “I asked” the boy continued, “Which of you would like to be eaten first? I’m very hungry and do not wish to travel. If you wish to pass  and continue on your evil quest, you must give me man flesh!” The young man roared a most terrible and hungry roar, and before the echoes had quit resounding from the surrounding hills, the Peruvian marauders had vamoosed, and all that was left of them was the dust of their fleeing. 

      This battle was witnessed by the village nearest the shaman and the boy, and at this exploit the people began to mutter among themselves about the need to support TWO shamans of such formidable power. These mutterings were overheard by the shaman, and planted in his mind the seed of jealousy, a seed which grows into a bush which bears the most unimaginably evil types of fruit. But as of yet, it was just a seed.

      The boy grew in stature and in maturity. He became well liked, a rarity among shamans, and was invited to many of the peoples gatherings. He began to make masks of a beautiful countenance, with many colors and smiling lips. His singing voice, too, was unlike any other shamans in known, and indeed in unknown, history. The boy would sing wonderful songs of bright, sunny days, of rills trickling in laughter down green, verdant hills. His songs brought much happiness to the people and happy times became their way of life. The people began calling less and less on the old shaman, as they now called him, and more and more on the good shaman, as they called the boy. And the children grew chubby on the plenty of the land and the vicuna’s had thick coats of wool. And in the old shamans mind the seed of jealousy sprouted a root.

      Now, every Spring when the snows melted and the air grew warm, the people would have a festival. All from the area would gather together. They would count the new babies and mourn the passing of the elders. New elders would be selected from the gathered people and the festival would begin. All of the girls from the people who were of an age to be married would be taken to a special tent, and there they would be told to weave a garment from the best wool of the best vicuna that their fathers had raised. When all the girls had finished their garments, they would parade themselves and the garments before the people. During the time of the weaving, the eligible men of the people would be taken to a special tent where they were to compose a song of beauty to entice a girl to give him the newly woven garment, thus signifying a desire to be married together. And while the incipient newlyweds were performing their duties, their fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters and everyone danced and sang and feasted until the coming out.

      The old shaman had grown tired of the good shaman always out-doing him in front of the people, and so the old shaman, lonely again and bitter, thought to get another companion. As he had roamed about the hills during the Fall and Winter, his eye had fallen upon a beautiful young maiden. Her eyes sparkled and her hair shone, and when she laughed, the old shaman even forgot his loneliness and the winter seemed less chilling for a while. He determined in his heart to win her at festival time. As he knew well, he was not capable of composing a song of beauty, so he devised a way to fool the good shaman into making a beautiful song for him. In the coldest of the Winter’s nights, the old shaman would ask the good shaman to sing of something cheery and wonderful. As the younger found the words, the older would have him repeat them so he could secretly memorize them, in this way stealing a beautiful song. As the Winter waned, the song was completed, and the old shaman was sure he could win the hand of the beautiful young maiden.

      That wonderful day of the marriages arrived. The girls who were of age to be married had finished weaving the garments and the eligible men had finished composing their songs. As the people lined the festival park, the eligible men gathered in the center, forming two lines, being back to back. One end of the crowd of people was at the right side of the opening of the tent of the maidens, and the other end was at the left side of the opening. Suddenly, and with much murmuring of the people, the old shaman pushed his way into the line of eligible men. “Why do you murmur at my coming?” the old shaman asked. “Am I not an eligible man?” “You wear your mask of fierce countenance and your great cape of pampas grass,” the people replied. “You seek an unfair advantage.” “This is who and what I am,” replied the old shaman. “Bring out the maidens.”

      With that, the people relented. It was an unprecedented thing, but many things, recently, had been unprecedented. The eligible men began singing their songs of beauty to entice the maidens. The flap of the tent of the maidens was pulled open, and behold, the maidens came out, bearing their woven garments. The garments were all very nice, some thick and heavy for the long cold Winters, some light and airy for the long warm Summers. All of the maidens were very talented weavers, and all the eligible men were talented singers, being groomed for this day since childhood. And, as many of the men and maidens had known each other since childhood, the selection of mates went quite quickly. But none had seen the beautiful young maiden with the sparkling eyes and shining hair. Soon, there was only the old shaman standing in the center of the circle, with all the people looking at him. Then she came out of the tent.

      She was indeed beautiful. She appeared as if Spring herself had come in all her glory, full of youth and wonderment, and newness. Life sprang from her bosom, a vernal glow surrounded her head, and where her feet touched the ground, tiny white flowers sprang up with a sound like little bells ringing. The people were very amazed, and feel to their knees in awe of the sight of her. But as beautiful as she was, the garment she had woven was inspired. One of her father’s vicunas had been blessed by the sun and moon, and given wool of gold and silver, and of the many hues that made the earth a lovely place to be. The azure of the sky, the emerald of the grass, and the carmine of the anemone were present to be beholden. And finally, the skill of the young maiden was such that, whosoever wore the woven garment was made to be as beautiful as the garment, and was imbued with the wisdom of the sun and moon and the earth. The old shaman saw the woven garment and coveted it mightily.

      The old shaman began singing the song of beauty he had stolen from the good shaman. And it was a song of beauty. It soared upwards, craving new heights to reach, and fell, laughing in the delight of freedom. It was dizzyingly happy, and brought tears of joy and merriment and mirth to those that heard it. All but two.

     The maiden was a true maiden, and her heart of hearts was a true heart, and she fell deeply in love with the maker of that song, but her true heart of hearts knew that the old shaman was not that man. Unnoticed by the people, she began looking into the crowd, looking with her true heart for the writer of the song. And as her heart was true, her eyes were immediately drawn to the eyes of the good shaman. He had worn his newest mask of the beautiful countenance, and as her eyes locked onto his, he felt compelled to take off the mask. He did so, and was revealed as a man of good character, a handsome man, and strong. Without taking his eyes from the maiden, he began to sing a new song of beauty, even more beautiful than the song the old shaman had stolen. His heart of hearts was also true, and though he and the maiden had never met, they both knew in their hearts that they were meant to be together. The maiden stepped towards him, the tinkling bell flowers joining his song, until they met and embraced. The maiden then handed the good shaman the woven garment, and he accepted it without hesitation. As he wrapped the garment about himself, his real beauty was revealed. As the people bowed low and knelt to him who would be their new king, the good shaman opened the garment and enveloped his new bride and queen with it. As they stood in their shared beauty, the sun grew brighter, and the moon raced above the horizon the view the spectacle. Grass grew thickly and all the vicunas stood facing the couple, the vicunas then, as one, lowered themselves to the knees of their forelegs, giving obeisance to the lovely king and queen.

      If anyone had been paying attention to the old shaman, they would have noticed a change in his stolen song of beauty. From the heights and depths of flight to the deeps crevices of darkness it went. The wonderful lilt had turned sour and rough. It spoke of hatred and betrayal, of misery, wanton and low. What began as a growl would turn into an enraged keen. The old shaman began a new dance, a dance so awful he had no name for it. The seed of jealousy that had sprouted a root had grown to fullness and the utterings and macabre movements of the old shaman were the beginnings of the fruit of that tree. Gone was any hope of joy the old shaman had, and in its place, only bitter ashes and defeat.

      But the maddened song of the old shaman’s jealousy was having effect. Dark clouds rolled quickly over the bright sky. Multi-tined forks of lightning struck the hills, blasting burning holes into the green earth. In blackness, punctuated by the raw lightning, the old shaman began to pronounce a curse on the good shaman. The people that heard the dreadful words were driven to their knees in blubbering fear, while the peaceful vicunas now ran hither and yon, stricken mad by the wild, discordant bedlam around them. And the tempestuous winds carried the curse to the four pillars of earth.

     The good shaman and his bride, meanwhile, had taken shelter in a small cave not far from the festival grounds. She, being a good wife and queen, had packed away some bread and cheese, and a little wine for her bridal meal, The good shaman spread the woven garment on the floor of the cave, and the two of them sat down, and took comfort in each others presence. They shared the bread and cheese and drank each others health with the wine, and waited for the storm to end. In the closeness of the cave and with the beautifying effects of the woven garment, the true hearts of the lover’s blossomed with true love, and there in the cave, they became one. And as the joy and beauty of the day, and the wild terror of the day took its toll on the pair, and they fell into a deep sleep.

      The old shaman, driven to despair by rejection from the woman he coveted so much, had ran away from the festival ground.  In his mask of the fierce countenance and his great cape of pampas grass, he fled to the south, toward the end of the world. He felt he could no longer serve a people who had treated him so shamefully. The tree of jealousy that had overcome him had deceived him to such a degree that he was no longer capable of seeing the truth, that it was his own greed and covetousness and guilt that drove him away. As he ran, he would dart first this way, then that way, and then resume his journey south. As he darted, his great cape of pampas grass would fly up, revealing a tell tale footprint here and there. But, his mind was elsewhere and he paid no attention to his tracks.

      Back at the festival ground, the sun rose resplendently in rosy radiance, the few clouds that were left reflecting the glorious colors of dawn. In looking about, one would see the tent of the maidens and the tent of the eligible men had been blown down, and that the tops of some of the hills had been blasted by lightning, but very little evidence of the previous days tempest was present. Morning birds chirped merrily in the auroral glow. Men and women stirred cautiously about and children were soon playing. But morning turned to mourning as a frightful wail drifted over the pastoral scene.

      The bride of the good shaman had awakened to horror. In place of her husband stood a vicuna, a vicuna clad in the woven garment she had given her husband. The vicuna bleated plaintively and nuzzled her, seeking the affection he craved but could no longer have. She, though, stricken with grief was unable at that time to respond. She knelt in sorrow, and cried ’til her tears were dry. The people had gathered outside the cave the pair had run to for safety, and at their urging, the girl’s mother entered. She turned quickly from the scene before her and fainted into her husbands arms. He, then, called some of her friends who took her into their comfort, and the husband, the bride’s father, entered the cave.

      Strong men quail when terrible things appear before their eyes. His father’s heart was broken when he saw the terrible tragedy that had engulfed his daughter and son-in-law. But, with a father’s wisdom, he pulled his daughter to her feet and put his arm around his son-in-law’s neck, and led them out of the cave. Word had spread from the weeping mother to her friends and to their friends until, soon, everyone knew what to expect, and when they saw the bride and the beautiful vicuna, all were filled with sadness. Yet, people’s lives go on when tragic things happen. And so it happened here.

     And yet, through tragedy, comes triumph. The one night the couple got to spend together was not in vain. Their love had planted a seed, and that seed waxed and finally, after nine long months, the seed grew to fruition. The bride gave birth to a boy, a special boy, a boy with a destiny. The lad grew quickly, much faster than ordinary little boys and it was soon discovered that he had an astonishing gift. As he was conceived during the changing of his father, he was born with the ability to take on the appearance of a vicuna. His hands and feet could be folded into the semblance of hooves. His arms could be extended from his shoulders and his knees could bend backwards. His hips could pivot and so he could truly appear like a vicuna. He asked his mother to weave him a garment of vicuna wool which he would use to cover his body, making his transformation complete. And so dressed thus, he and his father went on a quest. As they traveled, his father taught him all the good things he knew so his son would be a good man in the world. And, it seems, that when the boy was in the form of a vicuna, he could understand what the other vicunas were saying, and since vicunas rarely said anything that wasn’t important, he learned a lot.

     As the boy and his father, the vicuna, traveled, they asked if anyone had seen the old shaman. Soon they were hearing tidings of a wandering old shaman with a mask of fierce countenance traveling about, begging for food. He could no longer perform the duties of a shaman, but people felt sorry for him. One day, almost at the end of the earth, they came upon a hut, and asked the occupant if he had seen the old shaman. “Yes,” the person said. “I gave him some barley soup this morning and he left only an hour ago. He went to the south.”

      The young boy put on his visage of the vicuna so he and his father could travel faster. Soon they came to a part of the land that began to slope gradually upward. As they began to climb, they began to see footprints here and there. They knew their quarry was very close. “When we get near to him,” the father said, “Let me deal with him. He is a very tricky person and care needs to be taken when approaching him, lest you are duped.”

      Soon they came to the end of the earth. There was a very high cliff that fell steeply down into a turbulent body of water. They followed the erratic footprints until they began to hear a quiet muttering, and then, there, behind some large rocks, was the old shaman! He was nibbling on a crust of bread that he dipped into a cruet of the barley soup given him by the person of the hut.

      “Always an uppity boy,” the old shaman murmured. “Always showing me up in front of the people. I showed him, and I showed them, huhuhuhuhu.” The weird laugh echoed among the rocks. The old shaman started at the echo, and looked around, seeing the pair.

      “Get out of here, you raggedy vicuna’s,” the old shaman shouted. “Leave me be.” He threw a rock at them to shoo them off. At that, the boy’s father snorted in a very unvicunic manner and charged at the old shaman. The old shaman threw his cruet of barley soup, and cried, “I know you, I know you. Now you’ve tracked me down to the end of the earth to torment me further!” The old shaman still didn’t understand that his troubles had been his own doing.

      The young lad had come racing up to aid his father, and, as he was in his vicuna form, he came quite quickly. He stopped and took off his woven garment of vicuna wool and stood tall as a man. The old shaman was so taken aback that he fell backwards off the cliff. The old shamans scream was cut off abruptly as he plunged into the ocean. And such was the hatred and envy that had consumed his life, that at the moment he struck the water, he was transformed into “The Sea Bass”, a malevolent being that was to become the boy’s arch nemesis in later parts of his life. The mask of the fierce countenance became a fishy face, with big eyes and truly dripping teeth. The great cape of pampas grass became fishy fins and a tail, and the turtle shell rattles that were on his legs became fish scales. And so the old shaman swam away to heal his wounds and nurse the evil in his being.

      But again, as the old shaman’s body hit the water, the father of the boy was turned back into his own self. He stood proudly by his son, wrapped in the woven garment given him by his bride. As the two went home, father and son, the father taught the son many things, one of many being the ability to make music, and the son, getting a talent from the father, took to the music readily. Now having no instruments to play, they whistled together. And the songs they made together were unlike any that had ever been heard on the earth, being a mixture of person and vicuna sounds. Upon their return to the village of the people, there was much rejoicing and merriment. Husband and wife were reunited and the people of the region made them their King and Queen indeed. And the young lad with the astonishing gift of the vicuna and the wonderful talent for music grew to fulfill his destiny as, “The Whistling Vicuna”.

You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

Back to top