What follows is a story about a favorite character of mine, the Gatherer of Tales. Immortal, he roams the world collecting stories. It is also my attempt to retell myths that celebrate diversity.

The Gatherer Asks a Question

In the beginning, long before I began my gathering of tales, I did a terrible thing. After this first and greatest of my sins, it was my fate to be in exile and I suffered for it, as exiles always do. It was not until I found a story of my own that I had a glimmer of some greater purpose. It was only then that my travels accrued in meaning.

In the numberless years that followed, I collected stories of a scattered tribe of outcasts and rebels, tales linked together only in the ways that we were lost. I uncovered tales of vengeance and of secrets, of families found, then lost, then rediscovered in surprising ways. But for the longest time, it was tales of our beginnings that I cherished most: the beginnings of our diversity, our gender, our love.

Perhaps those tales intrigued me because I so totally believed the story of beginnings my parents told me, then discovered all too soon how many other tales there were. Most often I had to travel long and far to find the best of them. But there were also happier times when people sought me out to tell such tales. Live long as I have and you have periods of notoriety, both flattering and not. When I lived in ancient Alexandria, scholars and prophets seemed more than happy to speak their minds to me, giving words to their heart and spirit.

“How did man and woman come to be?” I asked a gathering of three on just one such occasion. “And how did their passion for each other first come to bloom?”

Irais, a daughter of the noted churchman Philip, smiled in my direction. “I have the answer,” the prophetess said softly. All four of the deacon’s daughters were prophets, it was said, though Irais was the only one of them as sober as a judge.

“As do I,” a fellow named Aristophanes chimed in. The old Greek claimed to be the famous playwright. “And I dare say, not even having heard her tale, mine will be considerably more amusing.”

Irais glared at Aristophanes; the last of my three visitors sat calmly, still silent. A blind priestess from West Africa, I marveled that she had managed to get to Alexandria at all. The old woman was said to worship a deity named Obatala. “We all have our stories,” the priestess said finally. “Why else would we be here?”

She was right, of course. I surveyed the lot of them, three people more different difficult to imagine. “Who’d like to tell their story first?”

“I will,” declared the prophet Irais. Somehow I was not surprised.

Irais’ Tale

In the beginning the Creator made the heavens and the earth. But the earth was without form and covered by a fathomless sea. The Spirit of God moved over the darkness of the waters and saw her own reflection on its surface. And the Creator separated dry land from the oceans and called forth green things of every sort. Soon enough birds flew through the air and fishes swam in the waters of the deep. But there was no one who celebrated what the Creator had made.

So the Creator took clay from the earth and made a mortal man with the same zeal for creativity, so that he might appreciate this new creation. The Creator named the man Adam and gave him freedom to roam the new realm as he would. He was not, however, to eat from a certain thick-limbed tree. Adam exalted in the grand, green garden that surrounded him. And being a creative sort, he gave a name to each and every creature he encountered.

But soon enough, Adam grew lonely, with no one to enjoy the garden with him. He cried out to his creator to make a companion for his heart. Remembering the lovely image on the waters, the Creator fashioned a woman from Adam’s rib, so that he might cherish her. Adam named the woman Eve, which means mother of all that lives. Having lost a rib in the making, Adam was forever seeking the company of Eve, who made him feel complete. Men have sought women for that reason ever after.

Eve, for her part, enjoyed the company of Adam, and was eager to discover all there was to know about this grand green garden. Adam taught her the names he’d given all the animals. Eve met the lion and the lamb, the wolf and the sparrow, the fox and the crow. She even met the serpent, who seemed the friendliest of all. But the name of God he would not say, for it was not to be spoken, not by anyone at all.

At first this was enough, seeing the world through Adam’s eyes, learning the names he’d given the animals, the rocks and streams and everything she encountered. But inside of Eve there grew a restless yearning that didn’t have a name. She spoke to Adam of this yearning but he didn’t seem to know it, nor did any of the animals of the garden. Only the serpent seemed to hear and understand.

“There is a tree in the center of the garden, I’m sure you know it. Its fruit looks very good. Eat from the Tree of Knowledge and your eyes and ears will be opened and you will know the true nature of the Creator and your every wondering will be satisfied.”

So Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge and her eyes and ears were opened and the gift of discernment was hers. Eve saw in the fleeting shadows what was good and what was evil. Eve heard in a quiet whisper the name of the Creator. Filled with the Spirit of God she spoke her truth. And her husband, who listened in amazement, yearned to share the vision of her words.

Disagreement Ensues

Irais, the daughter of the deacon, bowed her head ever so slightly, letting us know her story was at an end. But not her commentary. “Our Lady Eve was the first of the prophets,” Irais began again, “soon followed by her daughter Norea, and Miriam, the sister of Moses. But Eve was the first, the first to see what others could not see, to hear the secret words that others would deny us hearing. Eve spoke her truth, no matter what the cost. Which has been, as well you know, the mark of true prophets ever since.”

I took a closer look at the young woman who stood before me, knowing her truth was already considered heresy in some circles, knowing her very words put her at real risk. “You do Lady Eve honor with your story. I’ve always felt the scriptures treated her unfairly.”

“Oh, Hera and Aphrodite.” Aristophanes had clearly grown restless, and could stifle himself no longer. “There’s little new in all of that. But did you know the Hebrews have another version of the tale, one even closer to the Greeks’. They say that Adam was born a hermaphrodite, half male, half female, made in the creator’s image. It wasn’t Adam’s rib the Hebrew god plucked out, it was Adam’s female half.”

Irais waved a dismissive hand. “Lacking the weight of tradition.”

“How much does tradition weigh?” asked the priestess of Obatala. Aristophanes ignored the women and went on. “In any case, the Hebrew version only accounts for the passion men have for women, and the other way around. What about the passion men have for men, and women for other women?”

I looked at Philip’s daughter. “What indeed?”

“In Greece,” Aristophanes continued, “we need to account for it all, believe you me. Had we not, sweet Sappho surely would have.”

I turned to the white-haired playwright. “Then tell us this Greek story that accounts for every sort of love. I’m not certain I’ve heard the like.”

Aristophanes was beaming. “I am confident that you haven’t.” And at once, with clear and melodious voice, he began his story:

Aristophanes’ Tale

In the beginning there were three sorts of human beings, three sexes in all, not two. Nor was that the only way people were different in those days. Every human being had two right arms and two left arms, two right legs and two left, two torsos, two heads and two hearts. But for reasons I suppose only the gods must know, each human possessed but a single soul. No one complained. One soul was quite enough.

They were very independent, these first three humans. Having four legs, they could walk backwards or forwards with equal ease. And when they wanted to run, they used all their arms and legs and rolled like balls. And as I said, there were three sexes in all, not two.

The first sex had the organs of men, having sprung from the sun. The second sex had the organs of women, having emerged from the earth. But the third sex had the organs of both men and women. Lighter than the others, the third sex came sliding down on moonlight.

They were strong and proud, more like titans than the men and women we know today. So much so, they presumed to try and overthrow the gods; a story for another time. They failed, of course. For their temerity, Zeus saw to it they were punished. He cast his thunderbolts down from heaven, cleaving each and every one of them in two.

This splitting came as quite a shock, as you might imagine. But after the shock of separation subsided, the cloven people began to consider their situation with some degree of hopefulness. With two legs they still could walk. With two hands they could still make things, though admittedly a good bit slower. Since each new singular human had a head, he or she could still think and reason. But because each had but half a soul, these new mortals felt a constant yearning for another.

The hermaphrodites had been the most numerous of their kind. Split in two they made women and men as we know them today. With only half a soul, they craved reunion with their other half. In this way the most common of the passions was born, man for woman and woman for man.

The double males, now cloven, had similar longings, only man for man, since their other half had been male as well. The double females that had been split in half sought the company of other women, for it was only in another woman that their soul’s craving was fully satisfied.

So you see, each one of us, alone, is incomplete, broken by the power of the gods. Each one of us yearns for sweet reunion. The only difference is in the object of our affection. Once reunited with our other half, our souls made whole, we regain our power and our pride. Let jealous Zeus beware.

Only One Story Remains

“Preposterous,” replied Irais. “Clearly the invention of some clever Greek.”

Aristophanes rolled his eyes. “We’re all clever Greeks. Besides, do you think your story came down from heaven written in stone?”

Irais said nothing, smiling. It was clear she thought it had.

I turned my attention to the woman from the land of the Yoruba. “We haven’t heard from you, priestess. Surely, you have something to add to our discussion.”

“I have my story,” the blind woman said simply.

“By all means, then, let us hear it.”

The priestess of Obatala drew herself up to her full slight height, took in a breath and then began.

The Priestess’ Tale

Each of the orisha of our people had their duties in the beginning times. Oludumare conceived of the earth and the rainbow-serpent shaped its contours with the slither-slide of his/her tale. Yemansa saw to it that the oceans were full of salty water and Shango and Oya saw to it that the skies were full of fresh clean rain.

It fell upon Obatala to shape the people in the image of the orisha, so that there would be living creatures who might appreciate this new creation, and give homage to the gods.

Obatala was one of the elder orisha, a stately man standing straight and tall. He always dressed in white, which matched the whiteness of his hair and beard. He was neat and very clean, some say a little fussy.

But Obatala was also calm and gentle, not prone to bouts of temper like the others. Because of this, the orisha often called on Obatala to settle their disputes. They might not always like his decisions but no one could argue with his desire to be fair and his keen sense of justice. It should come as no surprise that the important task of shaping the mortals of this new world would fall to him. It would require patience and attention to detail, both qualities the orisha in white had in abundance.

There was only one fault that could be found with Obatala. He had a certain fondness for palm wine. On more than one occasion, Ogun and Shango carried the old man back to his house to sleep off a celebration. Obatala was never loud or mean; all he ever became was rather silly. Even so, it was not a quality one expected in an orisha of his distinction.

“You’re up to making all the people?” the gods asked Obatala.

“Of course,” the old man said.

“And you won’t drink at all until you’re finished?”

Obatala nodded earnestly. “Not a single drop.”

The orisha in white chose fine brown clay to shape the mortal men and women. He made them with two legs and arms, five fingers to a hand and five toes to a foot. He shaped each with a nose to smell, two eyes with which to see, two ears to hear and a mouth to speak. He shaped their characters as well, making the men fierce and brave, the women warm and loving and able to bear children. He made the men so that they desired women, and the women to desire men.

Obatala had to do all of this and more for each and every mortal that he made. While the orisha was very patient, and liked details, even he began to tire at his task. Hunched over each new mortal as he was, his back started getting sore. And how his old fingers began to ache from shaping each and every hair on their mortal heads.

“Surely no one would begrudge me a single sip of wine,” said Obatala to no one but himself. “Just a little to ease the aches in these old bones.”

A single sip helped a little, but not a lot. He still felt very tired and not even close to being finished. Obatala took another sip of wine and then another. He looked at the men and women he had already shaped and was struck by the singular sameness of their bodies.

“I know that’s what the gods said they wanted, but it’s all so dull!” Obatala declared. With his long arm he reached into the earth and gathered some darker clay, and fashioned a few more men and women.

“Ah,” said Obatala. “That looks very nice, very nice indeed.”

He reached into the earth again and this time gathered light brown clay. He fashioned a few more mortals. Obatala rubbed his chin, sipping some more wine as he considered his new work. “Most interesting, I should say.”

The orisha in white began to vary in the specifics of his task. He made some tall men with darker clay and some heavier women with lighter skin. He forgot the hair on one man and decided he looked rather striking. Obatala made a few more bald.

“No wine?” Obatala chuckled to himself. “Why I’m doing better work by far.” The orisha in white fancied himself an artist, and palm wine his inspiration.

As the sun began to set, Obatala began to question the instructions the other gods had given him about mortal character. “Why should all the men be fierce and the women gentle? Am I a warrior? Is Oya any less feisty than the men?”

Obatala didn’t need an answer. He began to fashion mortal males who were gentle and not inclined to battle, mortal females who were as fierce as any warrior. With another swig of wine, Obatala shaped men who desired men and women who desired other women.

By then, night had fallen and Obatala was more than a little drunk. He made women whose wombs could not carry children, men with eyes that could not see. He made people who couldn’t walk and others who couldn’t hear and still more who could not speak. And finally, tired from all his labors, Obatala fell fast asleep.

When Obatala awoke, the other gods had already breathed life into all of his creations. “Let these differences be on your head,” Ogun said, his disapproval clear.

“Is it bad for people to be so varied?” Obatala asked, rubbing his temples. “Aren’t we orisha as different as night is from the day?”

“Mortals are not orisha,” Yemanja said sternly. “We’ll have to wait and see the consequence of all you’ve wrought.”

Much to Obatala’s chagrin, he came to see there was some basis to the worries of the other gods. The mortals he’d made first were cruel to those who were different from themselves. The more different a woman or man might be, the crueler they became.

“You are Obatala’s mistake,” the old orisha heard a man say to a woman who could not walk. Obatala watched as the man raised a stone to slay her.

It was then that the gentle orisha appeared before the people he had made. “You are all my children,” Obatala said with sudden fierceness. “But the blind and the deaf and all who are different from the rest, they are my favorites and under my protection. Mistreat them at your peril.”

The Gatherer Weights In

The priestess of Obatala folded her hands and said no more. The four of us sat in the quiet of descending twilight. Finally I found the nerve to break the silence.

“They treat you well, where you’re from?” I asked the priestess of Obatala.

“Quite well,” the old woman said. “And you? People treat you with respect, despite your difference?”

I said nothing, wondering how she knew.

She gently touched my arm. “Trust in Obatala. You are under his protection.”

“You may presume too much,” declared Philip’s daughter. “Your god is not my god, or the gatherer’s either, unless I miss my guess.”

Aristophanes chuckled, turning to the priestess. “If the Romans ever conquer your land, they’ll take Obatala too. I’d watch your temples if I were you. They’re forever stealing gods.”

“Take him with you,” the old woman replied. “There is no theft in what is freely given.”

We shared an evening meal together; in the morning, one by one, they were on their way. I never saw any of them again. Philip’s daughters became rather famous, their memory honored by the followers of the New Prophecy in Phyrgia. It was said they were led by a eunuch named Montanus. I’d have to check in to that.

As for playwright Aristophanes, he did all right. He found the sort of literary immortality peculiar to clever Greeks.

But of the fate of the priestess of Obatala I know nothing. Hers was the favorite story I heard that day, my favorite for quite some time to come. I did my best to learn more about Obatala in the years that followed, caught a glimpse of him once during evening prayers in a macumba house in Bahia; watched him possess one of his children amidst the arching candlelight in a third floor flat in New York City.

Some who claim to know him say Obatala feels guilty for his drunkenness. Others say the god in white is a little queer himself, living with some young man beneath a sacred cotton tree. Still others say he’s both man and woman, delivering a fairer justice than any orisha could who wasn’t both. I don’t claim to know.

Of this, though, I am certain. It gives me comfort when I travel to know the orisha in white rules with mercy and compassion. And while I’ve long since stopped thinking of myself as any god’s mistake, I would gladly raise a glass to old man Obatala. How dreary the world would be if he’d stayed sober.

Mark Carlson-Ghost