It is said that, on the first day, Val’vachea, earth mother, creator of life, womb of the world, woke to the cold and darkness of the void …
With one hand, she reached down her throat and pulled out a handful of gems, flinging them up to fill the night sky with stars. With the other, she tore open her breast, letting her bright life’s blood bubble out. She captured the first, large gobbet that fell and – breathing on it to fill it with further fire – she set it at the centre of the void, ordering it to burn and give light. But when she reached for the second tumbling drop, it spilt in two, one large and bright, the other smaller and fiery red. She laughed and let them both tumble around her while she finished her chosen tasks.
Now she had light – but although the new sun burned it only warmed her face and not her back. So she ripped out her hair and used it to weave a crumpled cloak. The work was painful and she wept as she wove, painting the fabric with her tears. When it was done, she pulled the cloak around her shoulders and curled up beneath its warmth, rocking herself back to sleep. The folds of the cloak became the mountains. The water from her tears became the rivers and the sea. From the tumbling drops of her blood, the moons were born, joining her in slumber, forever circling her body as she, too, circles the burning sun.
Back to the Index