The Son of the Rain - A Story Based on a Wichí Mataco Myth" -

The Son of the Rain 

- A Story Based on a Wichí Mataco Myth" -

It was Yachup, the time of fruits and festivities for the indigenous peoples of the forests of the Chaco in northern Salta. During this time, young girls would adorn their hair with yellow tusca flowers and head to the carancho dance, celebrating under the moonlight until dawn.

The village of Hosan, with its little huts, the wetes, was arranged in an imaginary circle, divided by an ancient taboo that marked the boundaries of the two main clans: the Nichaj, the people of the wild boar, and the Ahuj, the people of the Surubí fish.  

The Nichaj slept during the day and hunted at night. Blessed with the sharp sight of a hawk and the strong, swift legs of the tapir, they were hostile, nomadic, and unpredictable, their sense of smell attuned to that of the animal that protected them. Restless and aggressive, they moved confidently through the forest, enjoying dances—especially the nocturnal ones that encouraged hunting and the joy of love. For them, fertility and successful hunts were intertwined. They believed life was a delicious fruit, and even if it sometimes turned sour, it had to be squeezed, savored down to the last drop. Exhausted by the routine of pleasure, they neglected their appearance, their bodies dirty and disheveled, their hair wild, whitened by ashes, and greased with the grime of dirt.

The people of Ahuj, the Surubí clan, enjoyed robust health, nourished by fish and wild fruits. They woke before dawn, their laughter like the tinkling of sunlight, and each one had a protective bird spirit. Their exquisite sensitivity manifested in the beauty and design of their crafts: the women wove rustic yet delicate chaguar, while the men skillfully carved wood. Happy and fertile, they had large families, were peaceful and affable, and rarely bothered each other or their neighbors.

The indigenous peoples, like the Matacos, believed that everything in Mother Nature had its own guardians and protectors. The rain, the storms, the rainbow, the lagoons, the rivers, the forests, every animal and plant—all had their special caretakers. Pezlachai was the Mistress of the Rain, while Pezlai Wuk was the Master of Storms. The people would turn to them to ask for rain when it was scarce, sometimes with offerings and praise, other times with songs, dances, and rituals.

The storm began like all summer storms in the tropics: with low, dark clouds over the hills, an oppressive, still atmosphere, and lightning that slithered like tongues of fire, followed by booming thunderclaps. Suddenly, the rain fell in a torrential fury. The community of Hosan welcomed the much-awaited rain with joy. Finally, the forest would turn green again, the trees would bloom and bear fruit, the beehives would overflow with honey, and there would be plenty of animals for hunting.

The ones who enjoyed the rain the most were the children; they would run out to splash in the puddles, throwing water at each other in a chorus of laughter, joined by the dogs who joined in the fun. But the rain didn’t stop—it turned into a downpour. At night, the people huddled around the fire, crowded together with the skinny dogs, wet goats, drenched chickens, and soaked cats. Even the forest elves took shelter around the fire, squeezing their tiny figures together, naturally accepted without a hint of surprise. Covered in ash, they were just another part of the group; there they would whisper, play, and pull their pranks. They’d tug on the old people's hair, prick the dogs with thorns, and throw a mouse into the fire. They only stayed still when someone told a story that involved them. They’d participate by nodding, moving their ears and heads when they liked a story. After all, they had been the guardians and timeless participants in those tales.

These were the moments when the human world and the magical world merged, becoming one, where everyone felt united as part of Creation. After the calamity, these experiences would forever be etched in memory, adding another chapter to the legends passed down from generation to generation, enriching the fabric of life with the magic and wisdom of the elves.

Days and nights passed, and the rain didn’t cease; the constant downpour pecked at the earth like a beak of thorns. Fields and roads flooded, and the village of Hosan, belonging to the Surubí clan, gradually became isolated from the world. One night, Chokok, Hosan’s wife, broke the silence while stirring the aloja with a gourd spoon and said, "This furious rain reminds me of when Welá's mother died. Her relatives, who were hunters, did not burn her belongings, and as a result, bad weather plagued us. The rain came like an angry serpent, spewing water, foam, and stones, while the four winds blew wildly. It swept all the wetes into the air, there were no fish in the river, and there was no food. It was a very difficult time."

A heavy silence followed; everyone remembered that time when Pezlachai, the Mistress of the Rain, did not allow men to enter the forest, and the community fell into misfortune until they discovered the wrongdoing. Then, they burned the dead woman’s belongings and sang to her spirit, ahat, until the world quieted and began to breathe peacefully again.

After finishing her story, Chokok sighed deeply, the longing for the lost harmony consumed by the tempest darkened her face. She took a sip of the drink and passed it to her husband, saying what everyone was thinking.

Tonlhiye, her mother, said nothing as she continued picking lice from her granddaughter, who slept peacefully in her lap. Though still strong, the days when she danced the algarrobo dance under the full moon, adorned with yellow flower crowns, celebrating the renewal of the earth, were long gone. The memories that haunted her, dark like the stormy sky, were well-known to all. When she was born, her father, in a jealous rage, tried to kill her. He claimed that his wife had been unfaithful and that the newborn girl wasn’t his. He grabbed her by her frail ankles and lifted her into the air, ready to smash her tiny head against a tree trunk. Desperate, her mother screamed and managed to grab the little girl by the arms while the father held her by the feet. They were about to tear her apart when a deafening thunderclap shook the earth and a blinding lightning bolt struck the yard, leaving the violent father blind. That’s how Tonlhiye’s life was saved, and her name, meaning “stretched thing,” forever commemorated that terrifying moment.

The rain continued, and the wind howled outside, while inside the hut, the conversation revolved around the possible reasons for the punishing downpour. Sitting on a mat made of vines, with a small child suckling at her breast, Tahlí, daughter of Hosán and wife of Thashí, stopped twisting the chaguar fibers on her ashen leg. Without raising her eyes, she voiced an idea fluttering in her mind like a black butterfly:  

“Paliye, the daughter of Siwog, had her first menstruation and didn’t stay inside the wete for all the days she was supposed to. She didn’t listen to her grandmother."  

A murmur of agreement rose from the group. She continued:  

“My mother and grandmother taught me everything I needed to do and what could happen if I didn’t. I was trembling with fear, locked away, all alone, but I didn’t dare go out at night.”

Then Chokok spoke:  

“It’s not the women; it’s the men’s fault, always out there doing things wrong. What did Honah do? He took a Chorote woman he wasn’t supposed to! And now the children are getting sick, and no one knows why.”

Everyone fell silent until Hosán broke the quiet:  

“My grandfather told a story of a woman who once took her unborn child from her womb before it was fully formed. She let her blood flow and secretly burned the fetus. After that, violent winds swept the rain far away from the community. The whole region dried up because the rain never returned. That woman was very guilty; she ruined her village because she hid blood that wasn’t yet ready to become a person. That blood was *ahat*. That’s what caused the hunger. The rain only came back after everything was purified.”

A thunderclap was heard rumbling in the distance.

The grandfather, who had woken up, joined the conversation. He was as old as a twisted carob tree, and no one knew how many years he had. The old man spoke in a raspy and slow voice:  

“It's sad, everything is changing! The young ones don't listen to the elders, they don't respect the teachings. The ancestors taught everything. You have to hit the fish before taking it out of the river. You have to bury the bones. You have to throw fish bones back into the river. You must not spit on the fire. But the young ones don't listen, and that angers the owners of the things."  

He paused, interrupted by the tapping of the rain outside, then grimly said:  

"In my dream, the spirit of my grandfather spoke. The punishment of the rain is because of something that happened outside of here. We need to find that problem."  

By then, there was no more food, and the wetes had no place to take shelter. Silence and dread grew alongside the stench of human and animal waste. Brown and green moss climbed the rotten branches, and people’s guts and souls, corrupted by boredom and humidity. Leeches, salamanders, horseflies, and mosquitoes as big as butterflies gnawed away at their reserves of blood and patience. Their eyes, worn from watching the rain fall, had turned bilious like the insolent tadpoles and rats that invaded the huts until, one by one, they began eating them. They did the same with white worms and red ants, filling their empty stomachs when hunger became unbearable.

Sunken in a muddy stupor, with hollowed eyes, rusted hearts, and skin clinging to their bones, they desperately sought a sign of the time in which they lived. They hoped to hear the triumphant song of the woodpecker announcing the end of the downpour. They tried to pierce the metallic curtain of rain with their eyes and read the flight paths of parrots and calandrias. They longed for the sunrise, for its red face to appear at dawn reflected in the Pilcomayo. Wilted from waiting, they splashed through a morass of anxiety and foul solitude, mercilessly punished by gods whose reasons remained unknown.

The dried fish, the carob stored in the granaries, and the honey and dry firewood had long since run out. Hunger was like a cricket crawling into their bellies through their navels, climbing through their thin bones, leaping through their intestines, and tightening in their motionless hands. They tried in vain to shake it off, crawling and moaning among the howls of the dogs, who pitifully watched as triumphant death claimed the remains of those left behind. Wrapped in dried hides, the Wichis watched in horror as hope dwindled, and the fire maintained with the quills of armadillo tails was fading, more from weariness than moisture. In the mountains, flooded by the landslides of the hills, lay the stinking skeletons of rotting animals. The pitiful cries of the children became salt in the rusted hearts of the mothers, with their drained, exhausted breasts.

During the brief and spaced pauses in the downpour, the men would head into the forest to try to hunt. At night, the constant patter of the rain was joined by the loud rumble of empty stomachs. Finding sleep under such circumstances was a distant dream.

The shamans used all their magical tools, but one by one, they failed. Prayers, supplications, offerings, and rituals, performed with the utmost rigor, were all useless. Clearly, the cause was not a simple violation. Faced with this failure, the sorcerers decided to summon the Chief of all Shamans, Hiyabú, the Raven.  

Hiyabú, the Raven, traveled through time and space, flying to the sacred world, speaking with the gods. He recovered lost objects and rescued the wandering spirits that had escaped in fright. He uncovered the cause of diseases that reeked of strange winds, and with his charcoal eyes, he saw what was happening in distant parts of the world. He observed the future with eyes of glass and the past with eyes of sand, lives spent in vain, dissolved into cosmic dust. He controlled the breathing of the soul, placing and removing the lashes from the eyes of its essence.  

That night, the shamans gathered in the hut where Hiyabú would descend, hidden deep in the forest where light did not reach, among swamps and enormous roots, and where an invisible river flowed to human eyes. In the stillness and darkness, only the green lanterns of the *tucu tucu* pierced the gloom.

Sitting in a circle, the shamans prepared for the ceremony, smoking pipes filled with cebil powder and drumming to a song that resonated across the meadows of the sky. Hiyabú, the Raven, heard the shamans' plea, flapped his magical wings, and flew beyond to fulfill the task, while the sound of drums echoed through the hills.

As dawn approached, Hiyabú returned and said:  

"The Son of the Rain, the Little Lamb, fell through the tongue of fire from a lightning bolt and became trapped in the earth. He was lost in the world of the Matacos, and the gods are furious because she cannot stop crying. The Little Lamb is lonely and sad, unable to return to his mother's arms. They command that he be found and returned."  

Hiyabú indicated that the Little Lamb was somewhere in the heart of the Chaco, where a great tree stood.  

Immediately, the shamans, along with other men, began their journey. They walked long and painful days through swamps and marshes. After several days, they spotted in the distance a giant tree standing tall in the flat Chaco plains.

When they arrived, they saw it was a giant red quebracho tree. Its tough, dark bark rose majestically over the surrounding landscape. The trunk was so large that several men together could not fully embrace it. Its branches stretched out like giant arms, covered in green leaves through which the wind whispered its song.

Nestled between the powerful roots that emerged from the ground was the Little Lamb, the Son of the Rain. He was a small piece of cloud, a fluffy little snowflake, with soft white fur. His large, round blue eyes reflected the deep sadness of searching through the cloudy sky for the way back to his mother’s arms. The eldest of the group approached him gently, and the Lamb’s delicate ears twitched softly, as if greeting him, and his eyes shone. Perhaps he sensed that his return to the celestial home was near.

The elder spoke to the Lamb in soft words and ancient songs, calming his frightened spirit. With care and reverence, he untied the invisible knots that kept the Lamb trapped in the earth among the roots of the tree. Grateful and soothed, the Lamb allowed himself to be guided by the elder, who wrapped him in a mantle woven with sacred chaguar fibers.

The shamans began the ceremony. Dressed in ostrich feathers and painted with white circles, red spirals, and stripes on their faces and bodies, they danced to the rhythm of drums and gourd rattles around the great tree.

As dawn approached, the chief shaman let out a piercing cry, took the Little Lamb, and with a leap, placed him in the highest branches of the quebracho. The chants grew more fervent, and the drumming intensified with renewed energy.

The sky seemed to collapse. Frenzied lightning lit up the night, and the rain became torrential. Dark storm clouds descended, enveloping the entire tree as the earth trembled beneath their feet.

Suddenly, the world fell silent. The thunder ceased, retreating from north to south and from east to west. The rain stopped abruptly, and the clouds parted, clearing the sky. A radiant sun illuminated the universe, reflecting its laughter on the still waters of the river. The Little Lamb had disappeared. At last, he had returned home, to the embrace of the Mother Rain.

I sit on a branch by the shore of the Pilcomayo. It is night, and the large, reddish moon reflects in its tranquil waters. A cool breeze tousles my hair and softly kisses my eyes. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the pure air that expands my mind, clearing my senses. I spread my wings and glide, flying along the river’s current. Suddenly, I hear an invocation in the distance, voices and drums calling to me imperiously. I turn my flight towards them, eager to respond... I look at my body, and it is black and foreboding, my mouth is a hard, curved beak...

The Palalis lachate continues speaking in a hoarse, soft voice...  

"Somewhere in the universe, the new tree of the Matacos has been born, and they must now find it."  

He pauses, looking at me with compassion.  

“I warned you, Suluj! The things of the ancients cannot be shared with outsiders because their spirit is weak, but you refused to listen, only hearing your own voice.”