There were fewer and fewer animals in the fields. In rivers and lakes, the backs of silvery fish could be seen less and less often. The trees no longer bore fruit, and large animals also disappeared: jaguars, capivara rodents, tanirs, deer, anteaters. In the evening air one could no longer hear the roll call of the Jacu birds and the Macuco birds: the fruit trees had dried up.
The Indians, who at that time had not yet cultivated the land, became completely impoverished. The joy that the abundance of bygone times had brought them was gone from their villages. Their huts looked sad. The saddened old men slept on mats all day, they hoped that the god Tuna would send them a barrel of honey. The women sat in a circle on the ground and complained about their poverty. The sad young men dozed with empty stomachs. And the men, having nothing to do, wandered through the forests, where there was no one left to catch with a lasso, trap or trap. Why did they need them now? Time has erased the traces on the hunting trails - traces left in other months, in other, happier times.
People suffered so terribly that one day in a forest clearing two Indian friends from the Guarani tribe decided to ask for help from the Great Spirit - Nyandeyara. Both knew well that in order for the spirit to heed their prayers, it was necessary to make a sacrifice. But which one? They were ready to undergo the most terrible trials, just not to see how their tribe, their relatives, were dying from exhaustion because they had no food.
Having made this decision, both Indians stretched out on the scorched lawn and began to wait. Night has come. A painful silence descended on the earth, painful, because the voices of living beings could not be heard. Suddenly, a messenger from Nyandeyara appeared two steps away from our Indians.
– What do you want from the Great Spirit? he asked.
“We ask for some new food for ourselves and for our families, for game, fish and fruits seem to have disappeared from the face of the earth.
“Okay,” said the messenger. – Nyandeyara agrees to heed your pleas. But to do this, you must fight me until the weakest of us loses his life.
Both Indians accepted this condition and rushed at the messenger of the Great Spirit. At first, only the heavy breathing of the wrestlers, the dull blows of bodies falling to the ground, and the rustling of sand scattered by feet and falling onto the grass could be heard. Soon, however, the weakest of the Indians raised his hands, grabbed his head and fell to the ground...
He was dead. His friend, in deep grief, buried him not far from the scene of the battle.
Spring came, and, as if by the power of magic, a beautiful plant with large green leaves and golden ears grew on the grave of a dead Indian named Aouati. In memory of the Indian who sacrificed himself for the good of his tribe, the Guarani named this plant - their new food - ahuati corn.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru