14/06/2025
𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗪𝗮𝘇𝗮𝗰á: 𝗔 𝗟𝗲𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗠𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 𝗥𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗺𝗮
Long ago, before the land knew boundaries and before rivers carved their names into the earth, the great Wazacá tree stood at the heart of the world. It was no ordinary tree—its towering branches bore every fruit and vegetable known to life.
Among those who tasted Wazacá’s gifts were Makunaima and his brothers. It was after one such feast that Ma’nápe, one of the brothers, grew restless. With ambition swelling in his chest, he turned to the others and declared, “I will cut the Wazacá down.”
But Akuli, the wise agouti, shook his head gravely.
“How can you think such a thing?” he asked. “This tree feeds us all. If you cut it, it will bring ruin—a flood that none of us can escape.”
Ma’nápe, stubborn and proud, ignored the warning. He retrieved his great axe, slung it over his shoulder, and marched toward the sacred tree. Akuli, fearful of what might come, followed quietly through the jungle.
At last, they reached the towering Wazacá, whose leafy crown rose above the canopy and whose scent filled the air like the breath of the earth itself. Ma’nápe wasted no time—he swung his axe against the bark, but the blade bounced off without so much as a mark.
Then, Ma’nápe stepped back, raised his voice, and invoked the ancient words:
“Mazapa-yeg, élupa-yeg, makupa-yeg!”
The trees he called—mazapa, mamao, cariaca—were known for their soft wood. With the spell, Wazacá’s bark softened. This time, the axe bit deep.
Akuli panicked. He pleaded again, but Ma’nápe would not stop. Desperate, Akuli tried to plug the growing wounds with beeswax and fruit husks, but the axe fell again and again, and the tree bled sap like tears into the soil.
Ma’nápe invoked more trees—“Palulu-yeg!” he cried, calling on the papaya tree. The Wazacá softened to its core. The axe carved a gaping wound so deep, only a thin sliver of wood held the tree upright.
Suddenly, the forest rang with a voice like thunder:
“Waina-yeg!”
Anzikilán had arrived, sprinting through the jungle, his voice breaking the spell. He called on the spirit of the Waina tree—ancient and unyielding—whose wood was as hard as the stones beneath Euteurimá Waterfall. At once, the Wazacá hardened, the axe froze.
But Ma’nápe, consumed by obsession, shouted again:
“Élupa-yeg, palulu-yeg!”
The spell took hold. The trunk split with a deafening crack, and the mighty Wazacá crashed to the earth. Its branches were torn apart by the wind. Its roots tore up stone and soil. Trees were crushed. Hills were born. From this cataclysm rose the giant table-top mountain—Roraima, watching silently as suns rise and moons fade.
The crown of the tree, heavy with its fruits, tumbled north, where it came to rest. To this day, that land grows plantains no hand has planted—claimed by the Mawari spirits who dwell on Roraima and its sister mountains. Had the crown fallen south, it would have been the Arekuna people who reaped its harvest.
Even before the echoes of the tree’s fall faded, water erupted from the shattered trunk. A mighty flood surged through the land, scattering Makunaima and his brothers. The water shimmered with fish, but the current was swift. The biggest ones vanished into the depths. The brothers tried to catch them, but only the small ones remained—flickering shadows too fast to hold.
And so, from the fall of the Wazacá tree was born a mountain, a flood, and the age-old memory of what was lost—and what became sacred.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘊𝘰𝘳𝘢'𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬 "𝘒𝘶𝘢𝘪-𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘦: 𝘔𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘻𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘢" (1957, 𝘌𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘖𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘥𝘢). 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘯𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘰𝘥𝘰𝘳 𝘒𝘰𝘤𝘩-𝘎𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘨 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 1911-1912 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘙𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘮𝘢.
