Creiva and Bosoran

The fairest of the gods and goddesses who ruled the world long ago was Creiva, goddess of the arts. She was beautiful, with long auburn hair and golden eyes. Her father was Maloth, the war-god, and many wondered how such a cruel man could produce such a kind, compassionate daughter who created such beauty in the way she turned the leaves red in the fall and inspired mankind to create beauties of their own, for she was the goddess of art itself. How did this happen?

Maloth had seduced the goddess of peace, for it is a strange relationship that war and peace have together. People fight war to have peace, and peace makes those who love war uncomfortable. Despite the constant feuding of Maloth and the peace goddess, they had joined forces long enough to produce a child.

Creiva took after her mother in her love of the human beings her father so often manipulated. She would often visit them in the form of a peregrine falcon, her snowy feathers touching the sky to create the same clouds that dreamers often gaze upon to get ideas for their own artwork.

One day, as she sat atop a tall sequoia tree to rest from her delightful work, Creiva’s gaze rested upon a young traveler who was carefully making his way between the trees. His face was downcast and his step was slow. Curious as to the cause of his apparent sadness, she assumed the form of a woman and quietly walked up next to him.

“Good day,” he greeted her politely when he saw her. Seeing that no one traveled with her, he asked, “Why do you travel alone? I hear these woods can be dangerous.”

“They are not dangerous to me,” Creiva replied, smiling. “They are beautiful.”

“Yes, Creiva be praised,” he agreed.

“What is your name?” Creiva asked, not revealing her own.

He rolled his eyes. “I am Bosoran, son of Niman.”

“Niman?” she raised an eyebrow. Niman was the god of the night. She had been quarreling with him recently over allowing her to put clouds in the night sky. “Are you, then, one of the gods?”

“No,” he sighed, “and for that I am grateful. My brother, the sun, is condemned to die at the end of each day, and my sister, the moon, has the same fate at the close of night. They live forever, yet they die every day. I do not want that. My mother is a mortal, and so am I.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Creiva had heard of such terrible things before, and felt lucky that she did not have such a curse. “Do they feel pain, when they die?”

“No,” Bosoran replied, “but they do not remember anything before their last rebirth. They do not remember me or Niman. Niman does not care about them, but I do. I wish I could do something to help them.”

Creiva listened well to him, and tried to give him some comfort. “Your brother and sister keep mortals warm, giving them light both day and night. Thanks to them, you can actually see where you are going now. You can see the mighty boughs of this tree. I can only take the light they have given me and paint nature with it; they actually make light.” The moment she finished speaking, she realized what she’d done.

“You are Creiva, aren’t you?” he asked, amazed.

“That I am,” she smiled demurely. She thought for a moment. “How would you like a memorial for your brother and sister? I could make it so that at the beginning and ending of each day, they will have something beautiful to mark their passing.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Creiva stretched out her arm and a brilliant streak of gold poured forth. Another wave, and there were hues of purple. Between her hands she mixed a glowing orange. She threw it into the sky and it was alight with the first sunset the world had ever seen.

“I love it,” Bosoran replied when she asked him how he liked it. “Surely my brother and sister will now have something beautiful to die for.”

From that day on, Creiva and Bosoran became constant companions. They would walk together, and she would show him how she made the trees so tall and mighty, and he would show her how mortals like him used her creations, cutting down the redwoods to build shelters, decorating those shelters with the flowers she so tenderly formed.

A bond grew between them. One day, as they were resting with their feet in a cool stream lined with bushes of ripe blackberries, Creiva said to him, “It’s a pity you’re a mortal; if you were a god, I could spend much more time with you. I’ve enjoyed every moment in your company.”

Bosoran tasted one of the blackberries, the sweet flavor exploding in his mouth. “I’ve enjoyed yours, too. You have been a comfort to me.” He finally voiced what he had known all along. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Creiva replied, then ventured to broach the question neither had dared to ask. “Why don’t we get married?”

“You are immortal,” Bosoran considered. “I would enjoy you to the end of my days, but to you, it would be but a second.”

“I don’t care,” she smiled. “You make me happier than even the joy I have at seeing craftsmen mirror what I do in their work. I love you, and want to spend as much time as possible by your side.”

“Then who am I to argue?” he laughed. “We will be happy as long as I live.”

He leaned over and kissed her gently, then watched her happily as she took off into the pale blue sky, and almost imagined that the clouds she formed were in the shape of a heart.

That night, Creiva visited Maloth in his domain of darkness. He was crouched over a table, analyzing small figures. “If that legion attacks from the right. . .” he muttered to himself.

“Father, I have wonderful news!” Creiva cried.

He grunted. “What is it?”

“I am going to get married.”

Maloth slowly turned away from his strategy board and looked up at her. “This is good. Who is the other god in this alliance?”

“He is no god; he is Bosoran, son of Niman.”

Maloth frowned. “Niman’s mortal son? Why marry him? You should marry his brother, who will be a powerful ally in event of battle. Why, with the sun himself on my side, I could scorch those mortals off the face of the planet!”

“I love Bosoran. His brother would not remember me every day. Bosoran is a good man, noble and kind. Please, father.”

“No!” Maloth shouted.

Weeping, Creiva turned away, assumed the familiar shape of a peregrine falcon and slowly descended to Bosoran’s dwelling, where she once more became a woman and knocked on his door.

“Who is it?” she heard his voice, then saw his shock at seeing her weep. “What is it, Creiva?” he asked gently.

“My father,” she wept. “He refuses to give us permission to be wed. He wants me to marry your brother.”

He put his arms around her, stunned.

“What will we do?” she lay her head against his shoulder.

He thought about it. “I will marry you, permission or not.”

“But you don’t understand! My father is Maloth, the lord of war, and he will bring such destruction—oh, I don’t want to lose you!”

“I don’t care,” he said. “You’re worth it.”

The next morning, they were married in secret by Creiva’s mother, the goddess of peace. She warmly blessed them. “Live well and live long together, my children.”

For some time, the two lived happily together, making the sunrises and the sunsets as glorious as possible, learning the joys of human love. Creiva’s mother very carefully made sure that no word of her daughter’s marriage ever reached Maloth’s ears.

However, one day as Maloth met with Niman to discuss the benefits of conducting war at night, Niman asked him, “Have you heard from my son and your daughter recently?”

“No,” Maloth replied testily. “Why?”

“My daughter saw them together the other night.”

“Really?” Maloth burned with rage. “So they dared to defy me!”

“What do you mean?” Niman asked.

“My daughter and your accursed son ran off and got married!”

Niman joined him in his rage. “Bosoran has always been a disappointment to me, and now he does this?”

Together, Maloth and Niman streaked down to Bosoran’s dwelling. He was outside, chopping wood when they came. He only had time to note their rage before he lay on the ground, slain by the man he had called father.

Suddenly struck by their guilt, Maloth and Niman retreated back to their dark abodes. As Creiva went out to give her husband a cup of water, she was shocked to find him lying there, dead.

“You will not be forgotten,” she said tearfully, dipping her fingers in his blood. With a flick of her wrist, the drops flashed a silvery white and scattered themselves across the sky. Niman, she knew, would be upset at her for venturing to do so, but she did not care. Every night from then on she has spread out the stars to remember him. That is why lovers are drawn to the stars at night; it is in memory of Bosoran, the mortal who dared to love a goddess.