India Tibisay

Murachí was agile and brave, more than all the Indians of the tribe; his arm was the strongest, his arrow the most accurate, and his plumage the most colorful. When the conch sounded at the top of the hill, his companions grabbed their weapons and followed him, shouting savagely, confident of victory. Murachí was the chief of the Sierra Nevadas

Tibisay, his beloved, was slender like the flexible corn stalk. With a tawny complexion, big melancholic eyes, and abundant hair. For her, the best canvases were the Mirripuy, the finest gold from Aricagua, and the rarest bird feathers from the mountain

She had learned, better than her companions, the war songs and praises of the Ches. In feasts and dances, she let her voice be heard, sometimes sweet and rhythmic, sometimes passionate and vehement, exalted by wild passion. Ears listened to her in silence; not even the wind rustled the leaves

Tibisay was the princess of the Indians of the mountains, the most beautiful lily of the Mucujún meadows. One day, scared, she left her hut and presented herself to Murachí, the love of her heart. The region was in arms: The Indians ran from one place to another, preparing their clubs and poisoned arrows. -Run, run, Tibisay. We are going to fight

The terrible sons of Zuhé have already appeared on those frightful animals, swifter than an arrow: Tomorrow our land will be invaded and our crops destroyed. Run, run, Tibisay. We are going to fight; but first come, my beloved, and dance to the sound of the instruments, revive our courage with the melody of your songs and the memory of our feats

The dance began in a forest clearing, sad and monotonous, like a farewell party, at the time when the Sun, reddish towards sunset, spread its last reflections over the green peaks. Soon the bonfires shone in the camp circle and began to awaken, with libations of fermented corn, the dejected hearts and the wild impetus

Throughout the forest, shouts and commotion were already echoing, when suddenly the noise ceased and all lips fell silent. Tibisay appeared in the middle of the circle, beautiful in the fantastic light of the bonfires, her shawl draped over her arm, with a sweet and expressive gaze and a proud demeanor

She let out three deep and prolonged cries, accompanied by the sacred horn sound, and then mesmerized the Indians with the magic of her voice. -Listen to the song of the Mucujún warriors: The wind runs fast; the water runs fast; the stone that falls from the mountain runs fast

Run warriors; fly against the enemy, run fast like the wind, like the water, like the stone falling from the mountain. Strong is the tree that resists the wind; strong is the rock that resists the river, strong is the snow of our highlands that resists the Sun. Fight warriors, fight bravely; show yourselves strong, like the trees

Like the rocks, like the mountain snows, This is the song of the Mucujún warriors. A unanimous cry of warlike enthusiasm responded to Tibisay's beautiful songs. After the dance, Murachí accompanied Tibisay through the dark grove

There were no more lights than the twinkling stars in the sky and the intermittent radiance of the distant Catatumbo. Both walked in silence, with the pain of farewell in the middle of their souls and afraid to utter the final word. Goodbye!

There is a point where the Milla and Albarregas rivers flow very close to each other almost at their source. The hills offer two openings there, a short distance apart, where the two rivers rush down, following different gullies, to meet again and merge into one in front of the picturesque fields of Liria

Already kissing the city of Florida's feet, the historic Mérida. In that lonely spot, hidden by the mountain foothills that almost surround it in an amphitheater, Murachí had his hut and his fields

Tibisay, the proud warrior said to his beloved - our wedding will be my reward if I return triumphant; but if they kill me, run, Tibisay, hide in the woods, so the foreigner doesn't set his eyes on you, for you would be his slave. The cold morning wind carried far away to Murachí's ears the sad laments of the unfortunate Indian, whom he left in that remote place, now the owner of his hut and his fields

When the first light of dawn colored the horizon above the diamond peaks of the Sierra Nevada, the wild conch sounded deep and monotonous at the bottom of the ravines that serve as deep moats to the Mérida plateau. The Indians, organized in squadrons, were ready for battle. Soon, a shapeless figure advancing across the plain was spotted from afar; it stretched and took such extraordinary forms in the eyes of the Indians

That panic paralyzed their movements for a few moments, but the voice of the chief disturbed them like a flooded torrent, bursting into horrible screams and filling the air with their poisoned arrows

Murachí led the way; wielding high the terrible club and transforming his face with fury. A sudden detonation stopped the Indians; they all paled with terror; they huddled together, screaming in impotence; and soon they scattered, seeking salvation on the edges of the ravines, where they disappeared in a stampede

Only Murachí shattered his club against the armor of the former conqueror. Only the brave Murachí saw up close those frightful animals aiding their enemies in battle, but he alone lay dead on the field under the horses' hooves. The Spanish bugle played victory and the entire land fell under the rule of the King of Spain

Near the peaceful Milla's banks, in that secluded and sad place, a hole was dug at the foot of the rock to bury Murachí, with his weapons, his jewels, and the fragrant branches that Tibisay cut in the forest for the grave of her beloved

Tibisay lived from then on alone with her pain and memories in that beloved hut. Her songs were henceforth as sad as those of the wounded lark. The Indians admired her with a certain feeling of religious affection and showered her with gifts

She was a symbol of their ancient freedom and at the same time an oracle they consulted in secret. The Spaniards now ruled the land and governed the Indians. Only Tibisay lived free in the throat of those mountains or among the forests of their surroundings, but her life was a mystery, something like a myth of the natives, which attracted the Spaniards with the fantastic power of poetic fictions

No conqueror had yet managed to see her, and yet; no one doubted her existence. The Indians claimed she was a very beautiful princess, widow of a famous warrior, who had promised to live hidden in the mountains as long as there were foreigners in their native Sierras

The voice of the fugitive was enchanting, which the hunters occasionally heard in those rugged places, like the echo of a sad music that pierced the soul and brought tears. In her lips, the Musca dialect, her native tongue, sounded sweet and melodious, and it was not necessary to understand it to be moved in the heart