Why the Sun Rises and Sets

A long, long time ago, when the Earth had just been delivered wailing into the world, the very first humans lived on a mountain. 

It was a tall, tall mountain, so high its peak melted into the skies, so tangled with forests that from afar it looked like a knot of green wool. 

And it was overflowing with life. 

The very first humans shared their mountain home with too many creatures to count. They weren’t all friendly, but most were. 

Take the turtle, for instance; once it had shed its shell so a baby bird fallen from its nest would have shelter from a storm. 

Or the panda, who offered free hugs and bamboo soup to anyone in need. 

And the humans? Were they friendly? 

Well…they weren’t exactly modest. 

A long, long time ago, you see, humans had feathers. They were covered in them, glimmering iridescent green and peacock blue, gilded red and dazzling yellow in the sunlight. 

And while these feathers were absolutely gorgeous, shimmering in bursts and gleams, the other animals found the humans’ constant boasting rather irritable. 

“Look at my lovely feathers!” one would preen. 

“No, no, mine are much more beautiful,” another would simper. 

And the two humans would glare daggers at each other. 

It was very annoying. 

But soon the animals found they had more to worry about than human bragging. 

The sun had just been spit into the skies. 

At first it was lovely and warm, and everyone loved the great ball of fire—especially the snake, who stretched out on a warm, sundrenched rock at once and fell fast asleep. 

But then it started to get warmer. 

And warmer. 

And warmer. 

And warmer still. 

And all of the sudden the ground blistered and the air blazed. 

It was unbearable. 

Especially for the humans, whose beautiful feathers soaked in all the heat. 

Desperate for anyone, anything, who could relieve them of the sweltering sun, the humans scrambled about pleading for help. 

“Please?” they asked the pig. 

“Please?” they begged the crow. 

“Pleasy please please?” they sobbed, on their knees before the tuna. 

But none of the animals wanted to help them. What had the humans ever done for them, anyway? At last, the exhausted humans, dragging the weight of their tears behind them, turned to the snake. She blinked, cracking open a dazzling emerald eye, uncoiling herself from her sprawl on the rock. She drank in the delicious warmth of the sunlight.

“Who,” she hissed, “dares disturb me from my nap?” 

The humans trembled in fear. A sudden chill bumped up their skin. But they gathered their courage—what choice did they have?—and mumbled, “Please will you help us, oh mighty snake?” 

The snake bared her pearled fangs. “Maybe. Maybe not. What will you give me in return?” The humans quaked before her daggered teeth, her long, slender form draped like thick ribbons. What could they give the snake that she didn’t already have? 

“Venom,” one of the humans quivered. “We will give you poison to lace your fangs. You will never have to worry about predators again.” 

The snake snorted. “Humans are my primary predators. But I suppose venom for my help is a fair trade.” She stretched, and the humans jumped back, half-expecting her scales to mottle off. “I’ll need your feathers. All of them.” 

The humans swapped wavering glances. Their feathers? Their beautiful, beautiful feathers? They whispered amongst themselves and decided, at last, that feathers wouldn’t be of much use to them if they died. So, slowly, mournfully, they plucked every last feather off their bodies, shuddering at the sight of their soft, goosebumped flesh. 

“Good,” the snake hissed. Her smile was dangerous, playful. “I’ll be needing my venom soon. You’d better go prepare it.” 

The humans left as quickly as they could, tripping over one another in their haste. 

The snake started binding the feathers together, weaving together an enormous feather-fan, sparkling all the colours of the rainbow. 

She held it in her teeth as she slithered over the withering trees, crushing wilting flowers on her way. Soon she was hidden in a bush in front of the elephant. 

Back then, the elephant’s nose was just an ordinary nose. He didn’t have a trunk yet. But that was about to change. 

With a sharp hiss the snake sprang from her bush, attacking the elephant’s nose with the feather-fan. It tickled. 

The elephant gave a great roar of a sneeze, his nose shooting forwards, extending into a trunk, the air bending around him— 

The force of the sneeze sent the sun flying. 

And it is still flying to this day, which is why it spins around and around the Earth; rising and setting, rising and setting, day falling to night, heat melting to cool. Sun slipping away, leaving shards of night behind.