14. Heroes and Villains of the Ancient America - The Mapuche Civilization

My Name is Lonko Pailapan: The Sky Burned Red When I Was Born

My name is Pailapan, which means Burning Sky. I was born on a night when fire danced across the heavens—red lightning arcing above the Nahuelbuta mountains, and thunder rolling like the breath of the great spirit Ngenechen. The elders said it was an omen. Some feared it, others honored it. My mother simply whispered into my ear, “You will carry fire in your voice, but peace in your hands.”

I was the first son of a respected lonko of the Lafkenche people, near the coast where the rivers widen into silver mouths. From an early age, I was trained to listen. Not to speak first, but to understand what was not being said. Leadership, I learned, was not about commanding. It was about holding a community together like threads in a woven poncho. Strong, but flexible. Balanced.

Learning the Ways of Men and Spirits

Though my path was that of a lonko—a civil leader—I spent many seasons with the elders and machi, learning the deeper rhythms of the land. I knew the stories of the sky-world, Wenu Mapu, and the underworld, Minche Mapu. I could recite the names of every peak that watched over our valley and tell which tree spirits guarded which grove.

But I also learned the ways of people. I sat in council circles as a boy, watching how my father calmed feuds between families or judged when to divide land after floods. I saw that power was not in the loudest voice, but in the one that could weave peace from anger.

When my father grew ill, I was chosen to succeed him—not because of blood alone, but because I had proven I could hold the respect of both warriors and weavers, hunters and healers. I became lonko when I was just past twenty-five summers.

The Council of Waters

One of the greatest challenges I faced came not from invaders, but from within. A drought swept through our lands. The rivers ran shallow, the crops wilted, and hunger stirred old rivalries. Several neighboring lof began arguing over access to a sacred stream that had once belonged to all. Tensions rose. Some warriors sharpened spears. Others called for raids.

But I called for a Futa Koyagtun—a Great Council. Under the sacred ceibo trees near the mouth of the river, I gathered leaders from six valleys. We shared roasted fish and spoke from dusk until the stars wheeled overhead. I asked each clan to tell the river’s story from their view. When all had spoken, I did not give a decree. Instead, I stood silently, holding a clay bowl filled with dry earth, and poured water into it slowly until it overflowed.

“We cannot all drink if we crack the bowl,” I said. “Let us build the channels together.”

The agreement we forged that night became known as the Pact of the Flowing Hands. It was honored for decades.

Whispers from the Mountains

In the later years of my life, rumors arrived like dry leaves on a strong wind. From the northern highlands, whispers came of a powerful people who marched behind banners of gold and sun. They were called Inka. They carved roads through the mountains, demanded labor, and built cities of stone. They did not come in friendship.

I met with other lonkos and tokis. Some wanted to prepare for war immediately. Others hoped the threat would never reach us. I urged unity, not panic. I sent scouts north to watch, not provoke. I coordinated feasts between clans that had not spoken in years. I believed that if our people stood together, we could not be easily swallowed by empires.

My Sunset Years

As I grew older, I spent more time under the stars. I taught the younger lonkos how to read the land—when to speak and when to listen. I reminded them that a leader does not lead for his own name, but for the children who do not yet speak.

Before I returned to the earth, I asked to be buried on a hill overlooking the river whose waters we once nearly fought over. I wanted to hear its song one last time. My sons and daughters, both by blood and by teaching, carried on the work. They did not remember me for battle, but for holding fire without burning.

My name was Pailapan. I was lonko of the Mapuche in a time when the earth trembled and waters grew thin. I held my people not with force, but with trust. And when the sky burned again, they still stood free.

Whispers from the Beginning - Told by Lonko Pailapan

When you sit in silence beneath the trees of Nahuelbuta or watch the early mist rise over the river’s skin, you can hear them—our beginnings, whispered by the wind. The stories of the Mapuche people are not kept in stone, nor written in glyphs. They live in the leaves, the waters, and the bones of our grandmothers. I was raised on these stories, passed from fire circle to fire circle, from elder to child. And now I will speak them to you, as they were spoken to me.

We Came From the Mountains, But Not All At Once

Our ancestors came from the east, from the high Andes where the snow never leaves and the condors carve circles in the sky. They were not a single people, but many clans drawn by the call of green valleys and warmer winds. The mountains, beautiful and cruel, taught them to survive, but the forests of the west taught them to live.

We do not believe in a conquest of land, but in a flowing of people—like rivers branching outward, each finding its own shape. The first families came down through the mountain passes, carrying fire in clay bowls and seeds wrapped in woven cloth. They spoke many tongues, but they began to share a single way of listening—to the soil, to the rain, to each other. In time, their voices grew into one language: Mapudungun, the speech of the earth people.

The Sacred Lake Budi

Some say the soul of our people rests in Lake Budi, where the earth meets the sea and the waters change with the tide. It is not the largest lake, nor the deepest, but it is the heart. The elders say that long ago, a great flood came from the mountains, chasing the people westward. Those who reached the lake were saved by the spirit of the water, who opened a safe basin where they could settle and begin anew.

At Lake Budi, the people planted the first fields of potatoes, caught fish with woven traps, and carved canoes from sacred trees. The machi say that under the lake lies the mirror of the sky, and if you are quiet at night, you can hear the ancestors singing beneath the surface. Our rituals still face the direction of Budi when we ask for guidance, for it is the place where our wandering stopped and our roots took hold.

The Descent from the Pillan and the People of Fire

Another story comes from even deeper memory. We believe we are descended from the Pillan, the powerful spirits who dwell in the volcanoes and the storm clouds. The Antu, spirit of the sun, gave us warmth, while the Peripillan, those of fire and stone, taught us how to resist. Our bodies are of the land, but our breath is from the fire. This is why, they say, Mapuche hearts do not yield easily—not to empires, not to fear.

In the earliest days, when the world was still soft, the earth mother Ñuke Mapu gave birth to twin children—one of earth and one of sky. Their children became the first humans, who were taught to respect the balance between the seen and unseen. From these children, all clans—north and south, mountain and coast—draw their lines. This is why we say we are all kin, though we wear different mantles and speak in different rhythms.

Our Homeland Is Not a Place, But a Living Body

To speak of where we came from is not to draw borders. The Mapuche homeland is not just land—it is being. Our lof are like organs in the same body, each with its rhythm, but all sustained by the same breath. The rivers are our veins, the forests our skin, the winds our memory.

We did not conquer our land. We answered its call. And ever since, we have danced, fought, planted, sung, and wept upon it. To this day, when a child is born, we bury the afterbirth beneath a young tree, binding their life to the soil. Our past is not behind us—it rises with the morning fog and walks beside us.

The Duty of Memory

I, Pailapan, have held these stories like embers cupped in my hands. Now I pass them to you. Do not let them fall. Do not turn them into rigid things. Let them breathe, grow, and travel like seeds in the wind.

For we are the Mapuche—not only of today, but of long ago, and of what has not yet been born. We are the fire that moves without burning. We are the people of the land, and the land remembers us.

My Name is Machi Payllalén: I Walked Between Worlds

My mother said I danced in her dreams before I was born. She saw a girl with silver rings in her hair, standing beside a river of stars, speaking to the moon. When I entered this world, the midwife declared me touched by the wenu mapu—the spirit world above. I was born in a village nestled between the dense forests of the south and the open skies of the coast, where the fog kissed the trees and the rivers carried the voices of the ancestors.

My name was Payllalén, which means Crystal Rain, and they say I came during a storm when the sky wept and the earth drank deeply. I was a quiet child, but my eyes saw what others missed—the shimmer of energy in the leaves, the way birds changed their flight before an illness came, the echoes of sorrow in a child's cough. By my seventh winter, the elders had already whispered: "This one is machi-born."

The Calling of the Spirits

When I was twelve, the spirits confirmed what the people suspected. I fell into a deep sleep during the winter solstice, just after the last star of the southern sky appeared. My body burned with fever, but I was not in pain. I wandered across a great plain of wind and fire, where the Pillan—ancestral spirits—appeared to me. They gave me a drum of light and told me that I would speak for the land when it groaned, and for the people when their hearts were heavy.

When I awoke, my teacher—a powerful old machi named Antumalén—placed a belt of woven feathers around my waist and began my training. She taught me the ways of the sacred plants: the canelo tree whose leaves cleanse, the palo negro that lifts sorrow, the bitter root that pulls venom from blood. She showed me how to listen to the thunder and speak to the waters. She taught me how to see the wounds that don’t bleed.

The Sacred Balance

I learned that our world is not just bark and bone—it is woven. Earth and sky are lovers. Wind and fire are brothers. Man and woman are twin hands of creation. My duty as machi was not only to heal bodies but to restore harmony when the threads of life frayed. If a child cried without reason, I read the smoke. If crops failed, I listened to the stones. If a warrior dreamed of blood, I beat the kultrún drum and called the spirits to guide him back from fear.

I was not alone. Other machi—men and women both—gathered at the solstice and equinox. We sang the songs of Nguillatun, calling upon Ngenechen, the spirit of life, to bring peace and balance. We fasted, danced, and entered trances to speak what others dared not. Some feared us. Some revered us. But all knew we were bridges between the seen and the unseen.

The Times of Shadows

In my middle years, strange winds began to blow from the north. Traders brought stories of mountain people—Inka they were called—who built stone paths through the sky and demanded tribute in maize and blood. They came with sun gods and rigid rules. I saw this before it reached us. The birds changed their songs. The animals moved strangely. The spirits grew restless.

I prepared my people. I taught the younger machi how to protect the rehue, our sacred tree altar. I reminded the lonkos that the land is not a thing to own, but a being to honor. We stood not as warriors, but as guardians of balance. When the Inka envoys arrived, our warriors met them—but it was I who reminded them that even the strongest empire cannot survive if it forgets the roots beneath its stone.

The Final Chant

As I aged, I began to dream again of the river of stars. I knew my time was drawing close. I trained a young girl, quiet like I once was, to carry my drum and my chants. I passed on my herbs, my songs, my stories. Before I left, I climbed the high hill behind our village and called out to Ngenechen one final time.

“I return what was borrowed. Let my breath become mist. Let my voice become wind.”

They buried me in the fetal position, wrapped in woven cloth, with my kultrún placed on my chest. Not as a warrior. Not as a queen. But as a thread in the great web of life.

My name was Payllalén. I was machi of the Mapuche before the stone empires came. I walked between worlds. And I kept the balance.

Mapuche Language and Oral Memory (Mapudungun) - Told by Machi Payllalén

Before we carved wood, before we shaped silver, before we raised our hands to the stars, we had our words. Not the kind etched into stone or painted on walls, but living words, passed from mouth to ear, from heart to breath. Mapudungun is what we call it—the tongue of the earth’s people. It is not only language; it is memory made sound. It is how we remember who we are and where we come from, even when the wind tries to scatter us.

I learned Mapudungun not in a school, but beside the fire, watching my grandmother speak to the trees and to the spirits that stirred in the coals. As machi, I learned to listen not only to words, but to silence between words, to the rhythm that flows like a river underneath what is spoken. For in our way of speaking, the story is not something you tell—it is something you walk inside of.

Laws That Flow Like Rivers

Our people have no scrolls of law, no carved tablets from long-dead rulers. Our laws live in the voices of the elders and the decisions of the lonkos who remember the past. Every child learns the rules of the lof through story: tales of foolishness punished, of wisdom rewarded, of balance restored after betrayal. These are not just fables—they are binding, living codes.

When a disagreement arises, the elders tell the old story that matches it. The story holds the judgment. If two men quarrel over land, we remember the tale of the twin brothers who split the field and grew different crops. If someone breaks a bond of marriage or trade, we return to the tale of the weaver whose lies unraveled her own work. In this way, the stories are not decorations—they are the law.

Songs of Healing and the Names of Roots

The plants speak their own language, but to understand them, one must first learn the old names. Our medicinal knowledge has never been written—it is sung. Each machi receives songs in their dreams or from their teachers, each line carrying the name of a root, a bark, a flower, and what it cures. Some herbs are sung to before harvest. Some must never be spoken aloud except in ceremony.

We say, “If you forget the song, the plant forgets its power.” This is why my teacher, Antumalén, struck me with a soft branch the first time I forgot the second verse of the fever root chant. Not in cruelty, but in warning. Memory is life. Forgetting can kill.

Even today, when I treat a child for night terrors or a man for snake bite, I begin by reciting the names—not to impress, but to awaken the spirit of the cure. And the children watch, and they remember, so that one day they too may sing healing back into the bones of their people.

The Sky as a Storybook

Before the sun rises, I often sit and look up, tracing the old constellations. Not the ones the northern men speak of with animals we have never seen, but the ones shaped like drums, condors, and long rivers of fire. Our ancestors marked the seasons not with calendars, but with the return of certain stars, the tilt of the moon, the cry of the owl at midwinter.

The sky is our great book. Each year, as the stars return, we repeat the stories they carry. The tale of the woman who became the moon, the warrior who chased the sun, the dark cloud that once covered the heavens until the people sang it away. These stories are not just amusements. They teach when to plant, when to call the nguillatun, when to prepare for floods or cold winds.

Children lie in the grass with their heads on our laps, and we trace the constellations with our fingers as we speak. In this way, they learn time and space—not as numbers, but as living things.

Bloodlines and the Threads of Names

Every Mapuche child must know where they come from—not just their parents, but their line, back through many generations. When a child is named, the machi or lonko will often chant the names of ancestors during the ceremony. This isn’t ritual alone—it is history. Our names hold the rivers we were born near, the storms we survived, the animals our spirits walk with.

Some families carry sacred words in their names—Antu for the sun, Kuyen for the moon, Pewma for the dream. These are not chosen for beauty alone. They remind us of who we were and who we are meant to become. And when a great elder dies, their name is sometimes reborn in a newborn child, so the story continues.

I myself carry the name Payllalén—Crystal Rain—because my great-grandmother was born during a storm that ended a long drought. Her memory falls with my voice each time I speak.

The Duty to Speak, the Duty to Listen

I have spent many years walking from village to village, repeating the old stories, singing the plant songs, reminding the people to remember. For it is easy, in times of fear or hunger, to think survival is enough. But without memory, we are no longer Mapuche. Without our language, the trees become silent, the stars lose their meaning, and the land forgets who it shelters.

So I speak. And I teach the children to speak. Not to argue, not to boast, but to hold the threads of our people in their mouths like sacred fire.

Our words are not trapped on paper. They live. They breathe. They must be fed with voice, carried with care, and passed like water to the next hands.

Clan Structures and Social Organization - Told by Lonko Pailapan

When a Mapuche child is born, they are not just born to a mother and father. They are born into a lof—an extended family clan bound by blood, memory, and land. The lof is our first circle, our root. It holds the stories of our ancestors, the names of our sacred springs, the bones of those who came before us. No one stands alone. Every step you take, you carry your lof with you, like the woven threads of a poncho.

A lof is made of many homes, each with their own fire, but sharing a larger purpose. We hunt and plant as one. We care for the sick and bury our dead as one. In times of danger, we rise together. In times of peace, we share the harvest. And always, the elders remind the young of where they belong—not to themselves, but to the living fabric of their people.

The Voice of the Lonko

Each lof has its lonko, the head. But to lead does not mean to rule. It means to listen, to weigh, to balance. A lonko is chosen not for strength of arm but strength of thought. He or she must know the stories, settle disputes, guide hunts, and speak for the people in councils with other clans. I was chosen as lonko not because I was loud, but because I listened when others would not. And I remembered what others forgot.

We gather the people in circle. No voice is too small to be heard. I speak last, not first, for the wisdom often comes from the least expected mouth. When a decision is made, it is not by command, but by consensus—when all feel their voice has been heard and the path is clear. This is how we avoid fracture. This is how we stay woven.

Marriage: Weaving Clans Together

Marriage is not only the joining of two people—it is the joining of two lof. When a man or woman marries outside their clan, it is like planting a seed in a new field. It brings strength, variety, and new breath to the community. We do not marry within our bloodlines. That would be like planting the same crop in the same soil year after year—soon the ground weakens.

When a union is proposed, families gather, not to make demands, but to share intentions. There are exchanges of gifts—woven cloth, carved wood, food, animals—not as payment, but as tokens of respect. The ceremony is filled with blessing, song, and the sharing of sacred drink. And when the couple walks away from the circle, they do so as part of both lof, carrying the responsibility to keep peace and memory alive between them.

Justice Is the Restoration of Balance

When wrong is done, we do not rush to punish. We seek to restore. If a man steals, we ask why. If a woman insults her neighbor, we ask what sorrow lies beneath. Elders speak. Witnesses share. The lonko listens. And then we find a path forward—not always by retribution, but by repair.

A broken fence must be mended. A harsh word must be balanced by apology. If blood is spilled, and the crime is deep, then the families may decide upon admapu, our ancestral custom law, which may include offerings, exile, or ritual reconciliation. But it is never done in haste. And it is never left to one alone. Justice without the voice of the people is no justice at all.

The Circle of the Confederation

In times of greater need—flood, drought, or threat from beyond—many lof come together in koyagtun, a great gathering of clans. In such moments, the lonkos of each group sit in a wide circle, and the machi speak of omens, the scouts share their news, and the tokis speak of defense. Each clan has its voice. None are silenced. Only when all have spoken can a collective decision be made.

It is in this way that our people—so varied in place and tongue—remain as one. Not by force, not by crown, but by circle.

To Be Mapuche Is to Belong

I tell the young ones: remember your lof. Remember the hill where your ancestors are buried. Remember the stream your mother washed you in. These are not just memories. They are roots. They are laws. They are promises.

I am Pailapan, lonko of my people, not because I am great, but because I serve the circle. I carry its stories. I weigh its sorrows. I guard its peace. And I remind all who gather that the strength of the Mapuche is not in walls or weapons—but in the sacred thread that binds each lof to the next, and each life to the land.

My Name is Toki Kalfukurá: The Stone That Could Not Be Broken

They called me Kalfukurá—Blue Stone. It was not my birth name, but a name earned during my youth, when I stood before a raging river swollen by the snowmelt. While others hesitated, I crossed it alone, returning with medicine bark for my dying uncle. The machi said my spirit was like the stone found beneath glacial waters—cold, strong, and unwavering. From that day, even the lonko of our lof began calling me by that name. A name of strength, not of pride, but of purpose.

I was born in the southern lands, near the edge of the great mountains where the snow sleeps all year. Our village sat between forest and river, a place of balance. I grew with stories instead of books, with song instead of writing. My elders taught me the names of the stars, the voices of the animals, and the taste of the wind when rain approached. We were Mapuche—the People of the Land—not wanderers, but watchers. Not conquerors, but defenders.

Signs in the North

When I was a boy, we began to hear strange stories from traders and messengers traveling along the mountain trails. A people from beyond the high Andes were coming. The Inka. They had no interest in trade. They wanted roads, tribute, and silence. I remember the unease in my father’s voice. These men built cities of stone and demanded labor in return for peace. They brought strange customs and rulers crowned by the sun.

But we were not born to be ruled.

I trained with my elders, especially my grandfather who had once fought the Picunche during a border feud. He taught me the value of patience. “Strike like the fox,” he said, “not the puma.” And so I learned not just how to fight, but how to wait. To choose my battles. To observe. By my twentieth winter, I had led raids against Inka scouting parties who came too close. By my thirtieth, I had driven back their envoys with words so sharp they didn’t need spears.

The First Assembly of the Lof

There came a day when the Inka armies approached the Maule River. They expected to divide us, as they had so many others. But they didn’t know what we had become. I sent messages along the old trails, calling every lof between the sea and the cordillera to gather. We met on sacred ground, near what you now call Boroa. There were over twenty lonkos present. I spoke, not as a king, but as a warrior. I said, “We do not fight for gold. We do not fight for conquest. We fight because the land beneath our feet has blood in it—our ancestors’ blood. And we will not let it cry alone.”

They chose me as toki—war leader—not because I wanted power, but because I already carried it in my actions. The toki’s staff was placed in my hand. I swore I would only lift it to defend the living and to honor the dead.

War on the Riverbanks

The Inka general sent his messengers. They brought gifts—woven cloth, metal tools, coca leaves—and a demand. I sent them home without their spears. The first battles were not large. They tested us with scouts, then patrols. We responded with traps and shadows. Then came the full warband. They marched in columns, shouting to their gods, convinced of their superiority.

We let them cross the Maule. Then we set fire to the grasslands behind them.

Our warriors knew every tree, every stream, every animal path. We used slings from hidden ridges, spears from behind fallen logs. We cut their lines of food and poisoned their water. Their warriors were brave, but their tactics were meant for open fields. We gave them forests.

They never passed the Maule again.

Legacy in the Earth

I never claimed to be more than a servant of my people. I never wanted stone statues or chants to my name. But I did want the next generation to know that we had once stood against an empire—and held. That it was possible to be free, even when the world beyond your rivers trembled under someone else’s boot.

When I grew old, I passed my staff to a younger toki, one raised in the memory of resistance, not just survival. Before my final breath, I walked alone to the top of a sacred hill, carrying only my cloak and a stone—blue like the river, heavy like truth.

I placed that stone in the soil.

I said, “Let this mark the line they never crossed.”

And then I returned to the forest, where even the trees remember the sound of my war chant.

Inter-Clan Conflicts and Feuds Controversy - Told by Lonko Pailapan

Many who hear of the Mapuche believe we have always stood together, one people, one voice, one cause. But that is a dream we have worked hard to build—not something we were given. The truth, if you are brave enough to hear it, is that our lof—our clans—have not always agreed. We are people of strong words, proud roots, and deep memories. And when those things clash, it is not always the wind that breaks the silence. Sometimes, it is us.

As a lonko, I have sat in many circles where voices rose like storm winds. I have seen the glances between families who remembered old insults. I have watched young warriors shift restlessly, hungry for vengeance tied not to them, but to their fathers and their fathers before them. Our unity is not without effort. It is a fire we must feed carefully, or it will burn too hot—or go cold.

Borders Not Drawn, but Felt

Most of our land is not marked by stone walls or carved posts. We know our place by memory, by tradition, by the stories told about where our ancestors walked and where our rivers bend. But when two lof both remember the same spring as theirs, or when herds graze beyond the hills of an old path, tension begins.

I remember a time when two neighboring lof quarreled over a stretch of forest where the sacred murtilla berries grew thickest. One clan had long gathered there during summer, but another claimed their grandmothers had planted offerings beneath those trees generations ago. Words turned sharp. Spears were lifted in threat. It was only after days of counsel and an exchange of gifts and future marriage vows that peace returned. But the wound left a scar.

Marriage Can Bind—or Break

Marriage is often used to tie clans together, to soften old feuds or strengthen shared paths. But when a promise is broken, or a bride is taken without full agreement, fire follows. I have seen this myself—a young woman of high standing promised to one lof, but taken by another. Her choice, perhaps, but the insult was taken by her clan. There was shouting, followed by blood.

We tried to resolve it with offerings and words, but pride ran too deep. That year, during the autumn rains, one lof raided the other's storehouses. Animals were taken. A warrior was wounded. Only the voice of a machi, who said the spirits themselves were growing restless, stopped it from becoming war.

Feuds Passed Like Inheritance

Some rivalries last longer than memory. Old feuds between lof can become like inherited sickness—passed down in stories, kept alive by whisper and warning. A child grows up hearing that another family wronged theirs, and though they’ve never seen the act, they carry the bitterness like their own. Sometimes it fades with time. Sometimes it returns like smoke from a long-dead fire.

It is the duty of the lonko to keep these feuds from becoming blades. But even the wisest leader cannot always stop a hand that has been waiting years to strike. I have seen eyes narrow at the mention of a name. I have seen elders refuse to cross into another lof’s land, even for ceremony.

When Raids Serve as Justice or Revenge

Not all raids are acts of greed. Sometimes they are seen as justice—one lof taking back what it believes was stolen. A missing animal, a failed marriage promise, a dishonored trade. Sometimes a raid is a warning. Other times, it is revenge.

But these raids do more than take—they unsettle. They invite more raids, more wounds, more silence between neighbors who once sang together. And so, even in victory, a clan can find itself weakened, isolated. The land grows quieter. The ceremonies feel smaller. That is the true cost of unresolved conflict.

Healing the Cracks in the Circle

It is easy to speak of unity when the drums are beating and the food is shared. Harder when the circle must face its own brokenness. But healing is possible. We bring clans together in nguillatun, where shared prayers soften old anger. We tell stories that remember not just the wounds, but the times we stood side by side. We make new bonds through marriage, trade, and shared defense against threats greater than ourselves.

I have stood between feuding lof, offering my own land as neutral ground. I have walked long trails to carry apologies between old enemies. And I have seen the eyes of two elders, whose fathers once fought, finally meet without fire.

We Are Strong Not Because We Never Fell Apart, But Because We Learned to Return

I do not deny our quarrels. I do not hide our flaws. To pretend otherwise would be to dishonor the work our ancestors did to bring peace where there was once rage. The Mapuche have always been many voices. But when we listen—truly listen—we can become one song again.

I am Lonko Pailapan. I have seen the circle break, and I have helped mend it. And I know that peace is not given. It is chosen—again and again—by those who remember that our future must be shared, or it will be lost.

My Name Was Forgotten, But My Fire Was Not: Leftraru’s Grandfather

I was born during the season when the rains softened the clay of the riverside and the trees bent low with fruit. My mother labored in a hut of bark and reed, near the Maquehue Valley, under the protection of the pehuén trees. I was her first son, and my grandfather said I would grow with the strength of the wind that carries the condor. I do not know the exact year, for we counted time in moons and the flowering of the maqui berries. But it was long before the men of iron and beasts from across the sea ever set foot on our soil.

As a child, I bathed in rivers where the water spirits whispered, and I followed my father into the forest to trap ñandú and hunt guanaco. I learned the language of the wind, the rhythm of hoofbeats on the plain, and the silence that speaks before the puma strikes. At five winters old, I received my first kultrún drum and watched the machi call down thunder during a summer drought. I saw then that all things had power—some granted by Ngenechen, some earned through suffering.

The First Call to War

My people lived in peace, though we were never idle. Our neighbors to the north, the Picunche, had begun to speak of strange visitors—tall warriors in shining plates, who did not speak Mapudungun and who took more than they traded. But long before them, there were others. The Inca. They had come from the mountains, their skin the color of sun-warmed stone, their breath scented with coca and gold. They called our land Arauco, and they sought to measure it, to tax it, to bend it under their stone temples and feathered emperors.

I was but a youth when the tokis of several lof gathered in the sacred clearing of Puren. I stood beside my uncle, gripping a short spear, barely taller than a stick. I remember the fire crackling, the circle of men speaking in low tones. We would fight. Not because we hated, but because we would not kneel.

The Lessons of a Toki

I trained under Kalfukurá, the Blue Stone Chief, who had once driven back the Inca from the Bio Bio River. He taught me to run in silence, to leap from shadow, to strike only when the earth and sky allowed. He said: "A warrior is not a man who kills. He is a man who survives, and whose people live because of him."

I learned to lead—not by shouting, but by walking first into danger. I began to earn trust, then spears, then chants sung in my name. I was named toki by the lonkos of three valleys before I had seen thirty winters. When we met Inca warriors near the Maule River, they were surprised we were not wild. We were organized. We had scouts. We had strategies. We let them take the first camp, then we took their food stores. They came with armor; we came with the forests.

The Passing of Seasons and the Rise of the Next

As my beard grayed, I found peace in fatherhood. My son, Kurin, was strong but quiet. His son, Leftraru, would not be. That boy bit a Spanish horse’s ear before he could walk. He ran faster than the fox, climbed like a lizard, and listened to every word I spoke about the old wars. I taught him how to sharpen a stone blade so finely it could whisper through flesh. I told him how to read the movement of birds and smoke. I told him that true warriors never forget who they protect—mothers, children, the old, the forest.

I watched as rumors reached us from the sea. New invaders. These were not Inca. They brought beasts with hooves and men with thunder sticks. I prayed I would never see them. But I knew Leftraru would.

My Final Fire

Before my last solstice, I stood with Leftraru by the river where I had been born. I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “Our land has never been tamed, and neither have we. The trees bend, but they do not break. The rivers twist, but they do not end. You will carry that truth in your bones.”

And so I returned to the earth beneath the ceibo tree, my body folded like a sleeping child, my weapons buried beside me, though I hope they are never used again. The world I leave is one of gathering clouds, but I know this—our people are not the shadows of history. We are the fire still burning behind it.

Remember my name, even if it was never carved in stone. I am Leftraru’s grandfather. I was a Mapuche chief before the world changed. And I was not the last.

Sacred Warfare and Warrior Training - Told by Leftraru’s Grandfather

Not every child was born to wield the spear, but every child knew the sound of the kultrún. That sacred drum beat like the heart of our people, and it was the first rhythm I learned. Before I ever held a weapon, I was taught to feel the land through my feet, to listen with more than ears, and to speak with silence when needed. My path, like many before me, was not chosen in pride or bloodlust—it was chosen in duty. I became weichafe, a warrior, not to destroy, but to protect what could not be replaced: our land, our people, our memory.

The First Lessons Are of Listening

When a boy began to show strength or sharpness of spirit, we watched him. If he ran like the fox, if he sat long in thought, if he rose before the sun, the elders would speak to his father. The first tests were not in strength, but in patience. A true warrior must not act from anger. He must wait, observe, learn the rhythms of the world around him. In our camp, I trained boys to walk without sound, to watch the movements of birds to sense coming danger, and to memorize every bend of the river and hollow of the forest.

Each morning began with running—not to race, but to breathe with the world. Then came climbing, swimming, and practicing falls so they would not break upon the ground. Only when a boy had learned his own body would we place a spear in his hand.

Weapons and the Way of the Ambush

The weichafe does not fight like the northerners. We do not march in squares or clang our armor. We are forest-born and silence-trained. We strike not to impress, but to survive. I taught them to make short spears for throwing, longer ones for defense, and clubs for when breath turns to fire. We trained in pairs, learning how to read an opponent’s intent in the twitch of a muscle.

Ambush was our greatest strength. We used the trees, the rivers, the mist. If a stranger entered our land, he never knew who was watching from the reeds. Our scouts were boys before they became warriors. They ran messages carved into wood and learned to vanish into the tall grass with a single breath. We practiced surprise—leaping from behind logs, dropping from low branches, disappearing before the enemy could answer.

But I told them always: never strike out of hatred. Strike because the land has been wounded. Strike because your people cry for protection.

The Ethics of the Warrior

To be weichafe was to carry great weight. We were never to harm the weak, never to shed blood without cause. The spirits of the land watched us, and the Pillan—our honored ancestors—judged our thoughts, not just our actions. I have struck men down in battle, but I have also spared those who threw down their arms. For this, I was never ashamed.

A warrior who fought only to feed his pride became a danger to all. We taught our boys humility through service. They helped elders build huts, watched over the herds, and tended the sick. They learned that their strength was not theirs alone. It was lent by Ngenechen, and it could be taken back at any moment.

The Sacred Purpose of War

We did not raise warriors to conquer. We raised them to protect the balance. When the Inka tried to cross the Maule, we rose not because we hated them, but because they sought to bend our land beneath their boots. We are not the fire that burns the world—we are the flame that guards the hearth.

Before battle, we would stand in silence beneath the trees. I would place my hand on each warrior’s shoulder and say, “You carry the breath of your mother, the hopes of your children, and the bones of your ancestors. Do not fail them.” We would then offer smoke to the spirits, and the machi would sing to guide us.

Passing the Torch

My grandson, Leftraru, was born with fierce eyes and quick hands. But before he touched a weapon, I made him watch the burial of a fallen comrade. I made him sit for hours in the forest, learning the sound of danger and the silence of peace. When he asked why we did not attack first, I told him: “Because the hawk waits until the mouse forgets to listen.”

And when he became a warrior, he carried more than my training. He carried the spirit of our people—the ones who never surrendered, who knew that to defend the land is to defend life itself.

I am the grandfather of Leftraru. I have led warriors into battle and guided boys into manhood. And I tell you this: a weichafe is not made by the spear, but by the purpose that moves his heart. Let that purpose always be sacred.

Resistance and Unity: The First Mapuche Confederations - Told by Toki Kalfukurá 

The first sign was not an army. It was a whisper. Traders returning from the high passes spoke of strange men dressed in woven metal, with gold on their garments and fire in their hands. They said these men came from Cusco, far beyond the mountains, and that they were building stone roads across the sky. At first, we thought little of it. The Andes have always birthed wanderers. But then came word that these strangers were not content to pass through—they claimed the land beneath their feet, the people they encountered, and the skies above them.

These were the Inka. They had already swallowed many peoples in the north—Diaguita, Aymara, Atacameño. They came not to ask, but to measure, to tax, and to bind others to the will of their emperor. And now they looked south, to our rivers and forests, and thought we too would bow.

The Call to Gather

Our people, the Mapuche, were never ruled by one chief. Each lof—our family clans—had its own lonko, its own spirit, its own land. That is our strength and our challenge. But when danger rises like floodwater, we must build bridges between clans. I rode for days, from the coast to the mountain valleys, calling the lonkos together. Some had never spoken to each other. Some had traded insults for years. But I told them, “The Inka do not care which one of you owns the valley. They will take it all.”

We met near the Maule River, under the stars, where the land opens like a wide hand. There were at least twenty clans represented. Some brought warriors with polished obsidian knives. Others brought offerings of chicha and smoked meat. We sat in a great circle and shared the oldest stories—of freedom, of land, of ancestors who bled so we could stand. Then we began to plan.

Becoming One Spear

This was not a war of numbers. The Inka had more men, more supplies, and roads we could never build. But they did not have our forests. They did not know our rivers. And they did not understand that the land itself fights with us. We agreed that no lof would stand alone. Scouts would watch the passes. Messengers would ride with carved staffs to show their authority. A signal fire in one valley would mean warriors moved in another. It was not a single army—but it was a single will.

We fought like the wind. We never met them in open fields where their formations had power. We struck from the trees, pulled back, and struck again. We poisoned their water, stole their supplies, and used the land to fold their movements like paper. When they tried to build a fortress near the Maule, we waited until their stones were halfway up—and then we burned their camp in the night.

The Turning of the Tide

After several seasons of struggle, the Inka no longer advanced. Their generals grew cautious. Their warriors feared our forests, our spirits, our silence. They had learned to conquer men who gave in to awe. But we were not those men. We were Mapuche. And no path built from Cusco would ever lead to our surrender.

They offered gifts. We refused. They sent envoys. We told them the land was already full—with our ancestors, our dreams, and our laws. In time, they turned their gaze elsewhere, to the other edge of their empire. The Maule River became the border they would never cross.

The Confederation Lives in the Blood

We did not call it a confederation then, but that is what it was—a web of lof, woven not by force, but by shared resistance. And it did not vanish after the Inka left. We kept the fire burning. We knew there would be other empires, other threats, other winds that sought to break us. But now we had a memory—a memory of unity, of warriors who once stood as one body.

When I grew old, I buried my staff near the river’s edge. I told the young tokis, “Do not seek to rule. Seek to connect. When you tie the spirits of the people together, no sword can cut through them.”

My name is Kalfukurá, Blue Stone of the South. I led not to be honored, but to remind the land of its own strength. The Inca came with stone, but we were already rooted. And we did not move.

Resistance to Inca Incursion: Unity or Opportunism - Told by Toki Kalfukurá

I was not yet toki when the whispers came down from the mountains. Traders returned from the northern passes with strange stories—of a people who built roads out of stone, who spoke through messengers that ran faster than birds, and who carried banners with suns sewn in gold. These were the Inka, they said, and they had already stretched their reach from the highlands of the north down into the valleys where the Diaguita and Atacameños lived. They did not ask—they absorbed. One by one, those peoples were taken, or gave in.

At first, our lof in the south did not feel their shadow. The Inka spoke Quechua, not Mapudungun. Their runners did not reach our forests. Their roads cracked at the feet of the Maule. But those of us in the north, closer to the edge of the Andes, began to feel the change. They came not always with spears, but with gifts—cloth, coca, metal, offers of alliance. And some listened.

Not All Clans Chose the Same Path

It is a truth we do not often speak, but I will not hide it now. When the Inka first reached into our territories, not every lonko resisted. Some saw trade where others saw danger. They took the cloth, the tools, the seeds, and believed they could take these things without losing their land. Others arranged marriage bonds with northern captains, hoping to secure peace or prestige. A few even offered tribute to avoid confrontation.

These were not cowards. They were men of their time, trying to read the wind. They hoped, perhaps, that the Inka could be bargained with. That we could remain Mapuche and still take from the empire’s hand.

But I had seen what happens when people grow used to chains, even golden ones. I had seen how quickly gifts become demands.

The Gathering of Those Who Would Not Bow

By the time the Inka built their fortress near the Maule River, more of our people had begun to see what was coming. Their roads now reached nearly to our northern valleys. Their messengers began to speak not of friendship, but of administration. Their scouts measured the land with eyes that did not ask permission. That is when we gathered—lof from the forests, the coasts, the rivers. Many had not spoken in years. Some still held quiet grudges from old feuds. But we met as one.

I stood before them, not as ruler, but as a warrior who knew what waited if we failed to act. I said, “The Inka do not come to trade. They come to count. Once you are counted, you are no longer free.”

And so we raised the war staff. The unity we speak of today—of warriors from every valley standing together—was not born from peace. It was born from urgency.

The Clans Who Stayed Behind

Some did not join us. A few lof, especially in the northernmost edge, chose to remain neutral. Some even warned us not to provoke a greater enemy. And when the fighting came, they did not send warriors. I do not condemn them, but I do not forget. After the Inka were repelled, those same clans enjoyed the peace our blood had purchased. And though they later praised our resistance, their silence during the battle still echoes.

It is easy, years later, to tell only the story of unity. But the truth has many faces. What we call a nation now was not born easily. It had to be fought for, clan by clan.

The Day the Inka Turned Back

We struck hard and fast, using the land as our ally. We ambushed their caravans, raided their outposts, burned their stores. They were strong, disciplined, and skilled—but they were not of the forest. They could not move like we could. And when they found no submission, no road forward, they turned back.

The stone path stopped at the Maule. And it never crossed again.

What We Gained, and What We Learned

Our victory was not only over the Inka. It was over our own division. It showed that we could stand together—not because we were the same, but because we shared what mattered: land, freedom, the right to decide our path.

But we also learned that unity must be chosen. It is not a natural state. It takes effort, sacrifice, and the will to forgive those who once stood aside. Some of those clans later joined us against the Spanish. Others did not. And so the story repeated itself.

I am Kalfukurá. I was toki when the north grew dark and the Maule River ran red. I led men who had once been rivals and watched them become brothers. I know now that the story of resistance is not one of perfection—but of resolve. And that the stone roads of empire are only stopped by those who remember who they are.

What Is Taken and What Is Kept - Told by Toki Kalfukurá

When warriors meet in the forest or on the open hills, they do not always leave as corpses. There are times, many times, when a man is captured instead of killed. In my younger days, I saw both mercy and cruelty in what came next. As weichafe, we fight to protect our people, not to slaughter for sport. But war changes people. Fear, pride, revenge—they speak louder than wisdom when blood still runs in the dust.

During our struggles against the Inka, we did not always kill those we defeated. Some we kept alive—not for torment, but because they were valuable. An Inka runner could carry messages. A wounded captain could be traded for supplies. A skilled artisan or speaker of languages could be useful in ways a corpse could never be.

But value is not always mercy. And what comes after capture is not always peace.

The Fate of the Captive

When a warrior is taken alive, his fate lies with the lonko and the machi. Sometimes, the spirits are consulted. Sometimes, the elders speak first. There are several paths. Some captives, especially those who fought bravely or showed respect even in defeat, are offered life within the lof. They are watched. They are tested. But if they show willingness, they are eventually allowed to marry, to work the land, even to fight with us.

I remember one Inka youth captured near the Maule. He had fought with discipline, but when surrounded, he dropped his weapon and offered no further harm. He was brought to our camp, fed, and allowed to speak. Over time, he learned Mapudungun and took a new name. He carved tools, raised a child, and lived among us until he died of old age. Not all captives are so fortunate.

Others are traded—especially those with family or wealth beyond our valleys. Captives could be exchanged for food, animals, tools, or other prisoners. This was common between rival lof in the north. It was practical. It ended feuds without further bloodshed. But sometimes, the exchange never came. And the prisoner remained.

The Shadow of Forced Labor

There are things we do not like to speak of—but I will not hide them. In times of war, when warriors are taken or villages raided, women and children are sometimes spared—not out of kindness, but to serve. These captives might be given to families without sons or to widows in need of help. They might carry water, gather firewood, tend fields. They might never return home.

Was it slavery? In our way, we did not see it so. These people were not chained or sold in markets. They could, over time, be adopted into the clan, especially if they showed loyalty. But they could not leave without permission. They worked under the eyes of those who captured them. And for some, it was a life of quiet sorrow. That is the truth.

I have seen a girl grow into a woman under another’s roof, her name forgotten, her laughter quiet. I have also seen such women rise to become respected, even loved, because they bore children, healed others, and found a new family where none had remained. The line between captive and kin was never simple.

Ritual Death and the Spirit’s Demand

There are darker tales, too. When an enemy had defiled a sacred site, or killed a machi, or committed great dishonor, their blood was sometimes seen as necessary for cleansing. In rare cases, such captives were given to the spirits—executed in ritual, not out of cruelty, but to restore balance. I have witnessed such a death only once. It was silent. There was no joy in it. Only fire, ash, and prayer.

These moments were not celebrated. They were mourned, and spoken of in hushed voices. We believed that some deaths were needed for peace to return. But they left wounds in the heart of the lof, even as they healed the wound in the land.

The Mirror of Our Own Suffering

Later, when strangers from beyond the sea brought war to our lands, they too took our people. They enslaved, tortured, and broke families apart. Then we knew what it meant to lose not only warriors, but children and elders. We saw ourselves in chains, and the old stories came back to us. Were we now living the punishment for what we once did to others? Or were we tasting the bitter fruit of a tree planted by many hands?

We asked these questions at night, when only the fire could hear. And I still ask them now.

Justice Is Not Always Clear

I am Toki Kalfukurá. I have taken prisoners. I have spared men, and I have buried them. I have seen kindness in the eyes of a captive and cruelty in the eyes of a judge. We speak of balance, of harmony, of walking with the land. But war tests every value we hold.

To take a life, or to spare it, is not a simple act. To take a person from their people is to carry their soul like a stone in your pouch. It weighs on you. And though we may forget the faces, we do not forget the burden.

We are Mapuche. We fight. We endure. But we must always remember that what we do in victory becomes the story told by those who survive. And we must ask—will that story bring honor, or shame? Or something in between?

Agriculture and Sacred Land Stewardship - Told by Lonko Pailapan

When I was a boy, my grandmother took a handful of soil, pressed it into my hand, and said, “This is not dirt. This is flesh. This is your mother.” From that day on, I understood what our people have always known: the land is not a possession. It is Ñuke Mapu—Mother Earth—a living being who feeds us, shelters us, and listens to our footsteps. We do not own her. We are born of her, and to her we return.

The Mapuche people live in many lands—valleys, coasts, forests, and mountains—and each place teaches us a different way to live. But in all places, we treat the earth with respect, care, and patience. She gives freely, but only if we give in return.

Planting with the Rhythms of the Sky

Our crops are not planted by calendar, but by signs. When certain stars return to the night sky, when the winds change direction, when the frogs sing again in the marshes—we know it is time. We plant chuchoca (maize), potu (potatoes), kinwa (quinoa), and mungay (beans), each in its proper season, each in soil that has rested long enough to breathe again.

We do not slash and burn without thought. Before opening a field, we ask permission from the land through a short prayer or a sprinkling of muday. We often plant near rivers or hills that are known to be strong in spirit, places where the energy of the land is still awake. And we rotate our crops, allowing each part of the field to rest, like an old woman given time to heal her hands.

Tools Made from What Lives

Our farming tools are carved from wood and bone, not forged in metal. The digging stick is shaped to pierce the soil without breaking it. Our baskets are woven from reeds, light and strong, allowing the harvest to breathe. Even the layout of our gardens follows the contours of the land, not straight lines but flowing curves, as if the plants are dancing with the hills.

We keep seed from the strongest plants and trade it with neighbors, not for profit, but for resilience. The more variety we have, the more chance our people will endure in lean years. Each seed carries the memory of its mother plant. Each planting is a return.

Caring for More Than Food

We do not only grow what we eat. We also tend wild herbs and sacred plants—canelo for ceremonies, pichi romero for healing, palqui for fevers. Some we cultivate quietly along the edges of fields, others we leave untouched in groves where only the machi may harvest. Children learn which plants to avoid, which to greet with a whisper, and which to leave entirely for the spirits.

And we protect the forests, for they are the breath of the land. When we cut wood, we take only what is needed and offer something in return—a strand of hair, a song, or the promise to replant. The forest is not a resource. It is a council of elders who speak slowly, but always speak wisely.

The Harvest Is a Time of Thanks

When the harvest comes, we do not rush to fill our baskets. We gather with care. We sing. We invite the elders to taste the first maize. We dry and store our food in woven bags, buried in cool earth or hung in smoke-houses, not only for ourselves, but for those in need. Hunger in one house is hunger for all.

And when the harvest is good, we share. We call for a feast, invite neighboring lof, and give thanks to Ñuke Mapu with food, song, and dance. Children run barefoot through the fields, the old ones tell stories of long-ago droughts and floods, and we remember that abundance is not measured in size—but in peace.

The Land Remembers Us

I have walked the same fields my grandfather once tended. I have seen the places where our ancestors buried their afterbirth, tying their children’s lives to the roots of trees. I have seen stones laid in circles to mark sacred spots, not for worship, but for respect. Every step we take on this land leaves a trace. Every careless act wounds it. Every loving act strengthens it.

I have told my sons: “Do not farm to grow rich. Farm to grow full. Do not take from the land without leaving something behind. And never forget that your hands are her hands, your breath is her wind, and your future depends on her patience.”

I am Pailapan, and I have led my people through seasons of rain and drought, frost and bloom. I have seen what happens when people take without giving. And I have seen how the land rewards those who listen. Ñuke Mapu is alive. She remembers. And if we honor her, she will never abandon us.

Role of the Machi and Healing Traditions - Told by Machi Payllalén

I did not choose to become machi. The path chose me. When I was a girl, I would wake with tears in my eyes and the scent of burned canelo leaves in my hair, though no fire had touched our hut. I saw shapes in the river that others could not see. I heard voices in the trees that were not birds. My family feared I was cursed until the old machi Antumalén arrived. She looked into my eyes and said, “The spirits are calling her. She must learn to listen.”

From that day, I became a student of the invisible. Not of magic, as some might think, but of balance. To be machi is to walk between the world of flesh and the world of spirit. It is to feel the pulse of the land and know when it skips. It is to remember that healing is not just about the body—but the soul, the wind, the ancestors, and the land beneath our feet.

Herbs That Speak and Roots That Remember

The first things I learned were the plants. Not from a tablet, not from a scroll, but from the forest itself. Each herb has a spirit. Some are generous. Some are dangerous if disrespected. Pewén helps the lungs. Palqui draws out infection. Pichi romero quiets fever dreams. The sacred canelo is never used lightly—its leaves are for ceremony, its bark for prayer, its scent for protection.

We do not pick a plant without asking its permission. We speak to it, offer a thread of hair or a drop of water, and thank it with song. And we always leave enough behind for it to return. A healer who depletes the forest has already failed, for they have broken the harmony they were called to protect.

When the Body Speaks What the Spirit Cannot

In our way, illness is not always a thing of blood or breath. It is a message. When someone becomes sick, I ask not just what they ate or where they slept, but what they carry inside. Have they wronged someone? Have they ignored a dream? Has their lof quarreled with another? Has a promise to the ancestors been broken?

Sometimes, sickness is sent by imbalance—a tear in the harmony between the person and the natural world. Other times, it is the whisper of an ancestor trying to be remembered. I have seen a child heal simply after her mother visited the grave of her own grandmother. I have seen a man cured of trembling hands when he confessed a lie to his brother.

This is why I do not heal alone. The patient must be willing to listen. The family must be present. The land must be consulted.

The Art of Divination

When the answer is hidden, I turn to pentukun, the asking signs. I cast stones on sacred cloth, or use bones of animals, reading the way they land. I watch the smoke of burning herbs or the ripple of water in a still bowl. I listen to dreams—theirs and mine. The spirits speak in patterns, not words. A skilled machi knows how to follow the thread until it leads to the wound.

But we do not ask lightly. Divination is sacred. Each question must be worthy. If someone seeks knowledge for greed or vengeance, the spirits will cloud the signs or turn their faces away. Humility is the door through which truth enters.

The Healing Ceremony

When the spirit calls for it, we perform the Machitún—a healing rite. It is not done in haste. The patient is wrapped in woven cloth, the drumbeat of the kultrún begins, and the smoke of canelo and fiún fills the air. I chant the old songs, calling the spirits to guide my hands and speak through my breath.

Sometimes I suck the illness through a reed, pulling out not blood, but shadow. Other times, I dance around the patient until their breath aligns with mine. The rehue, our sacred altar of carved wood, stands nearby, reminding all present that healing does not come from me—but through me.

When the rite is done, I do not say the patient is cured. I say they are rebalanced. The rest is up to them.

To Heal Is to Remember

Our work is not about power. It is about restoration. We remind the people who they are—children of Ñuke Mapu, descendants of ancestors who still walk with us. We remind the earth that we are listening. And we remind the spirits that we have not forgotten their names.

I am Machi Payllalén. I do not command the wind or the rain. But I listen when they speak. I heal not with my hands, but with my memory, my drum, and my songs. When I heal a person, I heal a thread in the great web of life. And when enough threads are mended, the whole world breathes easier.

Mapuche Astronomy and Seasonal Ceremonies - Told by Lonko Pailapan

Long before I could walk, my mother held me beneath the open sky and whispered the names of stars. The Mapuche do not need carved stones to measure time. We watch the heavens. We follow the sun’s path across the peaks, the moon’s dance through her phases, and the return of the spirit-stars that guide our seasons. Each light above is not just a light. It is a sign, a memory, a reminder that the world moves in a circle and never forgets where it came from.

When we track the sky, we are not gazing for wonder alone—we are listening. The stars tell us when to plant, when to rest, when to gather for ceremony, and when to prepare for hardship. A wise lonko or machi always has one eye on the land, and the other on the stars.

The Moon’s Message and the Cycle of the Crops

The moon—Küyen—is the grandmother of rhythm. She shows us when to sow seeds and when to harvest. When she is strong and full, we plant those crops that grow above the soil. When she is dark and hidden, we plant the roots. I have seen entire harvests saved because the planter watched the moon instead of rushing.

Children learn her phases like steps in a dance: new moon, rising, full, waning. With each change, we mark the passing of time not in numbers, but in growth. When the moon rests near the southern stars, we prepare for frost. When she climbs high again, we know the earth is ready to breathe.

The Stars That Mark Our Way

Some stars return with the changing cold. Others appear only in the warm winds. But we especially watch the rise of Wangülen, the star spirits that gather in the sky during the dark part of the year. Their arrival signals the turning of time.

There is a group of stars we call Nguenechen’s Belt, which some say are the bones of the ancestors. They appear just before dawn as the cold deepens. That is when we begin preparations for our most sacred ceremony—We Tripantu, the new cycle of the sun.

The old ones say that when these stars rise before the sun, they are whispering, “Prepare. The world is about to breathe again.”

We Tripantu: The New Sun Returns

We Tripantu is not simply a celebration. It is a rebirth. It marks the winter solstice, when the night is longest and the sun’s strength has waned. But from this dark moment, the light begins to return. We call it the “New Rising of the Sun.” It is our new year, our sacred crossing from one cycle to the next.

Before dawn, we gather by water—streams, rivers, lakes—and we cleanse ourselves. We step into the cold, not in pain, but in honor. We wash away the weight of the past year. Children, elders, warriors, and healers all stand together. We offer thanks to Ngenechen, and to the spirits who have walked with us. We ask for wisdom, balance, and protection for the year ahead.

As the first rays of the sun rise over the trees, we face east in silence. It is not just the sun that rises—it is the soul of the people.

Afterward, we eat, dance, and speak the stories of the past cycle. We remember the births, the losses, the great dreams that were dreamed. And as firelight flickers, we pass these stories to the young, so that when our stars fade, they will still shine in the memory of those yet to be born.

The Heavens Teach Us to Be Patient

Many times I have been asked how I know when to call a council or when to send scouts for the coming rain. I answer simply: I ask the stars. I sit at night on a high hill and watch the slow turning of the sky. I see how Antu, the sun, changes his path with each day, and I mark the shadows. These signs do not shout. They whisper. Only those who wait can hear them.

When the moon and stars agree, and the wind carries the right scent, I know the time has come—to sow, to heal, to gather, or to rest.

The Sky and the Earth Are One

To the outsider, we may seem like we live simply. But those who live with the sky know great complexity. We measure not only time, but harmony. The earth below and the heavens above are two mirrors. When one is out of balance, the other dims. Our task, as people of the land, is to keep both clear.

Human Sacrifice, Animal Sacrifices and Ritual Violence - Told by Machi

There are things we speak of in quiet tones, beneath the trees or beside the fire when the children sleep. Not every ceremony is meant for all ears. Not every truth is meant to be sung in the open air. The work of the machi lives in these shadows—not because it is evil, but because it is sacred, dangerous, and misunderstood. The world must be kept in balance. And sometimes, that balance requires more than song and smoke.

I have seen the need for deep sacrifice—rare, but real. When the earth shakes, when the river turns black, when a clan’s heart becomes a cold stone, there are times when the spirits cry out for a greater offering. These moments do not come often, and they are never taken lightly. But they have come.

The Blood of the Beast, the Breath of the Prayer

Most of our offerings are symbolic. We give muday, sacred drink, to the earth. We burn herbs to lift the words of our chants. We leave feathers, stones, or woven cloth at springs and groves where spirit guardians dwell. And in some ceremonies, we offer the blood of animals—not as cruelty, but as part of a long exchange between the seen and unseen.

I have led Nguillatún rites where a young bird’s heart was offered to the fire, its smoke lifting toward Wenu Mapu, the sky world. I have seen a black goat bled beside a sacred tree during a time of drought, each drop marking a plea to the spirits of rain and wind. These animals are chosen with care, spoken to, soothed, and thanked. Their spirits are believed to carry the message of our need. This is not done in anger. It is done in reverence.

Whispers of Human Blood

There are stories—old ones, buried like roots beneath our more common rites—of warriors being sacrificed, not for power, but for purification. When a weichafe betrayed his people, when a killer would not repent, or when the land was believed to be poisoned by human acts, some say the blood of the guilty was returned to the earth. Whether it was justice or sacrifice depends on who speaks the tale.

Some elders remember a time when, in the face of great natural disaster or invasion, a person would volunteer—or be chosen—to walk between the worlds through fire or blade. Their death would mark the closing of one cycle and the healing of the next. But such acts were never public spectacle. There were no crowds, no cheers, no glory. Only mourning. Only silence.

It is also said that during the most ancient war rites, a captured warrior from a rival clan might be offered to the Pillan—the spirit ancestors of battle—especially if that warrior had taken many lives or defiled a sacred place. Whether this was execution or ritual, no one agrees. Some say it is a tale shaped by fear. Others, by memory. I say, sometimes both.

Truth Twisted by Outsiders

After the strangers from across the sea arrived, they spoke of us as beasts, as savages, as blood-drinkers. They saw our silver, our drums, our chants—and believed they had found witches and demons. They asked no questions. They only wrote. And in their writing, they exaggerated what they feared. One death became a hundred. One rare rite became a common tale.

They did not understand that our sacrifices—when they happened—were not made to gods for conquest or empire. They were made to restore harmony. To humble ourselves before the forces we could not command. But the conquerors saw only what they wanted. And so our history was carved by foreign hands.

Justice or Offering? The Line Remains Blurred

Among our own people, there has always been debate. Some lonkos have condemned such rituals as dark relics of the past. Some machis still speak of them as necessary under certain stars. I have stood between both voices. And I have learned that the truth is rarely simple. Sometimes what begins as justice becomes ceremony. Sometimes what is called sacrifice is nothing more than memory wrapped in myth.

As machi, I have never taken a life in ritual. But I have felt the presence of those who did. And I have sung the mourning songs for those who crossed that line, either by duty or desire.

The Spirit of the Question Still Lives

Do we still need such rites? Some say no. That we are wiser now. That the land can be healed with gentler hands. Others say we forget too quickly, and that forgetting leads to weakness. I say this: if the spirits demand something, it is not for us to give blindly—but to listen, to question, to weigh the cost.

I am Machi Payllalén. I do not defend the bloodshed. But I do not deny it either. In the dark places of our past, as in the light, there is knowledge to be found. And if we are to walk forward, we must carry every part of who we were—not just the songs, but the silences between them.