Mazana created the earth, and filled it with growing things. Because the gods had begged her for this new world, it was to the gods that she gave the accompanying responsibilities, for new life must be named and taught. Gamina named the animals of the land; Marre, those of the sea.
Each of the gods was given a task, and to Reti fell the color of the plants that grew underfoot. It was not the most exalted undertaking, but Reti bent their mind to it, nonetheless. If they grumbled, it was only to themselves, for not even the gods are perfect.
At their coaxing, flowers bloomed in every conceivable color; soft, pale pinks and gentle whites, raucous oranges and reds as deep as heart’s blood. When it came time to choose a color for the grass, however, Reti’s mind was empty.
How could they choose a shade for something so enduring? Grass grew in the heat of summer and the chill of winter, on mountains and plains and by the shore of the sea. Surely no one color could do it justice.
Reti walked and pondered, pondered and walked, until the goddess’ voice called them back to the heavens. When Mazana asked why they had not yet finished their task, Reti poured out their confusion. They were only a very small god, they said. Perhaps they were not prepared to shoulder this responsibility.
Mazana only smiled and placed a kiss on each of Reti’s cheeks. Her green eyes glowed with warmth; her soft brown hair brushed the skin of Reti’s arm. Reti met Mazana’s gaze, smiling, for they knew now what to choose.
Thus does the grass grow green in the summer, and fade to brown in the winter, and then turn green once more.