In the very beginning of time, the Inuit people say, Raven made the world. Raven was both a god and a bird with a man inside. After Raven created everything, he decided to remain on the earth. He loved the people and the animals and he was curious about them all. Even though he had made the world, he did not know everything there was to know.

Raven liked to paddle his kayak out into the sea. One day he saw a large whale.

He said, "I wonder what it looks like inside the belly of a whale."

Raven waited until the whale yawned. When its mouth was wide open, he rowed right in. He tied his kayak to one of the whale's teeth and started walking deeper inside the whale's body. The mouth of the whale closed behind him and it grew dark. Raven heard a sound like a drum or distant thunder. He walked until he came to the belly of the whale. The white bones of the whale's ribs rose up around him like ivory pillars.

In the center of the whale's belly, Raven saw a beautiful girl dancing. She had strings attached to her feet and hands stretching to the heart of the whale. Raven thought, "She is so beautiful. I would like to take her out of this whale and marry her."

So he said to her, "I am Raven. I made the world. Will you come with me into the world and be my wife?"

The maiden replied, "Raven, I cannot leave the whale. I am the heart and the soul of the whale. But if you want to stay here and keep me company, that would make me happy."

Raven threw back his beak, revealing his human face. He tossed back his wings and sat with his hands on his knees. He watched the girl as she danced.

When she danced quickly the whale soared through the water. When she danced slowly the whale floated calmly. Soon, the girl danced so slowly that she stopped moving and her eyes closed. Raven felt a cool wind from the world blow through the spout of the whale. He thought again of taking the girl with him into the world. He felt human desire. And, he forgot what she said.

Raven pulled his beak back down over his face and covered his arms with his wings. He grabbed the girl. He heard the strings snap as he flew with her out of the whale up into the sky.

As he flew, Raven heard the whale thrashing below in the ocean. He watched the whale's body as it was tossed by the waves onto the shore. The whale was dead and the girl in his arms grew smaller and smaller and disappeared.

Raven realized that everything that is alive has a heart and a soul and everything in the world is born and dies. He was overcome with great sorrow. He was so sad that he landed on the sand beside the body of the whale. For weeks he cried and cried. Then Raven began to dance. He danced for weeks. Then Raven began to sing. He sang for weeks and weeks until his heart was soothed. Then he flew back up into the sky.

He promised the humans and the animals that he would always return to this world as long as we cared for one another and understood that everything in this world lives and dies, and everyone human and animal has a heart and a soul. Raven's tears were the first tears. His dance and his song of grief and healing were the first song and the first dance.

© 2001 Laura Simms reprinted from STORIES THAT NOURISH THE HEARTS OF OUR CHILDREN, Holland-Knight Publication; the Raven stories exist throughout Alaska and the Northwest Coast. This is my retelling combining several sources. A trustworthy telling which influenced my writing is RAVEN: CREATOR OF THE WORLD, legends retold by Ronald Melzack, Little, Brown, and Co, Boston 1970. He supported my telling of these stories in 1975. His acknowledgement page lists a rich source of other texts.

My friend May is dying. She is 91 years old and unable to walk. She has been my second mother and artist mentor for many years. I met her when I was twenty. She taught me to eat health foods and walk two miles a day. She sat down next to me in 1973 on a bus as I was traveling upstate for the first in-school storytelling residency I had ever done. I was part of a multi-ethnic arts team sponsored by the Rockefeller Fund called ALL THE ARTS FOR ALL THE CHILDREN. I was tired and skinny, barely taking care of myself. The five-hour ride to Cooperstown was going to be a much-needed nap. I was relieved when a grey-haired, apple-pie-looking white woman sat down beside me. She would not be interested in me, I imagined because I did something so unconventional, and I would not have to talk.

She said immediately, "What do you do?" I said freely, "I am a storyteller." So began a conversation that has gone on for years. May was a well-respected painter and weaver who chose to teach art to children. She traveled the world collecting artifacts and stories. She was better than a rest. After the residency, I went to her house in Oneonta, New York and spent five weeks with her, which is ultimately how I came to start the Oneonta Storytelling Center with an America the Beautiful Grant, and become healthy.

The first story that she heard me tell was the tale of RAVEN AND THE WHALE. I told it for young children in a Catholic school. She loved the story and had me tell it later that day to an 87 year old woman, the wife of the past president of Hartwick College, who was dying. I had never told a story to someone who was dying. I was terrified. May insisted. "She will gain peace from hearing it." I did as she instructed. At the end of the story, the old woman took my hand and wished me good luck. May made me tell the story at every dinner party we went to. "People have to hear about death if they want to live," she said.

Many years later, when I was doing a week-long storytelling residency in a Montessori school in New York, I was told that there was a little girl whose father had died the night before. I felt reluctant to tell the Raven story as planned, but thought of May and her dying friend. I told it. The child asked for it again. The kids were willing. I told it twice. The child returned to school every day for the next five days. Each night I found another tale about the origin of death and told it. Finally, on day five, the last day, when we made Raven Wings with paintings and shared a potluck feast together, the little girl explained to me, "I loved the story of Raven. I came to school every day just to hear a story. Every night I retold it to myself and put my father in the story. Thank you." I learned a lot and gained a lot of courage from that little girl.

Once, in Beth Israel Hospital, I sat with a woman who was in a great deal of pain. I just sat with her. It didn't seem appropriate to tell a story. Just being present was enough. Then her sister arrived, panicked, weeping, unable to sit quietly with her sister. When the doctor came by, I took her for a walk. I calmed her down by telling her about my storytelling. I told her the story of Raven, informally, which I had originally planned to tell in her sister's room, but hadn't. She cried, and then talked about her fear of death and fear of not knowing what to say to her sister. We walked back to her sister's bed. As she sat down with her sister, I left for another room, leaving the two together.

What was it about that story that brought all these different people comfort? When I wonder about what makes a story powerful, I look first at the obvious aspects of the story, what happens in the content or words of the story, and then at the inner meanings that arise as a listener becomes engaged. During a telling, a listener becomes everything and everyone in a story, through a process of interactivity lived out during the unfolding event. This story takes us through a process of mourning and release from grief, which includes acknowledging death, sorrow, and an experience of mystery. By expressing sorrow, Raven is released from his grasping after his fulfillment of desire, into a deeper understanding that is living and joyful because it is real. Each time I have told this story, I have had to search within myself for those feelings. To know the part of me that is layered with thoughts and curiosity, grasping and forgetfulness, sorrow and joy, and the humbling recognition of the reality of death.

I have gone to see May recently. Now, it is she who is pale and thin. She couldn't get up to greet me. Still smiling, she called out, "Do everything now, Laura. Don't wait until you get old because it might be too late. Do it now, do you hear me?" We talked about Loren Eisley. "I have a reader come in every day for an hour. I love what Loren Eisley has to say. Great to read about nature and magic. " I asked her, "Do you want me to read to you?" "No!" she yelled adamantly, "Tell me a story."

I told May the story that she had loved and made me tell at every dinner party so many years ago. "I am not afraid to die," she said to me when I finished. "I want you to know that. I am not afraid to die. And I don't want you coming here to stay with me while I am dying. I would like to die alone." I agreed. "What are you thinking?" she asked. I answered, "I am proud of you May. You just do the best you can in each new situation." She was pleased with my answer. "Don't stop telling the story of Raven," she said as I walked out the door. She called, "No need to say goodbye." We smiled at one another. I called out, "I hope I see you again." "Maybe," she said and lifted her arms as I had lifted mine to show me the dance that Raven danced beside the whale.
© 2001 Laura Simms

Posted by Judith on December 01, 2001

It is so valuable to hear and think about the many layers and levels in a story, both within the teller and the listeners. Thank you, Laura, for sharing this wonderful tale with us. I look forward to getting your new book. This month's Storytelling World Magazine spotlights Sacred Stories. This certainly seems to fit. As I read and reread it, I could feel the different levels going right to the heart! Judith

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Posted by Laura Simms on December 04, 2001

In Reply to: Raven and the Whale posted by Judith on December 01, 2001 at 17:48:46:

deep under the words comes the real meaning without words the complex of emotion and starkness of the reality of death and the inescapable attachment to life as if it would never end. thank you. wonder what will happen when you tell it? laura

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Posted by Cristy West on December 03, 2001

Dear Laura--
What a powerful story! I am familiar with with the use of the kwaikiutl transformation masks to represent the classic story of Raven bringing the sun (Raven mask opening to reveal person inside). But the same masks must also be used ritually to interpret this tale. Would you know? I particularly loved the part in your essay about the kids' making drawings of Raven.

I am glad that this story was able to bring comfort to so many people. But I wonder how much of the comfort derived from the fact that you were offering to your listeners with love in your heart? Or at least, I don't see its message as being altogether one of comfort. Rather it seems to contain a deeply disturbing world view, implying as it does that living creatures, like the lovely whale, are at the mercy of careless, inconsiderate, self-centered all-powerful creatures like the Raven, the trickster. The whale's death seems so sad. And Raven's remorse seems to be entirely self-indulgent and superficial, even if it did lead to the invention of dancing and tears. So typical of Raven to turn another's misfortune to add to his glory! But perhaps I am being too literal, taking the tale out of context too much. I can also see that for someone at the brink of death, the tale could offer an attitude of acceptance. For someone trying to heal, say from cancer, I think it would be totally inappropriate. Well, I guess I'll have to think about it some more. I wonder what others think...

It also occurs to me that this might be a good tale to use in a setting focusing on sexual abuse--either with abused women or with their abusers. I wonder if you have ever thought about using it in such a context? In that setting it might be offered in conjunction with a tale that offers a positive outcome, i.e., in which a lecherous male transcended his impulses and had respect for what might be called the "sacred feminine." I think for instance of Mero's bride, as retold by Erica Meade in Moon in the Well or perhaps Diane Wolkstein's retelling of the Japanese tale, "White Wave." I'll bet you can think of lots of other tales in this vein, too.

Well, all this is good food for thought in any case. Thanks for offering this interesting tale along with your provocative essay.
Cristy

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Posted by Maikaaloa Clarke on November 22, 2002

I have to say that I was deeply moved by this story, and the personal story Laura shared. I lost my baby at the end of September, and I am still in the grieving process. I was 17 weeks pregnant with her when she passed away. Labor was induced and gave birth to my stillborn baby. As it turns out, I am taking a class in Story telling at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo this quarter. I missed the first few weeks of school due to the miscarriage. For our final project we are asked to tell a story to the class, and write a lesson plan related to the story. Because death has been an important part of my life recently I wanted to tell a story that helps people cope with death.

Raven seems so innocent in the story, like he too is just discovering and learning about death for the first time. Does the idea that life is finite make us treasure our lives more? I think it should, and Raven's dance at the end of the story seems to say that to me.

Although my daughter died before she was born, she still had a huge impact on my life. I cherished her when she was alive, within me, but I also learned a great deal from her through her death. Everyone we came in contact with during this time showed us such compassion and love. I had become frustrated with the wars happening in the world, and the lack of compassion people show one another. It was if my daughter was reminding me that people are good and loving. She was reminding me that there is beauty and love abundant in the world.

Any way these are just some of my thoughts, in response to the Raven and the Whale. Laura, I thank you for sharing the story, and your own history. They meant a lot to me. I'd really like to tell this story in my Storytelling class. Do I need permission, and if so, whom should I ask?
-Maika

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Posted by Kat on September 04, 2003

This story was very touching, I will remember it forever. I witnessed my granpa's death, though I was young then, I understood that he had left the world. As a buddhist, I believe and understand that everything has a soul. Every living creature has a soul like we do. We may appear differently, but our souls are the same. The other living creatures all deserve our respect as they will give us theirs. Always give something back to them in return. They are suffering a lot more than us, and deserve more in the world. We should not kill for pleasure or any other reasons, and we must realize that we are wrong and never do the wrong things again, just like Raven did. He knew that he was wrong, he felt sorry, he changed.

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Posted by Joe Glynn on October 30, 2003

This story will make a wonderful addition to my 7th grade language classroom. They are already reading "Otoonah" and "Sealskin, Soulskin" this week and I plan to tell this story in oral tradition tommorow. I was looking for something like this. Where can I get the story of Raven stealing the sun? I sounds alot like "How Coyote Stole the Sun and Moon (and Eagle)."
Thanks.....

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