Number 26.
Raven Steals the Light.
Imagine a world where you have never seen your mother smile, only felt the curve of her cheek in the dark.
Imagine a world where the sea is a cold, invisible rushing sound, and the forest is a wall of whispers you must navigate with your hands outstretched.
Long ago, before the sun and the moon took their places in the sky, this was how the world was, a place of endless velvety shadow.
This is a story that belongs to the beautiful misty coast of the Pacific Northwest. It is kept in the voices and carved into the towering cedar poles of the Haida, the Tlingit, and their neighboring first nations.
For hundreds of years, and still to this day, their descendants have told of this dark time.
They tell it in long houses while the rain beats against the roof, and they tell it to remind us of how the world we see came to be.
There are many ways to tell this tale, for oral traditions are like rivers with many branches.
But this is one telling, offered with deep respect for the people who have carried it through the generations.
In those ancient days, the people lived in villages along the water's edge, and they were incredibly brave and clever.
They had to be. To catch a fish, you could not look for the silver flash of scales beneath the waves.
Instead, you sat in a cedar canoe, floating on a black sea beneath a black sky, and lowered a line made of twisted kelp.
You had to feel the water through your fingers. You waited for the tiniest shudder in the line, a vibration that told you a halibut was tasting the bait far below.
When the fishermen returned to the shore, they found their way by listening to the rhythm of the waves breaking on the pebbles, or by the smell of the smoke rising from the village hearths.
Inside the houses, the only light came from the dim red embers of wood fires.
In that soft, glowing twilight, people knew each other by the sound of their footsteps and the timber of their voices.
If you wanted to know what your brother looked like, you reached out and ran your fingers over his forehead, his nose, and his chin.
Yet, even in this great shadow, the people were artists.
They carved massive posts of cedar to stand outside their homes, shaping the wood into eagles, bears, and killer whales.
They did this entirely by touch, feeling the grain of the wood with their palms, knowing exactly how deep to bite into the cedar with their stone tools to make an eye or a claw.
They lived in harmony with the dark, but they always wondered what lay beyond it.
For there was a rumor.
It was a whisper carried by the wind through the tops of the hemlock trees, a story told around the low burning fires.
The rumor said that light actually existed. It was not a myth, it was real.
But it did not belong to the sky, and it did not belong to the people.
Instead, the light was kept by a great and powerful chief, who lived far up the Nass River.
This chief was wealthy beyond measure, but his greatest treasure was the light itself.
He did not keep it to use it, nor did he keep it to share.
He kept it simply because he was rich, and because he could.
He kept it nested in boxes, within boxes, within boxes, in the deepest, darkest corner of his massive timber home.
And there, in the dark, the light slept, unseen by anyone.
Now, we must meet Raven.
In those days, Raven was not the jet black bird you see today, sitting on telephone poles or hopping along the beaches, croaking at the wind.
According to the old stories, Raven was once a magnificent creature of pure white.
His feathers were as pale as fresh snow, and when he flew through the endless night, he looked like a drifting cloud or a streak of seafoam.
But if his feathers were white, his mind was a kaleidoscope of a thousand different thoughts, and almost all of them were mischievous.
Raven was older than human memory, hungrier than human reason, and far cleverer than both.
He was a shapeshifter, a glutton, and a genius.
He loved to eat, he loved to play tricks, and most of all, he loved to have what he could not have.
Raven was tired of the dark.
He was tired of flying into branches because he could not see them. He was tired of landing in cold mud when he thought he was landing on a dry log.
But more than anything, Raven was curious.
He had heard the rumors of the chief's treasure.
"Why should one old man keep the light all to himself?" Raven muttered, his white feathers rustling in the dark.
"What is the use of something so beautiful if it is tucked away in a box? It would look much better in the sky, or at the very least, it would look much better in my beak."
So Raven spread his great white wings and flew up the Nass River.
The wind was cold, and the river hissed over the rocks below him, a guide rope of sound in the blackness.
He flew for hours, until he saw a faint warm glow in the distance.
It was the home of the old chief.
Raven landed softly on a branch of a giant hemlock tree overlooking the estate.
He peered down with his sharp, intelligent eyes.
The chief's house was magnificent, built of massive cedar planks, but it was also a fortress.
The doors were heavy and thick, guarded by watchful men who knew every sound of the forest.
The smoke hole in the roof was narrow, and the walls had no windows.
Raven watched for days.
He saw that the chief's servants were incredibly careful. No one entered without being questioned, and no one left without being watched.
Raven tried to think of a way to sneak inside.
Should he turn into a mouse? No, the chief's servants kept sharp-eyed dogs.
Should he turn into a gust of wind? No, the heavy cedar doors would shut him out.
"To get inside that house," Raven realized, "I cannot go as an enemy. I cannot even go as a stranger. I must go as someone they welcome. I must become family."
Raven looked down at the riverbank.
Every day, the chief's daughter came down to the water. She was a kind, gentle young woman, deeply loved by her father.
She would carry a beautifully woven cedar basket, tight enough to hold water without losing a drop, and dip it into a cold, bubbling spring that fed into the river.
Raven smiled a very wide, bird-like smile.
He had a plan. It was patient, it was outrageous, and it was absolutely brilliant.
The next morning, if morning it could be called in a world of constant night, the chief's daughter walked down the path to the spring.
She held her cedar basket in her hands, listening to the soft, musical bubbling of the water as it spilled over the stones.
Above her, hidden in the hemlock branches, Raven waited.
He drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to change.
Shapeshifting is a delicate business. It requires holding the image of what you want to be so clearly in your mind that your bones and feathers have no choice but to follow.
Raven let go of his white wings. He let go of his sharp beak and his long claws.
He made himself smaller and smaller and smaller, until he was nothing more than a tiny, glossy green hemlock needle, floating down through the dark air.
He landed with a tiny plop, right into the middle of the bubbling spring, just as the chief's daughter dipped her basket into the water.
The daughter lifted the basket. Even in the dim light of the torch she carried, she was careful.
She looked into the water to make sure it was clean.
"There," floating on the surface, "was a single hemlock needle."
"Oh," she murmured, reaching into the basket with her fingers to flick it away.
But Raven was quick. As her fingers neared him, he rode the tiny currents of the water, dodging her hand like a little green fish.
She tried again, but the needle slipped past her fingertips once more.
She was thirsty from her walk, and the water looked so cold and sweet.
"It is only a hemlock needle," she thought. "It won't hurt me."
She lifted the basket to her lips and took a deep, long drink.
The water was icy and refreshing, and along with it, she swallowed the tiny green needle.
Now, the old stories tell us that this was the start of the strangest pregnancy the world has ever known.
Inside the chief's daughter, the hemlock needle did not wash away.
Instead, it found a warm, safe place and began to grow.
It did not grow into a tree, and it did not grow back into a bird.
It began to grow into a human child.
Within a few months, the daughter's belly began to round.
The villagers whispered in the dark, and the old chief was deeply puzzled.
He questioned his daughter, but she could only shake her head.
"I have done nothing but drink the water from the spring," she said, her voice filled with wonder.
The chief, however, was not angry for long.
He was a proud man, and the thought of a grandchild filled him with a strange new warmth.
He ordered that his daughter be given the finest food and the softest blankets of mountain goat wool.
When the time came, the baby was born.
The long house was filled with the cries of the newborn, but as the midwives washed the child and wrapped him in soft cedar bark, they noticed something unusual.
The baby did not have the soft, unfocused gaze of most newborns.
He had eyes that were incredibly bright, incredibly black, and incredibly sharp.
They were eyes that seemed to look around the dark room and understand every single thing they saw.
The old chief came to look at his grandson.
He reached down with a rough, weathered hand, and the baby immediately reached out and grabbed his finger.
The baby's grip was surprisingly strong.
"He is a strong one," the chief laughed, his heart melting instantly.
"He will be a great chief one day."
He did not know, of course, that the baby lying in the blankets was actually Raven, holding back a very loud, victorious croak.
As the weeks turned into months, the baby grew rapidly.
He was a beautiful child, with skin as smooth as river stones, and hair as black as a crow's wing.
But he was also, without a doubt, the most demanding, difficult child the Nass River had ever seen.
Raven knew he had to play his part perfectly. He was a baby, and babies have one great power over adults: the cry.
Raven did not just cry when he was hungry or wet. He cried with the precision of a master musician playing an instrument.
He knew exactly which pitch would make his mother sigh, which tone would make the servants run, and, most importantly, which ear-splitting shriek would make his grandfather, the great chief, do absolutely anything to make it stop.
The baby's target, of course, was the corner of the long house where the chief kept his treasures.
One evening, as the family sat around the fire, the baby began his campaign.
He did not start with a scream. He started with a wimper, pointing his chubby little arm toward the dark corner of the room.
"Ga," the baby said, his black eyes watering. "Ga, ga."
"What does he want?" the chief asked, leaning forward.
The baby's mother carried him toward the corner. The baby's cries grew louder, sharper, rising in volume until they were a piercing shriek that echoed off the high cedar rafters.
He pointed directly at a large, beautifully carved chest made of red cedar.
"Ah," the chief said. "He wants the box. But that is my treasure chest. It is not a toy."
The baby took a deep breath and let loose a cry so powerful that the dogs outside began to howl.
He thrashed his arms and legs, his face turning bright red. He looked as though his very heart was breaking.
"Please, Father," the daughter begged, covering her ears. "Just let him hold it. He cannot open it. He is only a baby."
The chief sighed. He loved his grandson more than his wealth.
"Very well," he said. "Bring him the box."
The servants hauled the heavy cedar chest over to the fire.
The baby immediately stopped crying. He wiped his tears, crawled over to the chest, and began to pat it with his small hands.
He smiled, a sweet, innocent baby smile, and the chief laughed with relief.
But inside that cedar chest was another box, made of yellow cedar, painted with the crest of the killer whale.
The next day, the baby was not satisfied with the outer box. He began to cry again, pointing his finger at the lid.
This time, the cry was even more desperate. He wailed as if he were being pinched by a crab.
"Open it," the chief commanded, his head aching from the noise. "Open the first box and give him the one inside."
The servants opened the red cedar chest and pulled out the yellow cedar box.
Again, the baby stopped crying. He played with the box, tracing the painted eyes of the whale with his tiny fingers.
This went on for weeks. It was a slow, patient game of chess, and Raven was winning.
Every time the chief thought the child was satisfied, the baby would start the crying campaign again, demanding the next box.
Box after box was pulled out.
There was a box of dark U wood, a box of fragrant cypress, and a box so old the carvings had smoothed away.
Each box was smaller, more beautiful, and more tightly sealed than the last.
The chief's house was now cluttered with open chests, but the baby's eyes were always fixed on what lay deeper.
Finally, there was only one box left.
It was a tiny box, no bigger than a grapefruit, made of polished wood that seemed to hum with a strange, quiet energy.
It sat in the center of the room, surrounded by the empty shells of the other boxes.
The baby looked at it, and then he looked at his grandfather.
He knew this was the final moment.
He gathered all his breath, opened his mouth, and let out a wail so loud, so terrible, and so full of misery that the embers in the hearth fire actually flickered and died.
He wept as if the world were ending. He threw himself onto the floor, kicking his feet and sobbing until he gasped for air.
"Give it to him!" the daughter cried, tears in her own eyes. "Father, please, he will make himself sick!"
The chief hesitated. His hands trembled.
"No," he whispered. "That is the innermost box. You do not know what is inside. It is the most precious thing I own. It is the light."
But the baby's cries rose to a fever pitch. He looked at his grandfather with those big, tear-filled black eyes, reaching out his trembling hands as if pleading for his life.
The chief's heart broke. He could not bear his grandson's pain.
"Just for a moment," the chief whispered, his voice cracking. "Just to quiet him."
With slow, heavy movements, the chief reached down and took the tiny polished box.
He carefully slid back the lid.
The moment the lid slid open, the dark long house vanished.
It did not just fade. It was blasted away by a sudden, dazzling burst of radiance.
The light did not have a color that anyone could name, because no one had ever seen color before.
It was warm, like the sun on a summer afternoon, but it was also cool and clear, like the water of a mountain stream.
It was a perfect, glowing sphere of pure, living light, spinning slowly in the palm of the chief's hand.
The baby stopped crying instantly.
The tears on his cheeks dried in the warmth of the glow.
He stared at the light, his black eyes reflecting two perfect miniature suns.
For the first time in his life, the old chief could see his grandson clearly.
He saw the child's smooth skin, the dark hair, the tiny fingers.
He looked around his home and saw the magnificent carvings on the wall, the rich colors of the painted cedar, the beautiful blankets his daughter had woven.
It was more beautiful than he had ever imagined.
"You see," the chief whispered, tears of wonder rolling down his face.
"This is the light."
The baby crawled forward. He reached out his hands, his fingers twitching with excitement.
"Play," the baby whimpered softly, looking up at his grandfather with an expression of pure innocence.
"Play."
"Yes," the chief said, his voice soft with love.
"You may hold it, but be very careful, my child."
The chief gently placed the glowing sphere into the baby's hands.
The moment the light touched the baby's palms, a strange thing happened.
The baby's innocent smile stretched. It grew wider and wider and wider until it reached from ear to ear.
His eyes, once soft, became sharp and glittering.
The baby did not play with the ball.
Instead, he opened his mouth wide, far wider than any human baby should be able to, and shoved the glowing ball of light inside, holding it tightly in his mouth.
"Grandson?" the daughter gasped, stepping forward.
But the child was already changing.
With a sound like a cracking whip, the baby's human skin vanished.
In its place, great, powerful wings burst outward, scattering the blankets of mountain goat wool into the air.
The child's arms became wings. His feet became sharp, yellow talons, and his face stretched out into a long, powerful beak.
In a split second, the baby was gone.
In his place stood a magnificent, giant, white bird.
"Raven!" the chief screamed in shock and betrayal. "My light, my grandson! It was a trick!"
"Guards!" the daughter cried. "Stop him!"
But Raven was already in motion. He flapped his great white wings, creating a gust of wind that blew the ash from the hearth fire all over the room.
The guards lunged for him, but they were blinded by the sudden brightness of the light shining through Raven's beak.
Raven looked up. The only way out was the smoke hole in the roof.
He leaped into the air, his wings beating furiously.
He rose toward the narrow opening, but the smoke hole was small, and for hundreds of years, the fires of the long house had burned beneath it.
The wood around the opening was coated in a thick, greasy layer of black soot and charcoal.
As Raven squeezed his body through the narrow gap, his beautiful, snow-white feathers scraped against the sides.
The black soot clung to him, sinking deep into his feathers, turning them from pure white to a dark, greasy gray, and finally to a deep, shimmering black.
Raven burst out into the night sky, but he was white no longer.
He was as black as the soot of the chimney, as black as the night he had just escaped.
But in his beak, he held the light of the world.
Raven flew high, higher than he had ever flown before.
The light in his beak was incredibly hot, burning his throat, but he refused to let go.
Below him, the world was still dark, but as he flew, the light from his beak cast a long, brilliant path across the mountains and the sea.
For the first time, Raven saw the world he lived in.
He saw the jagged, snow-capped peaks of the mountains rising like white teeth into the dark sky.
He saw the deep green valleys filled with giant cedar and spruce trees.
He saw the ocean, a vast, restless mirror of deep blue, crashing against the rocky shores.
"It is beautiful," Raven thought, his heart swelling with a strange new feeling.
"It is far too beautiful to be kept in a box."
But Raven was still Raven. He was tired of holding the heavy, burning light, and he wanted to see what would happen if he let it go.
He flew to the very center of the sky. With a great toss of his head, he threw a piece of the light high into the darkness.
It broke off and began to float, cool and silver. This became the moon, to guide the travelers of the night.
Then, Raven shook his wings, and thousands of tiny, glowing sparks of light flew from his feathers, scattering across the dark dome of the sky.
These became the stars, a million tiny eyes watching over the earth.
Finally, Raven took the largest, brightest part of the light, the great golden heart of the fire, and flung it with all his might into the east.
The ball of light rose. It did not fall back to earth.
Instead, it climbed higher and higher, growing larger and warmer until it hung suspended in the sky.
The sun had risen.
Below, in the villages along the coast, the people had been sitting in their dark houses, listening to the strange rushing sound in the sky.
Suddenly, the light hit them.
It did not come slowly. It poured over the mountains like a golden river.
The people ran out of their homes, shielding their eyes.
They looked up in terror.
But as their eyes adjusted, the terror turned to absolute wonder.
For the first time, mothers looked down and saw the faces of their children.
They saw the bright, laughing eyes, the rosy cheeks, the smiles they had only ever felt with their fingers.
Brothers looked at brothers and saw the shape of their noses and the color of their hair.
The fishermen looked out at the ocean and saw the water was not a black void, but a beautiful, shimmering green.
They saw the salmon leaping in the waves, their scales catching the morning light like scattered diamonds.
The artists looked at the totem poles they had carved in the dark, and saw with astonishment that their hands had created masterpieces of incredible beauty.
"Look!" they cried, pointing to the sky. "Look at the mountains! Look at the trees! Look at each other!"
They began to dance, their voices rising in a great song of joy that echoed across the water.
Far up the Nass River, in the great house of the chief, the light had also reached.
The old chief stood outside his door, his hands trembling.
He had lost his treasure, and he had lost his grandson.
He had wept bitter tears in the dark, but now, in the daylight, he looked at his daughter.
He saw her face, clear and beautiful, smiling at him through her tears.
He looked at his great house, the magnificent carvings, and the beautiful river flowing past.
The chief realized something that changed him forever.
A treasure kept in a box is no treasure at all.
It was only when the light was lost to him that it could finally show him the beauty of the world he had lived in his entire life.
He could not be angry, for the world was now whole.
And what of Raven?
He sat on a high branch of a dead cedar tree, his feathers black as charcoal, his throat still sore from the heat of the light.
He looked down at the people celebrating, and he listened to their songs of thanks.
Raven ruffled his black feathers.
He had not stolen the light to be a hero. He had not done it to save the people or to make the world beautiful.
He had done it because he was greedy, because he was curious, and because he wanted to play a trick on a rich old man.
Yet, as he watched the sun warm the cold earth, Raven let out a loud, harsh croak, a laugh that echoed over the hills.
He was black now, and he would be black forever, but he did not care.
The trick had been played, the light was in the sky, and Raven was very, very pleased with himself.
The story of how Raven stole the light is told in many ways, but it always leaves us with a puzzle to solve in our own minds.
There are other tricksters in other lands, of course.
Across the ocean, in West Africa, the people tell stories of Anansi the Spider, who bought all the stories of the world from the sky god so they could be shared with everyone.
But while Anansi bought his treasures with hard work and clever bargains, Raven simply took what he wanted through trickery and disguise.
Raven was not a good bird. He was selfish, he was a liar, and he was a thief.
He cared only for his own hunger and his own amusement.
And yet, without his selfish trick, the world would still be fumbling in the dark, fishing by touch, and never seeing the faces of the ones they loved.
So, as you close your eyes tonight and think of the warm sun that will rise tomorrow, here is a question to keep.
Can a selfish trick still be a gift to the whole world?
Think about that, and sleep well.