Nunani: Feathered friend, feather foe (Part two)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

Most Inuit know the story of the raven and the owl. In this tale, the birds begin as companions. The story is set in those oldest of days when animals (and humans) could shape-shift at will, and animals used the same tools as man.

The owl and raven were said to be completely white. The pair begin in a state of boredom, desperately trying to entertain themselves, constantly thinking up games to play.

Eventually, it occurs to them that it might be fun to paint each other with lamp-black. First, the raven paints markings on the owl, who is very pleased after the job is done. The owl then tries to do the same for the raven. The raven, however, is severely distracted (the type of distraction varies, but most often he is excited about his new pair of boots).

The raven will not sit still while being painted. The owl, increasingly angered by the raven’s impatience, simply hurls the paint at him, blackening the raven from head to toe. In mutual enmity, the two fly off separately, and have worn their respective colours ever since.

Given the popularity of this story, most people might be surprised to know that it is only the most recent version, a mainly eastern Arctic one. As we look westward, toward Kugluktuk, we find much different versions.

In one version, the raven is the angry party. Again, he starts out white. In this tale, a seagull is always stealing his food. Finally, the raven can’t take it anymore, and he rails at the seagull. Laughing, the seagull blackens the raven all over with charcoal.

Incidentally, an old squaw duck — who also starts out white — tries to stick up for the raven, only to get blackened as well.

The raven’s character starts to look a bit better as we travel west. In the eastern story, the raven deserves what he gets, since he is the fool that will not sit still. There is a hint of culture prerogative here. Eastern Inuit (of which I am one) have modified the story to suit their own priorities.

As the east fosters many seal-hunting peoples, it is only natural that such cultures dislike individuals lacking the discipline to sit still and quiet. The hunter who could not sit still while waiting over a seal’s breathing-hole usually starved. To the east, stillness was survival.

In the west, where stillness was less vital, there was no need to turn the raven into a lesson in foolishness. As illustrated above, the western raven is deprived of his meal by the seagull, then punished for complaining about it.

If anything, this version is characteristic of that recurrent theme in western storytelling: conflict is to be avoided at all costs. Even when it seems justified, conflict simply begets greater conflict — and ultimately only disaster.

This is understandable when we consider that Inuit have occupied the west longer than they have the east, so that conflict, whether in escalation or resolution, takes on a desperate sort of tone.

As we look even further west, toward the Mackenzie Delta, the raven takes on an even milder personality. This time, conflict is absent; there is simply an accident. Here we find the ancestor of the eastern raven-and-owl tale, except that the two birds are the raven and the yellow-billed loon.

In this story, it is not so much that the birds are both white as that they both wish to become beautiful. So they agree to paint each other with various patterns. The raven does a lovely job on the loon. But as the loon takes his turn as painter, a man suddenly stumbles across them. The loon, panicked, flies away, leaving the poor old raven with a simple coat of black base paint. (In another version, the frenzied loon accidentally spills it on him).

We now have the raven as neither fool nor fighter, but simply the victim of cruel fate. Man is the bumbler.

Raven simply gets better and better as we look westward. By the time we view him in Alaska, he has been elevated entirely past fool, fighter, or even victim. There, raven is a hero.

(Continued next week.)