The Old Woman wakes early the next morning. The cave is still dark. The sky outside is thickly overcast with rain clouds. She walks out of the cave entrance and washes herself in the little waterfall. Then raising her arms wide above her head, she greets the morning and all the Holy Beings of the Sky, Water, and Earth. After drying herself and dressing, The Old Woman stokes the hearth fire and adds the last of the driftwood. She will descend to the beach for more wood, but first, she lifts her sturdy broom with ancient, curved fingers and sets about sweeping the cave.
All the activity awakens Raven, but as an early riser himself, he does not complain. Instead, he sets about his own morning ritual, preening his feathers, then flying out into the day, cackling and cawing in a cacophony of Raven sounds. All the other early birds answer him and he leads them in the morning’s raucous rumpus.
The Old Woman watches Raven’s bird party as she treks down the cliff. While she prefers a quieter start to her day, she must admit Raven’s style stirs up a good deal of joy in the air, particularly on such a dark day as this.
By the time she has completed her morning chores, Raven has also concluded his morning romp and flaps in out of the chill autumn rain.
“Look what I found on the beach today,” The Old Woman holds up a stone for Raven to peer at from his perch above the cauldrons where he drips rainwater into the pots. She, too, lingers by the warmth of the fire.
“Would you look at that!” he remarks. “If you turn it just right, the light catches and it shimmers - like my wings.”
“Pretty, isn’t it? You know, this pebble reminds me of a story…”
“Tell! Tell!” squawks Raven, hopping up and down.
“There once lived a Pebble…”
“That’s a boring way to start,” observes Raven.
“Let me get settled, then I will find a more eloquent way to begin.” The Old Woman chuckles at Trickster Raven’s honesty; she finds her creativity flourishes under his critique. She drags her stool to the low-angled light at the cave entrance and begins to untangle the veritable nest Raven so adeptly made of her fine tapestry the previous day.
“Under a boulder, at the edge of the tide, a little Pebble peeked out at the sunlit world.”
“That’s much better,” interjects Raven.
“I’m glad you approve,” The Old Woman replies. “Now be quiet and listen.”
“That little Pebble, dazzled by the sun, wanted to bask out on the beach. So the Pebble spoke with the sand and the incoming tide, asking them to shift and scoot and move. Happy to oblige, the sand and the sea moved and slipped until the Pebble was out in the open.
“The Pebble enjoyed lounging in the sun, absorbing the moonlight, and washing clean in the rain and the tide and the snow. Then one day, the Pebble noticed a strip of green above the beach and longed to see and feel this new landscape. So the Pebble asked for assistance in getting up to the green. The sands shifted, the tide shoved, then a hand came along and lifted—”
“A hand? Why not a beak?” demands Raven.
“Very well then,” The Old Woman concedes, “a beak lifted the Pebble and dropped it—”
“Because another Raven saw that the first Raven was carrying something shiny and wanted it, so the second Raven attacked the first Raven, who dropped the Pebble trying to defend himself against the second Raven, but the second Raven realized the shiny was gone, so she berated the first Raven for dropping it and flew off in a huff.”
While Raven prattles on, The Old Woman frees a strand of vibrant scarlet from the tangle.
“Yes, I’m sure it happened just like that.”
“Go on.”
“Nestled in the beach grass, the Pebble’s gaze discovered the fascinating world of bugs. Marveling in the determination of the Ants, the impatience of the Flies, and the focus of Spiders, the Pebble watched a swarm of Crickets come chirping by.
“The Pebble was smitten. So, starting on the new Moon, the little stone at the edge of the beach prayed hard to become a Cricket. The Moon waxed and waned and heard the Pebble’s prayer each night.
“On the next new Moon, the Pebble cracked open and out popped a chirping Cricket! Overjoyed, the Cricket hopped and chirped all over to see the wider world at the edge of the beach, joining up with other Crickets hopping and chirping this way and that. Life was wonderful for the Cricket, until the day a Dragonfly swerved through the long blades of sea grass.
“The Cricket fell in love with the iridescent blue body and the wings - those wide, buzzing, powerful wings - of the Dragonfly and longed to fly in the air, too. Once again, on the new Moon, the Cricket prayed to become a Dragonfly. Each night as the Moon waxed and then waned through her cycle, the Cricket ardently prayed, and the Moon heard.
“The following new Moon, the Cricket’s body split open and fell off the damp, new body of a Dragonfly. Flexing fresh wings for the first time, the Dragonfly was elated. Up into the air the Dragonfly zoomed, buzzing and munching, flying high, then low, then up into the trees at the edge of the beach grass.
“The Dragonfly flew everywhere, skimming the ocean waves, and hunting smaller insects in the crowns of the trees.”
“Let me guess,” interjects Raven. “The Dragonfly is going to see a bird next. Is it going to be a Raven? Make it a Raven!”
“Maybe the Dragonfly sees a bird, but that is not the next transformation.”
“What? No Raven?” he asks indignantly.
“No Raven.”
“Then what are you telling me this for? What can be better than a Raven?”
The Old Woman looks sidelong at her friend. “A Dragon.”
“A real Dragon?”
“Yes. The Dragonfly saw one up in the clouds.”
“Okay, I suppose that is acceptable. At least you didn’t say ‘The Dragonfly saw an Eagle.’ So the Moon turned the Dragonfly into a Dragon, and then what happened?”
“Now the Dragon had wings large enough to fly up into the clouds, passing the peaks of mountains, and down into the depths of the ocean. For a while, the excitement of discovery filled the Dragon with wonder and delight. But then the Dragon began to take a closer look at the world below and saw more pain and death than it had ever been able to see before. They had always been there, but the Dragon had never seen so much of them all at once.
“Landing on a mountaintop, the Dragon felt the weight of the world fall heavily onto its great winged body and its big Dragon heart broke. Clouds rolled in, chilling the Dragon’s body to the core, but when the Dragon spread its wings to fly lower, a wave of vertigo overwhelmed it. The Dragon fell down out of the sky, down the mountain, past the trees, to crash on a pebble beach.
“Aching in body and spirit, the Dragon could only lie still and breathe.”
“Was the Dragon okay?” frets Raven.
The Old Woman inhales deeply, and then exhales. Raven shifts his weight impatiently from foot to foot.
“Eventually,” she continues, “the Dragon heard little voices - thousands of tiny voices. ‘We can help! Let us help!’ they called out. The Dragon opened its eyes, looking for the voices, but all it saw were Pebbles - thousands of tiny Pebbles.
“The Dragon blinked, and then recalling a memory from long ago, slowly shifted its great, scaly forepaw to cup a handful of the Pebbles. Breathing, in and out, in and out, the Dragon began to sense all of the pebbles holding up its great weight. Small as they were, together they had the strength to carry a broken-hearted Dragon burdened by the weight of the world.
“A tear slipped from the Dragon’s eye, and then another, and another until the Dragon’s grief spilled onto the Pebbles in steaming pools and they sat and held all the grief in all the salty tears without cracking. When the last tear fell, the Dragon sat up on its haunches, still aching, but not as badly as before.
“‘Thank you,’ the Dragon rumbled to the Pebbles. ‘For holding my burden with me.’
“‘Not all yours… stronger together… leave it to the Pebbles,’ The Dragon heard snippets from the beach.
Shaking from head to tail, the Dragon spread its wings and launched back into the sky. Its forepaw still clutching the Pebbles from the beach, the Dragon carried its origins, its lessons, and its family wherever it flew.”
Raven is uncharacteristically quiet when the story concludes. Spotting the pebble The Old Woman showed him earlier, he snatches it from the cave floor beside her and flaps up to his roost to ponder a while. Rainy days are good for pondering.
There was so much profound wisdom in your story, thank you for sharing it with us! I don’t think I’ll ever look at a pebble the same way again 😄