Raven and the First Salmon

A Cœur d'Alene Story

Haa'n, sit down, little ones. Let this old woman tell you something the pines whisper when the wind blows off the lake, Cœur d'Alene, our heartwater. My own grandmother told me this, her hands weaving reeds as fast as her words flowed. It's about Raven, that clever, greedy, always-hungry bird, and how the Schitsu'umsh, the People, learned something important long ago.

In the beginning times, after the world was mostly set, the People lived near the shores of the big lake. The mountains watched over us, their peaks sharp against the sky, and the forests gave us lodgepoles and berries. But food wasn't always easy. Sometimes the deer were scarce, or the camas bulbs hid deep in the hard earth.

Raven, you know him. Feathers black as burnt pitch, eyes like shiny beads, always watching, always thinking. He was older than most, had seen things change. He helped shape the world, they say, sometimes by accident, sometimes by trickery. He wasn't bad, not really, but his hunger was bigger than the sky, and his cleverness often served himself first.

One year, the water in the big lake seemed empty. The fish, the ones that feed the People, were few. Day after day, the nets came up with only water weeds and disappointment. Hunger began to pinch the bellies of the children, and worry etched lines on the faces of the hunters and weavers.

The People gathered, their voices low and troubled. "What will we do? The lake is not giving us food."

Raven sat on a high branch, listening. He preened his glossy feathers, pretending not to care, but his sharp eyes missed nothing. He knew something. He always knew something.

A young woman, brave and worried for her family, looked up at him. "Raven," she called out, her voice clear in the quiet worry. "You are wise. You travel far. Do you know where the fish have gone?"

Raven ruffled his feathers. He liked being called wise. "Fish?" he croaked, tilting his head. "Perhaps they swim elsewhere. Perhaps they are tired of your nets." He was being difficult, as Raven often was.

But then, he saw the thin faces below, the real hunger in their eyes. Even Raven, in his selfish heart, felt a little twinge. Besides, if the People starved, who would leave scraps for him to steal?

"Ah," he said, hopping down to a lower branch. "There is a place. Far up the river that feeds the big lake, hidden in a deep pool behind a waterfall, the First Salmon lives. He is king of all salmon, and he keeps his children close to him there. He hasn't told them it's time to journey down to the lake."

The People murmured. A waterfall? Far upriver? It sounded difficult.

"Why haven't they come?" asked an old fisherman. "It is the season."

Raven puffed out his chest. "Because First Salmon is proud! He thinks his pool is the best place. He doesn't want to share his children with the wide world, or with hungry People." Raven knew a thing or two about not wanting to share.

"Can you lead us there, Raven?" the young woman asked. "Can you convince First Salmon to let his children go?"

Raven cackled, a dry, rattling sound. "Lead you? Perhaps. Convince him? Hmm. First Salmon is stubborn. And greedy. He keeps all the richness of the runs to himself up there." Raven paused, his bead-eyes gleaming. "But I am clever."

He agreed to help, but the People knew Raven. His help often came with a trick. He flew ahead, a black shape against the sky, leading a small group of the strongest, quietest hunters up the winding river. The journey was hard. The rocks were slippery, the current strong. They traveled for days, their stomachs empty, following the sound of Raven's calls.

Finally, they heard it – the roar of a great waterfall, crashing down into a deep, swirling pool. And there, hidden behind the curtain of water, they saw them: salmon, thousands upon thousands, their silver bodies packed so tightly the water itself seemed alive. In the center, larger and darker than the rest, was First Salmon.

Raven landed silently on a rock. "Wait here," he whispered to the People, his voice barely louder than the water's roar. "He won't listen to you. But he might listen to me."

Raven hopped closer to the pool. "Greetings, great First Salmon!" he called out. "Your pool is magnificent! Your children are fat and shiny! Truly, you have the best water in all the world!"

First Salmon, who was indeed proud, flickered his massive tail. "Raven. What do you want?"

"Want?" Raven acted surprised. "Only to admire! But... I was just down at the big lake. Such a wide, wonderful place! So many new things to see! It's a shame your children miss it. They could swim far, explore, grow even bigger in that endless water!"

First Salmon narrowed his fishy eyes. "My children are safe here. They have everything they need."

"Oh, but adventure!" Raven croaked. "Think of the journey! The things they would learn! Besides," Raven leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "the People down there... they are starving. They wouldn't trouble your children much. Too weak." He winked, a gesture lost on the fish, but not on the hidden hunters.

First Salmon hesitated. He was proud, and the thought of his children seeing the vast lake, becoming famous for their journey... it appealed to him. And Raven was right, they were getting crowded in the pool.

"Maybe," First Salmon said slowly, "Maybe it is time."

With a great flick of his tail, he gave the signal. A tremor went through the packed fish. One salmon, then ten, then a hundred, turned and leaped, finding the current that led out from the pool, past the waterfall, and down the river. Soon, a silver torrent was pouring downstream.

Raven let out a triumphant caw. He turned to the hidden People. "Go!" he urged. "Your families are hungry! The fish come!"

The hunters hurried back, spreading the news. Soon, the People were lining the riverbanks and the shores of the lake. The salmon arrived, a gift of silver life, filling the nets, feeding the families. There was joy and gratitude.

But Raven? He didn't wait for thanks. While everyone was busy catching and celebrating, he was swooping down, snatching the fattest salmon right off the drying racks, gobbling them down until his belly was round. He'd helped, yes, but he'd made sure to get his share, and more.

My grandmother would finish the story here, her hands finally still. "So, you see," she'd say, "Raven brought the salmon. His cleverness, his sweet words to First Salmon, they saved the People that year. But he did it for his own reasons, too. He reminds us that gifts sometimes come from unexpected places, even from tricksters. He teaches us that even selfishness can sometimes lead to good, though it's better to share from the start. And," she'd add, her eyes twinkling like Raven's, "he reminds us to always watch our fish!"

It's a story about hunger, and how it drives us – People and Raven alike. But it's also about how connected we all are. First Salmon, Raven, the River, the Lake, the People. One cannot thrive if the others suffer too much. Raven, in his own tricky way, helped restore that balance. Remember that, little ones, when you look out over our lake. Remember the gifts, remember the lessons, and maybe leave a little scrap for that clever, hungry bird. He’s still watching.

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Find out more about the Cœur d'Alene people of today: https://www.cdatribe-nsn.gov/