The Raven: Enchanter or Beguiler?

Odin, the great Norse God, is often portrayed in art with two ravens perched on his shoulders. Huginn and Muninn, they were called. Odin had given them the ability to speak, so they flew around the world each day, returned in the evening, and told Odin what they saw.

It’s said that Odin often feared Huginn and Muninn might not return from their journeys, and so would miss hearing their news and wisdom. But there was more to the ravens than just their information.

“You complete me,” says Odin

Odin was both human and god. His human form was imperfect; he lacked depth perception (he had only one good eye) and was apparently uninformed and forgetful. The ravens compensated for these weaknesses by giving him sight and wisdom. Huginn (who was associated with mind) and Muninn (memory) were part of Odin, offering wisdom and knowledge that allowed him to be a god.

All praise to Huginn and Muninn!

Best friends for life

Here on South Pender Island. We have two ravens living near us on our perch overlooking Boundary Pass. They’ve been around for years — at least since Jennifer and I came here 12 years ago. We see the same pair every day.

Our neighbours have names for them: Bok and Bok. They each have the same name, which reflects the most discernable sounds they make. There is also something enigmatic about the names, which suggests these larger-than-life creatures might have come from another world.

They are tireless workers, flying back and forth over the cliffs, perching in trees, looking for scraps to eat on the beach. They join the turkey vultures and eagles when something dead washes ashore. Sometimes, we see them flying high over the prow of the property carrying undefinable objects in their beaks: a piece of carrion or fish, perhaps a mangled rodent or a mussel.

Croaks and clucks

In spring, the ravens appear with their fledglings, usually two of them. They make an ungodly ruckus (sorry, Odin), the four of them, squawking, berating, yelling, clamouring for attention. You can hear them in the distance, sometimes right up close. Screams and alarms, croaks and clucks.

We enjoy the teaching moments, such as a flying lesson or a “landing-on-a-branch” lesson. You can see the young ones circle nervously over the branch, where the parent sits, shouting instructions. The little ones make several passes, several failed attempts at a decent landing. A parent watches and comments on every move.

Hell with this!

What are they saying? Shouts of encouragement? Withering criticisms?

“You’ll never make it in the raven world! Why, when I was a young fledgling myself, I learned this at half your age!”

We watch, fascinated, feeling for the little ones, wishing the parents could be gentler in their courageous attempts.

Once, we watched a fledgling finally made a successful landing. Did the mother congratulate her and give a gentle pat on the back for her success? No! She screeched in disdain, then flew across to the neighbouring cliffs and hid herself in tree branches. The fledgling looked indignant! “Hell with this,” she said and flew away in the opposite direction.

Science, yes, but where’s the poetry?

It’s not helpful, I realize, or accurate, to ascribe human motives to the behaviour of animals, but the ancient Norse people did it. So did the First Nations people. Modern science is great, yes, but where’s the poetry in it all? How do we know these creatures aren’t whispering into some deity’s ear on the far side of the world when it gets dark?

“Odin, from our great height, we learned today the importance of landing on one’s own two feet. It’s important to find solid ground and perch. Gathering food is necessary for our survival, yes, but so too is viewing the world from a place of stillness and immovability. Air is too fluid for this compared to the solidity of a branch or a rock.”

Offerings of stale Happy Monk bread

Our South Pender ravens are also birds of great character! Sometimes, Jennifer and I make offerings of small chunks of stale Happy Monk bread. We lay them out on a low table on the prow of our land. Before we’ve returned to the house, they’ve swooped in to pick them up. 1

But watching them do this, you can tell they’re smart but not that smart. They need to learn and re-learn that you can’t put too many crumbs and crusts in your beak at one time. Two or three bits seem to be the maximum. But if you’re a raven, there’s always room for more. As soon as they open their beak for one more piece of bread, all the other pieces tumble out. And they’re back at the beginning.

Like Odin, these beings, in their “raven form,” have their imperfections.

And Jennifer and I want to squawk at them, “Ravens! Heed the laws of physics! There is only room for one or two chunks of Happy Monk bread in thy beaks! Take only a small amount to your nest. The other pieces will remain until you fly back!”

(Note the gentler tone of our advice! No curses or remonstrations!)

Cock of the walk

I imagine our Pender ravens see us as beneficent creatures and are more relaxed in our presence. They would not allow us to look at them before they learned we were purveyors of hearty bread. One sideways glance from Jennifer or me caused them to flee.

Now, if either of us steps out to look at the view, one of them flies over the Garry Oak on the hillock on the eastern edge of the property. They’ll wait patiently for bread or make a percussive clucking sound to get our attention.

On a recent Sunday afternoon, I caught sight of one of our ravens strutting proudly up a rise of land on the back forty. He looked defiant, almost. “Cock of the walk,” I thought, and I went out to investigate.

Pleased for good reason

He was pleased with himself for good reason. He didn’t even have to beg for food; he discovered recycling and composting himself! He’d knocked over the containers, spread papers and cans all over the driveway and probably had quite a feed!

“You bloody imp!” I said to him. But I knew it was my own doing after years of feeding him and his partner. He was just being helpful, I thought, feeding himself instead of waiting for me!

“Trickster!” I shouted.

No more Mr. Nice Guy!             

The ravens have become emboldened. More recently, they’ve got into the bread baskets I leave on the table beside Mildrith while I deliver loaves up-island to Port Washington and Medicine Beach. When I return later in the afternoon, I’ll find the remnants of a loaf, along with shreds of paper bag, behind the woodpile or on the driveway.

Last Friday, despite covering a bread basket with a big plastic lid, our ravens managed to tip the basket over, push the lid to the side, and pull the bread bag out from underneath.

I shook my fist at them the next time I saw them.

“That’s it!” I shouted. “No more Mr. Nice Guy! And no more bread either!”

But they’ve got me wrapped ‘round their little toe-claws. Next time I hear their plaintive little sounds, I know I’ll melt and feed them a dried husk of Salish Sourdough.

And the last thing I need is them telling Odin I’m a mean piece of business.

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