Raven Song Flutes/flute stories etc

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Flute Stories Etc.

How old is the Native American flute? How did the flute come to the people? There is much speculation about these questions and hundreds, perhaps thousands of stories about how the flute came into being. One thing is sure. The flute is very old and is perhaps one of the earliest musical instruments known to man. The theme of most origin stories is similar, usually centering around a young native boy who is sort of a misfit or a loner, who, through his adventures in the wilderness, is led to discovering the flute and, bringing it back to his people, wins the heart of a young maiden.

Below are a few of my favorite stories. I hope you like them.

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How The Flute Came To the Original People
By: Bradd (Thaweno’:ken) Powless
Mohawks of the Bay of Quinte, Tyendinaga Territory, Ontario, Canada

There are many versions of this story. I like this one the best. I hope you like it also.

Once, a very long time ago, there lived in a village, a young man of about 12 or 13. Being overly sickly, skinny, he had trouble fitting in with the rest of the children of the village. He wasn’t good at hunting and slowed everyone down when he wasn’t rumbling or crashing through the woodlands scattering all of the game far and wide in the process. He just wasn’t coordinated enough to make utensils or bows and would always get a rash when working in the fields; tending to the 3 Iroquois sisters… corn, beans and squash. For this, he was constantly teased and berated, which made him very self-conscious.

In this village there was also a very beautiful woman just around the age of her moon-time. ('Moon-Time' is that very special time when girl turns into woman) All of the men vied for her attention but, alas, she was very fussy and ignored them all. Although many men of the village, and surrounding villages for that matter, had tried to woo her, vowed to wait for the perfect mate. The young man was very much in love with this woman too but knew that he would never have any chance of catching her eye.

For the most part, he kept to himself, lonely and lost in a world of uncertainty. But he was at an age where emotions and urges ruled his being and for a time, imagined himself as a great hunter, stalking around the village, sneaking and creeping with bow and arrow at the ready, as if his prey was just around the corner of the next longhouse. Many times he thought as he play-hunted, “If only I could bring back enough game to feed the old ones and nourish the youngsters, then I could win the heart of my love and prove myself.”

One morning he decided that it was time to live his dream and gathered up enough courage to set off into the bush by himself. He packed a small lunch of bannock and dried eel and set out for a day-trip of testing his newly honed skills. A short while later he spotted the biggest Elk that he had ever seen, twelve points to the rack, standing tall and proud in the middle of a quiet meadow. Spurts of steam exited his nostrils in the cool morning mist. He was the prince of this wood. The young lad quietly crept up to the edge of the clearing, drew an arrow from his deerskin quiver and slid the rawhide string of his ash bow (the same bow used in many hunts and then handed down to him from his Grandfather, a master hunter of the Turtle Clan on the nock of the slender, perfectly turkey-feather fletched and straightened limb. Just as he drew his arm back to sight in his target, the great Elk roared a bellow that shook the surrounding tree branches and he jumped for cover in the thick brush. You see, Elk are very smart and he saw the young boy with the weapon at the ready. The boy sprang from his cover and followed the Great Elk in the forest. Again, the boy spotted the Elk in another clearing and went through the whole process of notching the arrow and when he was just about ready, the Great Elk would roar a mighty bawl and moved off quietly. This happened again and again and each time the boy followed and each time the Elk lead him deeper and deeper into the woods until, the boy, concentrating intently on his prey and little else, became hopelessly lost. It was also becoming increasing dim as the day turned into evening and the evening into night. Hungry, exhausted and frustrated, he lay down under a tall pine and fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning he looked at his position from all angles and scoured the surrounding areas for the Great Elk but he was nowhere to be found. When he thought his mind had settled, he realized the situation of not knowing which direction was home and he began to panic a bit, but quickly pushed that aside as he remember what his Elders had taught him. All the lessons came flooding into his mind; how to begin a fire; which plants and berries and leaves were food, which were poison and which were medicines; how to build a cozy, waterproof, safe Ojibwa tipi-style wigwam from cedar poles, cedar inner-bark for ties and birch bark covering. And so, without further adieu, he set out building his camp and prepared for a longer than anticipated stay. Besides, being out there alone wasn’t all bad. He would no longer be ridiculed or teased and could be the master of his own domain with a little preparation and help from the Creator.

A few seasons had gone by and the lad had done quite well, surprising even himself. But he was very lonely and in his morning offering of sweet grass, sage, cedar and tobacco, told the Creator of his suffering and asked if He could do anything. Once again, day turned into night and night into day and with the new dawn came the mighty north wind…but no company other than himself. It was about mid-afternoon when the boy heard an eerie whistle coming from the top of a cluster of White Cedar trees that bordered the eastern portion of his camp. In some areas of the clump, the lower branches swooped to the ground like hooped-skirts, lush and full of life but on the northern side, the side buffeted by the stronger winds, pale, scraggly, cracked or broken branches jutted in all directions. It looked as though someone had cleared foot holds in order to prude the tops into regal, green crowns. As the wind whipped and subsided, the whistling branch played a symphony of differing sounds. Some notes were hard to the ear, some kind to the soul and some…downright scary. It took him awhile before he could zero in on the melodic bough but once he did, he offered a prayer and a bit of tobacco to the Mother of the Cedar colony, carefully climbed to the noise and snapped off the hollowed limb. He was very happily excited that, although the Creator didn’t provide a friend, He did provide something which he loved dearly…the gift of music. But when he returned to the warmth of his fire, regardless of how hard he tried, how much he blew, he could not make the wither branch sing. Frustrated, he tossed it aside and busied himself with chores to occupy his anger. It wasn’t long before another day passed into sleep.

The next morning, he awoke to an annoying tap…tap…tap…tap emanating from the upper mid-section of an ancient Oak. The sound echoed through the tree tops and swirled though the early air directly to his brain, like someone was rapping their knuckles on the inside of his skull. He jumped to his feet, still in another world of half-dream, cleared the grunge from his eye sockets and proceeded to find out exactly what was the source of the inconsiderate irritation. His rage turned to clear calm when he saw that, indeed, the Creator had finally answered his prayer and had sent him a small bird. The bird was oblivious to the noise it was creating and continued periodically to tap…tap…tap…on the tree in an arrhythmic pattern, as it happily bounced from a clinging purchase on the trunk, to stick perches.

The boy instantly shouted a joyful ‘Hello’, interrupting the bird and without hesitation, apprehension or fear of any sort, flew down and landed on the boy’s shoulder. The boy started a one sided conversation but the bird didn’t mind and was more than content to remain where he was and listen as though he understood every syllable. The boy rambled about how he got stuck there, the Great Elk, his home and how proud he was of the accommodations he had constructed and yammered about everything and anything from the time he arrived, until the day before that day. When he finally recounted the part about the whistling branch, he walked to where it was, picked it up and held it out for the bird to see. Immediately, the little bird jumped to the stick and began pecking away at a section near the end. Much to the boy’s amazement, the bird pecked right through the stick tube, turned 180 degrees and tapped until another hole appeared. Then he took the sharp talon of his right foot and scratched a shallow path from one hole to the other. The boy stood in awe as the feather friend worked away, completed his task and jumped back to his shoulder. The boy inquired why the bird had done this and the bird, seemingly understanding the boy, motioned with is head to the end of the branch. The boy, without speaking, understood that the bird wanted him to blow into it again and so…he did. But try as he might, the only sound was the whoosh of his own breath exiting the newly made holes. The bird, once more, jumped from his shoulder perch and with a mighty stab, broke off a slice of one of the holes so that it created a slant towards the mouth area of the tube. Then he squatted over the first hole and laid his body partially over the scratched out section and wrapped his legs and wings tightly around the edge of the limb, holding on as tight as he could. Motioning with his head, he instructed the boy to try to blow again and this time, when he did, a beautiful sound wafted through the sun-spanked forestry. The boy blew into the end of the branch and another note drifted into the universe. Again he blew harder and the stick came alive with a screeching squeak. He had just learned that he need not use more than his own gentle talking breath to make the branch sing. He also realized that the small bird was getting tired, clinging tightly to the branch and so, substituted a flat piece of wood, tied on with a bit of sinew over the hole and gouge. He was so happy when his new replacement worked that he began to play the same melodious note over and over as he danced around his homestead. The bird was so happy that he flew higher and higher until he burned his head on the sun, turning it a sunburned shade of red. (We all know what kind of bird it was now!) After a while however, the boy became bored with the single note and asked the bird if he could help again. The bird flew on top of the stick and wherever the boy’s fingers were on the stick, he pecked another hole, until there were six. As the boy lifted his fingers and blew, another note would come for him. He spent the rest of the day blowing and lifting, lifting and blowing, dancing and laughing. Into the darkness the notes carried until sleep was the only option. The next morning at the boy’s intimate sunrise ceremony, he thanked the Creator for the wonderful gift and company of the small bird and promised to dedicate the small piece of flat wood to the bird and from then on, that little piece of wood, no matter how it is shaped or formed is always called ‘The Bird”. However, the only regret that he had was how to make this wonderful gift play what he wanted instead of just random notes.

And so…this is what the Creator instructed…..

For the first new moon until the first full moon, go into the field and play the tree tops. If the tree is high, play a high note. If the tree is low, play a low note…if there are three trees in a row…count three beats…two trees, two beats. If the wind rocks the branches play the wind….hard or soft. Change your field, your vision and the notes will come…the trees always have good music and are never wrong,,,trust this.

For the next new moon until the following full moon, follow your friend’s flight with you’re your breath. If he flies high, play a high note. If he flies low, follow him with a low note. If he flies fast, follow his speed. When he slows down, you slow down too. If he twitters and twists, try to do the same with your note. Follow your friend, I have given you his flight to play…trust this.

And on the last day of the full moon, go out into one of your meadows at night. Close your eyes. See the trees, watch the bird in your mind. Open your heart and I will be waiting to hear what it says. It is never wrong. Always…trust this.

The boy did exactly as his Creator instructed and by the time he was done, he could play any note he wanted at any time, he could speed up when needed, soft when the feeling arose, loud to clear the soft. He trusted and he always played from the heart. What he played he automatically remembered and repeated with astonishing accuracy. After all, it was never new…it was always right there in his heart. He had learned the importance of the Creator’s sheet music….and he trusted his heart.

A few days or months (who knows) later, the boy began to feel lonely again. He had his friend, he had his gift but he dearly missed his family. In another prayer, he thank the Creator for everything and asked if he could show him the way home. He felt that now he was prepared and no longer feared the meanest village people. The Creator gave the directions to the bird and instructed him to lead the boy home. All the boy was to do was to follow the bird’s path through the forest the Creator promised that before long he would be with his people but that it might not be what he expected. It had been away a long time and life changes as it must.

He played as he walked and he walked as he played and he played his walk.

It was two full days and part of another when the boy and the bird arrived in a clearing just outside his village. In the nearby fields that surround the village, he saw the mothers, with their babies strapped into cradleboards, hunched over the gardens pulling weeds, picking crops and tending to the plants. Through gaps and breaks the wooden ramparts and contiguous walls he could see his Grandmother, his Grandfather and his mother. They all looked much older. But he didn’t find his father although hunting season had not yet begun and he should have been there with his mother. He could see the other boys and girls playing games in the centre compound. Some he recognized, others he did not. He saw the beautiful woman that had grown even more beautiful than he could imagine. He saw the young man that accompanied the woman, following her every step, her every movement, every nuance of her gestures and looks.

Then he remembered what the Creator said. That everything changes as it must. What if they all thought he was dead, mourned over the loss and moved forward with their happiness? He wondered if his father was still alive or had left the village. Thoughts…, horrid thoughts…,smashed through his head like the Great Elk through the underbrush. Coming to the realization that he might be too late and may never return, he took his stick from his belt loop and began to play a most mournful song. It was a song that emigrated from his broken heart and radiated through his soul, made from sustained sounds that tore the universe into shreds of unhappiness.

In his sorrow, he forgot that these sounds were carried to the ears of all who were near and far. The people couldn’t distinguish them as misery and grief, but rather appreciated the sounds as beauty and wonderful expression of life itself. The first person out into the clearing was the beautiful woman. She had become entranced a the resonance, timbre and tone and was astonished when she spied the boy, who had now after all the months, turned into a fit, well built, and very handsome man. A man who could take care of himself, fend for himself, defend himself. A man deserving respect and honor. A man who brought a wonderful gift to the peoples. When their eyes met, he began to play directly to her…to her mind, to her emotions, to her essence …, to her heart. She had no other choice but to fall instantly and deeply in love. He was the perfect mate, the man she had waited so long to be with. The notes had turned from hurt to happy, from longing to love in a breath…a heartbeat.

The man was welcomed back into the village again with joy and happiness and a Gathering of the People celebration. He renewed old friendships and gained new. Most of all, he gained the respect of every person that has ever heard this story. He earned the respect of the men in villages as far as one could walk. After all, he had succeeded where all had failed…he won the heart of the most beautiful woman in the land.

And that is why it is called ‘The Native Healing Flute and also the 'Love Flute'”

From that day to this, every man who wants to win the heart of their most beautiful woman in the world must make their own flute a play a song, directly from the heart, of love. If the woman likes the song, then she vowed she will be his forever. If not, well…tough luck…time to make another flute.

It doesn’t matter how it plays…, it’s who plays it and from where the sounds come…

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Legend of the Kokopelli

It had been a very dry year and the trust that rain was coming had worn thin. Kokopelli, the master magician, had come to trade. His humpback was actually his bundle of Sacred objects, Medicine and seed he had brought for trading, and his flute seemed to glow in the firelight. He used the reflected light, as well as sound, to mesmerize his observers.

The feathers in Kokopelli's headdress were bright red, which gave the illusion of his being bathed in the Eternal Flame of passion and creativity. The Fire of fertility that crowned his head also radiated from his body as he swayed in front of the communal fire. When he finished with his flute, he wrapped it like a child in brightly woven material and offered it to the Great Star Nation. His words carried to the farthest reaches of the pueblo. "This flute carries the music of the stars to the Great Earth Mother and calls for the Thunder-Beings to unite with her," he cried. "This union will bring a child to the People who will one day lead them back to the stars, through the Inner-Earth from which they came."

A cool rush of high mountain air blew up the canyon to stir the embers of the communal fire into a whirlwind that exploded - filling the night sky with star-like sparks. The gasps of wonder from the mouths of the People echoed through the moonless night. Suddenly the light that the Fire-Beings cast, gave enough light for everyone to see the masses of Cloud People who had gathered in the heavens to answer Kokopelli's call. Once again, the People cried out in awe at the magic of this half-god, half-man, Kokopelli. Even the sleeping babies awakened to the spectacle of Kokopelli's magic. Surely the long-awaited rain would feed the Three Sisters and the People would live. Kokopelli called out for everyone to gather up their clay pots so that the moisture could be collected for future use. The Thunderers called out that Rain was about to begin.

The Fire Sticks gave quite a light show before Rolling Thunder broke the silent night. The only other sound was the scurrying of feet in yucca-fiber sandals running up and down ladders to grab the pots. One maiden stood entranced near the main plaza marveling at the lightening in the night sky while others around her became frenzied, running to and fro. Kokopelli looked at her beautiful, innocent face filled with wonder and approached her, still holding his flute like a child. She was filled with a sereneness that had piqued his curiosity.

"Why have you not gathered your pots?" he asked. "They are in place high on the mesa," she answered. When he asked the maiden her name, she replied, "I am called Ice Flower of the Winter Clan of White Corn." "Why are your pots already in place, Ice Flower?" he asked. "Because your flute called to me when you came up the canyon and told me you would bring the rain," she answered. Kokopelli was intrigued. He smiled in a knowing way as the maiden returned his smile. "So you are the one," he said.

The People assembled for the Medicine Chief of the Eagle Clan's prayer of gratitude just as the first Rain People began to touch the Earth Mother. Kokopelli took Ice Flower by the hand and led her to the Fire. All eyes were watching the couple as they made their way to the head of the plaza. When the prayer was over, Kokopelli placed the flute, wrapped like a child in Ice Flower's arms as a symbol that this woman would share his music and his seed.

Magic was in the air and the child of this union would use the magic of this Medicine to assist the People in finding their way back to the stars. The legend of the Pueblo People tells that they crawled up from the underworld after creation. Meanwhile the spirits of their Ancestors went back into the underworld until it was time to walk the Earth again. Kokopelli spoke to them of a time before the Creation when each person was a spark of Fire from Great Mystery's Eternal Flame and had fallen to Earth to seed the Mother with fertile thoughts, ideas, and actions. He told them that they would all become like Fireflies in the Great Sky Nation on the day when the Toltec and Pueblo bloodlines came together as one.

The Aztecs say that Ice Flower brought a man-child, who became a great spiritual leader of the Eagle clan, into the world. His Medicine was the gentleness of his mother and the Fire of his father. Since Mesa Verde was abandoned hundreds of years ago, we are left with this question: did they leave the Earth and go to live in the Great Star Nation? If so, the fertility and abundance of Kokopelli shines on our world each night.

By - Unknown

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The Man and the Ravens

Anishinabe

Native American Lore

There once was a man that enjoyed watching the black Raven's fly around, play, squawk, and chatter. He enjoyed them so much he would climb trees just to be closer to them. For many months the Ravens ignored the man, but after awhile, one of the Ravens flew from a nearby tree and landed directly next to the man.
In utter amazement, the bird spoke to the man and asked, "You have been watching us for a long time. You have tried to get close to us. Why do you do this?"

The man replied, "I mean no harm. I have become enchanted with you and all your relatives. I enjoy the play, the squawking, and I wish I could learn your language so I could understand more about you."

Then the Raven responded, "We are honored that you want to know us, as long as you do not cause harm, we will teach you our language."

For many months the Ravens taught the man all about the language and how the Ravens lived from day to day. The man became so educated that he knew everything there was to know about the Ravens. Many of the Ravens saw the man and accepted him as a friend.

One day, an older Raven was flying far over the man, dropped a walnut perfectly on the man's head. It was done on purpose and all the Ravens almost fell off their branches laughing so hard the way they do. One Raven was flying and was laughing so hard he had to crash land right in front of the man.

The man was feeling bad and was hurt by being made fun of, so he asked the Raven in front of him, "Why are you all picking on me."

The Raven stopped laughing and became very serious. "We thought you understood us, but apparently you don't. If you did you would know that we are not mocking you... well maybe a bit, but it is done in our way of having fun. We are 'playing' with you and that is all. It is not to be taken seriously. You should know us better."

The man took sometime to understand this and over time a few more practical jokes were played on the man and he in turn pulled a few "good ones" on the birds. A good time was had by all and the man became even closer to the Ravens.

Then another event occurred. A young Raven swooped out of the sky and pecked the man on the head. Then another young Raven swooped down and did the same thing. The man ran across the field and into the woods but the Ravens kept chasing him and very skillfully they flew at high speeds through the woods tormenting the man. Finally the two stopped and started to yell mean words, fighting words at the man.

Again the man did not understand, but he knew the two Ravens were very mad at him, so he decided to leave and let the Ravens be. The man went away for many months.

As he did his duties in the his tribal village, he told all the people about his adventures and what he learned about the Ravens. Some listened with intent, others just thought the man was a fool to study the Ravens so. The villagers gave the man a new name of "Black Feather" because of his close relationship to the birds, but the man objected and said, "I am no longer close to the Raven people."

From above there was a squawking sound of a single Raven. Some of the people looked up and were surprised that they could understand the Raven, others just looked around because they could hear nothing but squawking. The Raven was speaking to the man and said, "It is true, you are closer to us than any Anishinabe (Human) has ever come. You are close, but you still don't understand us fully. I invite you to return to us, many miss you."

Black Feather started to follow the Raven but then stopped at the edge of the village. He looked around to make sure no other Anishinabe could hear then asked the Raven, "why do you ask me back when the two Ravens where fighting with me and were mean."

"The Raven landed at Black Feathers feet and said, "See how little you understand us. The two young Ravens did not fight with you because you are Anishinabe, it is because they accepted you as a member of the Raven people. You should know that we fight among ourselves too. It is a part of our way of life. Instead of sulking and leaving you should have fought back."

Black Feather stood in silence and said, "There is much about Ravens I don't understand. Maybe we are too different people to ever understand each other. I should stop and return to my people in the village."

The Raven again shook his head and told Black Feather, "That is your choice, but again I tell you that you have come closer to us Raven people than any other Anishinabe. Would you throw this all away just because you can't understand us yet?"

Black Feather responded, "It's useless, how can I ever understand you, I can't even fly!"

A thousand bursts of laughter was heard from all the surrounding trees and Black Feather knew that all the Raven People were there, hiding and listening.

"Of course you can't fly. You are Anishinabe and we are Ravens. But we accept you as one of us. We play with you. We fight with you. We love you and want you back. We also recommend you don't try to fly in order to be like us, because then, you would not be Anishinabe nor a Raven but something else. We like you as an Anishinabe that understands us as Ravens. Join us or not the decision is yours."

Black Feather returned to the Anishinabe village and bid everyone farewell because he had decided to live with the Raven people. After all the farewells and such he started to leave the village. All the Anishinabe people were there to see him off, and high over head was a thousand Raven's.

Then from high above one of the older Ravens dropped a walnut shell and again with remarkable aim, plunked Black Feather right on the head. All the Ravens started laughing hard and all the Anishinabe were laughing too.

Black Feather laughed and looked up at the old Raven and said, "Good one."

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home: about the artist: flute catalog: flute stands: buffalo horn flutes: selecting a flute: playing the flute:about the flute: workshops: contact us: links: flute stories etc

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