(A Haida Tale)
Said Íihlanga to Jáadaa: “Fair Jáadaa, let us wed!”
She gazed upon the gifts he bore,
but Jáadaa’s pride demanded more.
She looked beyond the sky and shore
and laughed and shook her head,
and laughed and shook her head.
Said Jáadaa: “You are sturdy, but no more then other men.
Oh, if you were as strong as Bear,
now, I would love you then.
Yes, I would love you then.”
Said Íihlanga to Bear: “O brother Bear, your strength I crave!”
Bear touched him as he dreamt that night,
his muscles tensed in feral might,
yet Jáadaa, like a bird in flight
forgot the word she gave –
forgot the word she gave.
Said Jáadaa: “You’re fleet-footed, but no more then other men.
If you’d outdo swift Caribou,
Oh, I could love you then.
Yes, I could love you then.”
Said Íihlanga to Caribou: “Oh, sister, lend me speed!”
She touched him in a restless sleep,
but Jáadaa’s heart was hers to keep,
her smile so far, so cold, so deep
as he chased through copse and reed –
as he chased through copse and reed.
Said Jáadaa: “You are prudent, but no more then other men.
Were you as wise as Raven’s eyes,
well, I might love you then.
Yes, I might love you then.”
“Oh, Raven, give me cunning, to prove my will to wed!”
But Raven, wily Raven,
but Raven, wayward Raven,
but Raven, Trickster Raven
gave him wings instead,
he gave him wings instead.
Each year the salmon swim upstream and grey whale pass the shore.
Fair Jáadaa sees her life flow by,
still waiting for the raven’s cry,
but he who loved had learned to fly
and would come back no more.
Oh, he came back no more.
No, he’ll come back no more.