The Thunderbird
The Thunderbird
Native American Origin
The Thunderbird
Native American Origin
“Mother, tell me a story, I cannot sleep with this awful storm. The thunder and lightning SCARE ME!” Little Feather, the youngest and smallest of all his brothers and sisters, always wanted to hear a story before bed. His mother knew this very well, and always refused at first.
“Oh, but you are such a brave boy, Little Feather, don’t you remember the wolf that you killed?”
“Pleeeeeeeeeeeease! I’ll never get to sleep without a story! I’m sooooooo SCARED!” Little Feather knew the game too.
“Oh, but you are such a brave boy, Little Feather, don’t you remember the dear that you killed?” answered his mother.
“I’m really not that brave, the storm is too SCARY!”
“Oh, but you are such a brave boy, Little Feather, but so you don’t have to stay up scared all night, I will tell you a story.” Little Feather’s mother loved to tell stories as much as Little Feather loved to hear them. “I will tell you of the Sprit of the Thunderbird. The Shaman in the village saw the Thunderbird in a vision on a night like tonight, and this is what he saw:
The Thunderbird came to me while I was sleeping through a heaving storm. Out of its mouth came lightning, and when it beat its wings, thunder echoed through the canyons and over the plains. It had two heads, and was escorted by an eagle and a falcon, one on either side. The mighty Thunderbird told me in this vision that a great drought would come to our village, and that we must travel north in order to survive. I was terrified by this vision, for I did not have the status of Shaman at the time, and I knew no one would listen to me. And so the next night the Spirit again came during a fierce storm. This time it told me that if I went to the caves of our ancestors in the giant canyon, and painted its image, it would spare the tribe until I became Shaman.
And so I went and painted the image of the Thunderbird on the walls of the canyon, and the Spirit of the Thunderbird spared our tribe. After many moons had passed, it became my time to be Shaman, but I had forgotten the words of the Spirit. And so a terrible drought came, and the people blamed me, and kicked me out of the tribe. As I wandered about I came upon the great canyon, and seeing the images of the Thunderbird, I remembered my vision. I returned to the tribe and told them we had to move north. This is why we no longer live near the canyon of our ancestors.”
“That is what the Shaman said,” finished Little Feather’s mother, “and now my little one, you must go to sleep.”