Three old crows perched on their branch, completely and utterly bored. “Nothing ever happens here,” cawed the first.
“Nothing has ever happened here,” groaned the second.
“That’s not true, that’s not true,” protested the third. “You forgot about the little raven with the silver wings?”
“Silver wings! He only had silver wings in his dream.”
“You forgot!”
And so the old raven began to tell the story.
All the new little ravens in our flock had hatched, except for one.
But soon that last egg began to crack, and in no time a tiny little thing poked its hungry beak out.
After a few days we gathered around the nest to take a look at the newcomer.
“Wow, he’s so tiny,” I said and laughed.
“Ten of those would fit in one egg,” said another.
“And this is going to grow into a raven?” cawed a third.
The little raven was indeed incredibly small.
Maybe that’s why we started to tease him and torment him whenever we could.
He wanted to play with us, but we never wanted to.
“Come on, you barely have feathers, and you don’t even know how to fly!”
I said that once.
We were really mean to him.
The little raven’s black feathers began to grow and thicken.
He was ready for his first flying exercises.
He started with a clumsy flap of his wings.
This was followed by his first jump from a branch, and then his flights became longer and longer.
He was talented and agile, and soon became the best flier in our flock.
“Can I play with you now?” asked the little raven one day.
“Sure,” I said. “You just need to fly to the moon, and when you come back, we’ll play with you.”
“To the moon?” asked the little raven nervously.
“It’s no big deal,” I said.
“We used to do that every day when we were your age,” the other crows said, cawing happily.
That night I saw the little raven looking at the silver, shining moon.
Suddenly he took off. He flew higher and higher. I should have stopped him.
I should have said it was a bad joke.
But I said nothing.
I fell asleep, but in my dream I saw him flying even higher, the beating of his little heart thundering in my ears.
When he was near the moon, a hard, blinding light illuminated the sky. It took a moment for me to see clearly, but then I saw him.
He was soaring high, his wings shimmering silver and as bright as the moon itself.
Then he began to lose strength. The beautiful silver wings were probably too heavy. They seemed to pull him down. And he spun and twirled toward the ground.
I opened my beak to scream, but then his heavy silver wings caught the wind above me.
I woke up completely confused and couldn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night.
The next morning, we found a little raven.
He was lying in a hedge near our oak tree.
I was sure he had gotten closer to the moon than any other bird.
The little one had the heart of a true fighter, but now he lay there lifeless.
We all leaned over him and waited for some sign of life.
His mother was sobbing softly, and I was scared.
Then the little raven suddenly opened his eyes.
His mother hugged him, and the little one said very softly: “I couldn’t make it.”
No one, except me, understood what he meant; and I knew exactly.
“We couldn’t make it either,” I stammered.
“I said that just to get rid of you. I never thought you would actually try to fly to the moon. Will you ever forgive me?”
Instead of answering, the little raven rose into the air and called: “Come on, let’s play!”
It was only then that we noticed the shining silver feather on the little raven’s wing.
Together we followed him into the bright, clear morning sky.
By Marcus Pfister, The Little Moon Raven, MineditionUS, 2014