This is the condensed mythological story of the first humans as known by the Haida people of Haida Gwaii, an archipelago up the coast of British Columbia, otherwise known as the Queen Charlotte Islands.

This ancient legend of the beginnings of mankind is depicted by contemporary Haida artist, Bill Reid, in his three-metre yellow cedar sculpture entitled, "The Raven and the First Men," which now resides at the University of British Columbia's Museum of Anthropology.

The work is magnificent, breathtaking, ethereal. Bathed in celestial light, the scene presents itself upon an altar-like platform. A giant cedar clam shell yawns, divulging the contents of small human-creatures cowering inside. Atop the shell, "Trickster" the Raven waits for the little creatures to emerge.

The legend of the Haida sculpture is equalled by the legend of sculptor Bill Reid himself.

Reid, 72, is of Haida ancestry from his mother and American-Scottish-German descent from his father. He and Martine, his Parisian wife of 11 years, live in their Vancouver apartment not far from his Granville Island studio.

The mythical pieces of this master carver and jeweller command enumeration in the millions of dollars from patrons around the world. Recently, his $1.3-million sculpture, "Black Canoe," was unveiled at the Canadian embassy in Washington, D.C.

His designs, portrayed in jewellery, sculpture, clothing and drawing, require strength and dexterity, particularly in creating his intricate gold pieces and his large carvings.

For him to have produced such wonders is a gift. For him to have accomplished this with Parkinson's disease is a near miracle.

In 1975, Bill Reid was diagnosed as having Parkinson's disease (PD), a chronic degenerative movement disorder generally associated with a rocking or trembling of the body. The "resting tremor," although the most well known, is perhaps the least troublesome of the many debilitating symptoms of PD.

Other symptoms of rigidity, Bradykinesia and loss of postural reflexes and balance, coupled with drug side effects, make Parkinson's disease a constant balancing act between the symptoms of the disease, the medication to alleviate the symptoms and the side effects of the medication.

But Bill Reid is a survivor.

His is a strength that is surely rooted in his Haida heritage. His grandmother lived through the 1862 smallpox epidemic which swiftly reduced the Haida population by the thousands. Later, his mother endured the residential school system and, after the Depression, solely supported her three children as a seamstress of impeccable standards.

These high standards and inherent resolve are evident today in Reid's work, which requires the mind of a determined creative genius.

Fearing public misunderstanding and embarrassment about PD symptoms, it is not unusual for people with Parkinson's to withdraw from the public eye into isolation. But not Bill Reid.

Parkinson's disease occurs as the result of a deficiency of a normal brain chemical called dopamine, which is essential for passing information from one nerve cell to another. The cells that naturally manufacture and store dopamine deplete with aging but, with PD, brain cells deteriorate progressively, losing their ability to produce and store dopamine.

When approximately 80% of these cells die, the brain is left without a supplier and without a storehouse for dopamine. The result is a communication breakdown with the brain.

What makes the disease so difficult to treat is that no two patients have the same symptoms, the same drug side effects or the same rate of transition from diagnosis to debilitation.

The medication that can free the body temporarily from PD symptoms can also cause nausea, mood changes, hallucinations, insomnia, lifelike dreams and dyskinesia, a condition characterized by uncontrolled facial-muscle movement. Because of this, drug therapy is postponed until PD symptoms inhibit normal daily functions. This can be done because early symptoms are usually quite mild.

It was not long ago that drugs were non-existent for people with Parkinsons. Reid remembers his high school principal, who endured Parkinson's disease without medication, leaving him in a non-functioning state for almost 15 years.

Bill Reid appreciates the alleviation drugs provide, although this is of little consolation when he is experiencing a "down time." These are the times when he must surrender to the confines of his body -- until the medication decides to release him, however grudgingly, from its imprisoned state to near normality once again. Sometimes, he says, this release doesn't happen.

In 1968, his first symptoms appeared in the form of a persistently lazy leg. Even though he has been hampered and frustrated by this disease for 24 years, it has not deterred Bill Reid's persistence and creative force.

As with any master, Bill Reid has had assistants for many years to construct and carve his huge sculptures. Although he has had two assistants working more closely with him for the past ten years, he still does as much fine work as his condition allows him.

But on good days, no one can restrain him or take his place when, with childlike energy, his mind surges with ideas that beg for form.

One of the symptoms of Parkinson's disease is muffled and, at times, inaudible speech. This is a most unfortunate and aggravating limitation forced upon a man whose voice, for the 16 years he worked for CBC Radio in the '40s and '50s, was his means of living.

Nevertheless, when he lends his voice to a passage from his book, The Raven Steals the Light, his velvet tone glides over words like music, coaxing your attention to every word.

In his late teens, Reid decided to seek out his native identity. This move was not encouraged by his mother who, because of her years of discriminatory treatment in the residential school, had instead spent her life trying to bury her heritage. But this is where Bill Reid first began to feel his calling.

When he met his mother's people and those he calls "the last great master-carvers of the Haida tradition," what evolved was a deeply felt fascination for an art form so intrinsically entrenched within the culture.

Despite his obvious reverence for the Haida carvings, he plainly states he is not particularly interested in enveloping himself in the Haida culture. He claims that his art is "a job -- that is better than working for a living."

With this unexpected statement, one is forced by uncertainty to search his laconic expression which hints of something more... and one senses a peripheral flash of great black feathers, whipping across the mind...

-- Shirley McMahon

From Abilities Magazine, Issue 11