Chapters 52
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1 00 - Preface 55:53
The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Loonroot. Translated by John Martin Crawford.
The following translation was undertaken from a desire to lay before the English-speaking people the full treasury of epical beauty, folklore, and mythology comprised in the Kalevala, the national epic of the Finns. A brief description of this peculiar people and of their ethical, linguistic, social, and religious life seems to be called for here in order that the following poem may be better understood. Finland, Finnish, Suomi, or Suomenma, the swampy region of which Finland or Fenland is said to be a Swedish translation, is at present a grand duchy in the northwestern part of the Russian Empire, bordering on Olenitz, Archangel, Sweden, Norway, and the Baltic Sea. Its area being more than 144,000 square miles, and inhabited by some two million of people, the last remnants of a race driven back from the east at a very early day by advancing tribes.
The Finlanders live in a land of marshes and mountains, lakes and rivers, seas, gulfs, islands and inlets, and they call themselves Suomilainen, fen-dwellers. The climate is more severe than that of Sweden. The mean yearly temperature in the north is about 27 degrees Fahrenheit and about 38 degrees Fahrenheit at Helsingfors, the capital of Finland. In the southern districts, the winter is seven months long, and in the northern provinces, the sun disappears entirely during the months of December and January. The inhabitants are strong and hardy, with bright intelligent faces, high cheekbones, yellow hair in early life, and with brown hair in mature age. With regard to their social habits, morals, and manners, all travelers are unanimous in speaking well of them.
Their temper is universally mild. They are slow to anger, and when angry they keep silence. They are happy-hearted, affectionate to one another, and honorable and honest in their dealings with strangers. They are cleanly people, being much given to the use of vapor baths. This trait is a conspicuous note of their character from their earliest history to the present day. Often in the runes of the Kalevala, reference is made to the cleansing and healing virtues of the vapors of the heated bathroom. The skull of the Finn belongs to the brachycephalic, short-headed, class of Rhetzius. Indeed, the Finn organization has generally been regarded as Mongol, though Mongol of a modified type. His color is swarthy and his eyes are gray.
He is not inhospitable, but not over easy of access, nor is he a friend of new fashions. Steady, careful, laborious, he is valuable in the mine, valuable in the field, valuable oil shipboard, and withal a brave soldier on land. The Finns are a very ancient people. It is claimed, too, that they began earlier than any other European nation to collect and preserve their ancient folklore. Tacitus, writing in the very beginning of the second century of the Christian era, mentions the Pheni, as he calls them, in the 46th chapter of his Demoribus Germaniram. He says of them, the Finns are extremely wild and live in abject poverty. They have no arms, no horses, no dwellings. They live on herbs, they clothe themselves in skins, and they sleep on the ground.
Their only resources are their arrows, which for the lack of iron are tipped with bone. Strabo and the great geographer Ptolemy also mention this curious people. There is evidence that at one time they were spread over large portions of Europe and Western Asia. Perhaps it should be stated here that the copper so often mentioned in the Kalevala, when taken literally, was probably bronze or hardened copper, the amount and quality of the alloy used being not now known. The prehistoric races of Europe were acquainted with bronze implements. It may be interesting to note in this connection that Canon Isaac Taylor Professor Seych have but very recently awakened great interest in this question, in Europe especially, by the reading of papers before the British Philological Association, in which they argue in favor of the Finnic origin of the Aryans.
For this new theory, these scholars present exceedingly strong evidence, and they conclude that the time of the separation of the Aryan from the Finnic stock must have been more than 5,000 years ago. The Finnish nation has one of the most sonorous and flexible of languages. Of the cultivated tongues of Europe, the Magyar bears the most positive signs of deep-rooted similarity to the Finnish. Both belong to the Ugrian stock of agglutinative languages, i.e., those which preserve the root most carefully, and affect all changes of grammar by suffixes attached to the original stein. Grumin has shown that both Gothic and Icelandic present traces of Finnish influence. The musical element of the language, the vowels, are very developed in Finnish, and their due sequence is subject to strict rules of euphony.
The dotted O, equivalent to the French ø, of the first syllable must be followed by an e or an i. The Finnish, like all Jugrian tongues, admits rhyme but with reluctance and prefers alliteration. Their alphabet consists of but nineteen letters, and of these, b, c, d, f, g are found only in a few foreign words, and many others are never found initial. One of the characteristic features of this language, and one that is likewise characteristic of the Magyar, Turkish, Mordovan, and other kindred tongues, consists in the frequent use of endearing diminutives. By a series of suffixes to the names of human beings, birds, fishes, trees, plants, stones, metals, and even actions, events, and feelings, diminutives are obtained.
These traits can scarcely be rendered in English, for, as Robert Ferguson remarks, the English language is not strong in diminutives, and therefore it lacks some of the most effective means for the expression of affectionate, tender, and familiar relations. In this respect, all translations from the Finnish into English necessarily must fall short of the original. The same might be said of the many emotional interjections in which the Finnish, in common with all Uyghurian dialects, abounds. With the exception of these two characteristics of the Uyghurian languages, the chief beauties of the Finnish verse admit an apt rendering into English. The structure of the sentences is very simple indeed, and adverbs and adjectives are used sparingly.
Finnish is the language of a people who live preeminently close to nature, and are at home amongst the animals of the wilderness, beasts and birds, winds and woods and waters, falling snows and flying sands and rolling rocks, and these are carefully distinguished by corresponding verbs of ever-changing acoustic import. Conscious of the fact that, in a people like the Finns, where nature and nature worship form the center of all their life, every word connected with the powers and elements of nature must be given its full value. Great care has been taken in rendering these finely shaded verbs. A glance at the mythology of this interesting people will place the import of this remark in better view.
In the earliest age of Suomi, it appears that the people worshipped the conspicuous objects in nature under their respective sensible forms. All beings were persons. The sun, moon, stars, the earth, the air, and the sea were, to the ancient Finns, living, self-conscious beings. Gradually, the existence of invisible agencies and their energies was recognized, and these were attributed to superior persons who lived independent of these visible entities, but at the same time were connected with them. The basic idea in Finnish mythology seems to lie in this, that all objects in nature are governed by invisible deities, termed haltiet, regents, or genii. These haltiet The children, like members of the human family, have distinctive bodies and spirits, but the minor ones are somewhat immaterial and formless, and their existences are entirely independent of the objects in which they are particularly interested.
They are all immortal, but they rank according to the relative The lower grades of the Finnish gods are sometimes subservient to the deities of greater powers, especially to those who rule respectively the air, the water, the field, and the forest. Thus, Pileatar, the daughter of the Aspen, Although as divine as Tapio, the god of the woodlands, is necessarily his servant. One of the most notable characteristics of the Finnish mythology is the interdependence among the gods. Every deity, says Kastrin, however petty he may be, rules in his own sphere as a substantial independent power or, to speak in the spirit of the Kalevala, as a self-ruling householder. The god of the polar star only governs an insignificant spot in the vault of the sky.
But on this spot, he knows no master. The Finnish deities, like the ancient gods of Italy and Greece, are generally represented in pairs, and all the gods are probably wedded. They have their individual abodes and are surrounded by their respective families. The primary object of worship among the early Finns was most probably the visible sky with its sun, moon, stars, its aurora lights, its thunders, and its lightnings. The heavens themselves were thought divine. Then a personal deity of the heavens coupled with the name of his abode was the next conception. Finally, the sky god was chosen to represent the supreme ruler. To the sky, the sky god and the supreme god, the term, yomala, thunder-home, was given.
In course of time, however, when the Finns came to have more purified ideas about religion, they called the sky, Taivas, and the sky god, Ukko. The word Ukko seems related to the Magyar Ag. Old and meant, therefore, an old being, a grandfather, but ultimately it came to be used exclusively as the name for the highest of the Finnish deities. Frost, snow, hail, ice, wind and rain, sunshine and shadow are thought to come from the hands of Ukko. He controls the clouds. He is called in the Kalevala, the leader of the clouds, the shepherd of the lamb clouds, the god of the breezes, the golden king, the silver and ruler of the air, and the father of the heavens. He wields the thunderbolt, striking down the spirits of evil on the mountains, and is therefore termed the Thunderer, like the Greek Zeus, and his abode is called the Thunderhome.
Ukko is often represented as sitting upon a cloud in the vault of the sky and bearing on his shoulders the firmament and therefore he is termed the pivot of the heavens. He is armed as an omnipotent warrior, his fiery arrows are forged from copper, the lightning is his sword and the rainbow his bow, still called Ukonkare. Like the German god Thor, Ukko swings a hammer, and finally we find, in a vein of similar symbolism, that his skirt sparkles with fire, that his stockings are blue, and his shoes crimson-colored. In the following runes, Ukko here and there interposes. Thus, when the sun and moon were stolen from the heavens and hidden away in a cave of the copper-bearing mountain by the wicked hostess of the dismal Sariola, he, like Atlas in the mythology of Greece, relinquishes the support of the heavens, thunders along the borders of the darkened clouds, and strikes fire from his sword to kindle a new sun and a new moon.
Again, When Lemminkainen is hunting the fire-breathing horse of Piru, Ukko, invoked by the reckless hero, checks the speed of his mighty courser by opening the windows of heaven and showering upon him flakes of snow, balls of ice, and hailstones of iron. Usually, however, Ukko prefers to encourage a spirit of independence among his worshippers. Often we find him in the runes refusing to heed the call of his people for help, as when Il-Matar, the daughter of the heir, vainly invoked him to her aid that Vay-Namoinen, already seven hundred years unborn, might be delivered. So also Vay-Namoinen beseeches Ukko in vain to check the crimson streamlet flowing from his knee wounded by an axe in the hands of Hisi.
Ukko, however, with all his power is by no means superior to the sun, moon, and other bodies dwelling in the heavens. They are uninfluenced by him and are considered deities in their own right. Thus, Peivye means both sun and sun-god, Kun means moon and moon-god, and Teiti and Ottava designate the polar star and the great bear respectively, as well as the deities of these bodies. The sun and the moon have each a consort and sons and daughters. Two sons only of Peivye One comes to aid Venemoinen in his efforts to destroy the mystic Firefish by throwing from the heavens to the girdle of the hero a magic knife silver-edged and golden-handled. The other son, Panu, the Fire Child, brings back to Kalevala the fire that had been stolen by Luohi, the wicked hostess of Paiola.
From this myth, Castran argues that the ancient Finns regarded fire as a direct emanation from the sun. The daughters of the sun, moon, great bear, polar star, and of the other heavenly dignitaries are represented as ever young and beautiful maidens, sometimes seated on the bending branches of the forest trees, sometimes on the crimson rims of the clouds, sometimes on the rainbow, sometimes on the dome of heaven. These daughters are believed to be skilled to perfection in the arts of spinning and weaving, accomplishments probably attributed to them from the fanciful likeness of the rays of light to the wrap of the weaver's web. The son's career of usefulness and beneficence in bringing light and life to Northland is seldom varied.
Occasionally he steps from his accustomed path to give important information to his suffering worshippers. For example, when the star and the moon refuse the information, the son tells the virgin Mariatta where her golden infant lies hidden. Yonder is thy golden infant, there thy holy babe lies sleeping, hidden to his belt in water, hidden in the reeds and rushes. Again when the devoted mother of the reckless hero Lemminkainen Chopped to pieces by the sons of Nana, as in the myth of Osiris, was raking together the fragments of his body from the river of Tu'oi, and fearing that the sprites of the Death Stream might resent her intrusion, the son, in answer to her entreaties, throws his powerful rays upon the dreaded shades and sinks them into a deep sleep while the mother gathers up the fragments of her son's body in safety.
This rune of the Kalevala is particularly interesting as showing the belief that the dead can be restored to life through the blissful light of heaven. Among the other deities of the air are the Luonatars, mystic maidens, three of whom were created by the rubbing of Ukko's hands upon his left knee. They forthwith walk the crimson borders of the clouds, and one sprinkles white milk, one sprinkles red milk, and the third sprinkles black milk over the hills and mountains. Thus they become the mothers of iron, as related in the ninth rune of the Kalevala. In the highest regions of the heavens, Unttar, or Undutar, The Lord has her abode and presides over mists and fogs. These she passes through a silver sieve before sending them to the earth.
There are also goddesses of the winds, one especially noteworthy, Suvatar, Suva, South. The goddess of the south wind. She is represented as a kind-hearted deity, healing her sick and afflicted followers with honey, which she lets drop from the clouds, and she also keeps watch over the herds grazing in the fields and forests. Second only to air, water is the element held most in reverence by the Finns and their kindred tribes. It could hardly be otherwise, says Castron, for as soon as the soul of the savage began to suspect that the godlike is spiritual, supersensual, then, even though he continues to pay reverence to matter, he in general values it the more highly, the less compact it is. He sees on the one hand how easy it is to lose his life on the surging waves.
And on the other, he sees that from these same waters he is nurtured and his life is prolonged. Thus it is that the map of Finland is to this day full of names like Pi-hojarvi, sacred lake, and Pi-ha-yoki, sacred river. Some of the Finlanders still offer goats and calves to these sacred waters, and many of the Ugrian clans still sacrifice the reindeer to the river Ob. In Estonia is a rivulet, Vohanda. Held in such reverence that until very recently none dared to fell a tree or cut a shrub in its immediate vicinity, lest death should overtake the offender within a year in punishment for his sacrilege. The lake, Aym, is still held sacred by the Estonians, and the Aym legend is thus told by F. Thirsch, quoted also by Grimm and by Masa Desharda.
Savage evil men dwelt by its borders. They neither mowed the meadows which it watered, nor sowed the fields which it made fruitful, but robbed and murdered insomuch that its clear waves grew dark with the blood of the slaughtered men. Then did the lake hymn mourn, and one evening it called together all its fishes and rose aloft with them into the air. When the robbers heard the sound, they exclaimed, I'm hath arisen, let us gather its fishes and treasures. But the fishes had departed with the lake, and nothing was found on the bottom but snakes, lizards, and toads. And Aym rose higher and higher, and hastened through the air like a white cloud. And the hunters of the forest said, What bad weather is coming on?
The herdsmen said, What a white swan is flying above there! For the whole night the lake hovered among the stars, and in the morning the reapers beheld it sinking. And from the swan grew a white ship, and from the ship a dark train of clouds, and a voice came from the waters, Get thee hence with thy harvest, for I will dwell beside thee. Then they bade the lake welcome, if it would only be due their fields and meadows, and it sank down and spread itself out in its home to the full limits. Then the lake made all the neighborhood fruitful, and the fields became green and the people danced around it, so that the old men grew joyous as the youth. The chief water god is Ato, on the etymology of which the Finnish language throws little light.
It is curiously like Ati, another name for the reckless Lemehainan, this water god or wave host as he is called. Lives with his cold and cruel-hearted spouse, Belamo, at the bottom of the sea in the chasms of salmon rocks where his palace, Atola, is constructed. Besides the fish that swim in his dominions, particularly the salmon, the trout, the whiting, the perch, the herring, and the whitefish, he possesses a priceless treasure in the sampo, the talisman of success, which Luohi, the hostess of Poiola, dragged into the sea in her efforts to regain it from the heroes of Kalevala. Ever eager for the treasures of others, and generally unwilling to return any that come into his possession, Atto is not incapable of generosity.
For example, once when a shepherd lad was whittling a stick on the bank of a river, he dropped his knife into the stream. Atto, as in the fable Mercury and the Woodman, moved by the tears of the unfortunate lad, swam to the scene, dived to the bottom, brought up a knife of gold, and gave it to the young shepherd. Innocent and honest, the herd boy said the knife was not his. Then Otto dived again and brought up a knife of silver, which he gave to the lad, but this in turn was not accepted. Thereupon the wave host dived again, and the third time brought the right knife to the boy who gladly recognized his own and received it with gratitude. To the shepherd lad, Otto gave the three knives as a reward for his honesty.
A general term for the other water hosts living not only in the sea but also in the rivers, lakes, cataracts, and fountains is Atto Laiset, inhabitants of Atola, water people. People of the foam and below, Velamo's eternal people. Of these, some have specific names as Alotar, wave goddess, Koskeneiti, cataract maiden, Melatar, goddess of the helm, and in the Kalevala these are sometimes personally invoked. Of these minor deities, Pikumias, the pygmy, is the most noteworthy. Once when the far outspreading branches of the primitive oak tree shut out the light of the sun from the northland, Pikumias, moved by the entreaties of Venomoinen, emerged from the sea in a suit of copper, with a copper hatchet in his belt, quickly grew from a pygmy to a gigantic hero and felled the mighty oak with the third stroke of his axe.
In general, the water deities are helpful and full of kindness. Some, however, as Vettihelion and Ikuturso, find their greatest pleasure in annoying and destroying their fellow beings. Originally, the Finlanders regarded the Earth as a godlike existence with personal powers and represented as a beneficent mother bestowing peace and plenty on all her worthy worshippers. In evidence of this, we find the names Maaemai, Mother Earth, and Maa Nemo, Mother of the Earth, given to the Finnish Demeter. She is always represented as a goddess of great powers and, after suitable invocation, is ever willing and able to help her helpless sufferers. She is, according to some mythologist, espoused to Ukko, who bestows upon her children the blessings of sunshine and rain, as Ge is wedded to Oranos, Yord to Odhin, and Papa to Rangi.
Of the minor deities of the earth who severally govern the plants such as trees, rye, flax, and barley, Vorokhanos only is mentioned in the Kalevala. Once, for example, this green-roped priest of the forest abandoned for a time his presidency over the cereals in order to baptize the infant son of the virgin Mariata. Once again, Vorokhanos left his native sphere of action, this time making a most miserable and ludicrous failure, when he emerged from the wilderness and attempted to slay the Finnish Tauras, as described in the runes that follow. The agricultural deities, however, received but little attention from the Finns. Who, with their cold and cruel winters and their short but delightful summers, naturally neglect the cultivation of the fields for cattle raising, fishing, and hunting.
The forest deities proper, however, are held in high veneration. Of these, the chief is Tapio, the forest friend, the gracious god of the woodlands. He is represented as a very tall and slender divinity, wearing a long brown board, a coat of tree moss, and a high-crowned hat of fir leaves. His consort is Mialiki. The honey-rich mother of the woodland, the hostess of the glen and forest. When the hunters were successful, she was represented as beautiful and benignant, her hands glittering with gold and silver ornaments, wearing earrings and garlands of gold, with hairbands silver tinseled, on her forehead strings of pearls and with blue stockings on her feet and red strings in her shoes. But if the game bag came back empty, she was described as a hateful, hideous thing, robed in untidy rags and shod with straw.
She carries the keys to the treasury of Metzola, her husband's abode, and her bountiful chest of honey, the food of all the forest deities, is earnestly sought for by all the weary hunters of Suomi. These deities are invariably described as gracious and tender-hearted, probably because they are all females with the exception of Tapio and his son, Niriki, a tall and stately youth who is engaged in building bridges over marshes and forest streams, through which the herds must pass on their way to the woodland pastures. Nidiki also busies himself in blazing the rocks and the trees to guide the heroes to their favorite hunting grounds. Sima Su, honey-mouth, one of the tiny daughters of Tapio, by playing on her Sima Pili, honey flute, also acts as guide to the deserving hunters.
Hiisi, the Finnish devil, bearing also the epithets Yuntas, Piru, and Lempou, is the chief of the forest demons and is inconceivably wicked. He was brought into the world constantaneously with Suoyattar, from whose spittle, as sung in the Kalevala, he formed the serpent. The demon is described as cruel, horrible, hideous, and bloodthirsty, and all the most painful diseases and misfortunes that ever afflict mortals are supposed to emanate from him. This demon, too, is thought by the Finlanders to have a hand on all the evil done in the world. Turning from the outer world to man, we find deities whose energies are used only in the domain of human existence. These deities, says Kastrin, have no dealings with the higher spiritual nature of man.
All that they do concerns man solely as an object of nature. Wisdom and law, virtue and justice, find in Finnish mythology no protector among the gods, who trouble themselves only about the temporal wants of humanity. The love goddess was Sukamiele, stocking lover. Stockings, says Kastrin gravely, are soft and tender things, and the goddess of love was so called because she interests herself in the softest and tenderest feelings of the heart. This conception, however, is as far-fetched as it is modern. The love deity of the ancient Finns was Lempoh, the evil demon. It is more reasonable, therefore, to suppose that the Finns chose the son of evil to look after the feelings of the human heart, because they regarded love as an insufferable passion or frenzy that bordered on insanity, and incited in some mysterious manner by an evil enchanter.
Unni is the god of sleep and is described as a kind-hearted and welcome deity. Untamo is the god of dreams, and is always spoken of as a personification of indolence. Munnu tenderly looks after the welfare of the human eye. This deity, to say the least, is an oculus of long and varied experience, in all probability often consulted in Finland because of the blinding snows and piercing winds of the north. Lemmas is the goddess in the mythology of the Finns who dresses the wounds of her faithful sufferers and subdues their pains. Suw-Nettar is another goddess of the human frame, and plays a curious and important part in the restoration to life of the reckless Lemehainan as described in the following runes.
She busies herself in spinning veins and in sewing up the wounded tissues of such deserving worshippers as need her surgical skill. Other deities associated with the welfare of mankind are the Sinataret and the Kan-Kah-Hartaret, the goddesses respectively of dyeing and weaving. Mat-Katepo is their road god and busies himself in caring for horses that are overworked and in looking after the interests of weary travelers. Arani is the guardian of hidden treasures. This important office is also filled by a hideous old deity named Mam-Malainen, whom Renwal, the Finnish lexicographer, describes as a malignant woman, the mother of the snake, and the guardian of subterranean treasures. From this conception, it is evident that the idea of a kinship between serpents and hidden treasures frequently met within the myths of the Hungarians, Germans, and Slavs is not foreign to the Finns.
Nowhere are the inconsistencies of human theory and practice more curiously and forcibly shown than in the custom in vogue among the clans of Finland who are not believers in a future life, but, notwithstanding, perform such funeral ceremonies as the burying in the graves of the dead. Knives, hatchets, spears, bows, and arrows, kettles, food, clothing, sleighs, and snowshoes, thus bearing witness to their practical recognition of some form of life beyond the grave. The ancient Finns occasionally craved advice and assistance from the dead. Thus, as described in the Kalevala, where the hero of Vainola needed three words of master magic wherewith to finish the boat in which he was to sail to win the mystic maiden of Sarriola.
He first looked to the brain of the white squirrel, then in the mouth of the white swan when dying, but all in vain. Then he journeyed to the kingdom of Tuolni, and failing there, he struggled over the points of needles, over the blades of swords, over the edges of hatchets, to the grave of the ancient wisdom bard, Antero Vipunin, where he found the lost words of the master. In this legend of the Kalevala, exceedingly interesting, instructive, and curious are found apparently the remote vestiges of ancient masonry. It would seem that the earliest beliefs of the Finns regarding the dead centered in this, that their spirits remained in the graves until after the complete disintegration of their bodies over which Kalma, the god of the tombs, with his black and evil daughter presided.
After their spirits had been fully purified, they were then admitted to the kingdom of Manala in the underworld. Those journeying to Tuonella were required to voyage over nine seas and over one river, the Finnish Styx, black, deep, and violent. And filled with hungry whirlpools and angry waterfalls. Like Helheim of Scandinavian mythology, Manala, or Tuonella, was considered as corresponding to the upper world. The sun and the moon visited there. Fen and forest gave a home to the wolf, the bear, the elk, the serpent, and the songbird. The salmon, the whiting, the perch, and the pike were sheltered in the coal-black waters of Manala. From the seed grains of the deathland fields and forests, the Tuoni worm, the serpent, had taken its teeth.
Tuovi. Or Mana, the god of the underworld, is represented as a hard-hearted and frightful old personage with three iron-pointed fingers on each hand, and wearing a hat drawn down to his shoulders. As in the original conception of Hades, Tuoni was thought to be the leader of the dead to their subterranean home, as well as their counselor, guardian, and ruler. In the capacity of ruler, he was assisted by his wife, a hideous, horrible old witch with crooked copper fingers iron-pointed, with deformed head and distorted features, and uniformly spoken of in irony in the Kalevala as Hyuva Imanta, the good hostess. She feasted her guests on lizards, worms, toads, and writhing serpents. Tuonin Poika, the god of the red cheeks, so called because of his bloodthirstiness and constant cruelties.
Three daughters of Tuoni are mentioned in the runes, the first of whom, a tiny black maiden but great in wickedness, once at least showed a touch of human kindness when she vainly urged Venemoynen not to cross the river of Tuoni, assuring the hero that while many visit Manala, few return, because of their inability to brave her father's wrath. Finally, after much entreaty, she ferried him over the finished sticks, like Charan, the son of Erebus and Nox. In the mythology of Greece. The second daughter of Tuoni is Loiatar, black and blind, and is described as still more malignant and loathsome than the first. Through the east wind's impregnation, she brought forth the spirits of the nine diseases most dreaded by mankind, as described in the 45th Rune of the Kalevala.
Colic pleurisian fever, ulcer plague and dread consumption, gout sterility and cancer. The third daughter of Tuoni combines the malevolent The Finns regarded all human ailments as evil spirits or indwelling devils, some formless, others taking the shapes of the most odious The nine, however, described above were conceived to have human forms. Where the three arms of the Tuoni River meet, a frightful rock arises, called Kipu Kivi or Kipu Fuori. In a dungeon beneath which the spirits of all diseases are imprisoned. On this rock, the third daughter of Tuolni sits, constantly whirling it around like a millstone, grinding her subjects until they escape and go forth to torture and slay the children of men, as in Hindu mythology, Kali, Black, sits in judgment on the dead.
Various other spiritual powers than god and goddesses are held in high reverence by the Finns. Tontu is represented as a kind-hearted house spirit, a sort of diminutive cyclops, and offerings of bread and broth are made to him every morning. Putting a mare's collar on one's neck and walking nine times around a church is thought to be a certain means of attracting one to the place desired. Is a mystical three-legged being constructed in many ways and which, according to Castern, attains life and action when its possessor, cutting the little finger of his left hand, lets three drops of blood fall upon it and as the The Mai he set are the dwarves of Finnish mythology. Their abode is under stumps, trees, blocks, thresholds, and hearthstones.
Though exceedingly minute and invisible to man, they have human forms. They are irritable and resentful, and they punish with ulcers, tedder, ringworms, pimples, and other cutaneous affections, all those who neglect them at brewings, bakings, and feastings. They punish in a similar manner those who enter new houses without making obeisance to the Four Corners and paying them other kindly attentions. Those who live in untidy houses are also likewise punished. The kyrkanwäeke, churchfolk, are little deformed beings living under the altars of churches. These misshapen things are supposed to be able to aid their sorrowing and suffering worshippers. Certain beasts and birds and trees are held sacred in Finland.
In the Kalevala are evident traces of arctolatry, bear worship, once very common among the tribes of the north. Otso, the bear, according to Finnish mythology, was born on the shoulders of Otava, in the regions of the sun and the moon, and nursed by a goddess of the woodlands in a cradle swung by bands of gold between the bending branches of budding fir trees. His nurse would not give him teeth and claws until he had promised never to engage in bloody strife or deeds of violence. Otso, however, does not always keep his pledge, and accordingly the hunters of Finland find it comparatively easy to reconcile their consciences to his destruction. Otso is called in the runes of many endearing titles as the honey-eater, golden lightfoot, the forest apple, honeypaw of the mountains, the pride of the thicket, the fur-robed forest friend.
Ahava, the west wind, and Penetar, a blind old witch of Sarriola, are the parents of the swift dogs of Finland, just as the horses of Achilles, Santhos, and Belios sprang from Zephros and the harpy Podarga. As to birds, the duck, according to the Kalevala, the eagle, according to other traditions, lays the mundane egg, thus taking part in the creation of the world. Puhuri, the north wind, the father of Pakanen, frost, is sometimes personified as a giant eagle. The Dydapper is reverenced because it foretells the approach of rain. Linulata, bird path, is the name given to the Milky Way. Due probably to the myth like those of the Swedes and Slavs in which liberated songs take the form of snow-white dovelets.
The cuckoo to this day is sacred and is believed to have fertilized the earth with its songs. As to insects, honeybees called by the Finns, mehelainen, are especially sacred as in the mythologies of many other nations. Ukkonkoiva, Ukko's dog, is the Finnish name for the butterfly and is looked upon as a messenger of the supreme deity. It may be interesting to observe here that the Bretons, in reverence, called butterflies feathers from the wings of God. As to inanimate nature, certain lakes, rivers, springs, and fountains are held in high reverence. In the Kalevala, the oak is called Poon-Yun-Malan, God's tree. The mountain ash, even to this day, and the birch tree are held sacred, and peasants plant them by their cottages with reverence.
Respecting the giants in Finnish mythology, Kastern is silent, and the following notes are gleaned from the Kalevala and from Grimm's Teutonic mythology. The giants, says Grimm, are distinguished by their cunning and ferocity from the stupid good-natured monsters of Germany and Scandinavia. Soini, for example, a synonym of Klervo, the hero of the saddest episode of the Kalevala, when only three days old, tore his swaddling clothes to tatters. When sold to a forgeman of Karelia, He was ordered to nurse an infant, but he dug out the eyes of the child, killed it, and burned its cradle. Ordered to fence the fields, he built a fence from earth to heaven, using entire pine trees for fencing materials and interweaving their branches with venomous serpents.
Ordered to tend the herds in the woodlands, he changed the cattle to wolves and bears and drove them home to destroy his mistress because she had baked a stone in the center of his oat loaf, causing him to break his knife, the only keepsake of his people. Regarding the heroes of the Kalevala, much discussion has arisen as to their place in Finnish mythology. The Finns proper regard the chief heroes of the Suomi epic, Veinamoinen, Ilmaerenen, and Lemekeinen, as descendants of the celestial virgin, Ilmatar, impregnated by the winds when Ilma, air, light, and water were the only material existences. In harmony with this conception, we find in the Kalevala a description of the birth of Veinamoinen, or Vaino, as he is sometimes called in the original.
A word probably akin to the Magyar Ven, old. The Estonians regard these heroes as sons of the Great Spirit, begotten before the earth was created, and dwelling with their supreme ruler in Yumala. The poetry of a people with such an elaborate mythology and with such a keen and appreciative sense of nature and of her various phenomena was certain, sooner or later, to attract the attention of scholars. And in fact, as early as the 17th century, We meet men of literary taste who tried to collect and interpret the various national songs of the Finns. Among these were Pomskold and Peter Bang. They collected portions of the national poetry consisting chiefly of wizard incantations and all kinds of pagan folklore.
Gabriel Maxineas, however, was the first to publish a work on Finnish national poetry which brought to light the beauties of the Kalevala. It appeared in 1733 and bore the title De Effectibus Naturalibus. The book contains a quaint collection of Finnish poems in lyric form, chiefly incantations, but the author was entirely at a loss how to account for them, or how to appreciate them. He failed to see their intimate connection with the religious worship of the Finns in paganism. The next to study the Finnish poetry and language was Daniel Juslenius, a celebrated bishop and a highly gifted scholar. In a dissertation published as early as 1700 entitled A Boa Vetas Ed Nova, He discussed the origin and nature of the Finnish language, and in another work of his, printed in 1745, he treated of Finnish cantations, displaying with all a thorough understanding of the Finnish folklore and of the importance of the Finnish language and national poetry.
With great care he began to collect the songs of Suomi, but this precious collection was unfortunately burned. Porthon, a Finnish scholar of great attainments, born in 1766, continuing the work of Juslenius, accumulated a great number of national songs and poems, And by his profound enthusiasm for the promotion of Finnish literature, succeeded in founding the Society for the Fenophils, which to the present day forms the literary center of Finland. Among his pupils were E. Lindquist and Christopher Ganunder, whose work on Finnish mythology are among the references used in preparing this preface. These indefatigable scholars were joined by Reinhold Beckner and others who were industriously searching for more and more fragments of what evidently was a great epic of the Finns.
For certainly neither of the scholars just mentioned, nor earlier investigators, could fail to see that the runes they collected gathered around two or three chief heroes, but more especially around the central figure of Vein Moinen, the hero of the following epic. The Kalevala proper was collected by two great Finnish scholars, Zakarias Torpelius and Elias Lungrut. Both were practicing physicians and in this capacity came into frequent contact with the people of Finland. Topelius, who collected eighty epical fragments of the Kalevala, spent the last eleven years of his life in bed, afflicted with a fatal disease. But this sad and trying circumstance did not dampen his enthusiasm. His manner of collecting these songs was as follows.
Knowing that the Finns of Russia preserved most of the national poetry, And when he heard of a renowned Finnish singer, Thus, the first glory of collecting the fragments of the Kalevala and of rescuing it from literary oblivion belongs to Topelius. In 1822 he published his first collections, and in 1831 his last. Elias Loonrout, who brought the whole work to glorious completion, was born April 9, 1802. He entered the University of Abo in 1822, and in 1832 received a degree of Doctor of Medicine from the University of Helsingfors. After the death of Kastron in 1850, Loonrout was appointed professor of the Suomi language and literature in the university. where he remained until 1862, at which time he withdrew from his academical activity and devoted himself exclusively to the study of his native language and its epical productions.
Dr. Lohnrud had already published the scholarly treatzy in 1820. He was a man of the world, and he was a man of the world.
In the year 1828, he traveled as far as Kayan, collecting poems and songs of the Finnish people, sitting by the fireside of the aged, rowing on the lakes with the fishermen, and following the flocks with the shepherds. In 1829, he published at Helsingfors a work under the following title, Kantele taika, soome kansansek, vazhoya eta, nikisipia, runo ya, ya laulu ya, lyre, or old and new songs and lays of the Finnish nation. In another work edited in 1832, written in Swedish, entitled On Fenarus Magiska Medicin, On the Magic Medicine of the Finns, he dwells on incantations so frequent in Finnish poetry, notably in the Kalevala. A few years later he traveled in the province of Archangel, and so ingratiated himself into the hearts of the simple-minded people that they most willingly aided him in collecting these songs.
These journeys were made through wild fens, forests, marshes, and ice plains, on horseback, in sleighs drawn by reindeer, in canoes, or in some other form of primitive conveyance. The enthusiastic physician described his journeyings and difficulties faithfully in a paper published at Helsingfors in Swedish in 1834. He had the peculiar good luck to meet an old peasant, one of the oldest of the Runolainen, in the Russian province of Wurokynium, who was by far the most renowned minstrel of the country. And with whose closely impending death, numerous very precious ruins would have been irrevocably lost. The happy result of his travels throughout Finland, Dr. Lundrut now commenced to arrange under the central idea of a great epic, called Kalevala, and in February, 1835, the manuscript was transmitted to the Finnish Literary Society, which had it published in two parts.
Lone Root, however, did not stop here. He went on searching and collecting, and in 1840 had brought together more than 1,000 fragments of epical poetry, national ballads, and proverbs. These he published in two works, respectively entitled, Kantaleatar, Liar Charm, and The Proverbs of the Suomi People, the latter containing over 1,700 proverbs, adages, gnomic sentences, and songs. His example was followed by many of his enthusiastic countrymen. The more prominent of whom are Kastron, Europheus, Polin, and Reneholm. Through the collections of these scholars, so many additional parts of the epical treasure of Finland were made public that a new edition of the Kalevala soon became an imperative necessity.
The task of sifting, arranging, and organizing the extensive material was again allotted to Dr. Lundrud, and in his second editions of the Kalevala, which appeared in 1849, the epic, embracing 50 runes and 22,793 lines, had reached its mature form. The Kalevala was no sooner published than it attracted the attention of the leading scholars of Europe, men of such worldwide fame as Jakob Grimm, Steintal, Ulland, Carrière, and Max Müller. Hastened to acknowledge its surpassing value and intrinsic beauty. Jakob Grimm, in a separate treatise published in his Kleiner Schriften, said that the genuineness and extraordinary value of the Kalevala is easily proved by the fact that from its mythological ideas we can frequently interpret the mythological conceptions of the ancient Germans, whereas the poems of Ossian manifest their modern origin by their inability to clear up questions of old Saxon or German mythology.
Grimm, furthermore, shows that both the Gothic and Icelandic literatures display unmistakable features of Finnish influence. Max Müller places the Kalevala on a level with the greatest epics of the world. These are his words. From the mouths of the aged, an epic poem has been collected, equaling the Iliad in length and completeness. Nay, if we can forget for a moment all that we in our youth learned to call beautiful, not less beautiful. A Finn is not a Greek, and Vainamoinen was not Homer. Achilles. But if the poet may take his colors from that nature by which he is surrounded, if he may depict the men with whom he lives, the Kalevala possesses merits not dissimilar from those of the Iliad and will claim its place as the fifth national epic of the world, side by side with the Ionian songs, the Mahabharata, the Shalinameth, and the Nibbalunga.
Steintal recognizes but four great national epics, being the Iliad, Kalevala, Nibbalunga, and the Roland songs. The Kalevala describes Finnish nature very minutely and very beautifully. Grimm says that no poem is to be compared with it in this respect, unless it be some of the epics of India. It has been translated into several European languages, into Swedish by Alex Castron in 1844, into French prose by El Ledoux in 1845, into German by Anton Scheufer in 1852, into Hungarian by Ferdinand Barna in 1871, and a very small portion of it The Legend of Aino into English in 1868 by the late Professor John A. Porter of Yale College. It must remain a matter of universal regret to the English-speaking people that Professor Porter's life could not have been spared to finish the great work he had so beautifully begun.
Some of the most convincing evidences of the genuineness and great age of the Kalevala have been supplied by the Hungarian translator. The Hungarians, as is well known, are closely related to the Finns, and their language, the Magyar dialect, has the same characteristic features as the Finnish tongue. Barna's translation, accordingly, is the best rendering of the original. In order to show the genuineness and antiquity of the Kalevala, Barna adduces a Hungarian book written by a certain Peter Borna Missa in 1578, entitled, On Satanic Spectres. The unique copy of which he found in the library of the University of Budapest. In this book, Borna Missa collected all the incantations in use among Hungarian country people of his day for the expulsion of diseases and misfortunes.
These incantations forming the common stock of all Agriyan people, of which the Finns and Hungarians are branches, display a most satisfactory sameness with the numerous incantations of the Kalevala used for the same purpose. Barna published an elaborate treatise on this subject. It appeared in the Transactions of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences Philological Department for 1870. Again, in 1868, 22 Hungarian deeds dating from 1616 to 1660 were sent to the Hungarian Academy of Sciences as having been found in the Hegyárlea, where the celebrated wine of toke is made. These deeds contained several contracts for the sale of vineyards, and at the end of each deed the customary cup of wine was said to have been emptied by both parties to the contract.
This cup of wine in the deeds was termed Ukkon's cup. Ukko, however, is the chief god according to Finnish mythology, and thus the coincidence of the Magyar Ukkon and the Finnish Ukko was placed beyond doubt. The Kalevala The Land of Heroes relates the ever-varying contests between the Finns and the darksome Laplanders, just as the Iliad relates the contests between the Greeks and the Trojans. Kastren is of the opinion that the enmity between the Finns and the Laps was sung long before the Finns had left their Asiatic birthplace. A deeper and more esoteric meaning in the Kalevala, however, points to a contest between light and darkness, good and evil, the Finns representing the light of the good, and the Laps the darkness and the evil.
Like the Neobalungs, the heroes of the Finns woo for brides and beauteous maidens of the North, and the similarity is rendered still more striking by their frequent inroads into the country of the Laps in order to possess themselves of the envied treasure of Lapland, the mysterious Sampo, evidently the golden fleece of the Argonautic expedition. Curiously enough, public opinion is often expressed in the runes, in the words of an infant, often, too, the unexpected is introduced after the manner of the Greek dramas The whole poem is replete with the most fascinating folklore about the mysteries of nature, the origin of things, the enigmas of human tears, and true to the character of a national epic, it represents not only the poetry but the entire wisdom and accumulated experience of a nation.
Among others, there is a profoundly philosophical trait in the poem, indicative of a deep insight into the workings of the human mind and into the forces of nature. Whenever one of the heroes of the Kalevala wishes to overcome the aggressive power of an evil force, as a wound, a disease, a ferocious beast, or a venomous serpent, he achieves his purpose by chanting the origin of the inimical force. The thought underlying this idea evidently is that all evil could be obviated had we but the knowledge of whence and how it came. The numerous myths of the poems are likewise full of significance and beauty, and the Kalevala should be read between the lines in order that the full meaning of this great epic may be comprehended.
Even such a hideous impersonation as that of Kullervoinen is rich with pointed meaning, showing as it does the incorrigibility of ingrained evil. This legend, like all others of the poem, has its deep-running stream of esoteric interpretation. The Kalevala, perhaps more than any other, uses its lines on the surface in symbolism to point the human mind to the brighter gems of truth beneath. The three main personages, Veinamoinen, the ancient singer, Ilmarinen, the eternal forgeman, And Leme Kainen, the reckless wizard, as mentioned above, are conceived as being of divine origin. In fact, the acting characters of the Kalevala are mostly superhuman, magic beings. Even the female actors are powerful sorceresses, and the hostess of Paiola, especially, braves the might of all the enchanters of Ainola combined.
The power of magic is a striking feature of the poem. Here, as in the legends of no other people, do the heroes and demigods accomplish nearly everything by magic. The songs of Venomoynon disarm his opponents. They quiet the angry seas. They give warmth to the new sun and the new moon, which his brother, Ilmerinin, forges from the magic metals. They give life to the spouse of Ilmerinin, which the eternal metal artist forges from gold, silver, and copper. In fact, we are among a people that endows everything with life and with human and divine attributes. Birds and beasts and fish and serpents, as well as the sun, the moon, the great bear, and the stars, are either kind or unkind. Drops of blood find speech.
Men and maidens transform themselves into other shapes and resume again their native forms at will. Ships and trees and waters have magic powers. In short, all nature speaks in human tongues. The Kalevala dates back to an enormous antiquity. One reason for believing this lies in the silence of the Kalevala about Russians, Germans, or Swedes, their neighbors. This evidently shows that the poem must have been composed at a time when these nations had but very little or no intercourse with the Finns. The coincidence between the incantations adduced above proves that these witch songs date from a time when the Hungarians and the Finns were still united as one people. In other words, to a time at least 3,000 years ago.
The whole poem betrays no important signs of foreign influence, and in its entire tenor is a thoroughly pagan epic. There are excellent reasons for believing that the story of Mariata, recited in the 50th Rune, is an anti-Christian legend. An additional proof of the originality and independent rise of the Kalevala is to be found in its meter. All genuine poetry must have its peculiar verse, just as snowflakes cannot exist without their peculiar crystallizations. It is thus that the Iliad is inseparably united and, as it were, immersed in the stately hexameter and the French epics in the graceful Alexandrian verse. The meter of the Kalevala is the eight-syllable trochaic with the part-line echo and is the characteristic verse of the Finns.
The natural speech of this people is poetry. The young men and maidens, the old men and matrons, in their interchange of ideas, unwittingly fall into verse. The genius of their language aids to this end, inasmuch as their words are strongly trochaic. This wonderfully versatile meter admits of keeping the right medium between the dignified, almost prancing hexameter and the shorter meters of the lyrics. Its feet are nimble and fleet, but yet full of vigor and expressiveness. In addition, the Kalevala uses alliteration. And thus varies the rhythm of time and the rhythm of sound. This meter is especially fit for the numerous expressions of endearment in which the finished epic abounds. It is more especially the love of the mother for her children and the love of the children for their mother that find frequent and ever tender expression in the sonorous lines of the Kalevala.
The Swedish translation by Kastrin, the German by Scheifner, and the Hungarian by Barna, as well as the following English translation are in the original meter of the Kalevala. To prove that this peculiar and fascinating style of verse is of very ancient origin, the following lines have been accurately copied from the first edition in Finnish of the Kalevala, collated by Dr. Lönrüt and published in 1835 at Helsingfors, the quotation beginning with the 150th line of the second rune. . I'm sorry, Mr. Brown. I'm sorry, Mr. Brown. I'm sorry, Mr. Brown. I'm sorry, Mr. Brown. As to the architecture of the Kalevala, it stands midway between the epical ballads of the Servians and the purely epical structure of the Iliad.
Though a continuous whole, it contains several almost independent parts, as the Contest of Yokohainen, the Kolervo episode, and the Legend of Mariatta. By language masters, this epic of Suomi, descending unwritten from the mythical age to the present day, kept alive from generation to generation by minstrels or songmen, is regarded as one of the most precious contributions to the literature of the world, made since the time of Milton and the German classics. Acknowledgement is hereby made to the following sources of information used in the preparation of this work. Thank you. Anton Scheiffer, L. Ledeux, and Ferdinand Barna, and especially to the excellent treatises on the Kalevala and on the mythology of the Finns by Masa Deciarda and Alex Kostron, to Professor Helena Klingner of Cincinnati, a linguist of high rank and who has compared very conscientiously the manuscript of the following pages with the German translation of the Kalevala by Anton Scheiffner, to Dr.
Emile Reich, a native Hungarian, a close student of the Ugrian tongues. Who, in a most thorough manner, has compared this translation with the Hungarian by Ferdinand Barna, and who, familiar with the habits, customs, and religious notions of the Finns, has furnished much valuable material used in the preparation of this preface. And finally to Professor Thomas C. Porter, DD, LLD, of Lafayette College, who has become an authority on the Kalevala through his own researches for many years, aided by a long and intimate acquaintance of Professor A. F. Soldan, a Finn by birth, an enthusiastic lover of his country, a scholar of great attainments, acquainted with many languages, and once at the head of the Imperial Mint at Helsingfors, the capital of Finland.
Professor Porter has very kindly placed in the hands of the author of these pages all the literature on this subject at his command, including his own writings. He has watched the growth of this translation with unusual interest, and, with the eye of a gifted poet and scholar, he has made two careful and critical examinations of the entire manuscript, making annotations, emendations, and corrections by which this work has been greatly improved. With this prolonged introduction, this The first English translation of the Kalevala, with its many imperfections, is hesitatingly given to the public.
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2 01 - RUNE I. Birth of Wainamoinen 9:49
Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune One.
Birth of Vainamoinen.
In primeval times a maiden, beauteous daughter of the ether, passed for ages her existence in the great expanse of heaven. O'er the prairies yet enfolded, wearisome the maiden growing, her existence sad and hopeless, thus alone to live for ages in the infinite expanses. Of the air above the sea foam, in the far outstretching spaces, in a solitude of ether, she descended to the ocean, waves her coach and waves her pillow. Thereupon the rising storm wind, flying from the east in fierceness, whips the ocean into surges, strikes the stars with sprays of ocean, till the waves are white with fervor. To and fro they tossed the maiden, storm-encircled hapless maiden, with her sport the rolling billows, with her play the storm-win forces, on the blue back of the waters, on the white-wreathed waves of ocean.
Play the forces of the salt sea with the lone and helpless maiden, till at last in full conception union now of force and beauty. Sink the storm winds into slumber, overburdened now the maiden cannot rise above the surface. Seven hundred years she wandered, ages nine of man's existence, swam the ocean hither, thither, could not rise above the waters, conscious only of her travail. Seven hundred years she labored ere her firstborn was delivered. Thus she swam as water mother toward the east and also southward toward the west and also northward. Swam the sea in all directions, frightened at the strife of storm winds. Swam in travail, swam unceasing ere her firstborn was delivered. Then began she gently weeping, spake these measures heavy-hearted.
Woe is me, my life hard-fated. Woe is me, in this my travail. Into what have I now fallen? Woe is me that I, unhappy, left my home in subtle ether, came to dwell amid the sea-foam, to be tossed by rolling billows, to be rocked by winds and waters, on the far outstretching waters, in the salt seas' vast expanses, knowing only pain and trouble. Better far for me, O Ukko, were I maiden in the ether, than within these ocean spaces, to become a water mother. All this life is cold and dreary. Painful here is every motion, as I linger in the waters, as I wander through the ocean. Ukko thou, O God up yonder, thou the ruler of the heavens, come thou hither, thou art needed, come thou hither, I implore thee, to deliver me from trouble, to deliver me in travail.
Come, I pray thee, hither hasten, hasten more that thou art needed, haste and help this helpless maiden. When she ceased her supplications, scarce a moment onward passes, ere a beauteous duck descending hastens toward the water-mother. Comes a flying hither-thither, seeks herself a place for nesting. Flies she eastward, flies she westward, circles northward, circles southward. Cannot find a grassy hillock, not the smallest bit of verdure. Cannot find a spot protected, cannot find a place befitting, where to make her nest in safety. Flying slowly, looking round her, she descries no place for resting, thinking loud and long debating, and her words are such as follow. Build I in the winds my dwelling, on the floods my place of nesting?
Surely would the winds destroy it, far away the waves would wash it. Then the daughter of the Aether, now the hapless watermother, raised her shoulders out of water, raised her knees above the ocean, that the duck might build her dwelling, build her nesting place in safety. Thereupon the duck in beauty, flying slowly, looking round her, spies the shoulders of the maiden, sees the knees of Aether's daughter, now the hapless watermother, thinks them to be grassy hillocks on the blue back of the ocean. Then she flies and hovers slowly, lightly on the knee she settles, finds a nesting place befitting, where to lay her eggs in safety. Here she builds her humble dwelling, lays her eggs within at pleasure, six of the golden eggs she lays there, then a seventh an egg of iron, sits upon her eggs to hatch them, quickly warms them on the kneecap of the hapless water mother, hatches one day, then a second, then a third day, sits and hatches.
Warmer grows the water round her, warmer is her bed in ocean, while her knee with fire is kindled, and her shoulders, too, are burning. Fire in every vein is coursing. Quick the maiden moves her shoulders, shakes her members in succession, shakes the nest from its foundation, and the eggs fall into ocean, dash in pieces on the bottom of the deep and boundless waters. In the sand they do not perish, not the pieces in the ocean, but transformed in wondrous beauty all the fragments come together, forming pieces, two in number, one the upper, one the lower, equal to the one the other. From one half the egg, the lower, grows the nether vault of Terra. From the upper half remaining grows the upper vault of heaven.
From the white part come the moonbeams, from the yellow part the sunshine, from the motley part the starlight, from the dark part grows the cloudage. And the days speed onward swiftly, quickly do the years fly over, from the shining of the new sun, from the lighting of the full moon. Still the daughter of the ether swims the sea as water-mother, with the floods outstretched before her and behind her sky and ocean. Finally about the ninth year, in the summer of the tenth year, lifts her head above the surface, lifts her forehead from the waters, and begins at last her workings, now commences her creations, on azure water ridges, on the mighty waste before her. Where her hand she turned in water, there arose a fertile hillock.
Whereso'er her foot she rested, there she made a hole for fishes. Where she dived beneath the waters, fell the many deeps of ocean. Where upon her side she turned her, there the level banks have risen. Where her head was pointed landward, there appeared wide bays and inlets. Where from shore she swam a distance, and upon her back she rested. There the rocks she made and fashioned, and the hidden reefs created. Where the ships are wrecked so often, where so many lives have perished. Thus created were the islands. Rocks were fastened in the ocean. Pillars of the sky were planted. Fields and forests were created. Checkered stones of many colors. Gleaming in the silver sunlight, all the rocks stood well established.
But the singer, Vena Moinen, had not yet beheld the sunshine, had not seen the golden moonlight, still remaining undelivered. Vainamoinen, old and trusty, Lingering within his dungeon, Thirty summers altogether, and the winters also thirty, Peaceful on the waste of waters, On the broad seas yielding bosom, Well reflected, long considered, How unborn to live and flourish In the spaces wrapped in darkness, In uncomfortable limits, Where he had not seen the moonlight, Had not seen the silver sunshine. Thereupon these words be uttered, Let himself be heard in this wise. Take, O moon, I pray thee, take me. Take me thou, O sun above me. Take me thou, O bear of heaven, from this dark and dreary prison, from these unbefitting portals, from this narrow place of resting, from this dark and gloomy dwelling, hence to wander from the ocean, hence to walk upon the islands.
On the dry land walk and wander, like an ancient hero wander. Walk in open air and breathe it. Thus to see the moon at evening, thus to see the silver sunlight, thus to see the bear in heaven, that the stars I may consider. Since the moon refused to free him, and the sun would not deliver, nor the grey bear give assistance, his existence growing weary, and his life but an annoyance, bursts he then the outer portals of his dark and dismal fortress. With his strong but unnamed finger, opens he the lock resisting. With the toes upon his left foot, with the fingers of his right hand, creeps he through the yielding portals. To the threshold of his dwelling, on his knees across the threshold, throws himself head foremost forward, plunges into deeps of ocean, plunges hither, plunges thither, turning with his hands the water.
Swims he northward, swims he southward, swims he eastward, swims he westward, studying his new surroundings. Thus our hero reached the water, rested five years in the ocean, six long years and even seven years, till the autumn of the eighth year, when at last he leaves the waters, stops upon a promontory. On a coast bereft of verdure, on his knees he leaves the ocean, on the land he plants his right foot, on the solid ground his left foot, quickly turns his hands about him, stands erect to see the sunshine, stands to see the golden moonlight, that he may behold the great bear, that he may the stars consider. Thus our hero Vain Amoynin, thus the wonderful enchanter, was delivered from his mother, Ilumatar, the Aether's daughter.
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3 02 - RUNE II. Wainamoinen's Sowing 14:55
Rune 2 of The Kalevala. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Loonroot. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 2. Vainamoinen's Sewing Then arose old Vainamoinen with his feet upon the island. On the island washed by ocean, broad expanse devoid of verdure. There remained he many summers, there he lived as many winters. On the island vast and vacant, well considered, long reflected, who for him should sow the island, who for him the seeds should scatter. Thought at last of Pelervoinen, firstborn of the plains and prairies, when a slender boy called Samsa, who should sow the vacant island, who the forest's seeds should scatter. Pelervoinen, thus consenting, sows with diligence the island.
Seeds upon the lands he scatters, seeds in every swamp and lowland. Forest seeds upon the loose earth. On the firm soil sows the acorns. Fir trees sows he on the mountains. Pine trees also on the hilltops. Many shrubs in every valley. Birches sows he in the marshes. In the loose soil sows the alders. In the lowlands sows the lindens. In the moist earth sows the willow. The pines were far outspreading. Birches rose from all the marshes. In the loose soil grew the alders. In the mellow soil, the lindens. Junipers were also growing, junipers with clustered berries, berries on the hawthorn branches. Now the hero, Vaynemoinen, stands aloft to look about him, how the Samsa seeds are growing, how the crop of Pellevoinen.
Sees the young trees thickly spreading, sees the forest rise in beauty. But the oak tree has not sprouted, tree of heaven is not growing, still within the acorn sleeping, its own happiness enjoying. Then he waited three nights longer, and as many days he waited, waited till a week had vanished. Then again the work examined, but the oak tree was not growing, had not left her acorn dwelling. Vein-o-moin an ancient hero, spies four maidens in the distance, water-brides he spies a fifth one, on the soft and sandy seashore, in the dewy grass and flowers, on a point extending seaward, near the forests of the island. Some were mowing, some were raking, raking what was mown together. In a windrow on the meadow, from the ocean rose a giant, mighty Tersus tall and hardy, pressed compactly all the grasses that the maidens had been raking when a fire within them kindles and the flames shot up to heaven, till the windrows burned to ashes, only ashes now remaining of the grasses rake together.
In the ashes of the windrows, tender leaves the giant places. In the leaves he plants an acorn. From the acorn, quickly sprouting, grows the oak tree, tall and stately, from the ground enriched by ashes, newly raked by water maidens. Spread the oak tree's many branches, rounds itself a broad corona, raises it above the storm clouds. Far it stretches out its branches, stops the white clouds in their courses. With its branches hides the sunlight. With its many leaves the moonbeams, and the starlight dies in heaven. Vainamoinen, old and trusty, thought a while and well considered, how to kill the mighty oak tree, first created for his pleasure, how to fell the tree majestic, how to lop its hundred branches.
Sad the lives of man and hero, sad the homes of ocean dwellers, if the sun shines not upon them, if the moonlight does not cheer them, is there not some mighty hero? Was there never born a giant that can fell the mighty oak tree, that can lop its hundred branches? Venomoynon, deeply thinking, spake these words, soliloquizing. Kape, daughter of the ether, ancient mother of my being, Luonatar, my nurse and helper, loan to me the water forces, great the powers of the waters. Loan to me the strength of oceans, to upset this mighty oak tree, to uproot this tree of evil, that again may shine the sunlight, that the moon once more may glimmer. Straightway rose a form from oceans, rose a hero from the waters.
Nor belonged he to the largest, nor belonged he to the smallest. Long was he, as man's forefinger, taller than the hand of woman. On his head a cap of copper. Boots upon his feet were copper, gloves upon his hands were copper, and its stripes were copper-colored. Belt around him made of copper, hatchet in his belt was copper. And the handle of his hatchet was as long as hand of woman. Of a finger's breadth the blade was. Then the trusty Vainamoinen thought a while and well considered, and his measures are as follow. Art thou, sir, divine or human, which of these thou only knowest? Tell me what. Then again spake Venomornin to the form from out the ocean. Verily, I think thee, human, of the race of pygmy heroes, might as well be dead or dying, fit for nothing but to perish.
Answered thus the pygmy hero, spake the small one from the ocean to the valiant Vaynemoinen. Truly I am God and hero, from the tribes that rule the ocean. Come I here to fell the oak tree, lop its branches with my hatchet. Vaynemoinen, old and trusty, answers thus the seaborne hero. Never hast thou force sufficient, nor to thee has strength been given to uproot this mighty oak tree, to uproot this thing of evil, nor to lop its hundred branches. Scarcely had he finished speaking, scarcely had he moved his eyelids, ere the pygmy full unfolding quick becomes a mighty giant. With one step he leaves the ocean, plants himself a mighty hero on the forest field surrounding. With his head the clouds he pierces, to his knees his beard extending, and his locks fall to his ankles.
Far apart appear his eyeballs, far apart his feet are stationed, farther still his mighty shoulders. Now begins his axe to sharpen, quickly to an edge he wets it, using six hard blocks of sandstone and of softer whetstone seven. Straightway to the oak tree turning, thither stalks the mighty giant in his raiment long and roomy. Flapping in the winds of heaven. With his second step he totters, on the land of darker color. With his third step, firmly planted, reaches he the oak tree's branches. Strikes the trunk with sharpened hatchet. With one mighty swing he strikes it. With a second blow he cuts it. As his blade descends the third time, from his axe the sparks fly upward. From the oak tree fire out shooting.
Ere the axe descends a fourth time, yields the oak with hundred branches, shaking earth and heaven in falling. Eastward far the trunk extending, far to westward flew the treetops, to the south the leaves were scattered, to the north its hundred branches. Whoso'er a branch has taken, has obtained eternal welfare, who secures himself a treetop, he has gained the master magic, who the foliage has gathered, has delight that never ceases. Of the chips some had been scattered, scattered also many splinters, on the blue back of the ocean, of the ocean smooth and mirrored. Rocked thereby the winds and waters, like a boat upon the billows. Stormwinds blew them to the Northland some the ocean currents carried.
Northland's fair and slender maiden, washing on the shore a headdress, beating on the rocks her garments, rinsing there her silken raiment. In the waters of Poyola there beheld the chips and splinters, carried by the winds and waters. In a bag the chips she gathered took them to the ancient courtyard, there to make enchanted arrows, arrows for the great magician, there to shape them into weapons, weapons for the skillful archer. Since the mighty oak has fallen, now has lost its hundred branches, that the north may see the sunshine, see the gentle gleam of moonlight, that the clouds may keep their courses, may extend the vault of heaven, over every lake and river, over the banks of every island.
Groves arose in varied beauty, beautifully grew the forests, and again the vines and flowers, birds again sang in the treetops, noisily the merry thrushes, and the cuckoos in the birch trees. On the mountains grew the berries, golden flowers in the meadows, and the herbs of many colors, many kinds of vegetation. But the barley is not growing. Vainamoinen, old and trusty, goes away and well considers, by the borders of the waters, on the ocean's sandy margin, finds six seeds of golden barley, even seven ripened kernels, on the shore of Upper Northland, in the sand upon the seashore, hides them in his trusty pouches, fashioned from the skin of squirrel. Some were made from skin of Martin. Hastens forth the seeds to scatter, quickly sows the barley kernels, on the brinks of Kalu waters, on the Ozma hills and lowlands.
Hark! the titmouse wildly crying, from the aspen words as follow. Ozma's barley will not flourish, nor the barley of Vainola, if the soil be not made ready, if the forest be not leveled, and the branches burn to ashes. Vainamoinen, wise and ancient, made himself an axe for chopping, then began to clear the forest, then began the trees to level, felled the trees of all descriptions, only left the birch tree standing, for the birds a place of resting, where might sing the sweet-voiced cuckoo, sacred bird in sacred branches. Down from heaven came the eagle, through the air became a flying, that he might this thing consider, and he spake the words that follow. Wherefore, ancient Wainamoinen, hast thou left the slender birch-tree, left the birch-tree only standing?
Wainamoinen thus made answer. Therefore is the birch left standing, that the birds may liest within it, that the eagle there may rest him, there may sing the sacred cuckoo. Spake the eagle thus replying. Good indeed thy hero judgment, that the birch tree thou hast left us, left the sacred birch tree standing, as a resting place for eagles, and for birds of every feather, even I may rest upon it. Quickly then this bird of heaven kindled fire among the branches. Soon the flames are fanned by north winds, and the east winds lend their forces. Burn the trees of all descriptions, burn them all to dust and ashes. Only is the birch left standing. Fein Amoynon, wise and ancient, Brings his magic grains of barley, Brings he forth his seven seed grains, Brings them from his trusty pouches, Fashioned from the skin of squirrel, Some were made from skin of marten.
Thence to sow his seeds he hastens, hastens the barley grains to scatter, speaks unto himself these measures. I, the seeds of life, am sowing, sowing through my open fingers, from the hand of my Creator, in this soil enriched with ashes, in this soil to sprout and flourish. Ancient mother thou hast lived, far beyond the earth and ocean, mother of the fields and forests, bring the rich soil to producing, bring the seed grains to the sprouting. That the barley well may flourish. Never will the earth unaided yield the ripe, nutritious barley. Never will her force be wanting, if the givers give assistance, if the givers grace the sowing, grace the daughters of creation. Rise, O earth, from out thy slumber, from the slumberland of ages.
Let the barley grains be sprouting, let the blades themselves be starting, let the verdant stalks be rising, let the ears themselves be growing, and a hundredfold producing, from my plowing and my sowing, from my skilled and honest labor. Ukko, thou, O God of yonder, thou, O Father of the heavens, thou that livest high in ether, curvest all the clouds of heaven, holdest in the air thy counsel, holdest in the clouds good counsel. From the east dispatch a cloudlet, from the northeast send a rain cloud, from the west another send us, from the northwest still another. Quickly from the south a warm cloud, that the rain may fall from heaven, that the clouds may drop their honey, that the ears may fill He was a cold, and the children were still, and ripened, that the barley fields may rustle.
Thereupon Benignit Ukko, Ukko, father of the heavens, held his counsel in the cloud space, held good counsel in the ether. From the east he sent a cloudlet, from the northeast sent a rain cloud, from the west another sent he, from the northwest still another, quickly from the south a warm cloud. Joined in seams the clouds together, sewed together all their edges, grasped the cloud, and hurled it earthward. Quick the rain cloud drops her honey, Quick the rain drops fall from heaven, That the ears may quickly ripen, That the barley crop may rustle. Straightaway grow the seeds of barley, From the germ the blade unfolding, Richly colored ears arising, From the rich soil of the fallow, From the work of vain amoynon.
Here a few days pass unnoted, And as many nights fly over. When the seventh day had journeyed, on the morning of the eighth day, Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, went to view his crop of barley, how his plowing, how his sowing, how his labors were resulting. Found his crop of barley growing, found the blades were triple knotted, and the ears he found six-sided. Vainamoinen, old and trusty, turned his face and looked about him. Lo, there comes a springtime cuckoo, spying out the slender birch tree, rests upon it, sweetly singing. Wherefore is the silver birch tree left unharmed of all the forest? Spake the ancient Vainamoinen. Therefore I have left the birch tree, left the birch tree only growing, home for thee for joyful singing.
Call thou here, O sweet-voiced cuckoo, sing thou here from throat of velvet, sing thou here with voice of silver, sing the cuckoo's golden flute notes. Call at morning, call at evening, call within the hour of noontide, for the better growth of forests, for the ripening of the barley, for the richness of the Northland, for the joy of Kalevala. Kyle Robb.
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4 03 - RUNE III. Wainamoinen and Joukahainen 22:04
Rune 3 of the Kalevala.
The Kalevala. Compiled by Elias Loonroot. Translated by John Martin Crawford.
Rune 3. Veinamoynen and Jokahainen.
Veinamoynen, ancient minstrel, passed his years in full contentment. On the meadows of Vainola, on the plains of Kalevala, singing ever wondrous legends, songs of ancient wit and wisdom, chanting one day, then a second, singing in the dusk of evening, singing till the dawn of morning, now the tales of old-time heroes, tales of ages long forgotten, now the legends of creation once familiar to the children. By our children sung no longer, sung in part by many heroes, in these mournful days of evil, evil days our race befallen. Far and wide the story traveled, far away men spread the knowledge of the chanting of the hero, of the song of Wainamoinen. To the south were heard the echoes, all the northland heard the story.
Far away, in dismal northland, lived the singer Jokahainen. Lapland's young and reckless minstrel, once upon a time when feasting, dining with his friends and fellows, came upon his ears the story that there lived a sweeter singer on the meadows of Wainola, on the plains of Kalevala, better skilled in chanting legends, better skilled than Jokuhainen, better than the one that taught him. Straightway then the bard grew angry, envy rose within his bosom, envy of this Wainamoinen, famed to be a sweeter singer. Hastes he angry to his mother, to his mother full of wisdom, vows that he will southward hasten, hie him southward and betake him, to the dwellings of Vainola, to the cabins of the Northland, there as bar to vie in battle with the famous Vainamoinen.
Nay, replies the anxious father, do not go to Kalevala. Nay, replies the fearful mother, go not hence to Vainamoinen, there with him to offer battle. He will charm thee with his singing, will bewitch thee in his anger. He will drive thee back dishonored, sink thee in the fatal snowdrift, turn to ice thy pliant fingers, turn to ice thy feet and ankles. These the words of Jokohainen. Good the judgment of a father, better still a mother's counsel, best of all one's own decision. I will go and face the minstrel, challenge him to sing in contest, challenge him as bard to battle, sing to him my sweet-toned measures, chant to him my oldest legends, chant to him my garnered wisdom, that this best of boasted singers, that this famous bard of Solmi, shall be worsted in the contest, shall become a hapless minstrel.
By my song shall I transform him, that his feet shall be as flintstone, and as oak his nether raiment, and this famous best of singers, thus bewitched, shall carry ever in his heart a stony burden, on his shoulder bow of marble, on his hand a flintstone gauntlet, on his brow a stony visor. Then the wizard Jokohainen. Heeding not advice paternal, Heeding not his mother's counsel, Leads his courser from his stable, Fire out streaming from his nostrils, From his hoofs the sparks out shooting, Hitches to his sledge the fleet foot, To his golden sledge the courser, Mounts impetuous his snow sledge, Leaps upon the hindmost cross bench, Strikes his courser with his birch whip, With his birch whip pearl enameled.
Instantly the prancing racer springs away upon his journey. On he restless plunges northward. All day long be onward gallops. All the next day onward, onward. So the third from morn till evening, till the third day twilight brings him to the meadows of Veinola, to the plains of Kalevala. As it happened, Veinamoynen, Veinamoynen the magician, rode that sunset on the highway silently for pleasure driving down Veinola's peaceful meadows o'er the plains of Kalevala. Yoko Hainan, young and fiery, urging still his foaming courser, dashes down upon the singer, does not turn aside in meeting, meeting thus in full collision. Shafts are driven tight together, hames and collars wedged and tangled, tangled with the reins and traces.
Thus perforce they make a standstill, thus remain and well consider. Water drips from hame and collar, vapors rise from both their horses, speaks the minstrel Vainamoinen. Who art thou, and whence thou comest, driving like a stupid stripling, Veinamoinen and Jokahainen, careless dashing down upon me? Thou hast ruined shafts and traces, and the collar of my racer thou hast shattered into ruin, and my golden sleigh is broken, box and runners dash to pieces. Jokahainen then make answer, spake at last the words that follow. I am youthful Jokohainen, but make answer first who thou art, whence thou comest where thou goest, from what lowly tribe descended. Weinamoinen, wise and ancient, answered thus the youthful minstrel.
If thou art but Jokohainen, thou shouldst give me all the highway. I am many years thy senior. Then the boastful Jokohainen spake again to Weinamoinen. Young or ancient, little matter, little consequence the age is. He that higher stands in wisdom, he whose knowledge is the greater, he that is the sweeter singer, he alone shall keep the highway, and the other take the roadside. Art thou ancient Wainamoinen, famous sorcerer and minstrel? Let us then begin our singing, let us sing our ancient legends, let us chant our garnered wisdom, that the one may hear the other, that the one may judge the other, in a war of wizard sayings. Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, thus replied in modest accents, What I know is very little, hardly is it worth the singing, neither is my singing wondrous.
All my days I have resided in the cold and dreary northland, in a desert land enchanted, in my cottage home for eyes. All the songs that I have gathered are the cuckoo's simple measures, some of these I may remember, but since thou perforce demandest, I accept thy boastful challenge. Tell me now, my golden youngster, what thou knowest more than others. Open now thy store of wisdom. Thus made answer Jokohainen, Lapland's young and fiery minstrel. Know I many bits of learning. This I know in perfect clearness. Every roof must have a chimney. Every fireplace have a hearthstone. Lives of seal are free and merry. Merry is the life of walrus, feeding on incautious salmon, daily eating perch and whiting.
Whitings live in quiet shallows. Salmon love the level bottoms. Spawns the pike in coldest weather and defies the storms of winter. Slowly perches swim in autumn, rye-backed hunting deeper water. Spawn in shallows in the summer, bounding on the shore of ocean. Should this wisdom seem too little, I can tell the other matters, sing the other wizard sayings. All the northmen plow with reindeer, mother horses plow the southland, inner lapland plows with oxen. All the trees on Pisa mountain know I well in all their grandeur. On the horna rock are fir trees, fir trees growing tall and slender. Slender grow the trees on mountains. Three the water falls in number, three in number inland oceans, three in number lofty mountains, shooting to the vault of heaven.
Helepioras near to Yemen, Ketrakowski in Karela, Imatra the falling water, tumbles roaring into Voksi. Then the ancient Venemoinen. Women's tales and children's wisdom do not please a bearded hero, hero old enough for wedlock. Tell the story of creation, tell me of the world's beginnings, tell me of the creatures in it, and philosophize a little. Then the youthful Jokohainen thus replied to Wainamoinen, Know I well the titmouse fountains, pretty birdling is the titmouse, and the viper green a serpent. Whitings live in brackish waters, perches swim in every river, iron rusts and rusting weakens, bitter is the taste of umber, boiling water is malicious. Fire is ever full of danger. First physician, the creator.
Remedy, the oldest water. Magic is the child of Seaphone. God, the first and best advisor. Waters gush from every mountain. Fire descended first from heaven. Iron from the rust was fashioned. Copper from the rocks created. Marshes are of lands the oldest. First of all the trees, the willow. Fir trees were the first of houses. Hollowed stones, the first of kettles. Now the ancient Veynamoinen thus addresses Jokoainen. Canst thou give me now some wisdom? Is this nonsense all thou knowest? Jokoainen thus made answer. I can tell thee still a trifle, tell thee of the times permeable, when I plowed the salt sea's bosom, when I raked the sea-girt islands, when I dug the salmon grottoes, hollowed out the deepest caverns, when I all the lakes created, when I heaped the mountains round them, when I piled the rocks about them.
I was present as a hero, sixth of wise and ancient heroes, seventh of all primeval heroes. When the heavens were created, when were formed the ether spaces, when the sky was crystal-pillared, when was arched the beauteous rainbow, when the moon was placed in orbit, when the silver sun was planted, when the bear was firmly stationed, and with stars the heavens were sprinkled, spake the ancient Wainamoinen. Thou art surely Prince of Lyres, Lord of all the host of Lyres. Never wert thou in existence, surely wert thou never present. When was ploughed the salt sea's bosom? When were raked the secret islands? When were dug the salmon grottoes? When were hollowed out the caverns? When the lakes were all created?
When were heaped the mountains round them? When the rocks were piled about them? Thou wert never seen or heard of when the earth was first created, when were made the ether spaces, when the air was crystal-pillared, when the moon was placed in orbit, when the silver sun was planted, when the bear was firmly stationed, when the skies with stars were sprinkled. Then in anger Jokuhainen answered ancient Wainamoinen. Then, sir, since I fail in wisdom, with the sword I offer battle. Come, thou famous bard and minstrel, thou the ancient wander-singer, let us try our strength with broadswords, let our blades be fully tested. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, not thy sword and not thy wisdom, not thy prudence nor thy cunning, do I fear a single moment.
Let who may accept thy challenge, not with thee a puny braggart, not with one so vain and paltry, will I ever measure broadswords. Then the youthful Yokohainen, mouth awry and visage sneering, shook his golden locks and answered, Whoso fears his blade to measure, fears to test his strength at broadswords, into wild boar of forest, swine at heart and swine in visage, singing I will thus transform him. I will hurl such hero cowards, this one hither, that one thither, stamp him in the mire and bedding, in the rubbish of the stable. Angry then grew Wainamoinen, wrathful waxed and fiercely frowning. Self-composed he broke his silence and began his wondrous singing. Sang he not the tales of childhood, children's nonsense, wit of women?
Sang he rather bearded heroes, that the children never heard of, that the boys and maidens knew not? Known but half by bride and bridegroom, known in part by many heroes, in these mournful days of evil, evil times our race befallen. Grandly sang wise Venomwenen till the copper-bearing mountains and the flinty rocks and ledges heard his magic tones and trembled. Mountain cliffs were torn to pieces, all the oceans heaved and tumbled, and the distant hills re-echoed. Lo, the boastful Yokohainen is transfixed in silent wander, and his sledge with golden trimmings floats like brushwood on the billows, sings his braces into reed grass, sings his reins to twigs of willow, and to shrubs his golden crossbench.
Lo, his birch-whip pearl-enameled floats a reed upon the border. Lo, his steed with golden forehead stands a statue on the waters. Hames and traces are as fir boughs, and his collar, straw, and seagrass. Still the minstrel sings enchantment, sings his sword with golden handle, sings it into gleam of lightning, hangs it in the sky above him. Sings his crossbow, gaily painted, to a rainbow o'er the ocean. Sings his quick and feathered arrows into hawks and screaming eagles. Sings his dog with bended muzzle into block of stone beside him. Sings his cap from off his forehead. Sings it into wreaths of vapor. From his hands he sings his gauntlets into rushes on the waters. Sings his vesture purple-colored into white clouds in the heavens.
Sings his girdle set with jewels into twinkling stars around him. And alas, for Jokohainen sings him into deeps of quicksand, ever deeper, deeper, deeper, in his torture sinks the wizard, to his belt in mud and water. Now it was that Jokohainen comprehended but too clearly what his folly, what the end was, of the journey he had ventured, vainly he had undertaken, for the glory of a contest with the grand old Vainamoinen. When at last young Yokohainen, Po-iola's old and sorry stripling, strives his best to move his right foot, but at last the foot obeys not. When he strives to move his left foot, lo, he finds it turned to flintstone. Thereupon said Yokohainen in the deeps of desperation and in earnest supplication, thus addresses Vayner Moinen.
O thou wise and worthy minstrel, thou the only true magician, cease, I pray thee, thine enchantment, only turn away thy magic. Let me leave this slough of horror, loose me from this stony prison, free me from this killing torment, I will pay a golden ransom. Spake the ancient Vainamoinen, what the ransom thou will give me, if I cease from mine enchantment, if I turn away my magic, lift thee from thy slough of horror, loose thee from thy stony prison, free thee from thy killing torment. Answered youthful Jokoainen. Have at home two magic crossbows, pair of bows of wondrous power. One so light a child can bend it. Only strength can bend the other. Take of these the one that pleases. Then the ancient Veinamoinen.
Do not wish thy magic crossbows. Have a few of such already. Thine to me are worse than useless. I have bows in great abundance, bows on every nail and rafter, bows that laugh at all the hunters, bows that go themselves a-hunting. Then the ancient Wainamoinen sang, Alas, poor Jokahainen, deeper into mud and water, deeper in the slough of torment. Jokahainen thus made answer, Have at home two magic shallops, beautiful the boats and wondrous. One rides light upon the ocean, one is made for heavy burdens. Take of these the one that pleases. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen. Do not wish thy magic shallops. Have enough of such already. All my bays are full of shallops. All my shores are lined with shallops.
Some before the winds are sailors. Some were built to sail against them. Still the Vainola, Bard, and Minstrel sings again, poor Yokohainen, deeper, deeper into torment, into quicksand to his girdle, till the Lapland Bard, in anguish, speaks again to Vayne Amoynen. Have at home two magic stallions, one eraser fleet as lightning, one was born for heavy burdens. Take of these the one that pleases, spake the ancient Wainamoinen. Neither do I wish thy stallions, do not need thy hawk-limbed stallions. Have enough of these already. Magic stallions swarm my stables, eating corn at every manger, brought of back to hold the water, water on each croup in lakelets. Still the Bard of Kalevala sings the hapless Lapland minstrel deeper, deeper into torment, to his shoulders into water.
Spake again, young Yokohainen. O thou ancient Venamoinen, thou the only true magician! Cease, I pray thee, thine enchantment. Only turn away thy magic. I will give thee gold abundant, countless stores of shining silver from the wars my father brought it, brought it from the hard-fought battles. Spake the wise old Wainamoinen, for thy gold I have no longing, neither do I wish thy silver. Have enough of each already, gold abundant fills my chambers. On each nail hang bags of silver, gold that glitters in the sunshine, silver shining in the moonlight. Sank the braggart Jokoainen deeper in the slough of torment, to his chin in mud and water, ever praying, thus beseeching. O thou ancient Venemoynen, greatest of the old magicians, lift me from this pit of horror, from this prison house of torture.
I will give thee all my cornfields, give thee all my corn and garners, thus my hapless life to ransom, thus to gain eternal freedom. Vainamoinen thus made answer. Take thy corn to other markets. Give thy garners to the needy. I have corn in great abundance. Fields have I in every quarter. Corn in all my fields is growing. One's own fields are always richer. One's own grain is much the sweeter. Lapland's young and reckless minstrel, sorrow-laden, thus enchanted, deeper sinks in mud and water, fear enchained and full of anguish. In the mire his beard bedrabbled, mouth once boastful filled with seaweed. In the grass his teeth entangled, Jokkahainen thus beseeches. O thou ancient Venamoinen, wisest of the wisdom singers, cease at last thine incantations.
Only turn away thy magic, and my former life restore me. Lift me from this stifling torment. Free mine eyes from sand and water. I will give thee, sister, I know, fairest daughter of my mother, bride of thine to be forever, bride of thine to do thy pleasure. Sweep the rooms within thy cottage. Keep thy dwelling place in order. Rinse for thee the golden platters. Spread thy couch with finest linens for thy bay. Weave golden covers, bake for thee the honey biscuit. Vainamoinen, old and truthful, finds at last the wished-for ransom. Lapland's young and fairest daughter, sister dear of Jokohainen. Happy he that he had won him, in his age a beauteous maiden. Bride of his to be forever, pride and joy of Kalevala.
Now the happy Vainamoinen sits upon the rock of gladness, joyful on the rock of music, sings a little, sings and ceases, sings again and sings a third time, thus to break the spell of magic, thus to lessen the enchantment, thus the potent charm to banish. As the magic spell is broken, Jokuhainen, sad but wiser, drags his feet from out the quicksand, lifts his beard from out the water, from the rocks leads forth his courser, brings his sledge back from the rushes, calls his whip back from the ocean, sets his golden sledge.
Then his mother, quickly guessing, would have chided him for rashness, but the father interrupted. Wherefore dost thou break thy snow-sledge? Wherefore dash thy thills in fragments? Wherefore comest home so strangely? Why this rude and wild behavior? Now, alas, poor Yokohainen, capari upon his forehead, falls to weeping broken-hearted, head depressed and mind dejected, eyes and lips expressing sadness, answers not his anxious father. Then the mother quickly asked him, sought to find his cause for sorrow. Tell me, firstborn, why thou weepest, why thou weepest heavy-hearted, why thy mind is so dejected, why thine eyes express such sadness. Yokohainen then made answer, Golden mother ever faithful, Cause there is to me sufficient, Cause enough in what has happened.
Bitter cause for this my sorrow, Cause for bitter tears and murmurs. All my days will pass unhappy, Since, O mother of my being, I have promised beauteous Aino, Aino thy beloved daughter, Aino my devoted sister, Too decrepit Vaynemoinen, Bride to be to him forever, Roof above him, prop beneath him, Fair companion at his fireside. Joyful then arose the mother, clapped her hands in glee together, thus addressing Jokahainen. Weep no more, my son beloved. Thou hast not to cause thy weeping, hast no reason for thy sorrow. Often I this hope have cherished. Many years have I been praying that this mighty bard and hero, wise and valiant, Veinamoynen, spouse should be to beauteous Aino, son-in-law to me, her mother.
But this fair and lovely maiden, Sister dear of Jokohainen, straightway fell to bitter weeping, on the threshold wept and lingered. Wept all day and all the night long, wept a second, then a third day, wept because a bitter sorrow on her youthful heart had fallen. Then the gray-haired mother asked her, Why this weeping, lovely Aino? Thou hast found a noble suitor, thou wilt rule his spacious dwelling. At his window sit and rest thee, rinse betimes his golden platters, walk a queen within his dwelling. Thus replied the tearful Aino, Mother dear and all-forgiving, Cause enough for this, my sorrow, Cause enough for bitter weeping. I must lose my sunny tresses, Tresses beautiful and golden, Cannot deck my hair with jewels, Cannot bind my head with ribbons, All to be hereafter hidden Underneath the lidden bonnet That the wife must wear forever.
Weep at morning, weep at evening, Weep alas for waning beauty, Childhood vanished, youth departed, Silver sunshine, golden moonlight, Hope and pleasure of my childhood. Taken from me now forever, and so soon to be forgotten at the tool bench of my brother, at the window of my sister, in the cottage of my father. Spake again the gray-haired mother to her wailing daughter I know. Cease thy sorrow, foolish maiden. By thy tears thou art ungrateful. Reason none for thy repining. Not the slightest cause for weeping. Everywhere the silver sunshine falls as bright on other households. Not alone the moonlight glimmers through thy father's open windows. On the workbench of thy brother, flowers bloom in every meadow.
Berries grow on every mountain. Thou canst go thyself and find them. All the day long go and find them. Not alone thy brother's meadows grow the beauteous vines and flowers. Not alone thy father. The mother's mountains yield the ripe, nutritious berries. Flowers bloom in other meadows. Berries grow on other mountains. There as here, my lovely.
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5 04 - RUNE IV. The Fate of Aino 19:05
Rune 4 of the Kalevala.
Translated by John Martin Crawford.
Rune Four. The fate of Aino. When the night had passed, the maiden, Sister fair of Yokohainen, Hastened early to the forest, birchen shoots for brooms to gather, went to gather birchen tassels, bound a bundle for her father, bound a birch broom for her mother, silken tassels for her sister. Straightway then she hastened homeward, by a footpath left the forest. As she neared the woodland border, lo, the ancient Vayne Moinen, quickly spying out the maiden as she left the birchen woodland, trimly dressed in costly raiment, and the minstrel thus addressed her. I know, beauty of the Northland, where not, lovely maid for others, only where for me, sweet maiden, golden cross upon thy bosom, shining pearls upon thy shoulders.
Bind for me thine auburn tresses, where for me thy golden braidlets. Thus the maiden quickly answered, Not for thee and not for others, hang I from my neck the crosslet, deck my hair with silken ribbons, need no more the many trinkets brought to me by ship or shallop. Sooner wear the simplest raiment, feed upon the barley breadcrust, dwell forever with my mother, in the cabin with my father. Then she threw the gold cross from her, tore the jewels from her fingers, quickly loosed her shining necklace. Quick untied her silken ribbons, cast them all away indignant into forest ferns and flowers. Thereupon the maiden I know hastened to her mother's cottage. At the window sat her father, whittling an oaken axe-helve.
Wherefore weepest, beauteous, I know? I know my beloved daughter. Cause enough for weeping, father. Good the reasons for my mourning. This the reason for my weeping. This the cause of all my sorrow. From my breast I tore the crosslet, from my belt the clasp of copper, from my waist the belt of silver. Golden was my pretty crosslet. Near the doorway sat her brother, carving out a birchen oxbow. Why art weeping, lovely I know? I know my devoted sister. Cause enough for weeping, brother, good the reasons for my mourning. Therefore come I as thou seest, rings no longer on my fingers, on my neck no pretty necklace. Golden were the rings thou gavest, and the necklace pearls and silver. On the threshold sat her sister, weaving her a golden girdle.
Why art weeping, beauteous I know? I know my beloved sister. Cause enough for weeping, sister, good the reasons for my sorrow. Therefore come, I ask, thou seest. On my head no scarlet fillet. In my hair no braids of silver. On mine arms no purple ribbons. Round my neck no shining necklace. On my breast no golden crosslet. In my ears no golden earrings. Near the doorway of the dairy, skimming cream, sat Aino's mother. Why art weeping, lovely Aino? Aino, my devoted daughter? Thus the sobbing maiden answered, Loving mother, all-forgiving, cause enough for this my weeping. Good the reasons for my sorrow. Therefore do I weep, dear mother. I have been within the forest, brooms to bind and shoots to gather, there to pluck some birch and tassels, bound a bundle for my father, bound a second for my mother, bound a third one for my brother, for my sister's silken tassels.
Straightway then I hastened homeward, by a footpath left the forest, as I reached the woodland border, spake Osmoinen from the cornfield, spake the ancient Wainamoinen. Wear not beauteous maid for others, only wear for me, sweet maiden, on thy breast a golden crosslet, shining pearls upon thy shoulders. Bind for me thine auburn tresses, weave for me thy silver braidlets. Then I threw the gold cross from me, tore the jewels from my fingers, quickly loosed my shining necklace, quick untied my silken ribbons, cast them all away, indignant, into forest ferns and flowers. Then I thus addressed the singer, Not for thee and not for others, Hang I from my neck the crosslet, Deck my hair with silken ribbons, Need no more thy many trinkets, Brought to me by ship and shallop.
Sooner wear the simplest raiment, Feed upon the barley-crust bread, Dwell forever with my mother, In the cabin with my father. Thus the gray-haired mother answered, I know her beloved daughter. Weep no more, my lovely maiden, waste no more of thy sweet young life. One year eat thou my sweet butter, it will make thee strong and ruddy. Eat another year fresh bacon, it will make thee tall and queenly. Eat a third year only dainties, it will make thee fair and lovely. Now make haste to yonder hilltop, to the storehouse on the mountain. Open there the large compartment. Thou will find it filled with boxes, chests and cases, trunks and boxes. Open thou the box the largest. Lift away the gaudy cover.
Thou will find six golden girdles, seven rainbow-tinted dresses, woven by the moon's fair daughters, fashioned by the sun's sweet virgins. In my young years once I wondered, as a maiden on the mountains, in the happy days of childhood, hunting berries in the copies. There by chance I heard the daughters of the moon as they were weaving. There I also heard the daughters of the sun as they were spinning, on the red rims of the cloudlets, over the blue edge of the forest, on the border of the pinewood, on the high and distant mountain. I approached them drawing nearer, stole myself within their hearing, then began I to entreat them, thus besought them gently pleading. Give thy silver, moon's fair daughters, to a poor but worthy maiden.
Give thy gold, O sun, sweet virgins, to this maiden young and needy. Thereupon the moon's fair daughters gave me silver from their coffers, and the sun's sweet shining virgins gave me gold from their abundance, gold to deck my throbbing temples, from my hair the shining silver. Then I hastened joyful homeward, richly laden with my treasures, happy to my mother's cottage, wore them one day, then a second, then a third day also wore them, took the gold then from my temples, from my hair I took the silver. Careful laid them in their boxes, many seasons have they lain there, have not seen them since my childhood. Deck thy brow with silken ribbon, trim with gold thy throbbing temples, and thy neck with pearly necklace.
Hang the gold cross on thy bosom. Robe thyself in pure white linen, spun from flax of finest fiber. Wherewithal the richest short frock, fasten it with golden girdle. On thy feet put silken stockings, with the shoes of finest leather. Deck thy hair with golden braidlets, bind it well with threads of silver. Trim with rings thy fairy fingers, and thy hands with dainty ruffles. Come bedecked then to thy chamber, thus return to this thy household, to the greeting of thy kindred, to the joy of all that know thee. Flush thy cheeks as ruddy berries, coming as thy father's sunbeam, walking beautiful and queenly, far more beautiful than moonlight. Thus she spake to weeping Aino, thus the mother to her daughter, but the maiden, little bearing, does not heed her mother's wishes, straightway hastens to the courtyard, there to weep in bitter sorrow, all alone to weep in anguish.
Waiting long the wailing Aino, thus at last soliloquizes, unto what can I now liken happy homes and joys of fortune, like the waters in the rivers, like the waves in yonder lakelet, like the crystal waters flowing. Unto what the biting sorrow of the child of cold misfortune? Like the spirit of the sea duck, like the icicle in winter, water in the well imprisoned. Often roamed my mind in childhood when a maiden, free and merry, happily threw, fen, and follow, gambled on the meads with lambkins, lingered with the ferns and flowers, knowing neither pain nor trouble. Now my mind is filled with sorrow, wanders through the bog and stubble, wanders weary through the brambles, roams throughout the dismal forest, till my life is filled with darkness and my spirit white with anguish.
Better had it been for Aino had she never seen sunlight, or if born had died an infant, had not lived to be a maiden in these days of sin and sorrow underneath a star so luckless. Better had it been for Aino, had she died upon the eighth day, after seven nights had vanished, needed then but little linen, needed but a little coffin, and a grave of smallest measure. Mother would have mourned a little, father too perhaps a trifle, sister would have wept the day through, brother might have shed a teardrop. Thus had ended all the mourning. Thus poor Aino wept and murmured, wept one day and then a second, wept a third from morn till evening, when again her mother asked her, Why this weeping, fairest daughter, darling daughter, why this grieving?
Thus the tearful maiden answered, Therefore do I weep and sorrow, wretched maiden, all my life long, since poor Ino thou hast given, since thy daughter thou hast promised, to the aged Vainamoinen, comfort to his years declining, propped to stay him when he totters, in the storm a roof above him, in his home a cloak around him, better far if thou hast sent me, far below the salt sea surges, to become the whiting sister, and the friend of perch and salmon. Better far to ride the billows, swim the sea foam as a mermaid, and the friend of nimble fishes, than to be an old man's solace. Prop to stay him when he totters, hand to aid him when he trembles, arm to guide him when he falters, strength to give him when he weakens.
Better be the whiting sister, and the friend of perch and salmon, than an old man's slave and darling. Ending thus, she left her mother, straightway hastened to the mountain, to the storehouse on the summit. Opened there the box the largest. From the box six lids she lifted. Found therein six golden girdles, silken dresses seven in number. Choosing such as pleased her fancy, she adorned herself as bidden. Robed herself to look her fairest. Gold upon her throbbing temples. In her hair the shining silver. On her shoulders purple ribbons. Band of blue around her forehead. Golden cross and rings and jewels. Fitting ornaments to beauty. Now she leaves her many treasures, leaves the storehouse on the mountain, filled with gold and silver trinkets, wanders over fields and meadow, over stone fields, waste and barren.
Wanders on through fen and forest, through the forest, vast and cheerless, wanders hither, wanders thither, singing careless as she wanders, this her mournful song and echo. Woe is me, my life hard-faded, woe to Aino brokenhearted. Torture wracks my heart and temples, yet the string would not be deeper, nor the pain and anguish greater, if beneath this weight of sorrow, in my saddened hearts dejected, I should yield my life forever, now unhappy, I should perish. Lo, the time has come for Aino, from this cruel world to hasten, to the kingdom of Tuoni, to the realm of the departed, to the isle of thee hereafter. Weep no more for me, O father. Mother dear, withhold thy censure. Lovely sister, dry thine eyelids.
Do not mourn me, dearest brother, when I sink beneath the sea-phone. Make my home in salmon grottos. Make my bed in crystal waters. Water ferns my couch and pillow. All day long poor Aino wandered, all the next day sad and weary, so the third from morn till evening, till the cruel night enwrapped her, as she reached the sandy margin, reached the cold and dismal seashore, sat upon the rock of sorrow, sat alone in cold and darkness, listened only to the music of the winds and rolling billows, singing all the dirge of Aino. All that night the weary maiden wept and wandered on the border, through the sand and sea-washed pebbles. As the day dawns, looking round her, she beholds three water maidens.
On a headland jutting seaward, water maidens four in number, sitting on the wave-lashed ledges, swimming now upon the billows, now upon the rocks reposing. Quick the weeping maiden I know hastens there to join the mermaids, fairy maidens of the waters. Weeping Aino, now disrobing, lays aside with care her garments, hangs her silk robes on the alders, drops her gold cross on the seashore, on the aspen hangs her ribbons, on the rocks her silken stockings, on the grass her shoes of deerskin, in the sand her shining necklace with her rings and other jewels. Out at sea, a goodly distance, stood a rock of rainbow colors, glittering in silver sunlight. Toward it springs the hapless maiden, thither swims the lovely Aino.
Up the standing stone has clamored, wishing there to rest a moment, rest upon the rock of beauty. When upon a sudden swaying to and fro among the billows, with a crash and roar of waters, falls the stone of many colors, falls upon the very bottom of the deep and boundless blue sea. With the stone of rainbow colors falls the weeping maiden Aino, clinging to its craggy edges, sinking far below the surface, to the bottom of the blue sea. Thus the weeping maiden vanished. Thus poor Aino sank and perished, singing as the stone descended, chanting thus as she departed. Once to swim I sought the seaside, there to sport among the billows. With the stone of many colors sank poor Aino to the bottom. Of the deep and boundless blue sea, like a pretty songbird, perished.
Never come a fishing father to the borders of these waters, never during all thy lifetime, as thou lovest daughter Aino. Mother dear, I sought the seaside, there to sport among the billows, with the stone of many colors sank poor Aino to the bottom, of the deep and boundless blue sea, like a pretty songbird perished. Never mix thy bread, dear mother, with the blue sea's foam and waters. Never during all thy lifetime, as thou lovest, daughter Aino. Brother dear, I sought the seaside, there to sport among the billows, with the stone of many colors sang poor Aino to the bottom of the deep and boundless blue sea, like a pretty songbird perished. Never bring thy prancing war-horse, never bring thy royal racer, never bring thy steeds to water, to the borders of the blue sea, never during all thy lifetime, as thou lovest Sister Aino.
Sister dear, I sought the seaside, there to sport among the billows, with the stone of many colors, sank poor Aino to the bottom of the deep and boundless blue sea, like a pretty songbird perished. Never come to love thine eyelids in this rolling wave and sea foam, never during all thy lifetime, as thou lovest sister Aino. All the waters in the blue sea shall be blood of Aino's body. All the fish that swim these waters shall be Aino's flesh forever. All the willows on the seaside shall be Aino's ribs hereafter. All the sea grass on the margin will have grown from Aino's tresses. Thus at last the maiden vanished. Thus the lovely Aino perished. Who will tell the cruel story, who will bear the evil tidings, to the cottage of her mother, once the home of lovely Aino?
Will the bear repeat the story, tell the tidings to her mother? Nay, the bear must not be herald, he would slay the herds of cattle. Who then tell the cruel story who will bear the evil tidings to the cottage of her father, once the home of lovely Aino? Shall the wolf repeat the story, tell the sad news to her father? Nay, the wolf must not be herald, he would eat the gentle lambkins. Who then tell the cruel story, who will bear the evil tidings to the cottage of her sister? Will the fox repeat the story, tell the tidings to her sister? Nay, the fox must not be herald, he would eat the ducks and chickens. Who then tell the cruel story, who will bear the evil tidings to the cottage of her brother, once the home of lovely Aino?
Shall the hare repeat the story, bear the sad news to her brother? Yea, the hare shall be the herald, tell to all the cruel story. Thus the harmless hare makes answer. I will bear the evil tidings to the former home of Aino, tell the story to her kindred. Swiftly flew the long-eared herald. Like the winds he hastened onward, galloped swift as flight of eagles. Neck awry he bounded forward till he gained the wished-for cottage, once the home of lovely Aino. Silent was the home and vacant, so he hastened to the bathhouse, found therein a group of maidens, working each upon a birch broom, sat the hair upon the threshold, and the maidens thus addressed him. Hi there, long legs, or we'll roast thee.
Hi there, big-eyed, or we'll stew thee. Roast thee for our lady's breakfast, stew thee for our master's dinner. Make of thee a meal for Aino and her brother Jokahainen. Better therefore thou shouldst gallop to thy burrow in the mountains than be roasted for our dinners. Then the haughty hare made answer, chanting thus the fate of Aino. Think ye not I journey hither, to be roasted in the skillet, to be stewed in yonder kettle, let Felempo fill thy tables. I have come with evil tidings, come to tell the cruel story of the flight and death of Aino, sister dear of Jokahainen. With the stone of many colors sank poor Aino to the bottom of the deep and boundless waters like a pretty songbird perished.
Hung her ribbons on the aspen, left her gold cross on the seashore, silken robes upon the alders, on the rocks her silken stockings, on the grass her shoes of deerskin, in the sand her shining necklace, in the sand her rings and jewels. Sadly weeps the ancient mother. From her blue eyes bitter teardrops, as in sad and wailing measures, brokenhearted, thus she answers. Listen, all ye mothers listen. Learn from me a tale of wisdom. Never urge unwilling daughters from the dwellings of their fathers to the bridegrooms that they love not, not as I, inhuman mother, drove away my lovely Aino, fairest daughter of the Northland. Sadly weeps the gray-haired mother, and the tears that fall are bitter, flowing down her wrinkled visage till they trickle on her bosom, then across her heaving bosom till they reach her garment's borders, then adown her silken stockings till they touch her shoes of deerskin, then beneath her shoes of deerskin.
Flowing on and flowing ever, part to earth as its possession, part to water as its portion. As the teardrops fall and mingle, Formed they streamlets three in number, And their source, the mother's eyelids, Streamlets formed from pearly teardrops, Flowing on like little rivers, And each streamlet, larger growing, Soon becomes a rushing torrent, In each rushing, roaring torrent. There a cataract is foaming, Foaming in the silver sunlight, From the cataract's commotion, Rise three pillars, rocks and grandeur, From each rock upon the summit, Grow three hillocks, clothed in verdure, From each hillock, speckled birches, Three in number struggle, On the summit of each birch tree sits a golden cuckoo calling, and the three sing all in concord.
Love, O love, the first one calleth, sings the second, suitor, suitor, and the third one calls and echoes, Consolation, Consolation. He that love, O love, is calling, calls three moons and calls unceasing, for the love-rejecting maiden sleeping in the deep-sea castles. He that suitor, suitor, singeth, sings six moons and sings unceasing, for the suitor that forever sings ensues without a hearing. He that sadly sings and echoes, Consolation, consolation, Sings unceasing all his life long, For the broken-hearted mother That must mourn and weep for ever. When the lone and wretched mother Heard the sacred cuckoo singing, Spake she thus and sorely weeping. When I hear the cuckoo calling, then my heart is filled with sorrow.
Tears unlock my heavy eyelids. Flow adown my furrowed visage. Tears as large as silver sea pearls. Older grow my wearied elbows. Weaker ply my aged fingers. Wearily in all its members. Does my body shake and palsy. When I hear the cuckoo singing, hear the sacred cuckoo calling.
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6 05 - RUNE V. Wainamoinen's Lamentation 8:30
Rune 5 of The Kalevala. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Loonroot. Translated by John Martin Crawford.
Rune 5. Veina Moynihan's Lamentation. Far and wide the tidings traveled, far away men heard the story of the flight and death of Aino, sister dear of Joko Hainen, fairest daughter of creation. They, Namoinen, brave and truthful, straightway fell to bitter weeping, wept at morning, wept at evening, sleepless wept the dreary night long, that his Aino had departed, that the maiden thus had vanished, thus had sunk upon the bottom of the blue sea, deep and boundless. Filled with grief, the ancient singer, Vainamoinen of the Northland, heavy-hearted, sorely weeping, hastened to the restless waters, this the suitor's prayer and question. Tell Untamo, tell me, dreamer, tell me, indolence, thy visions, where the water gods may linger, where may rest Velamo's maidens.
Then Untamo thus made answer, lazily he told his dreamings. Over there the mermaid dwellings, yonder live Velamo's maidens. On the headland robed in verdure, on the forest-covered island, in the deep pellucid waters, on the purple-colored seashore, yonder is the home of sea-maids. There the maidens of Velamo live there in their seaside chambers, rest within their water caverns, on the rocks of rainbow colors, on the juttings of the sea cliffs. Straightway hastens Venemoiden to a boathouse on the seashore, looks with care upon the fishhooks and the lines he well considers, lines and hooks and poles and fishnets, places in a boat of copper. Then begins he swiftly rowing to the forest-covered island, to the point enrobed in verdure, to the purple-colored headland, where the sea-nymphs live and linger.
Hardly does he reach the island, ere the minstrel starts to angle. Far away he throws his fishhook, trolls it quickly through the waters, turning on a copper swivel. Dangling from a silver fishline, golden is the hook he uses. Now he tries his silken fishnet, angles long and angles longer, angles one day, then a second, in the morning, in the evening, angles at the hour of noontide. Many days and nights he angles, till at last, one sunny morning, strikes a fish of magic powers, plays like salmon on his fish line, lashing waves across the waters, till at length the fish, exhausted, falls a victim to the angler, safely landed in the bottom of the hero's boat of copper. Veenamoynen, proudly viewing, speaks these words in wander guessing.
This the fairest of all sea fish, never have I seen its equal, smoother surely than the salmon, brighter spotted than the trout is, grayer than the pike of Solmi, has less fins than any female, not the fins of any male fish, not the stripes of seaborne maidens, not the belt of any mermaid, not the ears of any songbird, somewhat like our Northland salmon from the blue sea's deepest caverns. In his belt the ancient hero wore a knife and sheathed in silver. From its case he drew the fish knife. Thus to carve the fish in pieces, dress the nameless fish for roasting. Make of it a dainty breakfast. Make of it a meal at noonday. Make for him a toothsome supper. Make the later meal at evening. Straightway as the fish he touches touches with his knife of silver, quick it leaps upon the waters, dives beneath the sea's smooth surface.
From the boat with copper bottom, from the skiff of Anamoinen. In the waves at goodly distance, quickly from the sea it rises, on the sixth and seventh billows, lifts its head above the waters, out of reach of fishing tackle, then addresses Vainamoinen, chiding thus the ancient hero. Vainamoinen, ancient minstrel, do not think that I came hither to be fished for as a salmon, only to be chopped in pieces, dressed and eaten like a whiting. Make for thee a dainty breakfast, make for thee a meal at midday, make for thee a toothsome supper, make the fourth meal of the Northland. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, Wherefore didst thou then come hither, if it be not for my dinner? Then the nameless fish made answer.
Hither have I come, O minstrel, in thine arms to rest and linger, and thyself to love and cherish, at thy side a life companion, and thy wife to be for ever. Deck thy couch with snowy linen, smooth thy head upon the pillow, sweep thy room and make them cheery. Keep thy dwelling place in order, build a fire for thee when needed, bake for thee the honey biscuit, fill thy cup with barley water, do for thee whatever pleases. I am not a scaly sea fish, not a trout of Northland rivers, not a whiting from the waters, not a salmon of the North Seas. I, a young and merry maiden, friend and sister of the fishes, Joko Hainan's youngest sister, I, the one that thou dost fish for, I am Aino whom thou lovest.
Once thou wert the wise-tongued hero, now the foolish Vaynemoinen, scant of insight, scant of judgment, didst not know enough to keep me, cruel-hearted, bloody-handed, tried to kill me with thy fish-knife, so to roast me for thy dinner. I, a mermaid of El Amo, once the fair and lovely Aino, sister dear of Jokahainen, spake the ancient Vaynemoinen, filled with sorrow, much regretting. Since thou art Jokahainen's sister, beauteous Aino of Poyola, come to me again, I pray thee. Thus the mermaid wisely answered, Nevermore will I no spirit fly to thee and be ill-treated. Quickly dive, the water maiden, from the surface of the billow to the many-colored pebbles to the rainbow-tinted grottos where the mermaids live and linger.
Vainamoinen, not discouraged, thought afresh and well reflected how to live and work and win her, drew with care his silken fishnet to and fro through foam and billow, through the bays and winding channels, drew it through the placid waters, drew it through the salmon dwellings, through the homes of water maidens, through the waters of Vainola, through the blueback of the ocean, through the lakes of distant Lapland, through the rivers of Yukola, through the seas of Kalevala, hoping thus to find his Aino. Many were the fish belanded, every form of fish-like creatures, but he did not catch the sea maid, not Velamo's water maiden, fairest daughter of the Northland. Finally the ancient minstrel, mind depressed and heart discouraged, spake these words immersed in sorrow.
Fool am I, and great my folly, having neither wit nor judgment. Surely once I had some knowledge, had some insight into wisdom, had at least a bit of instinct. But my virtues all have left me in these mournful days of evil, vanished with my youth and vigor, insight gone and sense departed, all my prudence gone to others. I know whom I love and cherish, all these years have sought to honor. I know now Velamo's maiden, promised friend of mine when needed, promised bride of mine forever, once I had within my power caught her in Velamo's grottoes, led her to my boat of copper, with my fishline made of silver. But alas, I could not keep her, did not know that I had caught her till too late to woo and win her, let her slip between my fingers to the home of water maidens, to the kingdom of Velamo.
Vainamoinen then departed, empty-handed, heavy-hearted, straightway hastened to his country, to his home in Kalevala, spake these words upon his journey. What has happened to the cuckoo, once the cuckoo bringing gladness in the morning, in the evening, often bringing joy at noontide? What has stilled the cuckoo's singing? What has changed the cuckoo's calling? Sorrow must have stilled his singing, and compassion changed his calling, as I hear him sing no longer, for my pleasure in the morning, for my happiness at evening. Never shall I learn the secret, how to live and how to prosper, how upon the earth to rest me, how upon the seas to wander. Only were my ancient mother, living on the face of Northland, surely she would well advise me, what my thought and what my action, that this cup of grief might pass me, that this sorrow might escape me, and this darkened cloud pass over.
In the deep awoke his mother, from her tomb she spake as follows. Only sleeping was thy mother, now awakes to give thee answer, what thy thought and what thine action, that this cup of grief may pass thee, that this sorrow may escape thee, and this darkened cloud pass over. Hide thee straightway to the Northland. Visit thou the Suomi daughters. Thou wilt find them wise and lovely, far more beautiful than I know, far more worthy of a husband, not such silly chatterboxes as the fickle Lapland maidens. Take for thee a life companion from the honest homes of Suomi, one of Northland's honest daughters. She will charm thee with her sweetness, make thee happy through her goodness, form perfection, manners easy, every step and movement graceful, full of wit and good behavior.
Honor to thy home and kindred.
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7 06 - RUNE VI. Wainamoinen's Hapless Journey 8:47
Rune 6 of The Kalevala. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Loonroot. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 6. Veina Moynihan's hapless journey.
Veynamoinen, old and truthful, now arranges for a journey to the village of the Northland, to the land of cruel winters, to the land of little sunshine, to the land of worthy women. Takes his lightfoot royal racer, then adjusts the golden bridle, lays upon his back and saddle, silver-buckled, copper stirruped, seats himself upon his courser, and begins his journey northward. Plunges onward, onward, onward, galloping along the highway, in his saddle, gaily fashioned, on his dappled steed of magic, plunging through Vainola's meadows, o'er the plains of Kalevala. Fast and far he galloped onward, galloped far beyond Vainola, bounded o'er the waste of waters, till he reached the blue sea's margin, wetting not the hooves in running.
But the evil Jokuhainen nursed a grudge within his bosom, in his heart the worm of envy, envy of this Venomoinen, of this wonderful enchanter. He prepares a cruel crossbow made of steel and other metals, paints the bow in many colors, molds the top piece out of copper, trims his bow with snowy silver, gold he uses too in trimming. Then he hunts for strongest sinews, finds them in the stag of Hisi, interweaves the flax of Lempoh. Ready is the cruel crossbow, string and shaft and ends are finished, beautiful the bow and mighty, surely cost it not a trifle. On the back a painted courser, on each end a cult of beauty, near the curve a maiden sleeping, near the notch a hair is bounding, wonderful the bow thus fashioned.
Cuts some arrows for his quiver, covers them with finest feathers, from the oak the shafts be fashioned, makes the tips of keenest metal. As the rods and points are finished, then he feathers well his arrows, from the plumage of the swallow, from the wing-quills of the sparrow, hardens well his feathered arrows, and imparts to each new virtue, steeps them in the blood of serpents, in the virus of the adder. Ready now are all his arrows, ready strung his cruel crossbow, waiting for wise Vaynamoinen. Yokohainen, Lapland's minstrel, waits a long time, is not weary, hopes to spy the ancient singer. Spies at day dawn, spies at evening, spies he ceaselessly at noontide, lies in wait for the magician, waits and watches as in envy.
Sits he at the open window, stands behind the hedge and watches, in the footpath waits and listens, spies along the balks of meadows. On his back he hangs his quiver, in his quiver feathered arrows dipped in virus of the viper, on his arm the mighty crossbow, waits and watches, and unwearied, listens from the boathouse window, lingers at the end of fogpoint, by the river flowing seaward, near the holy stream and whirlpool, near the sacred river's firefall. Finally, the Lapland minstrel Yokohainen of Poyola, at the breaking of the day dawn, at the early hour of morning, fixed his gaze upon the northeast, turned his eyes upon the sunrise, saw a black cloud on the ocean, something blue upon the waters, and soliloquized as follows.
Are those clouds on the horizon, or perchance the dawn of morning? Neither clouds on the horizon nor the dawning of the morning. It is ancient Vainamoinen, the renowned and wise enchanter, riding on his way to Northland, on his steed the royal racer, magic courser of Vainola. Quickly now, young Jokoainen, Lapland's vain and evil minstrel, filled with envy, grasps his crossbow, makes his bow and arrows ready for the death of Vainamoinen. Quick his aged mother asked him, spake these words to Jokoainen. For whose slaughter is thy crossbow, for whose heart thy poisoned arrows? Yokohainen thus made answer, I have made thy mighty crossbow, fashioned bow and poisoned arrows, for the death of Vaynamoinen.
Thus to slay the friend of waters, I must shoot the old magician, the eternal bard and hero, through the heart and through the liver, through the head and through the shoulders. With this bow and feathered arrows, thus destroy my rival minstrel. Then the aged mother answered, thus reproving, thus forbidding. Do not slay, good Vainamoinen, ancient hero of the Northland, from a noble tribe descended, he, my sister's son, my nephew. If thou slayest Vainamoinen, ancient son of Kalevala, then alas, all joy will vanish, perish all our wondrous singing. Better on the earth the gladness, better hear the magic music, than within the nether regions, in the kingdom of Tuoni, in the realm of the departed, in the land of the hereafter.
Then the youthful Jokohainen thought a while and well considered, ere he made a final answer. With one hand he raised the crossbow, but the other seemed to weaken as he drew the cruel bowstring. Finally these words he uttered as his bosom swelled with envy. Let all joy forever vanish, let earth's pleasures quickly perish, disappear earth's sweetest music, happiness depart forever. Shoot I will this rival minstrel, little heeding what the end is. Quickly now he bends his firebow. On his left knee rests the weapon, with his right foot firmly planted. Thus he strings his bow of envy. Takes three arrows from his quiver, choosing well the best among them. Carefully adjusts the bowstring. Sets with care the feathered arrow.
To the flaxen string he lays it. Holds the crossbow to his shoulder, aiming well along the margin, at the heart of Vaynemoinen. Waiting till he gallops nearer, in the shadow of a thicket. Speaks these words while he is waiting. Be thou flaxen string elastic, swiftly fly thou feathered ashwood, swiftly speed thou deadly missile, quick as light thou poisoned arrow, to the heart of Vayne Amoynon. If my hand too low should hold thee, may the gods direct thee higher. If too high my eye should aim thee, may the gods direct thee lower. Steady now, he pulls the trigger. Like the lightning flies the arrow over the head of Vaynamoinen, to the upper sky it darteth, and the highest clouds it pierces scatters all the flock of lamb clouds on its rapid journey skyward.
Not discouraged, quick-selecting, quick-adjusting, Joko Hainan, quickly aiming, shoots a second. Speeds the arrow, swift as lightning, much too low he aimed the missile, into earth the arrow plunges, pierces to the lower regions, splits in two the old sand mountain. Nothing daunted, Joko Hainan, quick-adjusting, shoots a third one. Swift as light it speeds its journey, strikes the steed of Wainamoinen, strikes the lightfoot ocean swimmer, strikes him near his golden girdle, through the shoulder of the racer. Thereupon wise Wainamoinen headlong fell upon the waters, plunged beneath the rolling billows, from the saddle of the courser, from his dappled steed of magic. Then arose a mighty stormwind, roaring wildly on the waters, bore away old Wainamoinen.
The Nevermore, old Venomoinen, nevermore in all thy lifetime, while the golden moonlight glistens, nevermore will fix thy vision, on the meadows of Vainola, on the plains of Kalevala. Full six years must swim the oceans, tread the waves of seven summers, eight years ride the foamy billows in the broad expanse of water, six long autumns as a fir tree, seven winters as a pebble, eight long summers as an aspen. Thereupon the Lapland minstrel hastened to his room delighting when his mother thus addressed him. Hast thou slain Gudvein Amoynen, slain the son of Kalevala? Jokahainen thus made answer. I have slain old Vainamoinen, slain the son of Kalevala, that he now may plow the ocean, that he now may sweep the waters, on the billows rock and slumber.
In the salt sea plunged he headlong, in the deep sank the magician, sideways turned he to the seashore, on his back to rock forever, thus the boundless sea to travel, thus to ride the rolling billows. This the answer of the mother. Woe to earth for this thine action! Gone forever joy and singing! Vanished is the wit of ages! Thou hast slain Gudvain Amoynen, slain the ancient wisdom singer, slain the pride of Suwantala, slain the hero of Vainola, slain the joy of Kalevala.
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8 07 - RUNE VII. Wainamoinen's Rescue 13:11
Rune 7 of The Kalevala. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Loonroot. Translated by John Martin Crawford.
Rune 7. Venamoinen's Rescue.
Vainamoinen, old and truthful, swam through all the deep sea waters, floating like a branch of aspen, like a withered twig of willow. Swam six days in summer weather, swam six nights in golden moonlight. Still before him rose the billows, and behind him sky and ocean. Two days more he swam undaunted. Two long nights he struggled onward. On the evening of the eighth day, Veynamoinen grew disheartened, felt a very great discomfort, for his feet had lost their toenails, and his fingers dead and dying. Veynamoinen, ancient minstrel, sad and weary, spake as follows. Woe is me, my old life faded. Woe is me, Miss Fortune's offspring. Fool was I when fortune favored, to forsaken my home and kindred, for a maiden fair and lovely, here beneath the starry heavens, in this cruel waste of waters, days and nights to swim and wander, here to struggle with the storm winds, to be tossed by heaving billows, in this broad sea's great expanses, in this ocean vast and boundless.
Cold my life, and sad and dreary, painful too for me to linger evermore within these waters, thus to struggle for existence. Cannot know how I can prosper, how to find me food and shelter in these cold and lifeless waters, in these days of dire misfortune. Build I in the winds my dwelling, it will find no sure foundation. Build my home upon the billows, surely would the waves destroy it. Comes a bird from far, Poyola, from the Occident, an eagle. Is not classed among the largest, nor belongs he to the smallest. One wing touches on the waters, while the other sweeps the heavens. Over the waves he wings his body, strikes his beak upon the sea cliffs. Flies about, then safely perches, looks before him, looks behind him.
There beholds brave Vaynamoinen on the blueback of the ocean. And the eagle thus accosts him. Wherefore art thou, ancient hero, swimming in the deep-sea billows? Thus the water minstrel answered, I am ancient Wainamoinen, friend and fellow of the waters. I, the famous wisdom singer, went to woo a Northland maiden, maiden from the dismal darkland, quickly galloped on my journey, riding on the plain of ocean. I arrived one morning early, at the breaking of the day dawn, at the bay of Luotola, near Yokola's foaming river, where the evil Yokohainen slew my steed with bow and arrow, tried to slay me with his weapons. On the waters fell I headlong, plunge beneath the salt sea's surface, from the saddle of the courser, from my dappled steed of magic.
Then arose a mighty stormwind, from the east and west a whirlwind, washed me seaward on the surges, seaward, seaward, further, further, where for many days I wandered, swam and rocked upon the billows, where as many nights I struggled in the dashing waves and sea-foam with the angry winds and waters. Woe is me, my life hard-fated, cannot solve this heavy problem, how to live nor how to perish in this cruel, salt-sea water. Build I in the winds my dwelling, it will find no sure foundation. Build my home upon the waters, surely will the waves destroy it. Must I swim the sea forever, must I live or must I perish? What will happen if I perish, if I sink below the billows? Perish here from cold and hunger.
Thus the bird of ether answered, Be not in the least disheartened, place thyself between my shoulders, on my back be firmly seated, I will lift thee from the waters, bear thee with my pinions upward, bear thee whereso'er thou willest. Well do I the day remember where thou didst the eagle's service, when thou didst the birds a favour. Thou didst leave the birch-tree standing when were cleared the Osmo forests from the lands of Kalevala as a home for weary songbirds, as a resting place for eagles. Then arises Vaynemoinen, lifts his head above the waters, boldly rises from the sea waves, lifts his body from the billows, seats himself upon the eagle, on the eagle's feathered shoulders. Quick aloft the huge bird bears him, bears the ancient Veinamoynen, bears him on the path of zephyrs, floating on the vernal breezes, to the distant shore of Northland, to the dismal Saariola, where the eagle leaves his burden, flies away to join his fellows.
Veinamoynen, lone and weary, straightway fell to bitter weeping, wept and moaned in heavy accents on the border of the Blue Sea. On a cheerless promontory, with a hundred wounds tormented, made by cruel winds and waters, with his hair and beard disheveled by the surging of the billows. Three long days he wept disheartened, wept as many nights in anguish, did not know what way to journey, could not find a woodland footprint that would point him to the highway, to his home in Kalevala, to his much-loved home and kindred. Northland's young and slender maiden, with complexion fair and lovely, with the sun had laid a wager, with the sun and moon a wager, which would rise before the other on the morning of the morrow.
And the maiden rose in beauty long before the sun had risen, long before the moon had wakened from their beds beneath the ocean. Ere the cock had crowed the daybreak, ere the sun had broken slumber, she had sheared six gentle lambkins, gathered from them six white fleeces, hence to make the rolls for spinning, hence to form the threads for weaving, hence to make the sophist raiment, ere the morning dawn had broken, ere the sleeping sun had risen. When this task the maid had ended, then she scrubbed the birchen table, sweeps the ground floor of the stable with a broom of leaves and branches from the birches of the Northland, scrapes the sweepings well together on a shovel made of copper, carries them beyond the stable from the doorway to the meadow to the meadow's distant border.
Near the surges of the great sea, listens there and looks about her. Here's a wailing from the waters. Here's a weeping from the seashore. Here's a hero voice lamenting. Thereupon she hastens homeward, hastens to her mother's dwelling, these the words the maiden utters. I have heard a wail from ocean, heard a weeping from the seacoast, on the shore someone lamenting. Luohi hostess of Poyola, ancient toothless dame of Northland, hastens from her door and courtyard, through the meadow to the seashore, listens well for sounds of weeping, for the wail of one in sorrow. Hears the voice of one in trouble, hears a hero cry of anguish. Thus the ancient Luohi answers. This is not the wail of children, these are not the tears of women.
In this way we bearded heroes. This the hero cry of anguish. Quick she pushed her boat to water, to the floods her goodly vessel. Straightway rose with lightning swiftness to the weeping Vaynemoinen. Gives the hero consolation, comfort gives she to the minstrel, wailing in a grove of willows in his piteous condition. Mid the alder trees and aspens on the border of the salt sea, visage trembling locks disheveled, ears and eyes and lips of sadness. The Oji, hostess of Poyola, thus addresses Vaynemoinen. Tell me what has been thy folly, that thou art in this condition. Bold and truthful Vainamoinen lifts aloft his head and answers, Well, I know that it is folly that has brought me all this trouble, brought me to this land of strangers, to these regions unbefitting.
Happy was I with my kindred in my distant home and country. There my name was named in honor. Lo, he hostess of Poyola, thus replied to Vainamoinen. I would gain the information should I be allowed to ask thee, who thou art of ancient heroes, who of all the host of heroes. This is Wainamoinen's answer. Formerly my name was mentioned, often was I heard and honored as a minstrel and magician in the long and dreary winters, called the singer of the Northland in the valleys of Wainola on the plains of Kalevala. No one thought that such misfortune could befall wise Wainamoinen. Lo, he, hostess of Poyola, thus replied in cheering accents, Rise, O hero, from discomfort, from thy bed among the willows.
Enter now upon the new way. Come with me to yonder dwelling. There relate thy strange adventures. Tell the tale of thy misfortunes. Now she takes the hapless hero, lifts him from his bed of sorrow. In her boat she safely seats him, and begins at once her rowing. Rows with steady hand and mighty to her home upon the seashore, to the dwellings of Poyola. There she feeds the starving hero, rests the ancient Vaynemoinen, gives him warmth and food and shelter, and the hero soon recovers. Then the hostess of Poyola questioned thus the ancient singer. Wherefore didst thou, Venemoynen, friend and fellow of the waters, weep in sad and bitter accents on the border of the ocean, mid the aspens and the willows?
This is Venemoynen's answer. Had good reason for my weeping cause enough for all my sorrow, long indeed had I been swimming, had been buffeting the billows in the far outstretching waters. This the reason for my weeping. I have lived in toil and torture since I left my home and country, left my native land and kindred. Came to this the land of strangers, to these unfamiliar portals. All thy trees have thorns to wound me, all thy branches spines to pierce me, even birches give me trouble, and the altars bring discomfort. My companions, winds and waters, only does the sun seem friendly in this cold and cruel country near these unfamiliar portals. Lo, he thereupon made answer. Weep no longer, Vainamoinen, grieve no more, thou friend of waters.
Good for thee that thou shouldst linger at our friendly homes and firesides. Thou shalt live with us and welcome. Thou shalt sit at all our tables, eat the salmon from our platters, eat the sweetest of our bacon, eat the whiting from our waters. Answers thus old Venemoinen, grateful for the invitation. Never do I court strange tables, though the food be rare and toothsome. One's own country is the dearest, one's own table is the sweetest, one's own home the most attractive. Grant, kind Ukko, God above me, thou creator full of mercy, grant that I again may visit my beloved home and country. Better dwell in one's own country, there to drink its healthful waters, from the simple cups of birchwood, than in foreign lands to wander, there to drink the rarest liquors from the golden bowls of strangers.
Lo, he hostess of Poyola, thus replied to the magician, What reward will thou award me, should I take thee where thou willest, to thy native land and kindred, to thy much-loved home and fireside, to the meadows of Vainola, to the plains of Kalevala? These are the words of Wainamoinen. What would be rewards sufficient shouldst thou take me to my people, to my home and distant country, to the borders of the Northland, there to hear the cuckoo singing, hear the sacred cuckoo calling? Shall I give thee golden treasures, fill thy cups with finest silver? This is Luohi's simple answer. O thou ancient Wainamoinen, only true and wise magician, never will I ask for riches, never ask for gold nor silver.
Gold is for the children's flowers, silver for the stallion's jewels. Canst thou forge for me the sampo, hammer me the lid in colors, from the tips of white swan feathers, from the milk of greatest virtue, from a single grain of barley, from the finest wool of lambkins? I will give thee too, my daughter, will reward thee through the maiden, take thee to thy much-loved homeland, to the borders of Vainola, there to hear the cuckoo singing, hear the sacred cuckoo calling. Veinamoynen, much regretting, gave this answer to her question. He cannot forge for thee the sampo, cannot make the lid in colors. Take me to my distant country, I will send thee Il-Marinen. He will forge for thee the sampo, hammer thee the lid in colors.
He may win thy lovely maiden, worthy smith.
Thus replied the hostess Lohi. Him alone I'll give my daughter, promise him my child in marriage, who for me will forge the sampo, hammer me the lid in colors, from the tips of white swan feathers, from the milk of greatest virtue, from a single grain of barley, from the finest wool of lambkins. Thereupon the hostess Louhi, harnessed quick a dappled courser, hitched him to her sledge of birch wood, placed within it Vein Amoynen, placed the hero on the cross bench, made him ready for his journey. Then addressed the ancient minstrel, these the words that Lowu he uttered. Do not raise thine eyes to heaven, look not upward on thy journey, while thy steed is fresh and frisky, while the day star lights thy pathway, ere the evening star has risen.
If thine eyes be lifted upward, while the day star lights thy pathway, dire misfortune will befall thee, some sad fate will overtake thee. Then the ancient Vainamoinen fleetly drove upon his journey. Merrily he hastened homeward, hastened homeward, happy-hearted, from the ever-darksome Northland, from the dismal Sa-Reola.
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9 08 - RUNE VIII. Maiden of the Rainbow 9:38
Rune 8 of the Kalevala. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.
The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Loonroot, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 8, Maiden of the Rainbow.
Poyola's fair and winsome daughter, glory of the land and water, sat upon the bow of heaven. On its highest arch resplendent, in a gown of richest fiber, in a gold and silver air gown, weaving webs of golden texture, interlacing threads of silver, weaving with a golden shuttle, with a weaving comb of silver. Merrily flies the golden shuttle, from the maiden's nimble fingers, briskly swings the lathe in weaving, swiftly flies the comb of silver, from the sky-born maiden's fingers, weaving webs of wondrous beauty. Came the ancient Wainamoinen driving down the highway homeward from the ever sunless Northland from the dismal Saariola. Few the furlongs had he driven, driven but a little distance when he heard the skyloom buzzing as the maiden plied the shuttle.
Quick the thoughtless Wainamoinen lifts his eyes aloft in wonder, looks upon the vault of heaven. There beholds the bow of beauty, on the bow the maiden sitting, beauteous maiden of the rainbow. Glory of the earth and ocean, weaving there a golden fabric, working with the rustling silver. Vainamoinen, ancient minstrel, quickly checks his fleet-foot racer, looks upon the charming maiden, then addresses her as follows. Come, fair maiden, to my snow-sleigh, by my side I wish thee seated. Thus the maid of beauty answers. Tell me what thou wishest of me, should I join thee in the snow-sleigh? Speaks the ancient Vainamoinen, answers thus the maid of beauty. This the reason for thy coming. Thou shalt bake me honey biscuits, shalt prepare me barley water, thou shalt fill my foaming beer cups, thou shalt sing beside my table, shalt rejoice within my portals, walk a queen within my dwelling, in the vinola halls and chambers, in the courts of Kalevala.
Thus the maid of beauty answered from her throne amid the heavens. Yesterday at hour of twilight went I to the flowery meadows there to rock upon the common where the sun retires to slumber. There I heard a songbird singing, heard the thrush simple measures, singing sweetly thoughts of maidens and the minds of anxious mothers. Then I asked the pretty songster, asked the thrush the simple question. Sing to me, thou pretty songbird, sing that I may understand thee, sing to me in truthful accents how to live in greatest pleasure, and in happiness the sweetest as a maiden with her father or as wife beside her husband. Thus the songbird gave me answer, sang the thrush this information. Bright and warm are days of summer, warmer still is maiden freedom.
Cold is iron in the winter, thus the lives of married women. Maidens living with their mothers are like ripe and ruddy berries. Married women, far too many, are like dogs and chained in kennel. Rarely do they ask for favors. Not to wives are favors given. Veynamoinen, old and truthful, answers thus the maid of beauty. Foolish is the thrush thus singing, nonsense is the songbird's twitter. Like to babes are maidens treated, wives are queens and highly honored. Come, sweet maiden, to my snow sleigh, I am not despised as hero, not the meanest of magicians. Come with me, and I will take thee, wife and queen, in Kalevala. Thus the maid of beauty answered. Would consider thee a hero, mighty hero, I would call thee, when a golden hair thou splittest, using knives that have no edges, when thou snarest me a bird's egg with a snare that I can see not.
They, Nemoinen, skilled and ancient, split a golden hair exactly, using knives that had no edges, and he snared an egg as nicely with a snare the maiden saw not. Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-slay, I have done what thou desirest. Thus the maiden wisely answered. Never enter I thy snow-sleigh, till thou peelest me the sandstone, till thou cuttest me a whipstick, from the ice, and make no splinters, losing not the smallest fragment. Veynamoinen, true magician, nothing daunted, not discouraged, deftly peeled the rounded sandstone, deftly cut from ice a whipstick, cutting not the finest splinter, losing not the smallest fragment. Then again he called the maiden to a seat within his snow-sleigh. But the maid of beauty answered, answered thus the great magician.
I will go with that one only, that will make me ship or shallop, from the splinters of my spindle, from the fragments of my distaff, in the waters launch the vessel, set the little ship afloating, using not the knee to push it, using not the arm to move it, using not the hand to touch it, using not the foot to turn it, using nothing to propel it. Spake the skillful Vaynemoinen, these the words the hero uttered. There is no one in the Northland, no one under vault of heaven, who, like me, can build a vessel from the fragments of the distaff, from the splinters of the spindle. Then he took the distaff fragments, took the splinters of the spindle, hastened off the boat to fashion, hastened to an iron mountain, there to join the many fragments.
Full of zeal, he plies the hammer, swings the hammer and the hatchet. Nothing daunted. Builds the vessel. Works one day, and then a second. Works with steady hand the third day. On the evening of the third day, evil Hisi grasps the hatchet. Lempoh takes the crooked handle. Turns aside the axe in falling. Strikes the rocks and breaks to pieces. From the rocks rebound the fragments. Pierce the flesh of the magician. Cut the knee of Vainamoinen. Lempoh guides the sharpened hatchet, and the veins fell Hisi severs. Quickly gushes forth a bloodstream, and the stream is crimson-colored. Vain Amoynon, old and truthful, the renowned and wise enchanter, thus out-speaks in measured accents. O thou keen and cruel hatchet, O thou axe of sharpened metal!
Thou shouldst cut the trees to fragments, cut the pine tree and the willow, cut the alder and the birch tree, cut the juniper and aspen. Shouldst not cut my knee to pieces, shouldst not tear my veins asunder. Then the ancient Vahedamoinen thus begins his incantations, thus begins his magic singing of the origin of evil. Every word in perfect order makes no effort to remember, sings the origin of iron, that a bolt he well may fashion, thus prepare a look for surety, for the wounds the axe has given, that the hatchet has torn open. But the stream flows like a brooklet, rushing like a maddened torrent, stains the herbs upon the meadows, scarcely is a bit of verdure that the bloodstream does not cover, as it flows and rushes onward from the knee of the magician, from the veins of Vaynemoinen.
Now the wise and ancient minstrel gathers lichens from the sandstone, picks them from the trunks of birches, gathers moss within the marshes, pulls the grasses from the meadows, thus to stop the crimson streamlet, thus to close the wounds laid open. But his work is unsuccessful, and the crimson stream flows onward. Vey, Nemoinen, ancient minstrel, feeling pain and fearing languor, falls to weeping heavy-hearted. Quickly now, his steed he hitches, hitches to the sleigh of Birchwood, climbs with pain upon the crossbench, strikes his steed in quick succession, snaps his whip above the racer, and the steed flies onward swiftly. Like the winds, he sweeps the highway till he nears a Northland village, where the way is triple-parted.
Vainamoinen, old and truthful, takes the lowest of the highways, quickly nears a spacious cottage, quickly asks before the doorway, Is there any one here dwelling that can know the pain I suffer, that can heal this wound of hatchet, that can check this crimson streamlet? Sat a boy within a corner, on a bench beside a baby, and he answered thus the hero, There is no one in this dwelling that can know the pain thou feelest, that can heal the wounds of hatchet, that can check the crimson streamlet. Someone lives in yonder cottage that perchance can do the service. Wey-Nemoinen, ancient minstrel, whips his courser to a gallop, dashes on along the highway, only drives a little distance on the middle of the highways to a cabin on the roadside, asks one standing on the threshold, questions all through open windows.
These the words the hero uses. Is there no one in this cabin that can know the pain I suffer, that can heal this wound of hatchet, that can check this crimson streamlet? On the floor a witch was lying. Near the fireplace lay the beldame. Thus she spake to Vainamwen, and through her rattling teeth she answered. There is no one in this cabin that can know the pain thou feelest, that can heal the wounds of hatchets, that can check the crimson streamlet. Someone lives in yonder cottage that perchance can do thee service. Vain Amoynen, nothing daunted, whips his racer to a gallop, dashes on along the highway, only drives a little distance on the upper of the highways, gallops to a humble cottage, asks one standing near the penthouse sitting on the penthouse door sill.
Is there no one in this cottage that can know the pain I suffer, that can heal this wound of hatchet, that can check this crimson streamlet? Near the fireplace sat an old man, on the hearthstone sat the greybeard. Thus he answered Vain Amoynen. Greater things have been accomplished, much more wondrous things effected, through but three words of the Master, through the telling of the causes. Streams and oceans have been tempered, river cataracts been lessened, bays been made of promontories, islands raised from deep-sea bottoms.
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10 09 - RUNE IX. Origin of Iron 18:57
Rune 9 of The Kalevala. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Loonrout. Translated by John Martin Crawford.
Rune 9, Origin of Iron.
Vainamoinen, thus encouraged, quickly rises in his snowsleigh, asking no one for assistance, straightway hastens to the cottage, takes a seat within the dwelling. Come to maids with silver pitchers, bringing also golden goblets, dip they up a very little, but the very smallest measure, of the blood of the magician, from the wounds of Vainamoinen. From the fireplace calls the old man, thus the greybeard asks the minstrel. Tell me who thou art of heroes, who of all the great magicians. Lo, thy blood fills seven sea boats, eight of largest birchen vessels, flowing from some hero's veinlets, from the wounds of some magician. Other matters I would ask thee, sing the cause of this thy trouble, sing to me the source of metal, sing the origin of iron, how at first it was created.
Then the ancient Vainamoinen made this answer to the Greybeard. Know I well the source of metals, know the origin of iron, I can tell how steel is fashioned. Of the mothers, air is oldest, water is the oldest brother, and the fire is second brother, and the youngest brother, iron. Ukko is the first creator. Ukko, maker of the heavens, cut apart the air and water, air was born the metal, iron. Ukko, maker of the heavens, firmly rubbed his hands together, firmly pressed them on his kneecap. Then arose three lovely maidens, three most beautiful of daughters. These were mothers of the iron, and of steel of bright blue color. Trembling, they walked the heavens, walked the clouds of silver linings, with their bosoms overflowing with the milk of future iron, flowing on and flowing ever from the bright rims of the cloudlets to the earth the valleys filling, to the slumber-calling waters.
Ukko's eldest daughter sprinkled black milk over river channels, and the second daughter sprinkled white milk over hills and mountains, while the youngest daughter sprinkled red milk over seas and oceans. Where the black milk had been sprinkled grew the dark in ductile iron. Where the white milk had been sprinkled grew the iron lighter colored. Where the red milk had been sprinkled grew the red in brittle iron. After time had gone a distance, iron hastened fire to visit his beloved elder brother, thus to know his brother better. Straightway fire began his roarings, labored to consume his brother, his beloved younger brother. Straightway iron sees his danger, saves himself by fleetly fleeing. From the fiery flames advances, fleeing hither, fleeing thither, fleeing still and taking shelter.
In the swamps and in the valleys, in the springs that loudly bubble, by the rivers winding seaward, on the broadbacks of the marshes, where the swans their nests have builded, where the wild geese hatch their goslings. Thus is iron in the swampland, stretching by the watercourses, hidden well for many ages, hidden in the birchen forests. But he could not hide forever from the searchings of his brother. Here and there the fire has caught him, caught and brought him to his furnace, that the spears and swords and axes might be forged and duly hammered. In the swamps ran blackened waters, from the heath the bears came ambling, and the wolves ran through the marshes. Iron then made his appearance, where the feet of wolves had trodden, where the paws of bears had trampled.
Then the blacksmith Ilmerinen came to earth to work the metal. He was born upon the coal mount, skilled and nurtured in the coal fields. In one hand a copper hammer, in the others tongs of iron. In the night was born the blacksmith, in the morn he built his smithy. Sought with care a favored hillock where the winds might fill his bellows. Found a hillock in the swamplands where the iron hid abundantly. There he built his smelting furnace, there he laid his leathern bellows, hastened where the wolves had traveled, followed where the bears had trampled, found the iron's young formations in the wolf tracks of the marshes, in the footprints of the grey bear. Then the blacksmith Ilmerinen thus addressed the sleeping iron.
Thou most useful of the metals, thou art sleeping in the marshes, thou art hid in low conditions where the wolf treads in the swamplands, where the bear sleeps in the thickets. Hast thou thought and well considered what would be thy future station? Should I place thee in the furnace, thus to make thee free and useful? Then was Iron sorely frightened, much distressed, and filled with horror, when of fire he heard the mention, mention of his fell destroyer. Then again speaks Ilmerin, and thus the smith addresses Iron. Be not frightened, useful metal. Surely fire will not consume thee, will not burn his youngest brother, will not harm his nearest kindred. Come thou to my room and furnace, where the fire is freely burning.
Thou wilt live and grow and prosper, wilt become the swords of heroes, buckles for the belts of women. Ere arose the star of evening, iron ore had left the marshes, from the water beds had risen, had been carried to the furnace. In the fire the smith had laid it, laid it in his smelting furnace. Ilmerinen starts the bellows, gives three motions of the handle, and the iron flows in streamlets from the forge of the magician, soon becomes like baker's leaven, soft as dough for bread of barley. Then out screamed the metal iron, wondrous blacksmith Ilmerinen, take, oh take me from thy furnace, from this fire and cruel torture. Ilmerinen thus made answer. I will take thee from my furnace. Thou art but a little frightened.
Thou shalt be a mighty power. Thou shalt slay the best of heroes. Thou shalt wound thy dearest brother. Straightway Iron made this promise, vowed and swore in strongest accents, by the furnace, by the anvil, by the tongs, and by the hammer. These the words he vowed and uttered. Many trees that I shall injure shall devour the hearts of mountains, shall not slay my nearest kindred, shall not kill the best of heroes, shall not wound my dearest brother. Better live in civil freedom. Happier would be my lifetime should I serve my fellow beings, serve as tools for their convenience, then as implements of warfare. Slay my friends and nearest kindred. Wound the children of my mother. Now the master, Il-Marinnen, the renowned and skillful blacksmith, from the fire removes the iron, places it upon the anvil, hammers well until it softens, hammers many fine utensils, hammers spears and swords and axes, hammers knives and forks and hatchets, hammers tools of all descriptions.
Many things the blacksmith needed, many things he could not fashion, could not make the tongue of iron, could not hammer steel from iron, could not make the iron harden. Well considered, Ilmarin, and deeply thought and long reflected. Then he gathered birchen ashes, steeped the ashes in the water, made a lie to hardened iron, thus to form the steel most needful. With his tongue he tests the mixture, weighs it long and well considers, and the blacksmith speaks as follows. All this labor is for nothing, will not fashion steel from iron, will not make the soft ore harden. Now a bee flies from the meadow, blue-wing coming from the flowers, flies about then safely settles near the furnace of the smithy.
Thus the smith, the bee, addresses these the words of Il-Marennin. Little bee, thou tiny birdling, bring me honey on thy winglets, on thy tongue I pray thee bring me sweetness from the fragrant meadows, from the little cups of flowers, from the tips of seven petals, that we thus may aid the water to produce the steel from iron. Evil Hissi's bird, the Hornet, heard these words of Ilmarinen, looking from the cottage gable, flying to the bark of birch trees while the iron bars were heating, while the steel was being tempered. Swiftly flew the stinging Hornet, scattered all the Hissi horrors, brought the blessings of the serpent, brought the venom of the adder, brought the poison of the spider, brought the stings of all the insects, mixed them with the ore and water, while the steel was being tempered.
Ilmarinen, skillful blacksmith, first of all the- The ironworkers thought the bee had surely brought him honey from the fragrant meadows, from the little cups of flowers, from the tips of seven petals. And he spake the words that follow. Welcome, welcome is thy coming, honeyed sweetness from the flowers. Thou hast brought to aid the water, thus to form the steel from iron. Ilmerin, an ancient blacksmith, dipped the iron into water, water mixed with many poisons, thought it but the wild bee's honey. Thus he formed the steel from iron. When he plunged it into water, water mixed with many poisons, when he placed it in the furnace, angry grew the hardened iron, broke the vow that he had taken, ate his words like dogs and devils, mercilessly cut his brother, madly raged against his kindred, caused the blood to flow in streamlets from the wounds of man and hero, this the origin of iron, and of steel of light blue color.
From the hearth arose the graybeard, shook his heavy looks, and answered. Now I know the source of iron, whence the steel and whence its evils. Curses on thee, cruel iron, curses on the steel thou givest, curses on thee, tongue of evil, cursed be thy life for ever. Once thou wert of little value, having neither form nor beauty, neither strength nor great importance, when in form of milk thou rested, when for ages thou wert hidden in the breasts of God's three daughters, hidden in their heaving bosoms, on the borders of the cloudlets, in the blue vault of the heavens. Thou wert once of little value, having neither form nor beauty, neither strength nor great importance, when like water thou wert resting on the broadback of the marshes, in the steep declines of mountains, when thou wert but formless matter, only dust of rusty color.
Surely thou wert void of greatness, having neither strength nor beauty, when the moose was trampling on thee, when the roebuck trod upon thee, when the tracks of wolves were in thee, and the bear paws scratched thy body. Surely thou hadst little value when the skillful Ilmarinen, first of all the iron-workers, brought thee from the blackened swamplands, took thee to his ancient smithy, placed thee in his fiery furnace. Truly thou hadst little vigor, little strength, and little danger, when thou in the fire wert hissing, rolling forth Now forsooth. The truth thou hast grown mighty, thou canst rage in wildest fury, thou hast broken all thy pledges, all thy solemn vows hast broken, like the dogs thou shamest honor, shamest both thyself and kindred, tainted all with breath of evil.
Tell who drove thee to this mischief, tell who taught thee all thy malice, tell who gavest thee thine evil. Did thy father or thy mother, did the eldest of thy brothers, did the youngest of thy sisters, did the worst of all the kindred give to thee thine evil nature? Not thy father, nor thy mother, not the eldest of thy brothers, not the youngest of thy sisters, not the worst of all thy kindred, but thyself hast done this mischief, thou the cause of all our trouble. Come and view thine evil doings, and amend this flood of damage, ere I tell thy grey-haired mother, ere I tell thine aged father. Great indeed a mother's anguish, great indeed a father's sorrow, when a son does something evil, when a child runs wild and lawless.
Crimson streamlets cease thy flowing from the wounds of Vay-Nemoinen, blood of ages stop thy coursing from the veins of the magicians. Stand like heaven's crystal pillars, stand like columns in the ocean, stand like birch trees in the forest, like the tall reeds in the marshes, like the high rocks of the seacoast, stand by power of mighty magic. Should perforce thy will impel thee, flow thou on thine endless circuit, through the veins of Vainamoinen, through the bones and through the muscles, through the lungs and heart and liver of the mighty sage and singer. Better be the food of heroes than to waste thy strength and virtue on the meadows and the woodlands, and be lost in dust and ashes. Flow forever in thy circle.
Thou must cease this crimson outflow. Stain no more the grass and flowers. Stain no more these golden hilltops, pride and beauty of our heroes. In the veins of the Magician, in the heart of Vayne Amoynon, is thy rightful home and storehouse. Thither now withdraw thy forces, thither hasten swiftly flowing. Flow no more as crimson currents, fill no longer crimson lakelets, must not rush like brooks in springtide, nor meander like the rivers. Cease thy flow by word of magic, cease as did the falls of Tiri'ra, as the rivers of Tu'oni, when the sky withheld her raindrops, when the sea gave up her waters, in the famine of the seasons, in the years of fire and torture. If thou heedest not this order, I shall offer other measures.
Know I well of other forces. I shall call the Heese Irons. In them I shall boil and roast thee, thus to check thy crimson flowing, thus to save the wounded hero. If these means be inefficient, should these measures prove unworthy, I shall call Omniscient Ukko, mightiest of the creators, stronger than all ancient heroes, wiser than the world magicians. He will check the crimson outflow. He will heal this wound of hatchet. Ukko, God of love and mercy, God and master of the heavens, come thou hither, thou art needed, come thou quickly, I beseech thee, lend thy hand to aid thy children, touch this wound with healing fingers, stop this hero's streaming lifeblood, bind this wound with tender leaflets, mingle with them healing flowers, thus to check this crimson current, thus to save this great magician, save the life of Vainamoinen.
Thus at last the bloodstream ended, as the magic words were spoken. Then the graybeard, much rejoicing, sent his young son to the smithy, there to make a healing balsam from the herbs of tender fiber, from the healing plants and flowers, from the stalks secreting honey, from the roots and leaves and blossoms. On the way he meets an oak tree, and the oak the son addresses. Hast thou honey in thy branches? Does thy sap run full of sweetness? Thus the oak tree wisely answers. Yea, but last night dripped the honey down upon my spreading branches, and the clouds their fragrance sifted sifted honey on my leaflets from their home within the heavens. Then the sun takes oakwood splinters, takes the youngest oak tree branches, gathers many healing grasses, gathers many herbs and flowers, rarest herbs that grow in Northland, places them within the furnace in a kettle made of copper, lets them steep and boil together, bits of bark chipped from the oak tree, many herbs of healing virtues.
Steeps them one day, then a second, three long days of summer weather, days and nights in quick succession. Then he tries his magic balsam, looks to see if it is ready, if his remedy is finished. But the balsam is unworthy. Then he added other grasses, herbs of every healing virtue, that were brought from distant nations, many hundred leagues from Northland, gathered by the wisest minstrels, thither brought by nine enchanters. Three days more he steeped the balsam, three nights more the fire be tended, nine the days and nights he watched it, then again he tried the ointment, viewed it carefully and tested, found at last that it was ready, found the magic balm was finished. Nearby stood a branching birch tree.
On the border of the meadow, wickedly it had been broken, broken down by evil heesee. Quick he takes his balm of healing and anoints the broken branches, rubs the balsam in the fractures, thus addresses then the birch tree. With this balsam I anoint thee, with this salve thy wounds I cover, cover well thine injured places. Now the birch tree shall recover, grow more beautiful than ever. True, the birch tree soon recovered, grew more beautiful than ever, grew more uniform its branches, and its bowl more strongly stated. Thus it was betried, the balsam. Thus the magic salve he tested, touched with it the splintered sandstone, touched the broken blocks of granite, touched the fissures in the mountains, and the broken parts united.
All the fragments grew together. Then the young boy, quick returning with the balsam he had finished, to the graybeard gave the ointment, and the boy these measures uttered. Here I bring the balm of healing, wonderful the salve I bring thee. It will join the broken granite, make the fragments grow together, heat the fissures in the mountains, and restore the injured birch tree. With his tongue the old man tested, tested thus the magic balsam, found the remedy effective, found the balm had magic virtues. Then anointed he the minstrel, touched the wounds of Vaynamoinen, touched them with his magic balsam, with the balm of many virtues. Speaking words of ancient wisdom, these the words the Greybeard uttered.
Do not walk in thine own virtue. Do not work in thine own power. Walk in strength of thy Creator. Do not speak in thine own wisdom. Speak with tongue of mighty Ukko. In my mouth, if there be sweetness, it has come from my Creator. If my hands are filled with beauty, all the beauty comes from Ukko. When the wounds had been anointed, when the magic salve had touched them, straightway ancient Vaynamoenens suffered fearful pain and anguish, sank upon the floor in torment, turning one way, then another, sought for rest and found it nowhere, till his pain the graybeard banished, banished by the aid of magic, drove away his killing torment. To the court of all our trouble, to the highest hill of torture, to the distant rocks and ledges, to the evil bearing mountains, to the realm of wicked Hesey.
Then he took some silken fabric, quick he tore the silk asunder, making equal strips for wrapping, tied the ends with silken ribbons, making thus a healing bandage. Then he wrapped with skillful fingers, Wainamoinen's knee and ankle, wrapped the wounds of the magician. And this prayer the Greybeard uttered, Ukko's fabric is the bandage, Ukko's science is the surgeon, these have served the wounded hero, wrapped the wounds of the magician. Look upon us, God of mercy. Come and guard us, kind Creator, and protect us from all evil. Guide our feet, lest they may stumble. Guard our lives from every danger, from the wicked wilds of Hesey. Veinamoynen, old and truthful, felt the mighty aid of magic, felt the help of gracious Ukko.
Straightway stronger grew in body, straightway were the wounds united, quick the fearful pain departed. Strong and hardy grew the hero, straightway walked in perfect freedom, turned his knee in all directions, knowing neither pain nor trouble. Then the ancient Veinamoynen raised his eyes to high Yumala, looked with gratitude to heaven, looked on high in joy and gladness. Then addressed omniscient Ukko, this the prayer the minstrel uttered. O be praised, thou God of mercy, let me praise thee, my Creator, since thou gavest me assistance, and vouchsafed me thy protection, healed my wounds, instilled mine anguish, banished all my pain and trouble, caused by iron and by hisi. O ye people of Vainola, people of this generation, and the folk of future ages, fashion not in emulation, riverboat nor ocean shallop, boasting of its fine appearance, God alone can work completion, give to cause its perfect ending, never hand of man can find it, never can the hero give it, Ukko is the only master.
Kyle Raub.
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11 10 - RUNE X. Ilmarinen Forges the Sampo 17:52
Rune 10 of the Kalevala.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Loonroot. Translated by John Martin Crawford.
Rune 10. Ilmerinin forges the Sampo.
Wainamoinen the Magician takes his steed of copper color, hitches quick his fleet-foot courser, puts his racer to the snow sleigh, straightway springs upon the cross seat, snaps his whip adorned with jewels. Like the winds, the steed flies onward, like a lightning flash, the racer makes the snow sleigh creak and rattle, makes the highway quickly vanish, dashes on through fen and forest, over hills and through the valleys, over marshes, over mountains, over fertile plains and meadows. Journeys one day, then a second, so a third from morn till evening, till the third day evening brings him to the endless bridge of Osmo, to the Osmo fields and pastures, to the plains of Kalevala, when the heroes spake as follows.
May the wolves devour the dreamer, eat the laplander for dinner, may disease destroy the braggart, him who said that I should never see again my much-loved homeland, nevermore behold my kindred, never during all my lifetime, never while the sunshine brightens, never while the moonlight glimmers on the meadows of Vainola, on the plains of Kalevala. Then began Olve Namoinen, ancient bard and famous singer, to renew his incantations. Sang aloft a wondrous pine tree, till it pierced the clouds in growing, with its golden top and branches, till it touched the very heavens, spread its branches in the ether, in the ever-shining sunlight. Now he sings again and chanting, sings the moon to shine forever in the fir tree's emerald branches.
In its top he sings the great bear. Then he quickly journeys homewards, hastens to his golden portals, head awry and visage-wrinkled, crooked cap upon his forehead, since as ransom he had promised, Ilmarinen magic artist, thus to save his life from torture on the distant fields of Northland in the dismal Sarriola. When his stallion he had halted on the Osmo field and meadow, quickly rising in his snow sleigh, the magician heard one knocking, breaking coal within the smithy, beating with a heavy hammer. Vein Amoynen, famous minstrel, entering the smithy straightway, found the blacksmith Ilmarinen knocking with his copper hammer. Ilmarinen spake as follows. Welcome, brother Vein Amoynen, old and worthy Vein Amoynen.
Why so long hast thou been absent? Where hast thou so long been hiding? Veynamoinen then made answer. These the words of the Magician. Long indeed have I been living. Many dreary days have wandered. Many cheerless nights have lingered, floating on the cruel oceans, weeping in the fens and woodlands of the never-pleasant Northland in the dismal Saariola. With the Laplanders I've wandered, with the people filled with witchcraft. Promptly answers Ilmarennen. These the words the blacksmith uses. O thou ancient Vaynemoinen, famous and eternal singer, tell me of thy journey northward, of thy wanderings in Lapland, of thy dismal journey homeward. Spake the minstrel Vaynemoinen. I have much to tell thee, brother, listen to my wondrous story.
In the Northland lives a virgin, in a village there a maiden, that will not accept a lover, that a hero's hand refuses, that a wizard's heart disdaineth. All of Northland sings her praises, sings her worth and magic beauty, fairest maiden of Poyola, daughter of the earth and ocean. From her temples beams the moonlight, from her breast the gleam of sunshine, from her forehead shines the rainbow. On her neck the seven starlets, and the great bear from her shoulder. Ilmarinen, worthy brother, thou the only skillful blacksmith, go and see her wondrous beauty, see her gold and silver garments, see her robed in finest raiment, see her sitting on the rainbow, walking on the clouds of purple. Forge for her the magic sampo, forge the lid in many colors.
Thy reward shall be the virgin, thou shalt win this bride of beauty. Go and bring the lovely maiden to thy home in Kalevala. Spake the brother Ilmarinen. O thou cunning Vaynemoinen, thou hast promised me already to the ever darksome Northland thy devoted head to ransom, thus to rescue thee from trouble. I shall never visit Northland, shall not go to see thy maiden. Do not love the bride of beauty. Never while the moon-like glimmers shall I go to Driri Poya, to the plains of Sarriola, where the people eat each other, sink their heroes in the oceans, not for all the maids of Lapland. Spake the brother, Vein Amoynen. I can tell thee greater wonders, listen to my wonder story. I have seen the fir-tree blossom, seen its flowers with emerald branches, on the osmo fields and woodlands.
In its top there shines the moonlight, and the bear lives in its branches. Ilmarin and thus made answer. I cannot believe thy story, cannot trust thy tale of wonder, till I see the blooming fir tree with its many emerald branches, with its bare and golden moonlight. This is Vaynemoinen's answer. Wilt thou not believe my story? Come with me, and I will show thee, if my lips speak fact or fiction. Quick they journey to discover, haste to view the wondrous fir tree. Veinamoinen leads the journey, Ilmarinen closely follows. As they near the Osmo borders, Ilmarinen hastens forward, that he may behold the wonder, spies the bear within the fir top, sitting on its emerald branches, spies the gleam of golden moonlight.
Spake the ancient Veinamoinen, these the words the singer uttered. Climb this tree, dear Ilmarinen, and bring down the golden moonbeams, bring the moon and bear down with thee from the fir-tree's lofty branches. Ilmarinen, full consenting, straightway climb the golden fir-tree high upon the bough of heaven, thence to bring the golden moonbeams, thence to bring the bear of heaven from the fir-tree's topmost branches. Thereupon the blooming fir-tree spake these words to Ilmarinen. O thou senseless, thoughtless hero, thou hast neither wit nor instinct, thou dost climb my golden branches like a thing of little judgment, thus to get my pictured moonbeams, take away my silver starlight, steal my bare and blooming branches.
Quick as thought, old Vainamoinen, sang again in magic accents, sang a stormwind in the heavens, sang the wild winds into fury, and the singer spake as follows. Take, O Stormwind, take the forgeman, carry him within thy vessel, quickly hence and land the hero on the ever darksome northland on the dismal Sarriola. Now the stormwind quickly darkens, quickly piles the air together, makes of air a sailing vessel, takes the blacksmith Ilmarin, and fleetly from the fir-tree branches toward the never pleasant northland toward the dismal Sarriola. Through the air sailed Ilmarinen, fast and far the hero traveled, sweeping onward, sailing northward, riding in the track of stormwinds, o'er the moon beneath the sunshine, on the broadback of the great bear, till he neared Poyola's woodlands, neared the homes of Sarriola, and alighted undiscovered, was not noticed by the hunters, was not scented by the watchdogs.
Low he hostess of Poyola, ancient toothless dame of Northland, standing in the open courtyard, thus addresses Ilmarinen, as she She spies the hero-stranger. Who art thou of ancient heroes, who of all the host of heroes coming here upon the stormwind, over the sleighpath of the Aether, scented not by Poglia's watchdogs? This is Ilmarinen's answer. I have surely not come hither to be barked at by the watchdogs at these unfamiliar portals at the gates of Sarriola. Thereupon the Northland hostess asks again the hero-stranger. Hast thou ever been acquainted with the blacksmith of Vainola, with the hero Ilmarinen, with the skillful smith and artist? Long I've waited for his coming, long this one has been expected, on the borders of the Northland, here to forge for me the Sampo, spake the hero Ilmarinen.
Well indeed I am acquainted with the blacksmith Ilmarinen, I myself am Ilmarinen, I the skillful smith and artist. Louie, hostess of the Northland, toothless dame of Sarriola, straightway rushes to her dwelling. These the words that Louie utters. Come, thou youngest of my daughters, come, thou fairest of my maidens, dress thyself in finest raiment, deck thy hair with rarest jewels, pearls upon thy swelling bosom, on thy neck a golden necklace. Bind thy head with silken ribbons, make thy cheeks look fresh and ruddy, and thy visage fair and winsome, since the artist Ilmerinen hither comes from Kalevala, here to forge for us the sampo, hammer us the lid in colors. Now the daughter of the Northland, honored by the land and water, straightway takes her choicest raiment, takes her dresses rich in beauty, finest of her silken wardrobe, now adjusts her silken fillet.
On her brow a band of copper, round her waist a golden girdle, round her neck a pearly necklace, shining gold upon her bosom, in her hair the threads of silver. From her dressing room she hastens, to the hall she hastes and listens, full of beauty, full of joyance, ears erect and eyes bright beaming, rudy cheeks and charming visage, waiting for the hero-stranger. Luohi, hostess of Poyola, leads the hero Ilmarin and to her dwelling rooms in Northland, to her home in Sarriola, seats him at her well-filled table, gives to him the finest viands, gives him every needed comfort, then addresses him as follows. O thou blacksmith Ilmarinen, master of the forge and smithy, canst thou forge for me the sampo, hammer me the lid and colors, from the tips of white swan feathers, from the milk of greatest virtue, from a single grain of barley, from the finest wool of lambkins?
Thou shalt have my fairest daughter recompense for this thy service. These the words of Ilmarinen. I will forge for thee the sampo, hammer thee the lid in colors, from the tips of white swan feathers, from the milk of greatest virtue, from a single grain of barley, from the finest wool of lambkins. Since I forged the arch of heaven, forged the air a concave cover, ere the earth had a beginning. Thereupon the magic blacksmith went to forge the wondrous sampo, went to find a blacksmith's workshop, went to find the tools to work with. But he found no place for forging, found no smithy, found no bellows, found no chimney, found no anvil, found no tongs, and found no hammer. Then the artist Ilmerinen spake these words soliloquizing.
Only women grow discouraged, only knaves leave work unfinished, not the devils nor the heroes, nor the gods of greater knowledge. Then the blacksmith Ilmerinen sought a place to build a smithy, sought a place to plant a bellows, on the borders of the Northland, on the Poya hills and meadows. Searched one day, and then a second, ere the evening of the third day came a rock within his vision, came a stone with rainbow colors. Then the blacksmith Ilmerinen set at work to build his smithy, built a fire and raised a chimney, on the next day laid his bellows, on the third day built his furnace, and began to forge the sampo. The eternal magic artist, ancient blacksmith Ilmarinen, first of all the iron workers, mixed together certain metals, put his mixture in the cauldron, laid it deep within the furnace, called the hirelings to the forging.
Skillfully they worked the bellows, tend the fire, and add the fuel, three most lovely days of summer, three short nights of bright midsummer, till the rocks begin to blossom in the footprints of the workmen from the magic heat and furnace. On the first day, Ilmerinin downward bent and well examined on the bottom of his furnace, thus to see what might be forming from the magic fire and metals. From the fire arose a crossbow, with the brightness of the moonbeams, golden bow with tips of silver. On the shaft was shining copper, and the bow was strong and wondrous, but alas, it was ill-natured, asking for a hero daily, to the heads it asked on feast days. Ilmerinen, skillful artist, was not pleased with this creation, broke the bow in many pieces, threw them back within the furnace, kept the workmen at the bellows, tried to forge the magic sampo.
On the second day the blacksmith, downward bent and well examined, on the bottom of the furnace, from the fire a skiff of metals, came a boat of purple color. All the ribs were colored golden, and the oars were forged from copper. Thus the skiff was full of beauty, but alas, a thing of evil. Forth it rushes into trouble, hastens into every quarrel, haste without a provocation into every evil combat. Ilmerinen, metal artist, is not pleased with this creation, breaks the skiff in many fragments, throws them back within the furnace, keeps the workmen at the bellows, thus to forge the magic sampo. On the third day, Ilmerinen, first of all the metal workers, downward bent and well examined, on the bottom of the furnace.
There he saw a heifer rising, golden were the horns of Kimo. On her head the bear of heaven, on her brow a disk of sunshine. Beautiful the cow of magic, but alas, she is ill-tempered. Rushes headlong through the forest, rushes through the swamps and meadows, wasting all her milk in running. Ilmaruinen, the magician, is not pleased with this creation, cuts the magic cow in pieces, throws them in the fiery furnace, sets the workmen at the bellows, thus to forge the magic sampo. On the fourth day, Ilmerinen, downward bent and well examined, to the bottom of the furnace, there beheld a plow in beauty. Rising from the fire of metals, golden was the point and plowshare, and the beam was forged from copper, and the handles molten silver.
Beautiful the plow and wondrous, but alas, it is ill-mannered. Plows up fields of corn and barley, furrows through the richest meadows. Ilmerinen, metal artist, is not pleased with this creation, quickly breaks the plow in pieces, throws them back within. Let the wind attend the billows. Let the storm winds fire the metals. Fiercely vie the winds of heaven. East wind rushing, west wind roaring, south wind crying, north wind howling. Blow one day and then a second. Blow the third from morn till evening. When the fire leaps through the windows, through the door the sparks fly upward. Clouds of smoke arise to heaven. With the clouds the black smoke mingles, as the storm winds ply the bellows. On the third night Ilmerinen, bending low to view his mettle.
On the bottom of the furnace sees the magic Sampo rising, sees the lid in many colors. Quick the artist of Vainola, forges with the tongs and anvil, knocking with the heavy hammer, forges skillfully the sampo. On one side the flour is grinding, on another salt is making, on a third is money forging, and the lid is many-colored. Well the sampo grinds when finished, to and fro the lid is rocking, grinds one measure at the daybreak, grinds a measure fit for eating, grinds a second for the market, grinds a third one for the storehouse. Joyfully the Dame of Northland, Lohi Hostess of Poyola, Takes away the magic Sampo, To the hills of Sarriola, To the copper-bearing mountains, Puts nine locks upon the wonder, Makes three strong roots creep around it.
In the earth they grow nine fathoms, One large root beneath the mountain, One beneath the sandy seabed, One beneath the mountain dwelling. Modestly pleads Ilmerinen, For the maiden's willing answer, These the words of the magician. Wilt thou come with me, fair maiden, be my wife and queen forever? I have forged for thee the sampo, forged the lid in many colors. Northland's fair and lovely daughter, answers thus the metal worker. Who will in the coming springtime? Who will in the second summer guide the cuckoo's song and echo? Who will listen to his calling? Who will sing with him in autumn? Should I go to distant regions? Should this cheery maiden vanish from the fields of Sarriola, from Poyola's fens and forests, where the cuckoo sings and echoes?
Should I leave my father's dwelling? Should my mother's berry vanish? Should these mountains lose their cherry? Then the cuckoo too would vanish. All the birds would leave the forest, leave the summit of the mountain, leave my- Lest the harvest be ungarnered, lest the berries be ungathered, lest the songbirds leave the forest, lest the mermaids leave the waters, lest I sing with them no longer. Ilmerinen, the magician, the eternal metal forger, cap awry and head dejected, disappointed, heavy-hearted, empty-handed, well considers how to reach his distant country, reach his much-loved home and kindred, gain the meadows of Vynola, from the never-pleasant Northland, from the darksome Saariola. Lo, he thus addressed the suitor.
O thou blacksmith Ilmarinen, why art thou so heavy-hearted, why thy visage so dejected? Hast thou in thy mind to journey from the vales and hills of Poya to the meadows of Vainola, to thy home in Kalevala? This is Ilmarinen's answer. Thitherward my mind is tending, to my homeland let me journey, with my kindred let me linger, be at rest in mine own country. Straightway Lohi, dame of Northland, gave the hero every comfort, gave him food and rarest viands, placed him in a boat of copper in a copper-banded vessel, called the winds to his assistance, made the north wind guide him homeward. Thus the skillful Ilmerinen travels toward his native country on the blueback of the waters, travels one day, then a second, till the third day evening brings him to Vainola's peaceful meadows, to his home in Kalevala.
Straightway ancient Vaynamoinen thus addresses Ilmerinen. O my brother metal artist, thou eternal wonder-worker, didst thou forge the magic sampo, forge the lid in many colors? Spake the brother Ilmerinen, these the words the master uttered. Yea, I forge the magic sampo, forge the lid in many colors, to and fro the lid in rocking, grinds one measure at the day dawn, grinds a measure fit for eating, grinds a second for the market, grinds a third one for the storehouse. Lo uh he has the wondrous sampo, I have not the bride of beauty.
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12 11 - RUNE XI. Lemminkainen's Lament 19:52
RUNE XI. The Kalivala, compiled by Elias Lohnroth, translated by John Martin Crawford.
Rune XI.
LAMENKAININ'S LAMENT.
This the time to sing of Ahti, son of Lempoh, Kakomieli, also known as Lemenkainen. Ahti was the king of islands, grew amid the island dwellings, at the sight of his dear mother. On the borders of the ocean, On the points of promontories, Acti fed upon the salmon, fed upon the ocean whiting. Thus became a mighty hero, in his veins the blood of ages, Red erect and form commanding, growth of mind and body perfect, but, alas, he had his failings. Bad indeed his heart and morals, roaming in unworthy places, Staying days and nights in sequences at the homes of merry maidens, at the dances of the virgins with the maids of braided tresses, up in Sari lived a maiden, lived the fair and winsome Collie.
Lovely as a summer flower, from a kingly house descended, grew to perfect form and beauty, living in her father's cottage. Home of many ancient heroes, beautiful was she, and queenly, praised throughout the whole of Estland. From afar men came to woo her, to the birthplace of the Virgin, to the household of her mother. For his son the Day-Star woos her, but she will not go to Sunland, will not shine beside the Day-Star in his haste to bring the summer. For her sun, the bright moon, woos her, but she will not go to moon-land, by the bright moon will not glimmer, will not run through boundless ether. For his sun, the night-star, woos her, but she will not go to star-land, will not twinkle in the star-light, through the dreary nights in winter.
Lovers come from distant Estland, others come from far-off Ingerne. But they cannot win the maiden in the answer that she gives them. Vainly are your praises lavished. Vainly is your silver offered. Wealth and praise are no temptation. Never shall I go to Estland. Never shall I go a-rowing on the waters of the Ingerne. Shall not cross the Sari waters. Never eat the fish of Estland. Never taste the Estland Viennes. Ingerland shall never see me. Will not row upon her rivers. Will not step within her borders. Hunger there and fell starvation. Wood is absent, fuel wanting. Neither water, wheat, nor barley. Even rye is not abundant. Lemminkainen of the islands, warlike hero, Gokko Mieli. Undertakes to win the maiden, woo and win the sari flower.
Win a bride so highly honored, win the maid with golden tresses, win the sari maid of beauty, but his mother gives him warning. Nay, replies his gray-haired mother, do not woo, my son, beloved, maiden of a higher station. She will never make thee happy. With her lineage of sari. Spake the hero Lemminkainen. These the words of Caccomielli. Should I come from lowly station, though my tribe is not the highest, I shall woo to please my fancy, woo the maiden fair and lovely, choose a wife for worth and beauty. This the anxious mothers answered, Lemminkainen, son beloved, Listen to, advice maternal, Do not go to distant Sari, To her tribes of many branches. All the maidens there will taunt thee, All the women will deride thee.
Lemminkainen, little hearing, Answers thus his mother's pleading. I will still the sneers of women, silence all the taunts of maidens. I will crush their haughty bosoms, smite the hands and cheeks of infants. Surely this will check their insults, fitting end to derision. This the answer of the mother. Woe is me, my son beloved. Woe is me, my life hard-fated. Should thou taunt the sorry daughters. Or insult the maids of virtue. Shouldest thou laugh them to derision, there will rise a great contention. Fierce the battle that will follow. All the hosts of sorry suitors, armed in thousands, will attack thee, and will slay thee for thy folly. Nothing listing, Lemminkainen, heeding not his mother's warning, led his war-horse from the stables.
Quickly hitched the fiery charger, fleetly drove upon his journey to the distant Sari village, there to woo the Sari flower. There to win the bride of beauty, all the aged Sari women, all the young and lovely maidens, laughed to scorn the coming stranger, driving careless through the alleys, wildly driving through the courtyard. Now upsetting in the gateway, breaking shaft and hame and runner. Then the fearless Lemminkainen, mouth awry and visage wrinkled, shook his sable locks and answered, Never in my recollection have I heard or seen such treatment, never have I been derided, never suffered sneers of women, never suffered scorn of virgins, not in my immortal lifetime. Is there any place befitting, on the Sari plains and pastures, where to join in songs and dances?
Is there here a hall for pleasure, where the Sari maidens linger, merry maids with braided tresses? Thereupon the Sari maidens answered from their promontory. Room enough is there in Sari. Room upon the Sari pastures. Room for pleasure halls and dances. Sing and dance upon our meadows. Be a shepherd on the mountains. Shepherd boys have room for dancing. Indolent the sorry children, but the colts are fat and frisky. Little caring Lemminkainen entered service there as shepherd. In the daytime, on the pastures, in the evening, making merry, at the games of lively maidens, at the dances with the virgins, with the maids with braided tresses. Thus it was that Lemminkainen, thus the shepherd, Kakko Mieli, quickly hushed the women's laughter, quickly quenched the taunts of maidens, quickly silenced their derision.
All the dames and Sari daughters soon were feasting Lemminkainen. At his side they danced and lingered. Only was there one among them, one among the Sari virgins, harbored neither love nor wooers, favored neither gods nor heroes. This the lovely maiden Kliqi, this the Sari's fairest flower, Lemminkainen, full of pleasure, handsome hero, Kakomieli, Rowed a hundred boats in pieces, pulled a thousand oars to fragments, while he wooed the maid of beauty, tried to win the fair Kiliki. Finally, the lovely maiden, fairest daughter of the Northland, thus addresses Lemminkainen. Why dost thou linger here, thou weak one? Why dost thou murmur on these borders? Why come wooing at my fireside, wooing me in belt of copper?
Have no time to waste upon thee. Rather give this stone its polish. Rather would I turn the pestle in the heavy sandstone mortar. Rather sit beside my mother in the dwellings of my father. Never shall I heed thy wooing. Neither whites nor whisks I care for. Sooner have a slender husband, since I have a slender body. Wish to have him fine a figure, since perchance I am well shapen. Wish to have him tall and stately, since my form perchance is queenly. Never waste thy time in wooing, Saliri's maid and favored flower. Time had gone but little distance, scarcely had a month passed over, when upon a merry evening, where the maidens meet for dancing, in the glen beyond the meadow, On a level patch of verdure came too soon the maid Kiliki.
Sarri's pride, the maid of beauty, quickly followed Lemminkainen, with his stallion proudly prancing, fleetest racer of the Northland. Fleetly drives beyond the meadow, where the maidens meet for dancing, snatches quick the maid Kiliki. On the settle seats the maiden, quickly draws the leathern cover. And adjusts the britchin' crossbar, whips his courser to a gallop, with a rush and roar and rattle, speeds he homeward like the storm-wind, speaks these words to those that listen, Never, never, anxious maidens, must ye give the information, That I carried off Kiliki to my distant home and kindred. If ye do not heed this order, ye shall badly fare as maidens. I shall sing to war your suitors, sing them under spear and broadsword, That for months and years and ages never ye will see their faces, Never hear their merry voices, never will they tread these uplands.
Never will they join these dances. Never will they drive these highways. Sad the wailing of Kiliki. Sad the weeping flower of Sari. Listen to her tearful pleading. Give, O give me back my freedom. Free me from the throes of thraldom. Let this maiden wander homeward. By some footpath let me wander. To my father who is grieving. To my mother who is weeping. Let me go, or I will curse thee. If thou wilt not give me freedom, wilt not let me wander homeward, where my loved ones wait my coming. I have seven stalwart brothers, seven sons of father's brother, seven sons of mother's sister, who pursue the tracks of red deer. Hunt the hare upon the heather. They will follow thee and slay thee. Thus I'll gain my wished-for freedom.
Lemminkainen, little heeding, Would not grant the maiden's wishes, Would not heed her plea for mercy, Spake again the waiting virgin, Pride and beauty of the Northland. Joyful was I with my kindred, Joyful born and softly nurtured, Merrily I spent my childhood, Happy I in virgin freedom, In the dwelling of my father, By the bedside of my mother, With my lineage in Sari. But alas! all joy has vanished, all my happiness departed, all my maiden beauty waineth, since I met thine evil spirit, shameless hero of dishonor, cruel fighter of the islands, merciless in civil combat. Spake the hero Lemminkainen these the words of Caccomielli. Dearest maiden, fair Kiliki, my sweet strawberry of Pouya, Still thine anguish, cease thy weeping.
Be thou free from care and sorrow. Never shall I do thee evil. Never will my hands maltreat thee. Never will mine arms abuse thee. Never will my tongue revile thee. Never will my heart deceive me. Tell me why thou hast this anguish. Why thou hast this bitter sorrow. Why this sighing and lamenting. Tell me why this wail of sadness. Banish all thy cares and sorrows, dry thy tears, and still thine anguish. I have cattle, food, and shelter. I have home, and friends, and kindred. Kind upon the plains and uplands, in the marshes berries plenty. Strawberries upon the mountain, I have kind that need no milking. Handsome kind that need no feeding. Beautiful, if not well tended. Need not tie them up at evening, Need not free them in the morning, Need not hunt them, need not feed them, Need not give them salt nor water.
Thinkest thou my races lowly? Dost thou think me born ignoble? Does my lineage aggrieve thee? Was not born in lofty station, From a tribe of noble heroes, From a worthy race descended? But I have a sort of fervour. And a spear yet filled with courage. Surely these are well descended. These were born from hero races, sharpened by the mighty Hisi. By the gods were forged and burnished. Therefore will I give thee greatness, greatness of my race and nation, with my broadsword filled with fervor, with my spear still filled with courage. Anxiously the sighing maiden thus addresses Lemminkainen. O thou Ati, son of Lempoh, wilt thou take this trusting virgin as thy faithful life companion? Take me under thy protection, be to me a faithful husband.
Swear to me an oath of honor, that thou wilt not go to battle, when for gold thou hast a longing, when thou wishest gold and silver. This is Lemminkainen's answer. I will swear an oath of honor, that I'll never go to battle. When for gold I feel a longing, when I wish for gold and silver, swear thou also on thine honor, thou wilt not go to the village, when desire for dance impels thee, wilt not visit village dances. Thus the two made oath together, registered their vows in heaven, vowed before omniscient ko, ne'er to go to war vowed ahti, never to the dance giliki. Lemminkainen, Full of joyance, snapped his whip above his courser, whipped his racer to a gallop, and these words the hero uttered.
Fare ye well, ye sorry meadows, roots of firs and stumps of birch trees, that I wandered through in summer, that I traveled o'er in winter, where oft times in rainy seasons at the evening hour I lingered, when I sought to win the Virgin, sought to win the maid of beauty. Fairest of the Sari flowers, fare ye well, ye Sari woodlands, seas and oceans, lakes and rivers, vales and mountains, isles and inlets, once the home of fair Keliki. Quickly the racer galloped homeward, galloped on along the highway, toward the meadows of Wainola, to the plains of Kalevala. As they neared the Akhti dwellings, thus Kiliki spake in sorrow. Cold and drear is thy cottage, seeming like a place deserted. Who may own this dismal cabin?
Who the one so little honored? Spake the hero Lemminkainen, these the words that Akhti muttered. Do not grieve about my cottage, have no care about my chambers. I shall build the other dwellings, I shall fashion them much better. Beams and posts and seals and rafters, fashioned from the sacred birchwood. Now they reach the home of Akhti, Lemminkainen's home and birthplace. Enter they his mother's cottage. There they meet his aged mother. These the words the mother uses. Long indeed hast been thou absent. Long in foreign lands hast wandered. Long in Sari thou hast lingered. This is Lemminkainen's answer. All the host of sorry women, all the chaste and lovely maidens, all the maids with braided tresses, well have paid for their derision, for their scorn, and for their laughter, that they basely heaped upon me.
I have brought the best among them, in my sledge to this thy cottage. Well I wrapped her in my fur robes, kept her warm and wrapped in bearskin, brought her to my mother's dwelling as my faithful life companion. Thus I paid the scornful maidens, paid them well for their derision. Cherished mother of my being, I have found the long-sought jewel. I have won the maid of beauty, spread our couch with finest linen, for our heads the softest pillows, on our table rarest viands, so that I may dwell in pleasure, with my spouse the bride of honor, with the pride of distant sari. This the answer of the mother. Be thou praised, O gracious Ukko, loudly praised, O thou creator, since thou givest me a daughter, Acti's bride, my second daughter, who can stir the fire at evening, who can weave me finest fabrics, who can twirl the useful spindle, who can rinse my silken ribbons, who can fold the richest garments.
Son, beloved, praise thy Maker for the winning of this virgin, pride and joy of distant sari, Kind indeed is thy creator, wise the ever-knowing Unko. Pure the snow upon the mountains, purer still thy bride of beauty. White the foam upon the ocean, whiter still her virgin spirit. Graceful on the lakes the white swan, still more graceful thy companion. Beautiful the stars in heaven, still more beautiful Kalliki. Larger make our humble cottage. Wider build the doors and windows. Fashion thou the ceilings higher. Decorate the walls in beauty. Now that thou a bride hast taken, from a tribe of higher station, Pyrrhus maiden of creation, from the meadow lands of Sari, from the upper shores of Northland.
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13 12 - RUNE XII. Kyllikki's Broken Vow 24:06
The Kalivala.
Rune 12. Killikey's Broken Vow. Lemminkainen, artful husband, reckless hero, kaukumieli constantly beside his young wife, passed his life in sweet contentment, and the years rolled swiftly onward. A.T. thought not of the battles, nor Kellekeer of the dances. Once upon a time it happened that the hero Lemminkainen, when upon the Lake of Fishing was not home at early evening as the cruel night descended. To the village went Killikey, to the dance of merry maidens. Who will tell the evil story? Who will bear the information to the husband Lemminkainen? Aarti's sister tells the story. And the sister's name, Einike. Soon she spreads the cruel tidings, straightway gives the information of Killikey's perjured honor.
These the words Einikey utters. Arti, my beloved brother, to the village went Killikey, to the hall of many strangers, to the plays and village dances with the young men and the maidens, with the maids of braided tresses, to the halls of joy and pleasure. Lemminkind and much dejected, brokenhearted, flushed with anger, spake these words in measured accents. Mother dear, my gray-haired mother, wilt thou straightway wash my linen in the blood of poisoned serpents, in the black blood of the adder? I must hasten to the combat, to the camp-fires of the Northland, to the battlefields of Lapland, to the village went Killikee, to the player of merry maidens, to the games and village dances with the maids of braided tresses.
Straightway speaks the wife, Killikee, My beloved husband, A.T. Do not go to war, I pray thee. In the evening I lay sleeping, Slumbering I saw in dreamland fire up-shooting from the chimney, Flames arising mounting skyward from the windows of this dwelling. From the summits of these rafters, piercing through our upper chambers, roaring like the fall of waters leaping from the floor and ceiling, darting from the halls and doorways. But the doubting Lemminkainen makes this answer to Killikey. I discredit dreams, or women, have no faith in vows of maidens. Faithful mother of my being, hither bring my mail of copper, strong desire is stirring in me for the cup of deadly combat, for the mead of martial conquest.
This the pleading mother's answer. Lemminkind and son, beloved, do not go to war, I pray thee. We have foaming beer abundant in our vessels, beer of barley. Held in casts by oaken spigots, drink this beer of peace and pleasure. Let us drink of it together, spake the hero Lemminkainen. I shall taste no more the vines in the home of False Killikey. Rather would I drink the water from the painted tips of birch ores, sweeter far to me the water than the beverage of dishonor at my mother's home and fireside. Hither bring my martial doublet, bring me now the sword of battle, bring my father's sword of honor. I must go to Upper Northland to the battlefields of Lapland, there to win me gold and silver.
This, the anxious mother's answer. My beloved Kaukoumieli, we have gold in great abundance. Gold and silver in the store-room, recently upon the uplands, in the earlier hours of morning, toil the workmen in the corn-fields ploughed the meadows filled with serpents. When the ploughshare raised the cover from a chest of gold and silver, countless was the golden covered hid beneath the grassy meadow. This, the treasure I have brought thee, take the countless gold in welcome, spake the hero Lemminkainen. Do not wish thy household silver. From the wars I'll earn my silver. Gold and silver from the combat are to me of greater value than the wealth thou hast discovered. Bring me now my heavy Rama. Bring me too my spear and broad sword.
To the Northland I must hasten, to the bloody wars of Lapland. Thither does my pride impel me. Thither word my heart is turning. I've heard a tale of Lapland. Some believe the wondrous story that a maid in Pimentola lives that does not care for suitors, does not care for bearded heroes. This, the aged mother's answer. Warlike, Artie, son beloved, in thy home thou hast Killikee, fairest wife of all the islands. Strange to see two wives, abiding in the home of but one husband, spake the hero Lemminkainen. To the village runs Killikey. Let her run to village dances. Let her sleep in other dwellings with the village youth, find pleasure with the maids of braided tresses. Seek's the mother to detain him, thus the anxious mother answers.
Do not go, my son, beloved, ignorant of Poya witchcraft, to the distant homes of Northland, till thou hast the art of magic. Till thou hast some little wisdom, do not go to fields of battle, to the fires of Northland's children, to the slaughter-fields of Lapland, till of magic thou art master. There the Lapland maids will charm thee. Terriolandus will bewitch thee. Sing thy visage into charcoal, head and shoulders to the furnace. Into ashes sing thy forearm, into fire direct thy footsteps. Spake the warlike Lemminkainen. Wizards often have bewitched me, and the fascinating serpents. Lapland wizards, three in number, on an eve in time of summer, sitting on a rock at twilight, not a garment to protect them once, bewitched me with their magic.
This much they have taken from me, this the sum of all my losses. What the hatchet gains from flintstone, what the ogre bores from granite, what the heel chips from the iceberg, and what death purloins from tombstones. Horribly, the wizards threatened tried to sink me with their magic in the water of the marshes in the mud and treacherous quicksand, to my chin in mire and water, but I, too, was born a hero, born a hero and magician. Was not troubled by their magic? Straightway I began my singing, sang the archers with their arrows, sang the spearmen with their weapons, sang the swordsmen with their poniards, sang the singers with their singing, the enchanters with their magic to the rapids of the rivers.
To the highest fall of waters, to the all-devouring whirlpool, to the deepest depths of ocean, where the wizards still are sleeping, sleeping till the grass shoots upward through the beards and wrinkled faces, through the locks of the enchanters, as they sleep beneath the billows. Still entreats the anxious mother, still beseeches Lemminkainen, trying to restain the hero, while Killiky begs forgiveness. This the language of the mother. Do not go, my son, beloved, to the villages of Northland, nor to Lapland's frigid borders. Dire misfortune will befall thee. Star of evil settle over thee. Lemminkainen's end destruction. Couldst thou speak in tongues a hundred, I could not believe thee able, through the magic of thy singing, to enchant the sons of Lapland.
To the bottom of the ocean does not know the Ture language, canst but speak the tongue of Suomi, canst not win by witless magic. Lemminkainen, reckless hero, also known as Kaukumieli, stood beside his mother, Combing out his sable locks and musing, brushing down his beard debating, steadfast still in his decision, quickly hurls his brush in anger, hurls it to the wall opposing, gives his mother final answer. These the words that Artie uses. Dire misfortune will befall me. Some sad fate will overtake me. Evil come to Lemminkainen when the blood flows from that hair-brush, when the blood oozes from those bristles. Thus the warlike Lemminkainen goes to never pleasant Lapland, heeding not his mother's warning, heeding not her prohibition.
Thus the hero Kaukumieli quick equips himself for warfare, on his head a copper helmet, on his shoulders caps of copper, On his body, iron armor. Steel, the belt around his body, as he girths himself for battle, arty, thus soliloquizing. Strong the hero in his armor. Strong, indeed, copper helmet. Powerful in mail of iron. Stronger far than any hero on the dismal shores of Lapland. Need not fear their wise enchanters. Need not fear their strongest foemen. Need not fear a war with wizards. Grasped he then the sword of battle, firmly grasped the heavy, broadsword that Tuoni had been grinding, that the gods had brightly burnished, thrust it in the leathern scabbard, tied the scabbard to his armor.
How do heroes guard from danger? Where protect themselves from evil? Heroes guard their homes and firesides, guard their doors and roofs and windows, guard the posts that bowled the torchlights, guard the highways to the courtyard, guard the ends of all the gateways. Heroes guard themselves from women, Carefully from merry maidens, if in this their strength be wanting, easy fall the heroes victims to the snares of the enchanters. Furthermore, our heroes watchful of the tribes of warlike giants, where the highway doubly branches, on the borders of the blue rock, on the marshes fill with evil, near the mighty fall of waters, near the circling of the whirlpool, Near the fiery springs and rapids.
Spake the stout heart, Lemminkainen. Rise, ye heroes of the broadsword. Ye are the earth's eternal heroes. From the deeps, ye sickle-bearers. From the brooks, ye crossbow-shooters. Come, thou forest, with thine archers. Come, ye thickets, with your armies. Mountain spirits, with your powers. Come, Fell hissy with thy horrors. Water, mother, with thy dangers. Come, O Wallamo, with thy mermaids. Come, ye maidens from the valleys. Come, ye nymphs from winding rivers. Be protection to this hero. Be his day and night companions. Bodyguard to Lemminkainen. Thus to blunt the spears of wizards, thus to dull their pointed arrows, that the spears of the enchanters, that the arrows of the archers, that the weapons of the foemen may not harm this bearded hero.
Should this force be insufficient, I can call on other powers. I can call the gods above me. Called the great God of the heavens, him who gives the clouds their courses, him who rules through boundless ether, who directs the march of storm-winds, Ucho, thou, O God above me, thou the Father of creation, thou that speakest through the thunder, thou whose weapon is the lightning. Thou, whose voice is borne by ether, grant me now thy mighty fire-sword. Give me here thy burning arrows, lightning-arrows for my quiver. Thus protect me from all danger, guard me from the wilds of witches, guide my feet from every evil, help me conquer the enchanters, help me drive them from the northland. Those that stand in front of battle, those that fill the ranks behind me, those around me, those above me, those beneath me, help me banish, with their knives and swords and crossbows, with their spears of keenest temper, with their tongues of evil magic, help me drive these Lapland wizards to the deepest depths of ocean there to wrestle with Wellemo.
Then the reckless Lemminkainen, whistled loudly for his stallion, called the racer from the hurdles, called his brown steed from the pasture, threw the harness on the courser, hitched the fleet foot to the snow-sledge, leaped upon the highest cross-bench, cracked his whip above the racer, and the steed flies onward swiftly. Bounce the sleigh upon its journey, and the golden plain re-echoes, travels one day, then a second, travels all the next day northward, till the third day evening brings him to a sorry northland village on the dismal shores of Lapland. Here the hero, Lemminkainen, drove along the lowest highway, Through the streets along the border, to a courtyard in the hamlet, asked one standing in the doorway, Is there one within this dwelling that can lose my stallion's breastplate, that can lift his heavy collar, that these shafts can rightly lower?
On the floor a babe was playing, and the young child gave this answer. There is no one in this dwelling that can lose thy stallion's breastplate, that can lift his heavy collar, that the shafts can rightly lower. Lemminkainen, not discouraged, whips his racer to a gallop, rushes forward through the village, on the middle of the highways, to the courtyard in the center, asks one standing in the threshold, leaning on the penthouse door posts, Is there anyone here dwelling that can slip my stallion's bridle, that can lose his leathern breast-traps, that can tend my royal racer? From the fireplace spake a wizard, from a bench the witch made answer. Thou canst find one in this dwelling that can slip thy course's bridle, that can lose his heavy breastplate, that can tend thy royal racer.
There are here a thousand heroes that can make thee hasten homeward, that can give thee fleet-foot stallions, that can chase thee to thy country. Reckless rascal and magician, to thy home and fellow-minstrels, to the uplands of thy father, to the cabins of thy mother, to the workbench of thy brother, to the dairee of thy sister, ere the evening star has risen, ere the sun retires to slumber. Lemminkainen, little fearing, give this answer to the wizard. I should slay thee for thy pertness, that thy clatter might be silenced. Then he whipped his fiery charger, and the steed flew onward swiftly on the upper of the highways to the courtyard on the summit. When the reckless Lemminkainen had approached the upper courtyard uttered he the words that follow.
O thou hissy, stuff this watchdog Lempo, stuff his throat and nostrils, close the mouth of this wild barker, bridle well the vicious canine. that the water may be silent while the hero passes by him. Then he stepped within the court-room. With his whip he struck the flooring. From the floor arose a vapor. In the fog appeared a pygmy, who unhitched the royal racer. From his back removed the harness. Gave the wary steed attention. Then the hero Lemminkainen carefully advanced and listened. No one saw the strange magician, no one heard his cautious footsteps. Heard he songs within the dwelling, through the most tough chinks heard voices, through the walls he heard them singing, through the doors the peals of laughter.
Then he spied within the court-rooms, lurking slyly in the hallways, found the court-rooms filled with singers, By the walls were players seated. Near the doors, the wise men hovered, skilful ones, upon the benches. Near the fires, the wicked wizards. All were singing songs of Lapland, singing songs of evil hissy. Now the minstrel lemminkainen changes both his form and stature, passes through the inner doorways, enters he the spacious court hall, and these words the hero utters, Fine the singing quickly rending, Good the song that quickly ceases. Better far to keep thy wisdom than to sing it on the housetops, comes the hostess of Fleetly rushing through the doorway, to the center of the court room, and addresses thus the stranger.
Formerly a dog lay watching, was a cur of iron color, fond of flesh, a bone devourer. Loved to lick the blood of strangers. Who then art thou of the heroes? Who of all the host of heroes, that thou art within my courtrooms, that thou comest to my dwelling, was not seen without my portals, was not scented by my watch-dogs, spake the reckless Lemminkainen. Do not think that I come hither having neither wit nor wisdom, having neither art nor power, wanting in ancestral knowledge lacking prudence of the fathers, that thy watch-dogs may devour me. My devoted mother washed me when a frail and tender baby, three times in the nights of summer, nine times in the nights of autumn, that upon my journeys northward, I might sing the ancient wisdom, thus protect myself from danger, when at home I sing as wisely as the minstrels of thy hamlet.
Then the singer, Lemminkainen, ancient hero, Kaukumieli, quick began his incantations. Straightway sang the songs of witchcraft, from his fur-robed darts the lightning. Flames out-shooting from his eyeballs, from the magic of his singing, from his wonderful enchantment. Sang the very best of singers, to the very worst of minstrels, filled their mouths with dust and ashes, piled the rocks upon their shoulders, still the best of Lapland witches, still the sorcerers and wizards. Then he banished all their heroes, banished all their proudest minstrels. This one hither, that one thither, to the lowlands poor in Verdea. To the unproductive uplands, to the oceans wanting witting, to the waterfalls of Rathia, to the whirlpool hot and flaming, to the waters decked with sea-foam, into fires and boiling waters, into everlasting torment, then the hero Lemminkainen.
Sang the foemen with their broad swords, sang the heroes with their weapons, sang the eldest, sang the youngest, sang the middle-aged, enchanted. Only one he left his senses, he, a poor, defenseless shepherd, old and sightless, hault and wretched, and the old man's name was Nasset. Spake the miserable shepherd. Thou hast old and young enchanted, thou hast banished all our heroes. Why hast spared this wretched shepherd? This is Lemminkainen's answer. Therefore have I not wished thee? Thou art old and blind and wretched, feeble-minded, thou and harmless, loathsome now without my magic. Thou didst in thy better lifetime, when a shepherd filled with malice, ruin all thy mother's berries, make thy sister too unworthy, ruin all thy brother's cattle, drive to death thy father's stallions, through the marshes, over the meadows, through the lowlands, over the mountains, heeding not thy mother's counsel.
Thereupon the wretched Nasset, angry grew and sore for vengeance, straightway limping through the doorway, hobbled on beyond the courtyard, over the meadow-lands and pastures, to the river of the Deathland, to the holy stream and whirlpool, to the kingdom of Tuoni, to the islands of Manala, waited there for Kaukumieli, listened long for Lemminkainen, Thinking he must pass this river on his journey to his country, on the highway to the islands, from the upper shores of Poya, from the dreary Sariola.
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14 13 - RUNE XIII. Lemminkainen's Second Wooing 11:35
The Kalevala.
Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune, 13. Lamingainen's second wooing. Spake the ancient Lamingainen to the hostess of Poyola. Give to me thy lovely daughter, Bring me now thy winsome maiden, Bring the best of Lapland virgins, Fairest virgin of the Northland. Loey, hostess of Poeula, answered thus the wild magician. I shall never give my daughter, Never give my fairest maiden, Not the best one, nor the worst one, Not the largest, nor the smallest. Thou hast now one wife companion, Thou hast taken hence one hostess, Carried off the fair Kylliki. This is Lemminkainen's answer. To my home I took Kylliki, to my cottage on the island, to my entry-gates and kindred. Now I wish a better hostess, straightway bring thy fairest daughter, worthiest of all thy virgins.
Fairest maid with sable tresses. Spake the hostess of Poela. Never will I give my daughter to a hero false and worthless, to a minstrel vain and evil, Therefore pray thou for my maiden, therefore woo the sweet-faced flower, when thou bringest me the wild moose from the heasy fields and forests. Then the artful Lemminkainen deftly whittled out his javelins, quickly made his leathern bowstring, and prepared his bow and arrows, and soliloquized as follows. Now my javelins are made ready, all my arrows too are ready, and my oaken crossbow bend it. But my snow-shoes are not builded. Who will make me worthy snow-shoes? Lemminkainen, grave and thoughtful, long reflected, well-considered, where the snow-shoes could be fashioned, who the artist that could make them.
Hasten to the cowpey smithy, to the smithy of Lilicki. Thus addressed the snow-shoe artist. O thou skillful Voyalander, Cowpey, ablest smith of Lapland, Make me quick two worthy snow-shoes, smooth them well and make them hardy, that in Tapio the wild moose, roaming through the Hesi forests, I may catch and bring to Lohi, as a dowry for her daughter. Then Liliki thus made answer, Kaupi gave his prompt decision. Lemminkainen, reckless minstrel, thou wilt hunt in vain the wild moose, thou wilt catch but pain and torture in the Hesi fens and forests. Little heeding, lemminkainen, spake these measures to Lilliki. Make for me the worthy snow-shoes, quickly work and make them ready. Go, I will, and catch the blue moose, wherein tapio it browses, in the heasy woods and snow-fields.
Then Lilliki, snow-shoe-maker, ancient Kaupi, master artist, whittled in the fall his snow-shoes, smoothed them in the winter evenings, one day working on the runners, All the next day making stick-rings. Till at last the shoes were finished, and the workmanship was perfect. Then he fastened well the shoe-straps, smooth as edder's skin the woodwork, soft as fox-fur were the stick-rings. Oiled he well his wondrous snow-shoes with the tallow of the reindeer. When he does soliloquices, these the accents of lily-key. Is there any youth in Lapland, any in this generation, that can travel in these snow-shoes, that can move the lower sections? Spake the reckless lemminkainen, full of hope and life and vigor.
Surely there is one in Lapland, in this rising generation, that can travel in these snow-shoes, that the right and left can manage. To his back he tied the quiver, placed the bow upon his shoulder. With both hands he grasped his snow-cane. Speaking meanwhile words as follow. There is nothing in the woodlands, nothing in the world of Ukko, nothing underneath the heavens, in the uplands, in the lowlands, nothing in the snow-fields running, nor the fleet-deer of the forest, that could not be overtaken with the snow-shoes of Lilliki, with the strides of Lamminkainen. Wicked Heesee heard these measures, Jutas listened to their echoes, Straightway heasy called the wild moose, Iuta's fashioned soon a reindeer, and the head was made of punkwood, horns of naked willow branches.
Feet were furnished by the rushes, and the legs by reeds aquatic. Veins were made of withered grasses, eyes from daisies of the meadows, ears were formed of water-flowers, and the skin of tawny fir-bark, out of seppy wood the mussels, fair and fleet the magic reindeer. Jutas thus instructs the wild moose, these the words of wicked Hesey. Flee away, thou moose of Jutas, flee away, thou Hesey-reindeer, like the winds thou rapid courser, to the snow-holmes of the ranger, to the ridges of the mountains, to the snow-capped hills of Lapland, that thy hunter may be worn out, thy pursuer be tormented, Lemminkainen be exhausted. Thereupon the hisi reindeer, Jutta's mooth with branching antlers, fleetly ran through fen and forest, over Lapland's hills and valleys, through the open fields and courtyards, through the penthouse doors and gateways, turning over tubs of water, through the kettles from the fire-pole, and upset the dishes cooking.
Then arose a fearful uproar in the courtyards of Poyula. Lapland dogs began their barking, Lapland children cried in terror. Lapland women roared with laughter, and the Lapland heroes shouted. Fleetly followed Lemminkainen, followed fast and followed faster, hastened on behind the wild moose, over swamps and through the woodlands, over snow-fields, fast and pathless, over high-uprising mountains, fire-out shooting from his runners, smoke arising from his snow-cane, could not hear the wild moose bounding, could not sight the flying fleet-foot, Glided on through field and forest, glided over lakes and rivers, over lands beyond the smooth sea, through the desert plains of Hisi, glided over the plains of Kalma, through the kingdom of Tuoni, to the end of Kalma's empire, where the jaws of death stand open, where the head of Kalma lowers, ready to devour the stranger, to devour wild Lemminkainen.
But Tuoni cannot reach him, Kalma cannot overtake him. Distant woods are yet untraveled. Far away a woodland corner stands unsearched by Kaukoumieli, in the north's extensive borders, in the realm of dreary Lapland. Now the hero, on his snow-shoes, hastens to the distant woodlands, there to hunt the moose of Piru. As he nears the woodland corner, there he hears a frightful uproar. From the northland's distant borders, from the dreary fields of Lapland, hears the dogs as they are barking, Here's the children loudly screaming. Here's the laughter of the women. Here's the shouting of the heroes. Thereupon Wild Lemminkainen hastens forward on his snowshoes, to the place where dogs are barking, to the distant woods of Lapland.
When the reckless Gaukomieli had approached this heasy corner, straightway he began to question. Why this laughter of the women? Why the screaming of the children? Why the shouting of the heroes? Why this barking of the watchdogs? This reply was promptly given. This the reason for this uproar, women laughing, children screaming, heroes shouting, watchdogs barking. Heasy's moose came running hither, hither came the Piru reindeer, hither came with hoofs of silver, through the open fields and courtyards, through the penthouse doors and gateways, turning over tubs of water, through the kettles from the fire-pole, and upset the dishes cooking. Then the hero, Lemminkainen, straightway summoned all his courage, pushed ahead his mighty snow-shoes, swift as edders in the stubble, levelled bushes in the marshes, like the swift and fiery serpents, spake these words of magic import, keeping balance with his snow-staff.
Come, thou might of Lapland heroes, bring to me the moose of Jutas. Come, thou strength of Lapland women, and prepare the boiling caldron. Come, thou might of Lapland children, Bring together fire and fuel. Come, thou strength of Lapland kettles, help to boil the heasy wild moose. Then with mighty force and courage Lemminkainen hastened onward, striking backward, shooting forward. With a long sweep of his snowshoe disappeared from view the hero. With the second, shooting further, was the hunter out of hearing. With the third the hero glided on the shoulders of the wild moose, took a pole of stoutest oak wood, Took some bark-strings from the willow, Wherewithal to bind the moose-deer, Bind him to his oaken hurdle.
To the moose he spake as follows. Here remain thou, moose of Utahs, Skip about my bounding courser, In my hurdle jump and frolic, Captive from the fields of Piru, From the heezy glens and mountains. Then he stroked the captured wild moose, Patted him upon his forehead, Spake again in measured accents. I would like a while to linger, I would love to rest a moment, In the cottage of my maiden, with my virgin, young and lovely. Then the heezy moose grew angry, Stamped his feet and shook his antlers, Spake these words to Lemminkainen. Surely Lempos soon will get thee, Shouldst thou sit beside the maiden, Shouldst thou linger by the virgin. Now the wild moose stems and rushes, Tears in two the bands of willow, Breaks the oakwood pole in pieces, and upturns the hunter's hurdle, quickly leaping from his captor, bounds away with strength of freedom, over hills and over lowlands, over swamps and over snow-fields, over mountains clothed in heather, that the eye may not behold him, nor the hero's ear detect him.
Thereupon the mighty hunter, angry gross and much disheartened, starts again the moose to capture, gliding off behind the courser. With his mighty plunges forward, At the instep breaks his snow-shoe, breaks the runners into fragments, on the mountains breaks his javelins, in the center breaks his snow-staff, and the moose bounce on before him through the hisi woods and snow-fields, out of reach of Lemminkainen. Then the reckless Kaukomieli looked with banded head, ill-humored, one by one upon the fragments, speaking words of ancient wisdom. Northland hunters, never, never, go defiant to thy forests, in the heezy vales and mountains, there to hunt the moose of Utahs, like this senseless, reckless hero.
I have wrecked my magic snow-shoes, ruined too my useful snow-staff, and my javelins I have broken, while the wild moose runs in safety through the heezy fields and forests.
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15 14 - RUNE XIV. Death of Lemminkainen 22:05
Rune 14 of the Kalevala. Death of Lemminkainen. Lemminkainen, much disheartened. Deeply thought and long considered, what to do, what course to follow, whether best to leave the wild moose in the fastness of Hisi, and return to Kalevala. Or a third time hunt the ranger, hoping thus to bring him captive, thus return at last a victor to the forest home of Luhi. To the joy of all her daughters, to the wood-nymph's happy fireside. Taking courage, Lemminkainen, Spake these words in supplication. Ukko, thou, O God above me, thou creator of the heavens, put my snow-shoes well in order, and endow them both with swiftness, that I rapidly may journey over marshes, over snow-fields, over lowlands, over highlands, through the realms of wicked hissy, through the distant plains of Lapland.
Through the paths of Lempos Wild Moose, to the forest hills of Yutas. To the snow-fields shall I journey, leave the heroes to the woodlands, on the way to Tapiola, into Tapio's wild dwellings. Greetings bring thy to the mountains, greetings to the vales and uplands. Greet ye, heights with forests covered. Greet ye, ever-verdent fir-trees. Greet ye. Groves of whitened aspen, greetings bring to those that greet you, fields and streams and woods of Lapland. Bring me favor, mountain woodlands, Lapland deserts, show me kindness. Mighty Tapio, be gracious. Let me wander through thy forests. Let me glide along thy rivers. Let this hunter search thy snow fields, where the wild moose herds in numbers.
O Nürikki, mountain hero, son of Tapio of forests, hero with the scarlet headgear, notches make along the pathway, landmarks upward to the mountains, that this hunter may not wander, may not fall, and falling perish in the snowfields of thy kingdom. Hunting for the moose of Hisi, dowry for the pride of Northland, Mistress of the woods, Mieliki, forest mother, formed in beauty. Let thy gold flow out abundant. Let thy silver onward wander, for the hero that is seeking for the wild moose of thy kingdom. Bring me here thy keys of silver. From the golden girdle round thee, open Tapio's rich chambers, and unlock the forest fortress, while I here await the booty. While I hunt the moose of Lempo. Should this service be too menial, give the order to thy servants.
Send at once thy servant maidens, and command it to thy people. Thou wilt never seem a hostess, if thou hast not in thy service maidens ready by the hundreds, thousands that await thy bidding. Who thy herds may watch and nurture, tend the game of thy dominions. Tall and slender forest virgin, Tapio's beloved daughter, Blow thou now thy honey flute-notes, Play upon thy forest whistle, For the hearing of thy mistress, For thy charming woodland mistress. Make her hear thy sweet-toned playing, That she may arise from slumber. Should thy mistress not awaken At the calling of thy flute-notes, Play again, and play unceasing, Make the golden tongue re-echo. Wild and daring Lemminkainen, steadfast preys upon his journey, calling on the gods for succor, hastens off through fields and moorlands, passes on through cruel brushwood, to the colliery of Hisi, to the burning fields of Lempel, glided one day, then a second, glided all the next day onward, till he came to Big Stone Mountain.
Climbed upon its rocky summit, turned his glances to the northwest, toward the northland moors and marshes. There appeared the Tapio Mansion. All the doors were golden-colored, shining in the gleam of sunlight, through the thickets on the mountains, through the distant fields of northland. Lemminkainen, much encouraged, hastens onward from his station, through the lowlands or the uplands. Over snowfields vast and vacant. Under snow-rope firs and aspens, Hastens forward, happy-hearted. Quickly reaches Tapio's courtyards. Halts without at Tapio's windows. Slyly looks into her mansion. Spies within some kindly women. Forest dames outstretched before him. All are clad in scanty raiment. Dressed in soiled and ragged linens.
Spake the stranger Lemminkainen, Wherefore sit ye forest mothers? In your old and simple garments, in your soiled and ragged linen, ye forsooth are too untidy, too unsightly your appearance, in your tattered gowns apparelled. When I lived within the forest, there were then three mountain castles, one of horn and one of ivory, and the third of wood constructed. In their walls were golden windows, six the windows in each castle. Through these windows I discovered all the host of Tapio's mansion. Saw its fair and stately hostess, saw great Tapio's lovely daughter, saw Tellervo in her beauty, with her train of charming maidens. All were dressed in golden raiment, rustled all in gold and silver. Then the forest's queenly hostess, Still the hostess of these woodlands.
On her arms were golden bracelets, golden rings upon her fingers. In her hair were sparkling jewels. On her head were golden fillets. On her ears were golden ear-rings. On her neck a pearly necklace. And her braidlets silver tinseled. Lovely hostess of the forest, Metzola's enchanting mistress, fling aside thine ugly straw shoes. Cast away the shoes of birch bark. Doff thy soil in ragged linen. Doff thy gown of shabby fabric. Don the bright and festive raiment. Don the gown of merrymaking. While I stay within thy borders. While I seek my forest booty. Hunt the moose of evil hissy. Here my visit will be irksome. Here thy guest will be ill-humoured, waiting in thy fields and woodlands. Hunting here the moose of Lempel, finding not the hissy ranger, shouldst thou give me no enjoyment, should I find no joy nor respite?
Long the eve that gives no pleasure, long the day that brings no guerdon. Sable-bearded god of forests, in thy hat and coat of ermine, robe thy trees in finest fibers, deck thy groves in richest fabrics. Give the fir-trees shining silver, deck with gold the slender balsams. Give the spruces copper-belting, and the pine-trees silver girdles. Give the birches golden flowers. Deck their stems with silver fretwork, this their garb in former ages, when the days and nights were brighter, when the fir-trees shone like sunlight, and the birches like the moonbeams. Honey breathed throughout the forest, settled in the glens and highlands, spices in the meadow borders, while outpouring from the lowlands.
Forest daughter, lovely virgin, golden maiden, fair Tuliki, second of the Tapio daughters, drive the game within these borders, to these far-extending snow-fields. Should the reindeer be too sluggish, should the moose-deer move too slowly, Cut a birch rod from the thicket, whip them hither in their beauty. Drive the wild moose to my hurdle. Hither drive the long-sought booty to the hunter who is watching, waiting in the hissy forests. When the game has started hither, keep them in the proper highway. Hold thy magic hands before them. Guard them well on either roadside, that the elk may not escape thee. May not dart a down some by-path. Should, perchance, the moose-deer wander through some by-way of the forest, take him by the ears and antlers, hither lead the pride of Lempo.
If the path be filled with brushwood, cast the brushwood to the roadside. If the branches cross his pathway, break the branches into fragments. Should a fence of fir or alder Cross the way that leads him hither. Make an opening within it. Open nine obstructing fences. If the way be crossed by streamlets, if the path be stopped by rivers, make a bridge of silken fabric, weaving webs of scarlet color. Drive the deer herd gently over. Lead them gently o'er the waters, o'er the rivers of thy forests, o'er the streams of thy dominions. Thou, the host of Tapio's mansion, Gracious host of Tapiolla, Sable-bearded god of woodlands, Golden lord of Northland forests, Thou, O Tapio's worthy hostess, Queen of snowy woods, Mimerki, Ancient dame in sky-blue vesture, Fenland queen in scarlet ribbons.
Come I to exchange my silver, To exchange my gold and silver. Gold I have, as old as moonlight, silver of the age of sunshine, in the first of years was gathered, in the heat and pain of battle. It will rust within my pouches, soon will wear away and perish, if it be not used in trading. Long the hunter, Lemminkainen, glided through the fen and forest, sang his songs throughout the woodlands, through three mountain glens he sang them. Sang the forest hostess friendly. Sang he also, Tapio friendly. Friendly, all the forest virgins, all of Metzola's fair daughters. Now they start the herds of Lempoh. Start the wild moose from his shelter, in the realms of evil hissy. Tapio's highest mountain region.
Now they drive the ranger homeward, to the open courts of Piru. To the hero that is waiting, hunting for the moose of Yutas. When the herd had reached the castle, Lemminkainen threw his lasso over the antlers of the blue moose, settled on the neck and shoulders of the mighty moose of Hisi. Then the hunter, Kaukomieli, stroked his captive's neck in safety, for the moose was well imprisoned. Thereupon gay Lemminkainen Fooled with joyance, spake as follows. Pride of forests, Queen of woodlands, Metzola's enchanted hostess, Lovely forest dame, Mieliki, Mother-donor of the mountains. Take the gold that I have promised. Come and take away the silver. Spread thy kerchief well before me. Spread out here thy silken neck wrap, Underneath the golden treasure, Underneath the shining silver.
That to earth it may not settle, scattered on the snows of winter. Then the hero went a victor to the dwellings of Bohjala, and addressed these words to Lohi. I have caught the moose of Hisi, in the Metzola dominions. Give, O hostess, give thy daughter. Give to me thy fairest virgin, bride of mine to be hereafter. Lohi, hostess of the Northland. Gave this answer to the sweeter. I will give to thee my daughter, for thy wife my fairest maiden, when for me thou put a bridle on the flaming horse of Hisi, rapid messenger of Lempo, on the Hisi plains and pastures. Nothing daunted, Lemminkainen hastened forward to accomplish Luhi's second test of heroes, on the cultivated lowlands. On the sacred fields and forests.
Everywhere he sought the racer, sought the fire-expiring stallion, fire out-shooting from his nostrils. Lemminkainen, fearless hunter, bearing in his belt his bridle, on his shoulders reins and halter, sought one day and then the second. Finally, upon the third day, went he to the Hisi mountain, climbed and struggled to the summit. To the east he turned his glances, cast his eyes upon the sunrise. There beheld the flaming courser. On the heath among the far trees, Lempos' fire-expiring stallion, fire and mingled smoke, out-shooting from his mouth and eyes and nostrils. Spake the daring Lemminkainen, this the hero's supplication. Ukko, thou, O God above me, Thou that rulest all the storm clouds, open thou the vault of heaven.
Open windows through the ether. Let the icy rain come falling. Let the heavy hailstones shower on the flaming horse of Hisi, on the fire-expiring stallion. Ukko, the benign creator, heard the prayer of Lemminkainen. Broke apart the dome of heaven. Rent the heights of heaven asunder. Sent the iron hail in showers, smaller than the heads of horses, larger than the heads of heroes. On the flaming steed of Lempel. On the fire-expiring stallion. On the terror of the Northland. Lemminkainen, drawing nearer, looked with care upon the courser. Then he spake the words that follow. Wonder, steed of mighty hissy! Flaming horse of Lempos Mountain, bring thy mouth of gold assenting. Gently place thy head of silver in this bright and golden halter, in this silver-mounted bridle.
I shall never harshly treat thee, never make thee fly too fleetly, on the way to Sarriola, on the tracks of long duration, to the hostess of Pohjala, to her magic courts and stables. Will not lash thee on thy journey. I shall lead thee gently forward, drive thee with the reins of kindness, cover thee with silken blankets. Then the fire-haired steed of Juttas, flaming horse of mighty hissy, put his head of shining silver in the bright and golden headstall, in the silver-mounted bridle. Thus the hero, Lemminkainen, easy bridle's lempo stallion. Flaming horse of evil Piru. Lays the bits within his fire-mouth. On his silver head, the halter, mounts the fire-expiring courser. Brandishes his whip of willow.
Hastens forward on his journey. Bounding o'er the hills and mountains. Dashing through the valleys northward. O'er the snow-capped hills of Lapland. To the courts of Sarriola. Then the hero, quick dismounting. Step within the court of Lohi. Thus addressed the Northland hostess. I have bridled Lempoh's fire-horse. I have caught the hissy racer. Caught the fire-expiring stallion in the Piru plains and pastures. Ridden him within thy borders. I have caught the moose of Lempoh. I have done what thou demandest. Give, I pray thee, now thy daughter. Give to me thy fairest maiden. Bride of mine to be forever. Lohi, hostess of Bohjala, made this answer to the suitor. I will only give my daughter, give to thee my fairest virgin, bride of thine to be forever.
When for me the swan thou killest in the river of Tuoni, swimming in the black Death River, in the sacred stream and whirlpool, thou canst try one crossbow only. But one arrow from thy quiver. Then the reckless Lemminkainen, handsome hero, Kaokoumieli, braved the third test of the hero, started out to hunt the wild swan, hunt the long-necked, graceful swimmer, in Tuoni's coal-black river, in Manala's lower regions. Quick the daring hunter journeyed, hastened off with fearless footsteps to the river of Tuoni. To the sacred stream and whirlpool, with his bow upon his shoulder, with his quiver and one arrow, Nasut, blind and crippled shepherd, wretched shepherd of Bohjala, stood beside the Deathland River, near the sacred stream and whirlpool, guarding Tuunela's waters, waiting there for Lemminkainen, listening there for Kauku Mieli, waiting long the hero's coming.
Finally, he hears the footsteps of the hero on his journey. He hears the tread of Lemminkainen as he journeys nearer, nearer, to the river of Tuuni, to the cataract of Deathland, to the sacred stream and whirlpool. Quick the wretched shepherd, Nashoot, from the death stream sends a serpent, like an arrow from a crossbow, to the heart of Lemminkainen. Through the vitals of the hero. Lemminkainen, little conscious, hardly knew that he was injured. Spake these measures as he perished. Ah, unworthy is my conduct. Ah, unwisely have I acted. That I did not heed my mother, did not take her goodly counsel, did not learn her words of magic. Oh, I, for three words with my mother, how to live and how to suffer.
In this time of dire misfortune, how to bear the stings of serpents, tortures of the reed of waters, from the stream of Tuunela, ancient mother who has borne me, who has trained me from my childhood. Learn, I pray thee, where I linger, where, alas, thy son is lying, where thy reckless hero suffers. Come, I pray thee, faithful mother, come thou quickly. Thou art needed. Come deliver me from torture, from the death jaws of Tuuni, from the sacred stream and whirlpool. Northland's old and wretched shepherd, Nasut, the despised protector of the flocks of Sarriola, throws the dying Lemminkainen, throws the hero of the islands into Tuunela's river, to the blackest stream of deathland. To the worst of fatal whirlpools.
Lemminkainen, wild and daring, helpless falls upon the waters, floating down the coal-black current, through the cataract and rapids, to the tombs of Tuunila. There the blood-stained son of Deathland, there Tuuni's son and hero, cuts in pieces Lemminkainen, chops him with his mighty hatchet, till the sharpened axe strikes flint sparks. From the rocks within his chamber. Chops the hero into fragments, into five unequal portions. Throws each portion to Tuoni, in Manala's lowest kingdom. Speaks these words when he has ended. Swim thou there, wild Lemminkainen. Flow thou onward in this river. Hunt forever in these waters, with thy crossbow and thine arrow. Shoot the swan within this empire. Shoot our water-birds in welcome.
Thus the hero Lemminkainen, thus the handsome Kaukomieli, the untiring suitor, dieth in the river of Tuuni, in the death realm of Manala.
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16 15 - RUNE XV. Lemminkainen's Restoration 30:47
RUNE XV. LEMMINKINEN'S RESTORATION LEMMINKINEN'S AGED MOTHER Anxious roams about the islands, anxious wonders in her chambers. What the fate of Lemminkainen? Why her son so long has tarried? Thinks that something ill has happened to her hero in Buchyalla. Sad, indeed, the mother's anguish, as in vain she waits his coming, as in vain she asks the question, where her daring son is roaming. Weather to the fir-tree mountain. Weather to the distant heathland. Or upon the broad sea's ridges, on the floods and rolling waters, to the war's contending armies, to the heat and din of battle steeped in blood of valiant heroes. Evidence of fatal warfare. Daily does the wife, Kullikki, look about her vacant chamber in the home of Lemminkainen, at the court of Kaukomieli, looks at evening, looks at morning, looks perchance.
Upon his hair-brush, sees, alas, the blood-drops oozing, oozing from the golden bristles, and the blood-drops scarlet-coloured. Then the beauteous wife, Gullicki, spake these words in deeps of anguish. Dead or wounded is my husband, or at best is filled with trouble, lost, perhaps, in northland forests, in some glen unknown to heroes. Since, alas, the blood is flowing from the brush of Lemminkainen, Red drops oozing from the bristles. Thereupon the anxious mother looks upon the bleeding hairbrush, and begins this wail of anguish. Woe is me, my life-heart fated! Woe is me, all joy departed! For, alas, my son and hero, valiant hero of the islands, son of trouble and misfortune, some sad fate has overtaken, my ill-fated Lemminkainen.
Blood is flowing from his hairbrush. Oozing from its golden bristles, and the drops are scarlet-colored. Quick her garments hem she clutches. On her arm she throws her long robes. Fleetly flies upon her journey. With her might she hastens northward. Mountains tremble from her footsteps. Valleys rise and heights are lowered. Highlands soon become as lowlands. All the hills and valleys leveled. Soon she gains the northland village. Quickly asks about her hero. These the words the mother utters. O thou hostess of Bohyalah, where hast thou my lemminkainen? Tell me of my son and hero. Luhi, hostess of the Northland, gives this answer to the mother. Nothing know I of thy hero, of the hero of the islands.
Where thy son may be I know not, cannot lend the information. Once I gave thy son a courser, hitched the racer to his snow-sledge. This, the last of Lemminkainen, may perchance be drowned in Wune, frozen in the icy ocean, fall and pray to wolves in hunger, in a bear's den may have perished. Lemminkainen's mother answers, Thou art only speaking falsehoods. Northland wolves cannot devour us. Nor the bears kill Kaukwemieli. He can slay the wolves of Pohya with the fingers of his left hand. Bears of Northland he would silence with the magic of his singing. Hostess of Pohyala, tell me whither thou hast sent my hero. I shall burst thy many garners, shall destroy the magic sampo, if thou dost not tell me truly where to find my Lemminkainen.
Spake the hostess of Bohyalla. I have well thy hero treated. Well my court has entertained him. Gave him of my rarest viands. Fed him at my well-filled tables. Placed him in a boat of copper, thus to float adown the current. This the last of Lemminkainen cannot tell where he has wandered, whether in the foam of waters, whether in the boiling torrent. Whether in the drowning whirlpool, Lemminkainen's mother answers, Thou again art speaking falsely. Tell me now the truth, I pray thee. Make an end of thy deception. Where is now my Lemminkainen? Whither hast thou sent my hero, young and daring son of Galev?
If a third time thou deceivest, I will send thee plagues unnumbered. I will send thee fell destruction. Certain death will overtake thee, spake the hostess of Bohjala. This the third time that I answer, this the truth that I shall tell thee.
I have sent the Kalev hero to the hissy fields and forests, there to hunt the moose of Lempoh. Send him then to catch the fire-horse, catch the fire-expiring stallion. On the distant plains of Juttas, in the realm of cruel Hisi. Then I sent him to the Death-stream, in the kingdom of Tuoni, with his bow and but one arrow, there to shoot the swan as dowry for my best and fairest daughter. Have not heard about thy hero, since he left for Tuonela. May in misery have fallen, may have perished in Manala. Has not come to ask my daughter. Has not come to woo the maiden, Since he left to hunt the Death-Swan. Now the mother seeks her lost one, For her son she weeps and trembles. Like the wolf she bounds through fen-lands, Like the bear through forest thickets, Like the wild boar through the marshes, Like the hare along the sea-coast, To the sea-point like the hedgehog, Like the wild duck swims the waters, Casts the rubbish from her pathway, tramples down opposing brushwood, stops at nothing in her journey, seeks a long time for her hero, seeks and seeks and does not find him.
Now she asks the trees the question, and the forest gives this answer. We have care enough already, cannot think about thy matters. Cruel fates have we to battle. Pitiful our own misfortunes. We are felled and chopped in pieces, cut in blocks for hero fancy. We are burned to death as fuel. No one cares how much we suffer. Now again the mother wanders, seeks again her long-lost hero, seeks and seeks and does not find him. Paths arise and come to meet her, and she questions thus the pathways. Paths of hope that God has fashioned. Have ye seen my Lemminkainen? Has my son and golden hero traveled through thy many kingdoms? Sad the many pathways answer. We ourselves have care sufficient, cannot watch thy son and hero.
Wretched are the lives of pathways. Deep, indeed, our own misfortunes. We are trodden by the red deer, by the wolves and bears and roebucks, driven over By heavy cartwheels, by the feet of dogs are trodden, trodden under foot of heroes. Footpaths, four contending armies. Seeks again the frantic mother. Seeks her long-lost son and hero. Seeks and seeks, and does not find him. Finds the moon within her orbit. Asks the moon in pleading measures. Golden moon, whom God has stationed in the heavens, the sun's companion. Hast thou seen my Kaukomieli? Hast thou seen my Silver Apple? Anywhere in thy dominions? Thus the golden moon makes answer. I have trouble all sufficient, Cannot watch thy daring hero.
Long the journey I must travel, Sad the fate to me befallen, Pitiful mine own misfortunes. All alone the nights to wander, Shine alone without respite. In the winter ever watching, in the summer sink and perish. Still the mother seeks and wanders, seeks and does not find her hero, sees the sun in the horizon, and the mother thus entreats him. Silver sun, whom God has fashioned, thou that giveth warmth and comfort, hast thou lately seen my hero? Hast thou seen my Lemminkainen wandering in thy dominions? Thus the sun in kindness answers, Surely has thy hero perished, to ingratitude a victim. Lemminkainen died and vanished in Tuoni's fatal river. In the waters of Manala, in the sacred stream and whirlpool, in the cataract and rapids, sank within the drowning current to the realm of Tuonela, to Manala's lower regions.
Lemminkainen's mother, weeping, wailing in the deeps of anguish, mourns the fate of Kaukomieli, hastens to the northland smithy, to the forge of Ilmarinen. These the words the mother utters. Ilmarinen, metal artist, thou that long ago wert forging, Forging earth a concave cover, Yesterday wert forging wonders. Forge thou now, immortal blacksmith. Forge a rake with shaft of copper, Forge the teeth of strongest metal, Teeth in length a hundred fathoms, And five hundred long the handle. Ilmarinen does as bidden, Makes the rake in full perfection, Lemminkainen's anxious mother Takes the magic rake, and hastens To the river of Tuoni. Praying to the sun as follows, Thou, O sun, by God created, Thou that shinest on thy maker, Shine for me in heat of magic.
Give me warmth and strength and courage. Shine a third time full of power. Lull to sleep the wicked people. Still the people of Manala. Quiet all Tuuni's empire. Thereupon the son of Ukko, dearest child of their creator, Flying through the groves of Northland, Sitting on a curving birch-tree, Shines a little while in ardor, shines again in greater fervor, shines a third time full of power, lulls to sleep the wicked people in the Manala home and kingdom. Still the heroes with their broadswords makes the lancers halt and totter, stills the stoutest of the spearmen, quiets Tuoni's ghastly empire. Now the sun retires in magic, hovers here and there a moment, Over Tuoni's hapless sleepers, hastens upward to his station, to his Yumala home and kingdom.
Lemminkainen's faithful mother takes the rake of magic metals, rakes the Tuoni river bottoms, rakes the cataract and whirlpool, rakes the swift and boiling current of the sacred stream of Deathland in the Manala home and kingdom, searching for her long-lost hero. Rakes a long time, finding nothing. Now she wades the river deeper, to her belt in mud and water. Deeper, deeper rakes the death stream, rakes the river's deepest caverns. Raking up and down the current, till at last she finds his tunic. Heavy-hearted finds his jacket, rakes again and rakes unceasing. Finds the hero's shoes and stockings. Thoroughly troubled finds these relics. Now she wades the river deeper, rakes the manala shoals and shallows, rakes the deeps at every angle, as she draws the rake the third time from the tuoni shores and waters.
In the rake she finds the body of her long-lost lemminkainen. In the metal teeth entangled, in the rake with copper handle, thus the reckless lemminkainen, thus the son of Kalevala, was recovered from the bottom of the Manala lake and river. There were wanting many fragments, half the head, a hand, a forearm, many other smaller portions. Life, above all else, was missing. Then the mother, well reflecting, spake these words in bitter weeping, From these fragments, with my magic, I will bring to life my hero. Hearing this, the raven answered, Spake these measures to the mother. There is not in these a hero. Thou canst not revive these fragments. Eels have fed upon his body. On his eyes have fed the whiting.
Cast the dead upon the waters, on the streams of Tonila. Let him there become a walrus, or a seal, or whale, or porpoise.
Lemminkainen's mother does not cast the dead upon the waters. On the streams of Tuunela. She again with hope and courage rakes the river lengthwise, crosswise, through the Manala pools and caverns, rakes up half the head, a forearm, finds a hand and half the backbone, many other smaller portions, shapes her sun from all the fragments, shapes anew her lemminkainen. Flesh to flesh with skill she places, Gives the bones their proper stations. Binds one member to the other. Joins the ends of severed vessels. Counts the threads of all the venules. Knits the parts in apposition. Then this prayer the mother offers. Swoon etar, thou slender virgin, goddess of the veins of heroes, skillful spinner of the vessels, with thy slender silver spindle.
With thy spinning wheel of copper, set in frame of molten silver. Come thou hither, thou art needed. Bring the instruments for mending. Firmly knit the veins together. At the end join well the venules, in the wounds that still are open, in the members that are injured. Should this aid be inefficient? There is living in the ether, in a boat enriched with silver, in a copper boat, a maiden. That can bring to thee assistance. Come, O maiden, from the ether, Virgin from the belt of heaven, row throughout these veins, O maiden. Row through all these lifeless members, through the channels of the long bones. Row through every form of tissue. Set the vessels in their places. Lay the heart in right position.
Make the pulses beat together. Join the smallest of the veinlets. And unite with skill the sinews. Take thou now a slender needle, silken thread within its eyelet. Ply the silver needle gently, sew with care the wounds together. Should this aid be inefficient, thou, O God, that knowest all things, come and give us thine assistance. Harness thou thy fleetest racer. Call to aid thy strongest courser. In thy scarlet sledge come swiftly. Drive through all the bones and channels. Drive throughout these lifeless tissues. Drive thy courser through each vessel. Bind the flesh and bones securely. In the joints put finest silver, purest gold in all the fissures. Where the skin is broken open, where the veins are torn asunder, mend these injuries with magic.
Where the blood has left the body, there make new blood flow abundant. Where the bones are rudely broken, Set the parts in full perfection. Where the flesh is bruised and loosened, touch the wounds with magic balsam. Do not leave a part imperfect, bone and vein and nerve and sinew, heart and brain and gland and vessel. Heal as thou alone canst heal them. These the means the mother uses. Thus she joins the lifeless members. Thus she heals the deathlike tissues. Thus restores her son and hero. To his former life and likeness. All his veins are knit together. All their ends are firmly fastened. All the parts in apposition. Life returns, but speech is wanting. Dief and dumb, and blind and senseless.
Now the mother speaks as follows. Where may I procure the balsam? Where the drops of magic honey? To anoint my son and hero. Thus to heal my lemminkainen. That again his mouth may open, May again begin his singing. Speak again in words of wonder, Sing again his incantations. Tiny bee, thou honey-birdling, Lord of all the forest flowers, Fly away and gather honey, Bring to me the forest sweetness, Found in Metzola's rich gardens, And in Tapio's fragrant meadows, From the petals of the flowers, From the blooming herbs and grasses, thus to heal my hero's anguish, thus to heal his wounds of evil. Thereupon the honey-birdling flies away on wings of swiftness, into Metzola's rich gardens, into Tapio's flowery meadows, gathers sweetness from the meadows, with the tongue distills the honey, from the cups of seven flowers, from the bloom of countless grasses, Quick from Metzola returning, Flying, humming, darting onward, With his winglets honey-laden, With the store of sweetest odors, To the mother brings the balsam.
Lemminkainen's anxious mother Takes the balm of magic virtues, And anoints the injured hero, Heals his wounds and stills his anguish. But the balm is inefficient, For her son is deaf and speechless. Then again out speaks the mother. Little bee, my honey-birdling, fly away in one direction, fly across the seven oceans, in the eighth a magic island, where the honey is enchanted, to the distant Turi castles, to the chambers of Palvoinen. There the honey is effective, there the wonder-working balsam. This may heal the wounded hero. Bring me of this magic ointment, that I may anoint his eyelids, may restore his injured senses. Thereupon the honey-birdling flew away, o'er the seven oceans, to the old enchanted island, flies one day, and then a second.
On the verdure does not settle, does not rest upon the flowers, flies a third day, fleetly onward. Till a third day evening brings him to the island in the ocean, to the meadows rich in honey, to the cataract and fire-flow, to the sacred stream and whirlpool. There the honey was preparing, there the magic balm distilling, in the tiny earthen vessels, in the burnished copper kettles, smaller than a maiden's thimble, smaller than the tips of fingers, Faithfully, the busy insect gathers the enchanted honey from the magic turi couplets in the chambers of Palvoinen. Time had gone but little distance ere the bee came loudly humming, flying fleetly, honey-laden. In his arms were seven vessels, seven, the vessels on each shoulder, all were filled with honey-balsam, with a balm of magic virtues.
Lemminkainen's tireless mother quick anoints her speechless hero with the magic turri-balsam, with the balm of seven virtues, nigh in the times that she anoints him with the honey of palvoinen, with the wonder-working balsam. But the balm is inefficient, for the hero still is speechless. Then again out speaks the mother. Honey-bee, thou ether birdling! Fly a third time on thy journey. Fly away to high Yumala. Fly thou to the seventh heaven. Honey there thou'lt find abundant, balsam of the highest virtue, only used by the Creator, only made from the breath of Ukko. God anoints his faithful children with the honey of his wisdom, when they feel the pangs of sorrow, when they meet the powers of evil.
Dip thy winglets in this honey. Steep thy plumage in his sweetness. Hither bring, the all-sufficient, balsam of the great Creator. This will still my hero's anguish. This will heal his wounded tissues. This restore his long-lost vision. Make the northland hills re-echo with the magic of his singing, with his wonderful enchantment. Thus the honey-bee made answer. I can never fly to heaven. To the seventh of the heavens, to the distant home of Ukko, with these wings of little virtue. Lemminkainen's mother answered, Thou can surely fly to heaven, to the seventh of the heavens, or the moon beneath the sunshine, through the dim and distant starlight. On the first day, flying upward, thou wilt near the moon in heaven.
Fan the brow of Kota Moinen. On the second thou canst rest thee. On the shoulders of Otava, on the third day, flying higher, rest upon the seven starlets, on the heads of Hetewane. Short the journey that is left thee, inconsiderable the distance, to the home of mighty Ukko. To the dwellings of the Blessed. Thereupon the bee arising from the earth fly swiftly upward, hastens on with graceful motion. By his tiny wings borne heavenward, in the paths of golden moonbeams, touches on the moon's bright borders, fans the brow of Kotamoynen, rests upon Ottava's shoulders, hastens to the seven starlets, to the heads of Hetewone, flies to the creator's castle, to the home of generous Ukko, finds the remedy preparing, finds the balm of life distilling, In the silver-tinted cauldrons, in the purest golden kettles, on one side heart-easing honey, on a second balm of joyance, on the third life-giving balsam.
Here the magic-bee selecting calls a sweet life-giving balsam, gathers too heart-easing honey. Heavy-laden hastens homeward. Time had traveled little distance ere the busy bee came humming. To the anxious mother waiting, in his arms a hundred couplets, and a thousand other vessels filled with honey, filled with balsam, filled with the balm of the Creator. Lemminkainen's mother quickly takes them on her tongue and tests them, finds a balsam all sufficient. Then the mother spake as follows. I have found the long-sought balsam, found the remedy of Ukko. Wherewith God anoints His people, gives them life and faith and wisdom, heals their wounds and stills their anguish, makes them strong against temptation, guards them from the evil-doers.
Now the mother, well anointing, heals her son, the magic singer, eyes and ears and tongue and temples, breaks and cuts and seems anointing. Touching well the life-blood centers. Speaks these words of magic import to the sleeping Lemminkainen. Wake! Arise from out thy slumber, from the worst of low conditions, from thy state of dire misfortune. Slowly wakes the sun and hero, rises from the depths of slumber, speaks again in magic accents. These the words of the singer. Long, indeed, have I been sleeping, long unconscious of existence. But my sleep was full of sweetness, sweet the sleep of Tuunela, knowing neither joy nor sorrow. This the answer of his mother. Longer still thou wouldst have slumbered, were it not for me, thy mother.
Tell me now, my son beloved, tell me that I well may hear thee. Who enticed thee to Manala, to the river of Tuuni, to the fatal stream and whirlpool? Then the hero, Lemminkainen, gave this answer to his mother. Nazhut, the decrepit shepherd of the flocks of Sarriola, blind and halt, and poor and wretched, and to whom I did a favour, from the slumberland of Envi, Nazhut sent me to Manala, to the river of Tuoni, sent a serpent from the waters, sent an adder from the death-stream, through the heart of Lemminkainen, did not recognise the serpent, could not speak the serpent language, Did not know the sting of adders? Spake again the ancient mother. O thou son of little insight, senseless hero, fool magician!
Thou didst boast betimes thy magic to enchant the wise enchanters on the dismal shores of Lapland. Thou didst think to banish heroes from the borders of Pohyalla. Didst not know the sting of serpents? Didst not know the reed of waters? Nor the magic word protector. Learn the origin of serpents. Whence the poison of the adder, in the floods was born the serpent, from the marrow of the gray duck, from the brain of ocean swallows. Suyotar had made saliva, cast it on the waves of ocean. Currents drove it outward, onward. Softly shone the sun upon it. By the winds, t'was gently cradled, gently nursed by winds and waters. By the waves was driven shoreward, landed by the surging billows. Thus the serpent, thing of evil, filling all the world with trouble, was created in the waters, born from Suyotar, its maker.
Then the mother of the hero rocked her son to rest and comfort, rocked him to his former being, to his former life and spirit, into greater magic powers, wiser, handsomer than ever. grew the hero of the islands, but his heart was full of trouble, and his mother, ever watchful, asked the cause of his dejection. This is Lemminkainen's answer. This the cause of all my sorrow. Far away my heart is roaming. All my thoughts forever wander to the Northland's blooming virgins. To the maids of braided tresses, Northland's ugly hostess, Lohi, will not give to me her daughter Fairest maiden of Bohyala, till I kill the swan of Mana with my bow and but one arrow in the river of Tuuni. Lemminkainen's mother answers, in the sacred stream and whirlpool, let the swan swim on in safety.
Give the water-bird his freedom in the river of Manala, in the whirlpool of Tuuni. Leave the maiden in the northland with her charms and fading beauty. With thy fond and faithful mother, go at once to Kalevala, to thy native fields and fallows. Praise thy fortune, all-sufficient. Praise above all else, thy maker. Ukko gave thee aid when needed. Thou wert saved by thy Creator from thy long and hopeless slumber. In the waters of Tuoni, in the chambers of Manala, I, unaided, could not save thee, could not give the least assistance. God alone, omniscient Ukko, first and last of the creators, can revive the dead and dying, can protect his worthy people from the waters of Manala, from the fatal stream and whirlpool in the kingdom of Tuoni.
Lemminkainen, filled with wisdom, with his fond and faithful mother, hastened straightway on his journey to his distant home and kindred, to the Wainola fields and meadows. To the plains of Kalevala. Here I leave my Kaukou Mieli, leave my hero Lemminkainen. Long I leave him from my singing, turn my song to other heroes, send it forth on other pathways, sing some other golden legend.
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17 16 - RUNE XVI. Wainainoinen's Boat-building 17:47
Rune 16. Wainamoinen's Boatbuilding. Waena Moinen, ancient minstrel, the eternal wisdom-singer, for his boat was working lumber, working long upon his vessel on a fog-point jutting seaward, on an island, forest-covered. But the lumber failed the master, beams were wanting for his vessel, beams and scantling, ribs and flooring. Who will find for him the lumber? Who procure the timber needed for the boat of Waena Moinen, for the bottom of his vessel? Pela Wainan of the Prairie, Samsa, slender-grown and ancient, he will seek the needful timber, he procure the beams of oak wood for the boat of Wainan Moinen, for the bottom of his vessel. Soon he starts upon his journey to the eastern fields and forests, hunts throughout the northland mountain to a second mountain wanders.
To a third he hastens, searching golden axe upon his shoulder, in his hand a copper hatchet. Comes an aspen-tree to meet him, of the height of seven fathoms. Samsa takes his axe of copper, starts to fell the stately aspen, but the aspen, quickly halting, speaks these words to Pela Woynen. Tell me, hero, what thou wishest, what service thou art needing? Samsa Pela Woynen answers, This, indeed, the needed service that I ask of thee, O Aspen. Need thy lumber for a vessel, for the boat of Wainamoinen? Wisest of the wisdom-singers. Quick and wisely speaks the aspen, thus its hundred branches answer. All the boats that have been fashioned from my wood have proved but failures. Such a vessel floats a distance, then it sinks upon the bottom of the waters it should travel.
All my trunk is filled with hollows. Three times in the summer seasons worms devour my stem and branches, feed upon my heart and tissues. Pellewaynen leaves the aspen, hunts again through all the forest, wanders through the woods of Northland, where a pine-tree comes to meet him, of the height of fourteen fathoms. With his axe he chops the pine-tree, strikes it with his axe of copper. As he asks the pine this question, Will thy trunk give worthy timber for the boat of Wainamoinen, wisest of the wisdom-singers? Loudly does the pine-tree answer, All the ships that have been fashioned from my body are unworthy. I am full of imperfections, cannot give thee needed timber wherewithal to build thy vessel.
Ravens live within my branches, build their nests and hatch their younglings, three times in my trunk in summer. Samsa leaves the lofty pine-tree, wanders onward, onward, onward, to the woods of gladsome summer, where an oak-tree comes to meet him, in circumference. Three fathoms. And the oak he thus addresses, Ancient oak-tree, Will thy body furnish wood to build a vessel, Build a boat for Wainamoinen, Master-boat for the magician, Wisest of the wisdom-singers? Thus the oak replies to Samsa, I, for thee, Will gladly furnish wood to build the hero's vessel. I am tall and sound and hardy, Have no flaws within my body. Three times in the months of summer, in the warmest of the seasons, does the sun dwell in my tree-top.
On my trunk the moonlight glimmers. In my branches sings the cuckoo. In my top, her nestlings slumber. Now the ancient Pella Wainan takes the hatchet from his shoulder, takes his axe with copper handle, chops the body of the oak-tree. Well, he knows the art of chopping. Soon he fells the tree majestic, Fells the mighty forest monarch, With his magic axe and power. From the stems he lops the branches, Splits the trunk in many pieces, Fashions lumber for the bottom, Countless boards and ribs and bracers, For the singer's magic vessel, For the boat of the magician. Wainamoinen, old and skilful, The eternal wonder-worker, Builds his vessel with enchantment, Builds his boat by art of magic. From the timber of the oak-tree, from its posts and planks and flooring, sings a song and joins the framework, sings a second, sets the siding, sings a third time, sets the rollocks, fashions ores and ribs and rudder, joins the sides and ribs together.
When the ribs were firmly fastened, when the sides were tightly jointed, then, alas, three words were wanting, lost the words of master magic, How to fasten in the ledges, how the stern should be completed, how complete the boat's forecastle. Then the ancient Wainamoinen, wise and wonderful enchanter, heavy-hearted, spake as follows. Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Never will this magic vessel pass in safety o'er the water, never ride the rough sea-billows. Then he thought, and long considered, where to find these words of magic, find the lost words of the master. From the brains of countless swallows, from the heads of swans in dying, from the plumage of the grey duck. For these words the hero searches, kills of swans a goodly number, kills a flock of fattened grey duck, kills of swallows countless numbers.
cannot find the words of magic, not the lost words of the master. Wainamoinen, wisdom-singer, still reflected and debated. I perchance may find the lost words on the tongue of summer reindeer, in the mouth of the white squirrel. Now again he hunts the lost words, hastes to find the magic sayings, kills a countless host of reindeer, kills a rafter full of squirrels, finds of words a goodly number, but they are of little value, cannot find the magic lost word. Long he thought, and well considered, I can find of words a hundred in the dwellings of Tworni, in the Manala fields and castles. Waena Moinen quickly journeys to the kingdom of Tuoni, there to find the ancient wisdom, there to learn the secret doctrine.
Hastens on through fen and forest, over meads and over marshes, through the ever-rising woodlands, journeys one week through the brambles, and a second through the hazels, through the junipers the third week, when appear Tuoni's islands and the Manala fields and castles. Waena Moinen, brave and ancient, calls aloud in tones of thunder to the Tuonella deeps and dungeons, and to Manala's magic castle. Bring a boat, Tuone's daughter, bring a ferry-boat, O maiden, that may bear me o'er this channel, o'er this black and fatal river. Quick the daughter of Tuone, magic maid of little stature, tiny virgin of Manala. Tiny washer of the linen, tiny cleaner of the dresses, at the river of Tuoni, in Manala's ancient castles, speaks these words to Wainamoinen, gives this answer to his calling.
Straightway will I bring the rowboat, when the reasons thou hast given, why thou comest to Manala in a hale and active body. Wainamoinen, old and artful, gives this answer to the maiden. I was brought here by Tuoni. Mana raised me from the coffin. Speaks the maiden of Manala, this a tale of wretched liars. Had Tuoni brought thee hither, Mana raised thee from the coffin, then Tuoni would be with thee. Mana Laenen, too, would lead thee, with Tuoni's hat upon thee, on thy hands the gloves of Mana. Tell the truth now, Wainamoinen, what has brought thee to Manala? Wainamoinen, artful hero, gives this answer, still finessing. Iron brought me to Manala, to the kingdom of Tuoni. Speaks the virgin of the death-land, Mana's wise and tiny daughter.
Well I know that this is falsehood. Had the iron brought thee hither, brought thee to Tuoni's kingdom, blood would trickle from thy vesture, and the blood-drops scarlet-coloured. Speak the truth now, Wainamoinen. This is the third time that I ask thee. Wainamoinen, little heeding, still finesses to the daughter. Water brought me to Manala, to the kingdom of Tuoni. This the tiny maiden's answer. Well, I know, thou speakest falsely. If the waters of Manala, if the cataract and whirlpool, or the waves had brought thee hither, from thy robes the drops would trickle. Water drip from all thy raiment. Tell the truth, and I will serve thee. What has brought thee to Manala? Then the willful Wainamoinen told this falsehood to the maiden.
Fire has brought me to Manala, to the kingdom of Tuoni? Spake again Tuoni's daughter. Well I know the voice of falsehood. If the fire had brought thee hither, brought thee to Tuoni's empire, singed would be thy locks and eyebrows, and thy beard be crisped and tangled. O thou foolish Wainamoinen, if I row thee o'er the ferry, thou must speak the truth in answer. This is the last time I will ask thee. Make an end of thy deception. What has brought thee to Manala, still unharmed by pain or sickness, still untouched by death's dark angel? Spake the ancient Wainamoinen? At the first I spake, not truly. Now I give thee rightful answer. I, a boat with ancient wisdom, fashioned with my powers of magic, Sang one day, and then a second, Sang the third day until evening, When I broke the magic mainspring, Broke my magic sledge in pieces, Of my song the fleetest runners.
Then I come to mana's kingdom, Came to borrow here a hatchet, Thus to mend my sledge of magic, Thus to join the parts together, Send the boat now quickly over, Send me quick, Tuoni's rowboat, help me cross this fatal river, cross the channel of Manala. Spake the daughter of Tuoni, Mana's maiden, thus replying, Thou art sure a stupid fellow, foresight wanting, judgment lacking, Having neither wit nor wisdom, coming here without a reason, Coming to Tuoni's empire. Better far, if thou shouldst journey to thy distant home and kindred. Man they that visit Mana, Few return from Maria's kingdom. Spake the good old Wainamoinen. Women old retreat from danger, not a man of any courage, not the weakest of the heroes.
Bring thy boat, Tuoni's daughter, tiny maiden of Manala. Come, and row me o'er the ferry. Mana's daughter, does as bidden, brings her boat to Wainamoinen, quickly rows him through the channel, o'er the black and fatal river, to the kingdom of Manala. speaks these words to the magician. Woe to thee, O Wainamoinen! Wonderful indeed thy magic, since thou comest to Manala, comest neither dead nor dying. Tuonetta, the death-land hostess, ancient hostess of Tuoni, brings him pitchers filled with strong beer, fills her massive golden goblets, speaks these measures to the stranger. Drink, thou ancient Wainamoinen, drink the beer of King Tuoni. Wainamoinen, wise and cautious, carefully inspects the liquor, looks a long time in the pitchers, sees the spawning of the black frogs, sees the young of poisoned serpents, lizards, worms, and writhing adders.
Thus addresses Duonetar. Have not come with this intention, have not come to drink thy poisons, drink the beer of Tuonella. Those that drink Duone's liquors, those that sip the cups of mana, court the devil and destruction, End their lives in want and ruin. Tuonetar makes this answer. Ancient minstrel Wainamoinen, tell me what has brought thee hither, Brought thee to the realm of mana, to the courts of Tuonella, Ere Tuone sent his angels to thy home in Kalevala, There to cut thy magic life-thread. Spake the singer Wainamoinen, I was building me a vessel, and my craft was working. Singing, needed three words of the master, how to fasten in the ledges, how the stern should be completed, how complete the boat's forecastle.
This the reason of my coming to the Empire of Tuoni, to the castles of Manala? Came to learn these magic sayings, learn the lost words of the master. Spake the hostess Tuonetta. Mana never gives these sayings, canst not learn them from Tuoni, not the lost words of the master. Thou shalt never leave this kingdom, Never in thy magic lifetime, Never go to Kalevala, To Wainola's peaceful meadows, To thy distant home and country. Quick the hostess, Tornetta, Waves her magic wand of slumber O'er the head of Wainamoinen, Puts to rest the wisdom hero, Lays him on the couch of mana, In the robes of living heroes, Deep the sleep that settles o'er him. In Manala lived a woman in the kingdom of Tuoni, evil witch and toothless wizard, spinner of the threads of iron, molder of the bands of copper, weaver of a hundred fish-nets, of a thousand nets of copper, spinning in the days of summer, weaving in the winter evenings, seated on a rock in water.
In the kingdom of Tuoni lived a man, a wicked wizard, Three the fingers of the hero, spinner he of iron meshes, maker two of nets of copper. Countless were his nets of metal, molded on a rock in water. Through the many days of summer, mana's sun with crooked fingers, iron-pointed copper fingers, pulls of nets, at least a thousand, through the river of Tuoni, sets them lengthwise, sets them crosswise in the fatal darksome river. That the sleeping Wainamoinen, friend and brother of the waters, may not leave the Isle of Mana, never in the course of ages, never leave the Deathland castles, never while the moonlight glimmers on the empire of Tuoni. Wainamoinen, wise and wary, rising from his couch of slumber, speaks these words as he is waking.
Is there not some mischief brewing? Am I not at last in danger in the chambers of Tuoni, in the Manala home and household? Quick he changes his complexion, changes too his form and feature, slips into another body, like a serpent in a circle, rolls black-dyed upon the waters, like a snake among the willows, Crawls he like a worm of magic, like an adder through the grasses, through the coal-black stream of Deathland, through a thousand nets of copper interlaced with threads of iron, from the kingdom of Tuoni, from the castles of Manala. Mana's son, the wicked wizard, with his iron-pointed fingers, in the early morning hastens to his thousand nets of copper, set within the Tuoni River, finds therein a countless number of the Death-stream fish and serpents.
Does not find old Wainamoinen, Wainamoinen, wise and wary, friend and fellow of the waters, when the wonder-working hero had escaped from Tuonella, spake he thus in supplication. Gratitude to thee, O Okko, do I bring for thy protection. Never suffer other heroes, of thy heroes not the wisest, to transgress the laws of nature. Never let another singer, while he lives within the body, cross the river of Tuoni. As thou lovest thy creations. Many heroes cross the channel, cross the fatal stream of mana, few return to tell the story, few return from Tuonella, from Manala's courts and castles. Wainamoinen calls his people on the plains of Kalevala, speaks these words of ancient wisdom, to the young men, to the maidens, to the rising generation.
Every child of Northland, listen. If thou wishest joy eternal, never disobey thy parents, never evil treat the guiltless. Never wrong the feeble-minded, never harm thy weakest fellow, never stain thy lips with falsehood, never cheat thy trusting neighbor, never injure thy companion, lest thou surely payest penance in the kingdom of Tuoni, in the prison of Manala. There the home of all the wicked, there the couch of the unworthy, there the chambers of the guilty. Underneath Manala's fire-rock are their ever flaming couches, for their pillows hissing serpents, vipers green their writhing covers, for their drink the blood of adders, for their food the pangs of hunger, pain and agony their solace.
If thou wishest joy eternal, shun the kingdom of Duoni.
End of room.
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18 17 - RUNE XVII. Wainamoinen finds the Lost Word 22:29
Rune 17. Vaina Moinen finds the lost word. Vaina Moinen, old and truthful, did not learn the words of magic in Tuoni's gloomy regions, in the kingdom of Manala. Thereupon he long debated, well considered, long reflected, where to find the magic sayings, when a shepherd came to meet him, speaking thus to Vaina Moinen. Thou canst find of words a hundred, find a thousand wisdom sayings, in the mouth of wise Wipunen, in the body of the hero. To the spot I know the footpath, to his tomb the magic highway, trodden by a host of heroes. Long the distance thou must travel on the sharpened points of needles. Then a long way thou must journey on the edges of the broadswords. Thirdly, thou must travel farther on the edges of the hatchets.
Hainamoin, an old and trustful, well considered all these journeys, traveled to the forge and smithy, thus addressed the metal-worker. Ilmarinen, worthy blacksmith, make a shoe for me of iron, forge me gloves of burnished copper, mold a staff of strongest metal, lay the steel upon the inside, forge within the might of magic. I am going on a journey to procure the magic sayings, find the lost words of the master, from the mouth of the magician, from the tongue of wise Wipunen. Spake the artist Ilmarinen, Long ago died wise wipunen, disappeared these many ages, lays no more his snares of copper, sets no longer traps of iron, cannot learn from him the wisdom, cannot find in him the lost words. Wainamoinen, old and hopeful, little heeding, not discouraged in his metal shoes and armour, hastens forward on his journey, runs the first day fleetly onward on the sharpened points of needles.
Wearily he strides the second, On the edges of the broadswords, swings himself the third day forward. On the edges of the hatchets. Wise Wipoonen, wisdom-singer, ancient bard, and great magician, with his magic songs lay yonder. Stretch'd beside him lay his sayings. On his shoulder grew the aspen, on each temple grew the birch-tree, on his mighty chin the alder, from his beard grew willow bushes, from his mouth the dark green fir-tree. And the oak-tree from his forehead. Wainamoinen, coming closer, draws his sword, lays bare his hatchet from his magic-leathern scabbard, fells the aspen from his shoulder, fells the birch-tree from his temples. From his chin he fells the alder, from his beard the branching willows, from his mouth the dark-green fir-tree, fells the oak-tree from his forehead.
Now he thrusts his staff of iron through the mouth of wise Wipunen, pries his mighty jaws asunder, speaks these words of master magic. Rise, thou master of magicians, from the sleep of Tuonella, from thine everlasting slumber. Wise Wipunen, ancient singer, quickly wakens from his sleeping, keenly feels the pangs of torture from the cruel staff of iron. Bites with mighty force the metal, bites in twain the softer iron. Cannot bite the steel asunder, opens wide his mouth in anguish. Wainamoinen of Wainola, in his iron shoes and armor, careless walking, headlong stumbles in the spacious mouth and forces of the magic-bard, Vipunen. Wise Vipunen, full of song-charms, opens wide his mouth, and swallows Wainamoinen at his magic, shoes, and staff, and iron armor.
Then out speaks the wise Vipunen. Many things before I've eaten, dined on goat and sheep and reindeer, bear and ox and wolf and wild boar, never in my recollection have I tasted sweeter morsels. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, now I see the evil symbols, see misfortune hanging o'er me, in the darksome hisi hurdles, in the catacombs of Kalma. Wainamoinen long considered how to live and how to prosper, how to conquer this condition. In his belt he wore a poniard, with a handle hewn from birch wood, from the handle builds a vessel, builds a boat through magic science. In this vessel rose he swiftly through the entrails of the hero, rose through every gland and vessel of the wisest of magicians. Old Vipunen, master singer, barely feels the hero's presence, gives no heed to Then the artist of Vainola straightway sets himself to forging, sets at work to hammer metals, makes a smithy from his armour, of his sleeves he makes the bellows, makes the air-valve from his fur coat, from his stockings makes the muzzle, uses knees instead of anvil, makes a hammer of his forearm, like the storm-wind roars the bellows, like the thunder rings the anvil.
Forges one day, then a second, forges till the third day closes, in the body of Ippunen, in the sorcerer's abdomen. Old Ippunen, full of magic, speaks these words in wonder, guessing, Who art thou of ancient heroes, who of all the host of heroes? Many heroes I have eaten, and of men a countless number have not eaten such as thou art. Smoke arises from my nostrils, from my mouth the fire is streaming, in my throat are iron clinkers. Go, thou monster, hence to wander, flee this place, thou plague of northland. Ere I go to seek thy mother, tell the ancient dame thy mischief. She shall bear thine evil conduct. Great the burden she shall carry. Great a mother's pain and anguish, when her child runs wild and lawless.
Cannot comprehend the meaning, nor this mystery unravel, why thou camest here, O monster, camest here to give me torture. Art thou hisi sent from heaven, some calamity from Ukko? Art perchance some new creation ordered here to do me evil? If thou art some evil genius, some calamity from Ukko, sent to me by my creator, then am I resign'd to suffer. God does not forsake the worthy, does not ruin those that trust him, never are the good forsaken. If by man thou wert created, if some hero sent thee hither, I shall learn thy race of evil, shall destroy thy wicked tribe-folk. Thence arose the violation, thence arose the first destruction, Thence came all the evil-doings, from the neighbourhood of wizards, from the home of the magicians, from the eaves of vicious spirits, from the haunts of fortune-tellers, from the cabins of the witches, from the castles of Tuoni, from the bottom of Manala, from the ground with envy swollen, from ingratitude's dominions, from the rocky shoals and quicksands, from the marshes filled with danger, From the cataract's commotion, from the bear-caves in the mountains, from the wolves within the thickets, from the roarings of the pine-tree, from the burrows of the fox-dog, from the woodlands of the reindeer, from the eaves and hisi hurdles, from the battles of the giants, from uncultivated pastures, from the billows of the oceans, from the streams of boiling waters, from the waterfalls of From the limits of the storm-clouds, from the pathways of the thunders, from the flashings of the lightnings, from the distant plains of Poh-ya, from the fatal stream and whirlpool, from the birthplace of Duoni.
Art thou coming from these places? Hast thou, evil, hasten'd hither, to the heart of sinless hero, to devour my guiltless body, to destroy this wisdom-singer? Get thee hence, thou dog of Lempoh, Leave, thou monster, from Manala, flee from mine immortal body, leave my liver, thing of evil. In my body cease thy forging, cease this torture of my vitals. Let me rest in peace and slumber. Should I want in means efficient, should I lack the magic power to outroot thine evil genius, I shall call a better hero, call upon a higher power, to remove this dire misfortune, to annihilate this monster. I shall call the will of woman from the fields, the old-time heroes, mounted heroes from the sand-hills, thus to rescue me from danger, from these pains and ceaseless tortures.
If this force prove inefficient, should not drive thee from my body, come, thou forest, with thy heroes, come, ye junipers and pine-trees, with your messengers of power. Come, ye mountains, with your wood-nymphs. Come, ye lakes, with all your mermaids. Come, ye hundred ocean spearmen. Come, torment this son of Hisi. Come, and kill this evil monster. If this call is inefficient, does not drive thee from my vitals, rise, thou ancient water-mother, with thy blue cap from the ocean. From the seas, the lakes, the rivers, bring protection to thy hero. Comfort bring, and full assistance, that I guiltless may not suffer, may not perish prematurely. Shouldst thou brave this invocation, Carpe, daughter of creation, come, thou beauteous golden maiden, oldest of the race of women, come, and witness my misfortunes, come, and turn away this evil.
Come, remove this biting torment, take away this plague of Piru. If this call be disregarded, if thou wilt not leave me guiltless, Ukko, on the arch of heaven, in the thunder-cloud dominions, come thou quickly, thou art needed. Come, protect thy tortured hero, drive away this magic demon, banish ever his enchantment with his sword and flaming furnace, with his fire-enkindling bellows. Go, thou demon, hence to wander, flee, thou plague of northland heroes, never come again for shelter, never more build thou thy dwelling in the body of Ippunen. Take at once thy habitation to the regions of thy kindred, to thy distant fields and firesides. When thy journey thou hast ended, gain'd the borders of thy country, gain'd the meads of thy Creator.
Give a signal of thy coming, rumble like the peals of thunder, glisten like the gleam of lightning. Knock upon the outer portals, enter through the open windows, glide about the many chambers, seize the host and seize the hostess, knock their evil beads together, wring their necks and hurl their bodies to the black dogs of the forest. Should this prove of little value, hover like the bird of battle, or the dwellings of the master, scare the horses from the mangers, from the troughs affright the cattle, twist their tails and horns and forelocks, hurl their carcasses to Lempoh. If some scourge the winds have sent me, Sent me on the air of spring-tide, Brought me by the frosts of winter, Quickly journey whence thou camest on the air-path of the heavens, Perching not upon some aspen, resting not upon the birch-tree.
Fly away to copper mountains, That the copper winds may nurse thee, waves of ether thy protection. Didst those come from high Umala? From the hems of ragged snow-clouds, quick ascend beyond the cloud-space, quickly journey whence thou camest. To the snow-clouds, crystal sprinkled, to the twinkling stars of heaven, there thy fire may burn forever, there may flash thy forked lightnings in the sun's undying furnace. Wert thou sent here by the spring-floods, driven here by river-torrents? Quickly journey whence thou camest, quickly hasten to the waters, to the borders of the rivers, to the ancient water-mountain, that the floods again may rock thee, and thy water-mother nurse thee. Didst thou come from Kalma's kingdom, from the castles of the death-land?
Haste thou back to thine own country, to the calmer halls and castles, to the fields with envy swollen, where contending armies perish. Art thou from the hisi woodlands, from ravines in Lempoh's forest, from the thickets of the pine-wood, from the dwellings of the fir-glen? Quick, retrace thine evil footsteps to the dwellings of thy master, to the thickets of thy kindred. There thou mayest dwell at pleasure, till thy house decays about thee, till thy walls shall mould and crumble. Evil genius, thee I banish. Get thee hence, thou horrid monster, to the caverns of the white bear, to the deep abysm of serpents. To the vales and swamps and fen-lands, to the ever-silent waters, to the hot springs of the mountains, to the dead seas of the northland, to the lifeless lakes and rivers, to the sacred stream and whirlpool.
Shouldst thou find no place of resting, I will banish thee still farther, to the Northland's distant borders, to the broad expanse of Lapland, to the ever lifeless deserts, to the unproductive prairies, sunless, moonless, starless, lifeless, in the dark abyss of Northland. This for thee, a place befitting, pitch thy tents, and feast for ever on the dead plains of Poyola. Shouldst thou find no means of living, I will banish thee still farther to the cataract of Rutia, to the fire-emitting whirlpool, where the firs are ever falling, to the windfalls of the forest. Swim hereafter in the waters of the fire-emitting whirlpool. Whirl thou ever in the current of the cataract's commotion, in its foam and boiling waters.
Should this place be unbefitting, I will drive thee farther onward, to Tuoni's coal-black river, to the endless stream of mana, where thou shalt forever linger. Thou canst never leave, Manala. Should I not thy head deliver? Should I never pay thy ransom? Thou canst never safely journey through nine brother-rams abutting, through nine brother-bulls opposing, through nine brother-stallions thwarting. Thou canst not recross death-river, thickly set with iron netting, interlaced with threads of copper. Shouldst thou ask for steeds, for saddle, shouldst thou need a fleet-foot courser, I will give thee worthy racers, I will give thee saddle-horses. Evil Hisi has a charger, crimson mane and tail and foretop, fire emitting from his nostrils, as he prances through his pastures.
Hoofs are made of strongest iron, legs are made of steel and copper, quickly scales the highest mountains, darts like lightning through the valleys, when a skilful master rides him. Should this steed be insufficient, I will give thee Lempos snow-shoes, give thee Hisi's shoes of elm-wood, give to thee the staff of Piru. That with these thou mayest journey into Hisi's courts and castles, to the woods and fields of Eoutas. If the rocks should rise before thee, dash the flinty rocks in pieces, hurl the fragments to the heavens. If the branches cross thy pathway, make them turn aside in greeting. If some mighty hero hail thee, hurl him headlong to the woodlands. Hasten hence, thou thing of evil, heinous monster, leave my body, ere the breaking of the morning, ere the sun awakes from slumber, ere the sinning of the cuckoo.
Haste away, thou plague of Northland, haste along the track of moonbeams, wander hence, forever wander, to the darksome fields of Poya. If at once thou dost not leave me, I will send thee eagles' talons, send to thee the beaks of vultures. To devour thine evil body, hurl thy skeleton to hisi. Much more quickly cruel Lempo left my vitals when commanded, when I called the aid of Ukko, called the help of my creator. Flee, thou motherless Offendant, flee, thou fiend of Sarriola, flee, thou hound without a master, ere the morning sun arises, ere the moon withdraws to slumber. Weinermoynen, ancient hero, speaks at last to all riponen. Satisfied am I to linger in these old and spacious caverns, Pleasant here my home and dwelling.
For my meat I have thy tissues, Have thy heart and spleen and liver, For my drink the blood of ages. Goodly home for Weinermoynen. I shall set my forge and bellows deeper, deeper in thy vitals. I shall swing my heavy hammer, swing it with a greater power on thy heart and lungs and liver. I shall never, never leave thee till I learn thine incantations, learn thy many wisdom sayings, learn the lost words of the master. Never must these words be bidden, earth must never lose this wisdom, though the wisdom singers perish. Old Vipunen, wise magician, ancient prophet, filled with power, opens full his store of knowledge, lifts the covers from his cases, filled with old-time incantations, filled with songs of times primeval, filled with ancient wit and wisdom.
Sings the very oldest folk-songs, sings the origin of witchcraft, sings of earth and its beginning, sings the first of all creations, sings the source of good and evil, sung alas by youth no longer, only sung in part by heroes in these days of sin and sorrow. Evil days our land befallen. Sings the orders of enchantment. How, upon the will of Ukko, by command of the Creator, how the air was first divided, how the water came from ether, how the earth arose from water, how from earth came vegetation, fish and fowl and man and hero. Sings again the wise Vipunen how the moon was first created, how the sun was set in heaven, whence the colors of the rainbow, whence the ether's crystal pillars, how the skies with stars were sprinkled.
Then again sings wise Vipunen. Sings in miracles of concord, sings in magic tones of wisdom, never was there heard such singing. Songs he sings in countless numbers, swift his notes as tongues of serpents. All the distant hills re-echo. Sings one day and then a second, sings a third from dawn till evening, sings from evening till the morning. Listen all the stars of heaven, and the moon stands still and listens. Fall the waves upon the deep sea, in the bay the tides cease rising, stop the rivers in their courses, stops the waterfall of Rutia. Even Jordan ceases flowing, and the walks and stops and listens. When the ancient Wainamoinen well had learned the magic sayings, learned the ancient songs and legends, learned the words of ancient wisdom, learned the lost words of the master, well had learned the secret doctrine.
He prepared to leave the body of the wisdom-bard, Vipunen, leave the bosom of the master, leave the wonderful enchanter. Spake the hero, Vainamoinen, O, thou Antero, Vipunen, open wide thy mouth and forces. I have found the magic-lost words. I will leave thee now forever, leave thee, and thy wondrous singing will return to Kalevala, to Vainola's fields and firesides. Thus Vipunen spake in answer, Many are the things I've eaten, eaten bear and elk and reindeer, eaten ox and wolf and wild boar, eaten man and eaten hero. Never, never have I eaten such a thing as weinermoynen. Thou hast found what thou desirest, found the three words of the master. Go in peace, and ne'er returning take my blessing on thy going.
Thereupon the bard Vipunen opens wide his mouth, and wider, and the good old Vainamoinen straightway leaves the wise enchanter, leaves Vipunen's great abdomen. From the mouth he glides, and journeys o'er the hills and vales of Northland, swift as red-deer or the forest, swift as yellow-breasted marten, to the firesides of Vainola, to the plains of Kalevala. Straightway hastes he to the smithy of his brother Ilmarinen, Thus the iron artist greets him. Hast thou found the long-lost wisdom? Hast thou heard the secret doctrine? Hast thou learned the master magic? How to fasten in the ledges? How the stern should be completed? How complete the ship's forecastle? Vainamoinen thus made answer. I have learned of words a hundred, learned a thousand incantations, hidden deep for many ages, learned the words of ancient wisdom, found the keys of secret doctrine, found the lost words of the master.
Vahinamöinen, magic builder, straightway journeys to his vessel, to the spot of magic labor, quickly fastens in the ledges, firmly binds the stern together, and completes the boats forecastle. Thus the ancient Wainamoinen built the boat with magic only, and with magic launched his vessel, using not the hand to touch it, using not the foot to move it, using not the knee to turn it, using nothing to propel it. Thus the third task was completed, for the hostess of Poiola, dowry for the maid of beauty sitting on the arch of heaven, on the bow of many colours.
End of Rune 17.
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19 18 - RUNE XVIII. The Rival Suitors 25:17
Vaini-meinen. Old and truthful, long considered, long debated, how to woo and win the daughter of the hostess of Pohiola, how to lead the bride of beauty, fairy maiden of the rainbow, to the meadows of Ainola, from the dismal Sarriola. Now he decks his magic vessel, paints the boat in blue and scarlet, trims in gold the ship's forecastle. Decks the prow in molten silver, sings his magic ship down, gliding on the cylinders of fir-tree, now erects the masts of pine-wood, on each mast the sails of linen, sails of blue and white and scarlet, woven into finest fabric. Vainamoinen, the magician, steps aboard his wondrous vessel, steers the bark across the waters, on the blue back of the broad sea, speaks these words in sailing northward, sailing to the dark Pohiola.
Come aboard my ship, O Ukko, come with me, thou God of mercy, to protect thine ancient hero, to support thy trusting servant, on the breasts of raging billows, on the far outstretching waters. Rock, O winds, this wondrous vessel, causing not a single ripple. Rolling waves, bear ye me northward, that the awe may not be needed in my journey to Pohiola. O this mighty waste of waters. Ilmarinen's beautiest sister, fair and goodly-made, Annikki, of the night and dawn, the daughter, who awakes each morning early, rises long before the daylight, stood one morning on the seashore, washing in the foam her dresses, rincing out her silken ribbons on the bridge of scarlet color, on the border of the highway, on a headland jutting seaward, on the forest-covered island.
Here are Niki, looking round her, looking through the fog and ether, looking through the clouds of heaven, gazing far out on the blue sea, sees the morning sun arising, glimmering along the billows, looks with eyes of distant vision toward the sunrise on the waters, toward the winding streams of Swarmy, where the weener waves were flowing. There she sees, on the horizon, something darkle in the sunlight, something blue upon the billows, speaks these words in wonder, guessing. What is this, upon the surges? What this blue upon the waters? What this darkling in the sunlight? Tis perhaps a flock of wild geese, or perchance the blue duck flying? Then upon thy wings arising, fly away to highest heaven.
Art thou then a shoal of sea-trout, or perchance a school of salmon? Dive then to the deep sea-bottom, in the waters swim and frolic. Art thou then a cliff of granite, or perchance a mighty oak-tree floating on the rough sea-billows? May the floods then wash and beat thee, break thee to a thousand fragments. Wainamoinen, sailing northward, steers his wondrous ship of magic toward the headland jutting seaward, toward the island forest covered. Now Anniki, goodly maiden, sees it is the magic vessel of a wonderful enchanter, of a mighty bard and hero, and she asks this simple question. Art thou then my father's vessel? O'er my brother's ship of magic? Haste away, then, to thy harbour, to thy refuge in Wainola.
Hast thou come a goodly distance? Sail then farther on thy journey, point thy prow to other waters. It was not her father's vessel, not a sailboat from the distance. T'was the ship of Wainamoinen, bark of the eternal singer, Sails within a hailing distance, swims still nearer o'er the waters, brings one word and takes another, brings a third of magic import. Speaks the goodly-maid Annikki of the night and dawn, the daughter to the sailor of the vessel. Whither sailest, Wainamoinen? Whither bound, thou friend of waters, pride and joy of Kalevala? From the vessel Wainamoinen gives this answer to the maiden. I have come to catch some sea-trout, catch the young and toothsome whiting, hiding in these reeds and rushes.
This is the answer of Anniki. Do not speak to me in falsehood, know I well the times of fishing. Long ago my honoured father was a fisherman in Northland, came to catch the trout and whiting, fished within these seas and rivers. Very well do I remember how the fisherman disposes, how he rigs his fishing vessel, lines and gaffs and poles and fish-nets. Hast not come a-fishing hither? Wither goest, Wainamoinen, Wither sailest friend of waters? Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, I have come to catch some wild geese, Catch the hissing-birds of Swarmy, In these far-extending borders in the Saksensund dominions. Good Annicki gives this answer. Know I well a truthful speaker, Easily detect a falsehood. Formerly my aged father often came a-hunting hither, came to hunt the hissing wild-geese, hunt the red-bill of these waters.
Very well do I remember how the hunter rigs his vessel. Bows and arrows, knives and quiver, dogs enchain'd within the vessel, pointers hunting on the sea-shore, setters seeking in the marshes. Tell the truth, now, Wijnermöinen, whither is thy vessel sailing? Spake the hero of the Northland. To the wars my ship is sailing, to the bloody fields of battle, where the streams run scarlet-coloured, where the paths are paved with bodies. These the words of Feraniki. Know I well the paths to battle. Formerly my aged father often sounded war's alarum, often led the hosts to conquest. In each ship a hundred rowers, and in arms a thousand heroes. O the prow a thousand crossbows, swords and spears and battle-axes.
Know I well the ship of battle? Speak no longer fruitless falsehoods. Whither sailest Wainamoinen? Whither steerest friend of waters? These the words of Wainamoinen. Come, O maiden, to my vessel, in my magic ship be seated. Then I'll give thee truthful answer. Thus, Anniki, silver-tincelled, answers ancient Wainamoinen. With the winds I'll fill thy vessel, To thy bark I'll send the storm-winds, And capsize thy ship of magic, Break in pieces its forecastle, If the truth thou dost not tell me, If thou dost not cease thy falsehoods, If thou dost not tell me truly Whither sails thy magic vessel. These the words of Wainamoinen, Now I make thee truthful answer, Though at first I spake deception. I am sailing to the northland, to the dismal Sarriola, where the ogres live and flourish, where they drown the worthy heroes, there to woo the maid of beauty sitting on the bow of heaven, woo and win the fairy virgin, bring her to my home and kindred to the firesides of Vainola.
Then Annicki, graceful maiden, of the night and dawn the daughter, as she heard the rightful answer, knew the truth was fully spoken, straightway left her coats unbeaten, left unwashed her linen garments, left unrinsed her silks and ribbons on the highway by the sea-shore, on the bridge of scarlet color, on her arm she threw her long robes, Hastened off with speed of roebuck to the shops of Ilmarinen, to the iron-forger's furnace, to the blacksmith's home and smithy, here she found the hero artist forging out a bench of iron, and adorning it with silver. Soot lay thick upon his forehead, soot and coal upon his shoulders, on the threshold speaks Annicki, these the words his sister uses. Ilmarinen, dearest brother, thou eternal artist-forger, forge me now a loom of silver, golden rings to grace my fingers.
Forge me gold and silver ear-rings, six or seven golden girdles, golden crosslets for my bosom. For my head forge golden trinkets, and I'll tell a tale surprising, tell a story that concerns thee, truthfully I'll tell the story. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen spake, and these the words he uttered. If thou'lt tell the tale sincerely, I will forge the loom of silver, Golden rings to grace thy fingers, Forge thee gold and silver earrings, Six or seven golden girdles, Golden crosslets for thy bosom, For thy head forge golden trinkets. But if thou should'st tell me falsely. I shall break thy beauteous jewels, break thine ornaments in pieces, hurl them to the fire and furnace, never forge the other trinkets.
This the answer of Anniki. Ancient blacksmith, Ilmarinen, dost thou ever think to marry her already thine affianced? Beauteous maiden of the rainbow, fairest virgin of the Northland, chosen bride of Sarriola? Shouldst thou wish the maid of beauty, thou must forge, and forge unceasing, hammering the days and nights through, forge the summer hoofs for horses, forge the myon hoofs for winter. In the long nights forge the snow-sledge, gaily trim it in the daytime, haste thou then upon thy journey to thy wooing in the northland to the dismal Sarriola. Thither journeys one more clever, sails another now before thee, there to woo thy bride affiancered. Thence to lead thy chosen virgin, woo and win the maid of beauty.
Three long years thou hast been wooing, Wainamoinen now is sailing on the blue back of the waters, sitting at his helm of copper. On the prower, golden carvings, beautiful his boat of magic, sailing fleetly o'er the billows, to the never-pleasant northland, to the dismal Sarriola. Ilmarinen stood in wonder, stood a statue at the story. Silent grief had settled o'er him, settled o'er the iron artist. From one hand the tongs descended, from the other fell the hammer, as the blacksmith made this answer. Good Anniki, worthy sister, I shall forge the loom of silver, Golden rings to grace thy fingers, forge thee gold and silver ear-rings, Six or seven golden girdles, Golden crosslets for thy bosom.
Go and heat for me the bathroom, fill with heat the honey chambers, lay the faggots on the fireplace, lay the smaller woods around them, pour some water through the ashes, make a soap of magic virtue, thus to cleanse my blackened visage, thus to cleanse the blacksmith's body, thus remove the soot and ashes. Then Anniki, kindly sister, quickly warmed her brother's bathroom, warmed it with the knots of fir-trees that the thunder-winds had broken. Gather'd pebbles from the fire-stream, threw them in the heating waters, broke the tassels from the birch-trees, steep'd the foliage in honey, made a lie from milk and ashes, made of these a strong decoction, mix'd it with the fat and marrow of the reindeer of the mountains, made a soap of magic virtue, thus to cleanse the iron artist, thus to beautify the suitor, thus to make the hero worthy.
Ilmarinen, ancient blacksmith, the eternal metal-worker, forged the wishes of his sister, ornaments for fair Anniki, rings and bracelets, pins and ear-drops, forged for her six golden girdles, forged a weaving loom of silver, while the maid prepared the bathroom, set his toilet-room in order. To the maid he gave the trinkets, gave the loom of molten silver, and the sister thus made answer. I have heated well thy bathroom. Have thy toilet things in order, everything as thou desirest. Go, prepare thyself for wooing. Lave thy head to flaxen whiteness. Make thy cheeks look fresh and ruddy. Lave thyself in love's aroma, that thy wooing prove successful. Ilmarinen, magic artist, quick repairing to his bathroom, bathed his head to flaxen whiteness, made his cheeks look fresh and ruddy, laved his eyes until they sparkled like the moonlight on the waters.
Wondrous were his form and features, and his cheeks like ruddy berries. These the words of Vilmarinen, fair Anniki, lovely sister, bring me now my silken raiment, bring my best and richest vesture, bring me now my softest linen, that my wooing prove successful. Straightway did the helpful sister bring the finest of his raiment, bring the softest of his linen, raiment fashioned by his mother, brought to him his silken stockings, brought him shoes of marten leather, brought a vest of sky-blue color. Brought him scarlet-coloured trousers, brought a coat with scarlet trimming, brought a red shawl trimmed in ermine, fourfold wrapped about his body, brought a fur coat made of sealskin, fastened with a thousand bottoms, and adorned with countless jewels, brought for him his magic girdle, fastened well with golden buckles that his artist mother fashioned, brought him gloves with golden wristlets that the Laplanders had woven for a head of many ringlets, Brought the finest cap in Northland that his ancient father purchased when he first began his wooing.
Ilmarinen, blacksmith artist, clad himself to look his finest when he thus address'd a servant. Hitch for me a fleet-foot racer, hitch him to my willing snow-sledge, for I start upon a journey to the distant shores of Pohia, to the dismal Sarriola. Spake the servant thus in answer, Thou hast seven fleet-foot racers munching grain within their mangers. Which of these shall I make ready? Spake the blacksmith Ilmarinen, take the fleetest of my courses, put the grey steed in the harness, hitch him to my sledge of magic, place six cuckoos on the brake-board, seven bluebirds on the cross-bars, thus to charm the northland maidens, thus to make them look and listen as the cuckoos call and echo. Bring me, too, my largest bear-skin, fold it warm about the cross-bench, bring me then my marten fur-robes as a cover and protection.
Straightway then the trusty servant of the blacksmith Ilmarinen put the grey steed in the harness, hitched the racer to the snow-sledge, placed six cuckoos on the brake-board, seven bluebirds on the cross-bars, on the front to sing and twitter. Then he brought the largest bear-skin, folded it upon the cross-bench, brought the finest robes of Martin, warm protection for the master. Ilmarinen, forger-artist, the eternal metal-worker, earnestly entreated Ukko. Send thy snowflakes, Uco, father, let them gently fall from heaven, let them cover all the heather, let them hide the berry bushes, that my sledge may glide in freedom o'er the hills to Sarriola. Uco sent the snow from heaven, gently dropped the crystal snowflakes, lending thus his kind assistance to the hero Ilmarinen on his journey to the northland.
Reigns in hand, the ancient artist seats him in his metal snow-sledge, and beseeches thus his master. Good luck to my reins and tracers, good luck to my shafts and runners. God protect my magic snow-sledge, be my safeguard on my journey to the dismal Sarriola. Now the ancient Ilmarinen draws the reins upon the racer, snaps his whip above the courser, to the grey steed gives this order, and the charger plunges northward. Haste away, my flaxen stallion, haste thee onward, noble Whiteface, to the never pleasant Pohia, to the dreary Sarriola. Fast and faster flies the fleet-foot, on the curving snow-capped sea-coast, on the borders of the lowlands, o'er the alder hills and mountains. Merrily the steed flies onward, bluebirds singing, cuckoos calling, on the seashore looking northward, through the sand and falling snowflakes, blinding winds and snow and sea-foam.
Cloud the hero, ilmarinen, as he glides upon his journey, looking seaward for the vessel of the ancient Wainamoinen. Travels one day, then a second, Travels all the next day northward. Till the third day Ilmarinen overtakes old Wainamoinen, Rails him in his magic vessel, And addresses thus the minstrel. O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Let us woo in peace the maiden, Fairest daughter of the northland, Sitting on the bow of heaven, Let each labour long to win her, Let her wed the one she chooses, Him selecting, let her follow. Weinermoynen thus makes answer. I agree to thy proposal. Let us woo in peace the maiden. Not by force, nor faithless measures shall we woo the maid of beauty. Let her follow him she chooses.
Let the unsuccessful suitor harbour neither wrath nor envy for the hero that she follows. Thus agreeing, on they journey, each according to his pleasure, fleetly does the steed fly onward, quickly flies the magic vessel. Sailing on the broad sea northward, Ilmarinen's fleet-foot racer makes the hills of Northland tremble as he gallops on his journey to the dismal Sarriola. Wainamoinen calls the south winds, and they fly to his assistance, swiftly sails his ship of beauty, swiftly ploughs the rough sea-billows in her pathway to Pohiola. Time had gone but little distance. Scarce a moment had passed over, ere the dogs began their barking in the mansions of the Northland, in the courts of Sarriola.
Watch Dogs, of the court of Lughi! Never had they growled so fiercely, never had they barked so loudly, never with their tails had beaten Northland into such an uproar. Spake the master of Pohiola, go and learn, my worthy daughter, why the watchdogs have been barking, why the black dog signals danger. Quickly does the daughter answer, I am occupied, dear father. I have work of more importance. I must tend my flock of lambkins. I must turn the nether millstone, grind to flour the grains of barley, run the grindings through the sifter. Only have I time for grinding. Lowly growls the faithful watch-dog, Seldom does he growl so strangely. Spake the master of Pohiola, Go and learn, my trusted consort, Why the Northland dogs are barking, Why the black dog signals danger.
Thus his aged wife makes answer. Have no time nor inclination, I must feed my hungry household, Must prepare a worthy dinner, I must bake the toothsome biscuit, Knead the dough till it is ready, Only have I strength for kneading. Spake the master of Pohiola. Dames are always in a hurry, maidens too are ever busy, whether warming at the oven, or asleep upon their couches. Go, my son, and learn the danger, why the black dog growls displeasure. Quickly does the sun give answer. Have no time, nor inclination, Am in haste to grind my hatchet. I must chop this log to cordwood, For the fire must cut the faggots, I must split the wood in fragments, Large the pile and small the firewood, Only have I strength for chopping.
Still the watchdog growls in anger, Growl the whelps within the mansion, Growl the dogs chained in the kennel, Growls the black dog on the hilltop, Setting Northland in an uproar. Spake the master of Pohiola, Never, never does my black dog growl like this without a reason. Never does he bark for nothing, does not growl at angry billows, nor the sighing of the pine-trees. Then the master of Pohiola went himself to learn the reason for the barking of the watch-dogs. Strowed he through the spacious courtyard, through the open fields beyond it, to the summit of the uplands. Looking toward his black dog barking, he beholds the muzzle pointed to a distant stormy hilltop, to a mound with alders covered.
There he learned the rightful reason why his dogs had barked so loudly, why had growled the wool-tail-bearer, why his whelps had signalled danger. At full sail he saw a vessel, and the ship was scarlet-colored, entering the bay of Lempoh, saw a sledge of magic colors gliding up the curving sea-shore, or the snow-fields of Pohiola. Then the master of the northland hastened straightway to his dwelling, hastened forward to his courtroom, these the accents of the master. Often strangers journey hither on the blue back of the ocean, sailing in a scarlet vessel, rocking in the bay of Lempore. Often strangers come in sledges to the honeylands of Lui. Spake the hostess of Pohiola, how shall we obtain a token why these strangers journey hither?
My beloved faithful daughter, Lay a branch upon the fireplace, Let it burn with fire of magic, If it trickle drops of scarlet, War and bloodshed do they bring us, If it trickle drops of water, Peace and plenty bring the strangers. Northland's fair and slender maiden, Beautiful and modest daughter, Lays a sorb branch on the fireplace, Lights it with the fire of magic, Does not trickle drops of scarlet, Trickles neither blood nor water, From the wand come drops of honey. From the corner spake Sur Wako, this the language of the wizard. If the wand is dripping honey, then the strangers that are coming are but worthy friends and suitors. Then the hostess of the Northland with the daughter of the hostess straightway left their work, and hastened from their dwelling to the courtyard, looked about in all directions, turned their eyes upon the waters, Saw a magic-coloured vessel rocking slowly in the harbour, having sailed the bay of Lempore, triple sails and masts and rigging, sable was the nether portion and the upper scarlet-coloured, at the helm an ancient hero leaning on his oars of copper.
Saw a fleet-foot racer running, saw a red sledge lightly follow, saw the magic sledge emblazon'd, guided toward the courts of Louie. Saw and heard six golden cuckoos sitting on the brake-board, calling, seven bluebirds richly colored, singing from the yoke and cross-bar. In the sledge a magic hero, young and strong and proud and handsome, holding reins upon the courser. Spake the hostess of Pohiola. Dearest daughter, winsome maiden, dost thou wish a noble suitor? Should these heroes come to woo thee, wouldst thou leave thy home and country, be the bride of him that pleases, be his faithful life companion? He that comes upon the waters sailing the magic vessel, having sailed the bay of Lempow, is the good old Wainamoinen.
In his ship are countless treasures, richest presents from Wainola. He that rides here in his snow-sledge, in his sledge of magic beauty, with the cuckoos and the bluebirds, is the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Cometh hither empty-handed, only bring some wisdom-sayings. When they come within the dwelling, bring a bowl of honeyed viands. Bring a pitcher with two handles. Give to him that thou wouldst follow. Give it to old Wainamoinen, him that brings thee countless treasures, costly presents in his vessel, priceless gems from Kalevala. Spake the Northland's lovely daughter, this the language of the maiden, good indeed advice maternal. But I will not wed for riches, wed no man for countless treasures.
For his worth I'll choose a husband, for his youth and fine appearance, for his noble form and features. In the olden times the maidens were not sold by anxious mothers to the suitors that they loved not. I shall choose without his treasures Ilmarinen for his wisdom, For his worth and good behavior, him that forged the wondrous Sampo hammered thee the lid in colors. Spake the hostess of Pohiola, senseless daughter, child of folly, thus to choose the ancient blacksmith, from whose brow drips perspiration, evermore to rinse his linen, lave his hands and eyes and forehead, keep his ancient house in order, little use his wit and wisdom when compared with gold and silver. This the answer of the daughter.
I will never, never, never, wed the ancient Wainamoinen with his gold and priceless jewels. Never will I be a helpmate to a hero in his dotage. Little thanks my compensation. Fainamoinen, safely landing in advance of Ilmarinen, pulls his gaily-covered vessel from the waves upon the sea-beach, on the cylinders of birch-wood, on the rollers copper-banded, straightway hastens to the guest-room of the hostess of Pohiola, of the master of the Northland, speaks these words upon the threshold to the famous maid of beauty. Come with me, thou lovely virgin, be my bride and life companion, share with me my joys and sorrows, be my honoured wife hereafter. This the answer of the maiden, Hast thou built for me the vessel, built for me the ship of magic from the fragments of the distaff, from the splinters of the spindle?
Vainamoinen thus replying, I have built the promised vessel, built the wondrous ship for sailing. Firmly joined the parts by magic, it will weather roughest billows, will outlive the winds and waters, swiftly glide upon the blue back of the deep and boundless ocean. It will ride the waves in beauty, like an airy bubble rising, like a cork on lake and river, through the angry seas of Northland, through Pohiola's peaceful waters. Northland's fair and slender daughter gives this answer to her suitor. Will not wed a sea-born hero, Do not care to rock the billows, Cannot live with such a husband. Storms would bring us pain and trouble, Winds would rack our hearts and temples. Therefore thee I cannot follow, Cannot keep thy home in order, Cannot be thy life companion, Cannot wed old Vahina Möinen.
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20 19 - RUNE XIX. Ilmarinen's Wooing 19:50
Rune 19 of the Kalevala. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox. The Karlevala, compiled by Elias Lernrott, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 19. Ilmarinen's wooing.
Ilmarinen, hero blacksmith, the eternal metal-worker, hastens forward to the courtroom of the hostess of Pohiola, of the master of the Northland, hastens through the open portals into Louis' home and presence. Servants come with silver pitchers, filled with Northland's richest brewing. Honey-drink is brought and offered to the blacksmith of Fainola. Ilmarinen thus replying, I shall not in all my lifetime taste the drink that thou hast brought me, Till I see the maid of beauty, fairy maiden of the rainbow. I will drink with her in gladness, For whose hand I journey hither. Spake the hostess of Pohiola. Trouble does the one selected give to him that woos and watches. Not yet are her feet in sandals.
Thine affianced is not ready. Only canst thou woo my daughter. Only canst thou win the maiden, when thou hast by aid of magic ploughed the serpent field of Hisi. Ploughed the field of hissing vipers, touching neither beam nor handles. Once this field was ploughed by Piru, Lempoh furrowed it with horses, with a ploughshare made of copper, with a beam of flaming iron. Never since has any hero brought this field to cultivation. Ilmarinen of Wainola straightway hastens to the chamber of the maiden of the rainbow, speaks these words in hesitation. Thou of night and dawn, the daughter, tell me, dost thou not remember when for thee I forged the sampo, hammered thee the lid in colors? Thou didst swear by oath the strongest, by the forge and by the anvil, by the tongs and by the hammer, in the ears of the Almighty and before Omnisi and Ukko.
Thou wouldst follow me hereafter, be my bride, my life companion, be my honoured wife for ever. Now thy mother is exacting, will not give to me her daughter, till by means of magic only I have ploughed the field of serpents, ploughed the hissing soil of Hisi. The affianced bride of beauty gives this answer to the suitor. O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, the eternal wonder-forger, forge thyself a golden ploughshare, forge the beam of shining silver, and of copper forge the handles. Then with ease, by aid of magic, thou canst plough the field of serpents, plough the hissing soil of Hisi. Ilmarinen, welcome suitor, straightway builds a forge and smithy, places gold within the furnace, in the forge he lays the silver, Forges then a golden plough-share, forges too a beam of silver, forges handles out of copper, forges boots and gloves of iron, forges him a mail of metal, for his limbs a safe protection, safe protection for his body.
Then a horse of fire selecting harnesses the flaming stallion, goes to plough the field of serpents, plough the viperlands of Hisi. In the field were countless vipers, serpents there of every species, crawling, writhing, hissing, stinging, harmless all against the hero. Thus he stills the snakes of Lempoh. Vipers, ye by God created, neither best nor worst of creatures, ye whose wisdom comes from Ukko, and whose venom comes from Hisi. Ukko is your greater master. By his will your heads are lifted. Get ye hence before my ploughing. Writhe ye through the grass and stubble. Crawl ye to the nearest thicket. Keep your heads beneath the heather. Hunt our holes to mana's kingdom if your poison-heads be lifted.
Then will mighty Ukko smite them with his iron-pointed arrows, with the lightning of his anger. Thus the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, safely ploughs the field of serpents, lifts the vipers in his ploughing, buries them beneath the furrow, harmless all against his magic. When the task had been completed, Ilmarinen, quick returning, thus addressed Porheola's hostess. I have ploughed the field of Hisi, ploughed the field of hissing serpents, stilled and banished all the vipers. Give me, ancient dame, thy daughter, fairest maiden of the Northland. Spake the hostess of Pohiola, shall not grant to thee my daughter, shall not give, my lovely virgin, till Tworni's bear is muzzled, till Manala's wolf is conquered in the forests of the death-land, in the boundaries of Mana.
Hundreds have been sent to hunt him. No one yet has been successful. All have perished in Manala. Thereupon young Ilmarinen to the maiden's chamber hastens, thus addresses his affiancered. Still another test demanded. I must go to Tuornella. Bridal there the bear of mana. Bring him from the deathland forests, from Tuorne's grove and empire. This advice the maiden gives him. O thou artist Ilmarinen, the eternal metal-worker, forge of steel, a magic bridle, on a rock beneath the water, in the foaming triple currents. Make the straps of steel and copper, bridle then the bear of mana, lead him from Tuorny's forests. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen forged of steel a magic bridle, on a rock beneath the water, in the foam of triple currents.
Made the straps of steel and copper, straightway went the bear to muzzle, in the forests of the death-land, spake these words in supplication. Terheneta, ether maiden, daughter of the fog and snowflake. Sift the fog, and let it settle o'er the hills and lowland thickets, where the wild bear feeds and lingers, that he may not see my coming, may not hear my stealthy footsteps. Terhenata hears his praying, makes the fog and snowflake settle on the coverts of the wild beasts. Thus the bear he safely bridles, fetters him in chains of magic, in the forests of Tuoni, in the blue groves of Manala. When this task had been completed, Ilmarinen, quick returning, thus addressed the ancient Louis. Give me, worthy dame, thy daughter, give me now my bride, Affionced.
I have brought the bear of mana from Tuoni's fields and forests. Spake the hostess of Pohiola to the blacksmith, Ilmarinen. I will only give my daughter, give to thee the maid of beauty, when the monster pike thou catchest in the river of Tuoni. In Manala's fatal waters, using neither hooks nor fish-nets, neither boat nor fishing-tackle. Hundreds have been sent to catch him. No one yet has been successful. All have perished in Manala. Much disheartened, Ilmarinen hastened to the maiden's chamber. Thus addressed the rainbow maiden. Now a third test is demanded, much more difficult than ever. I must catch the pike of Mana in the river of Tuoni. And without my fishing-tackle hard the third test of the hero.
This advice the maiden gives him. O thou hero, Ilmarina, never, never be discouraged. In thy furnace forge an eagle from the fire of ancient magic. He will catch the pike of mana, catch the monster-fish in safety from the death-stream of Tuoni, from Manala's fatal waters. Then the suitor Ilmarinen, the eternal artist-forgeman, in the furnace forged an eagle from the fire of ancient wisdom. For this giant bird of magic forged he talons out of iron, and his beak of steel and copper. Seats himself upon the eagle, on his back between the wing-bones. Thus addresses he his creature, gives the bird of fire this order. Mighty eagle, bird of beauty, fly thou whither I direct thee. To Tuoni's coal-black river, to the blue deeps of the death stream.
Seize the mighty fish of Mana, catch for me this water monster. Swiftly flies the magic eagle, giant bird of worth and wonder, to the river of Tuoni, there to catch the pike of Mana. One wing brushes on the waters, while the other sweeps the heavens. In the ocean dips his talons, whets his beak on mountain ledges. Safely landing, Ilmarinen, the immortal artist-forger, hunts the monster of the Death-Stream, while the eagle hunts and fishes in the waters of Manala. From the river rose a monster, grasped the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, tried to drag him to his sea-cave. Quick the eagle pounced upon him, with his metal beak he seized him, wrenched his head and rent his body, hurled him back upon the bottom of the deep and fatal river, freed his master, Ilmarinen.
Then arose the pike of mana, came the water-dog in silence. Of the pikes was not the largest, nor belonged he to the smallest. Tongue the length of double hatchets, teeth as long as fen-rake handles, mouth as broad as triple streamlets, back as wide as seven sea-boats, tried to snap the magic blacksmith, tried to swallow Ilmarinen. Swiftly swoops the mighty eagle. Of the birds was not the largest, nor belonged he to the smallest. Mouth as wide as seven streamlets, tongue as long as seven javelins. Like five crooked scythes his talons, swoops upon the pike of manor. Quick the giant fish endangered darts and flounders in the river, dragging down the mighty eagle, lashing up the very bottom to the surface of the river.
When the mighty bird uprising leaves the wounded pike in water, soars aloft on worsted pinions to his home in upper ether. Soars a while, and sails, and circles, circles o'er the reddened waters, swoops again on lightning pinions, strikes with mighty force his talons into the shoulder of his victim, strikes the second of his talons on the flinty mountain ledges, on the rocks with iron hardened. From the cliffs rebound his talons, slip the flinty rocks o'erhanging, and the monster-pike resisting dives again beneath the surface, to the bottom of the river, from the talons of the eagle. Deep the wounds upon the body of the monster of Tuoni. Still a third time soars the eagle, soars and sails and quickly circles, swoops again upon the monster, fire out-shooting from his pinions, both his eyeballs flashing lightning.
With his beak of steel and copper, grasps again the pike of mana, firmly planted are his talons in the rocks and in his victim, drags the monster from the river, lifts the pike above the waters, from Tuoni's coal-black river, from the blue back of Manala. Thus the third time does the eagle bring success from former failures. Thus at last the eagle catches Mana's pike, the worst of fishes, swiftest swimmer of the waters from the river of Tuoni. None could see Manala's river, for the myriad of fish scales. Hardly could one see through ether, for the feathers of the eagle, relics of the mighty contest. Then the bird of copper talons took the pike with scales of silver to the pine-tree's topmost branches, to the fir-tree plumed with needles, tore the monster-fish in pieces, ate the body of his victim, left the head for Ilmarinen.
Spake the blacksmith to the eagle, O thou bird of evil nature, what thy thought and what thy motive? Thou hast eaten what I needed, evidence of my successors, thoughtless eagle, witless instinct, Thus to mar the spoils of conquest. But the bird of metal talons hastened onward, soaring upward, rising higher into ether, rising, flying, soaring, sailing to the borders of the long clouds, made the vault of ether tremble, split apart the dome of heaven, broke the colored bow of Ukko, tore the moon horns from their sockets, disappeared beyond the sun-land to the home of the triumphant. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen took the pike-head to the hostess of the ever-dismal northland. Thus addressed the ancient Louis.
Let this head forever serve thee as a guest bench for thy dwelling. Evidence of hero triumphs. I have caught the pike of mana. I have done as thou demandest. Three my victories in deathland. Three the tests of magic heroes. Wilt thou give me now thy daughter, give to me the maid of beauty? Spake the hostess of Pohiola. Badly is the test accomplished. Thou hast torn the pike in pieces. From his neck the head is severed. Of his body thou hast eaten. Brought to me this worthless relic. These the words of Ilmarinen. When the victory is greatest, do we suffer greatest losses. From the river of Tuoni, from the kingdom of Manala, I have brought to thee this trophy. Thus the third task is completed. Tell me, is the maiden ready?
Wilt thou give the bride a fiancet? Spake the hostess of Pohiola. I will give to thee my daughter, will prepare my snow-white virgin for the suitor Ilmarinen. Thou hast won the maid of beauty. Bride is she of thine hereafter, fit companion of thy fireside, help and joy of all thy lifetime. On the floor a child was sitting, and the babe this tale related. There appeared within this dwelling, came a bird within the castle, from the east came flying hither, from the east, a monstrous eagle. One wing touched the vault of heaven, while the other swept the ocean. With his tail upon the waters, reached his beak beyond the cloudlets, looked about, and eager watching, flew around, and sailing, soaring, flew away to Hero Castle, knocked three times with beak of copper on the castle roof of iron.
But the eagle could not enter. Then the eagle, looking round him, flew again, and sailed and circled, flew then to the mother's castle, loudly rapped with heavy knocking on the mother's roof of copper. But the eagle could not enter. Then the eagle, looking round him, flew a third time, sailing, soaring, flew then to the virgin's castle, knocked again with beak of copper on the virgin's roof of linen. Easy for him there to enter. Flew upon the castle chimney, quick descending to the chamber. Pulled the clapboards from the studding, tore the linen from the rafters. Perched upon the chamber window, near the walls of many colors, on the crossbars, gayly feathered. Looked upon the curly-headed, looked upon their golden ringlets, looked upon the snow-white virgins, on the purest of the maidens, on the fairest of the daughters, On the maid with pearly necklace, on the maiden wreathed in flowers, perched a while, and looked, admiring, swooped upon the maid of beauty, on the purest of the virgins, on the whitest, on the fairest, on the stateliest and grandest, swooped upon the rainbow daughter of the dismal Sarriola.
Grasp'd her in his mighty talons, bore away the maid of beauty, maid of fairest form and feature, maid adorned with pearly necklace, decked in feathers iridescent. Fragrant flowers upon her bosom, scarlet band around her forehead, golden rings upon her fingers, fairest maiden of the Northland. Spake the hostess of Pohiola when the babe his tale had ended. Tell me how, my child beloved, thou hast learned about the maiden, hast obtained the information, how her flaxen ringlets nestled, how the maiden's silver glistened, how the virgin's gold was lauded. Shone the silver sun upon thee? Did the moonbeams bring this knowledge? From the floor the child made answer. Thus I gained the information. Moles of good luck led me hither, to the home of the distinguished, to the guest-room of the maiden.
Good name bore her worthy father, he that sailed the magic vessel. Better name enjoyed the mother, she that baked the bread of barley, she that kneaded wheat and biscuits, fed her many guests in Northland. Thus the information reached me, thus the distant stranger heard it, heard the virgin had arisen. Once I walked within the courtyard, stepping near the virgin's chamber, at an early hour of morning, ere the sun had broken slumber, whirling rose the soot in cloudlets, blackened wreaths of smoke came rising from the chamber of the maiden, from thy daughter's lofty chimney. There the maid was busy grinding, moved the handles of the millstone, making voices like the cuckoo, like the ducks the side-holes sounded, and the sifter like the goldfish, like the sea-pearls sang the grindstones.
Then a second time I wandered to the border of the meadow, in the forest was the maiden rocking on a fragrant hillock, dying red in iron vessels and in copper kettles yellow. Then a third time did I wander to the lovely maiden's window. There I saw thy daughter weaving, heard the flying of her shuttle, heard the beating of her loom-laith, heard the rattling of her treadles, heard the whirring of her yarn-reel. Spake the hostess of Pohiola. Now, alas, beloved daughter, I have often taught this lesson. Do not sing among the pine-trees, do not call adown the valleys, do not hang thy head in walking, do not bear thine arms, nor shoulders, keep the secrets of thy bosom, hide thy beauty and thy power.
This I told thee in the autumn, taught thee in the summer season, sang thee in the budding springtime, sang thee when the snows were falling. Let us build a place for hiding, let us build the smallest windows, where may weave my fairest daughter, where my maid may ply her shuttle, where my joy may work unnoticed by the heroes of the northland, by the suitors of Vainola. From the floor the child made answer, fourteen days the young child numbered. Easy tis to hide a war-horse in the northland fields and stables. Hard, indeed, to hide a maiden, having lovely form and features. Build of stone a distant castle in the middle of the ocean. Keep within thy lovely maiden. Train thou there thy winsome daughter.
Not long hidden canst thou keep her. Maidens will not grow and flourish, kept apart from men and heroes. Will not live without their suitors. Will not thrive without their wooers. Thou canst never hide a maiden. Neither on the land nor water. Now the ancient Wainamoinen, head down-bent and heavy-hearted, wanders to his native country, to Wainola's peaceful meadows, to the plains of Kalevala, chanting as he journeys homeward. I have passed the age for wooing. Woe is me, rejected suitor, woe is me, a witless minstrel, that I did not woo and marry, when my face was young and winsome, when my hand was warm and welcome. Youth dethrones my age and station, wealth is nothing, wisdom worthless, when a hero goes a-wooing with a poor but younger brother.
Fatal error that a hero does not wed in early manhood, in his youth does not be master of a worthy wife and household. Thus the ancient Weinermoynen sends the edict to his people. Old men must not go a-wooing, must not swim the sea of anger, must not row upon a wager. Must not run a race for glory with the younger sons of Northland.
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21 20 - RUNE XX. The Brewing of Beer 26:02
20. The Calevala, compiled by Elias Lonrot, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 20. The Brewing of Beer. Now we sing the wondrous legends, songs of wedding feasts and dances, sing the melodies of Wedlach, sing the songs of old tradition, sing of Ilmarinin's marriage to the maiden of the rainbow. First daughter of the Northland, sing the drinking songs of Poya. Long prepared they for the wedding in Poyola's halls and chambers, in the courts of Sarriola. Many things that Louis ordered. Great, indeed, the preparations for the marriage of the daughter, for the feasting of the heroes, for the drinking of the strangers, for the feeding of the poor folk. For the people's entertainment grew an ox in Fargarhalla.
Not the largest, nor the smallest, was the ox that grew in Suomi. But his size was all sufficient, for his tail was sweeping niamen, and his head was over kemi, horns in length, a hundred fathoms. Longer than the horns his mouth was. Seven days it took a weasel to encircle neck and shoulders. One whole day a swallow journeyed from one horned tip to the other. Did not stop between for resting. Thirty days the squirrel traveled from the tail to reach the shoulders, but he could not gain the horn-tip till the moon had long passed over. This young ox of huge dimensions, this great calf of distant swami, was conducted from Karhala to the meadows of Boyola. At each horn, a hundred heroes. At his head and neck, a thousand.
When the mighty ox was lassoed, led away to Northland pastures. Peacefully the monster, journeyed by the bays of Sarriola, ate the pasture on the borders. To the clouds arose his shoulders, and his horns to highest heaven. Not in all of Sarriola could a butcher be discovered that could kill the ox furloughy. None of all the sons of Northland, in her hosts of giant people, in her rising generation, in the hosts of those grown older, came a hero from a distance, Veracanus from Kerelin, and these words the Greybeard uttered. Wait, O wait, thou ox of swarmy, till I bring my ancient war-club, then I smite thee on thy forehead. Break thy skull, thou winning victim. Nevermore wilt thou in summer browse the woods of Sarriola, bear our pastures, fields, and forests.
Thou ox will feed no longer through the length and breadth of Northland on the borders of this ocean. When the ancient Viracarnus started out the ox to slaughter, when Paul Voinen swung his war-club, quit the victim, turned his forehead, flashed his flaming eyes upon him, to the fir-tree leaped the hero. In the thicket hid Paul Voinen, hid the gray-haired Viracarnus. Everywhere they seek a butcher, one to kill the ox of Swarmy. In the country of Karelun, and among the Swarmy giants, in the quiet fields of Estland, on the battlefields of Sweden, mid the mountaineers of Lapland, in the magic fens of Tyria, Seek him in Twoni's empire, in the death-courts of Manala. Long the search, and unsuccessful, on the blue back of the ocean, on the far-outstretching pastures, there arose from out the sea-waves, rose a hero from the waters, on the white-capped roaring breakers.
From the waters broad expanses, nor belonged he to the largest, nor belonged he to the smallest, made his bed within a sea-shell, stood erect beneath a flower-sieve, hero old with hands of iron, and his face was copper-colored, quick the hero, full unfolded, like the full corn from the kernel, on his head a hat of flint-stone, on his feet were sand-stone sandals, in his hand a golden cleaver, and the blade was copper-handled. Thus at last they found a butcher, found the magic ox, a slayer, Nothing has been found so mighty that it has not found a master. As the sea-god saw his booty, quickly rushed he on his victim, hurled him to his knees before him, quickly felled the calf of Suomi, felled the young ox of Korallan.
Bountifully meat was furnished. Filled at least a thousand hogsheads of his blood with seven boltfuls and a thousand weight of suet for the banquet of Poyola, for the marriage feast of Northland. In Poyola was a guest room, ample was the hall of Louis, was in length a hundred furlongs, and in breadth was nearly fifty. When upon the roof a rooster crowed as break of early morning, no one on the earth could hear him. When the dog barked at one entrance, none could hear him at the other. Louie, hostess of Puyola, hastens to the hall and court-room. In the center speaks as follows. Once, indeed, Will come the liquor. Who will brew me beer from barley? Who will make the mead abundant for the people of the Northland, coming to my daughter's marriage, to her drinking feast and nuptials?
Cannot comprehend the malting. Never have I learned the secret nor the origin of brewing. Spake an old man from his corner. Beer arises from the barley. Comes from barley hops and water. And the fire gives no assistance. Hopvine was the son of Ramu. Small the seed in earth was planted, cultivated in the loose soil, scattered like the evil serpents, on the brink of color of waters, on the osmophields and borders. There the young plant grew and flourished. There arose the climbing hopvine, clinging to the rocks and alders. Men of good luck sowed the barley on the Osmo hills and lowlands, and the barley grew and flourished, grew and spread in rich abundance, fed upon the air and water on the Osmo plains and highlands, on the fields of Kale of Heroes.
Time had travelled little distance ere the hops and trees were humming, barley in the fields was singing, and from Calais well the water, this the language of the trio. Let us join our triple forces, join to each the other's powers. Sad alone to live and struggle, little use in working singly. Better we should toil together. As Mortar, the beer preparer, brewer of the drink, refreshing, takes the golden grains of barley, taking six of barley kernels, taking seven tips of hop-fruit, filling seven cups with water. On the fire she sets the cauldron, boils the barley hops and water, lets them steep and seethe and bubble, brewing thus the beer delicious in the hottest days of summer, on the foggy promontory, on the island for The beer of the forest covered, poured into birch-wood barrels, into hogsheads made of oak-wood.
Thus did Osmutar of Kalev, who blew together hops and barley, could not generate the ferment. Thinking long and long, debating, thus she spake in troubled accents, What will bring the effervescence? Who will add the needed factor? That the beer may foam and sparkle, may ferment and be delightful. Kalavatar, magic maiden, grace and beauty in her fingers, swiftly moving, lightly stepping, in her trimly-buckled sandals, steps upon the birch-wood bottom, turns one way and then another. In the center of the cauldron, finds within, a splinter lying from the bottom, lifts the fragment, turns it in her fingers, musing. What may come of this I know not. In the hands of magic maidens, in the virgin hands of Kapo, Snowy Virgin of the Northland.
Kalavata took the splinter to the magic virgin Koppel, who by unknown force and insight rubbed her hands and knees together and produced a Snow White Squirrel. Thus instructed she her creature, gave the squirrel these directions. Snow White Squirrel, Mountain Jewel, Flower of the Field and Forest. Hast thee whither I would send thee, into Metzola's wide limits, into Tapio's seat of wisdom. Hasten through the heavy tree-tops, wisely through the thickest branches, that the eagle may not seize thee. Thus escape the bird of heaven. Bring me ripe cones from the fir-tree. From the pine-tree bring me seedlings. Bring them to the hands of Kapo, for the beer of Osmo's daughter. Quickly hastened forth the squirrel, quickly sped the nibbled broad tail, swiftly hopping on its journey from one thicket to another, from the birch-tree to the aspen, from the pine-tree to the willow, from the sob-tree to the alder, jumping here and there with method, crossed the Eagle Woods in safety, into Metzola's wide limits, into Tapio's seat of wisdom.
There perceived three magic pine-trees, there perceived three smaller fir-trees. Quickly climbed the dark green branches, was not captured by the eagle, was not mangled in his talons, broke the young cones from the fir-tree, cut the shoots of pine-tree branches, hid the cones within his pouches, wrapped them in his fir-grown mittens, brought them to the hands of Kapo, to the magic virgin's fingers. Kapo took the cones selectively, then in the beer for ferment, but it brought no effervescence, and the beer was cold and lifeless. Asmottar, the beer-preparer Kapo, brewer of the liquor, deeply thought and long considered. What will bring the effervescence? Who will lend me aid efficient, that the beer may foam and sparkle, may ferment and be refreshing?
Calavator, sparkling maiden, grace and beauty in her fingers, softly moving, lightly stepping, in her trimly buckled sandals, steps again upon the bottom, turns one way and then another in the center of the cauldron, sees a chip upon the bottom, takes it from its place of resting, looks upon the chip, and muses. What may come of this, I know not. In the hands of mystic maidens, in the hands of magic capo, in the virgin's snow-white Fingers. Kalevater took the birch chip to the magic maiden Kapo, gave it to the white-faced maiden Kapo, by the aid of magic, rubbed her hands and knees together, and produced a magic Martin. The Martin, golden-breasted, thus instructed her creature, gave the Martin these directions.
Thou, my golden-breasted Martin. Thou, my son of golden color, haste thou whither I may send thee to the bear-dens of the mountain, to the gratos of the growler. Gather yeast upon thy fingers. Gather foam from lips of anger, from the lips of bears in battle. Bring it to the hands of Kapo, to the hands of Osmo's daughter. Then the marten, golden-breasted, full consenting, hastened onward, quickly bounding on his journey, lightly leaping through the distance, leaping o'er the widest rivers, leaping o'er rocky fissures, to the bear dens of the mountain, to the gratos of the growler, where the wild bears fight each other, where they pass a dreaded existence, iron rocks, their softest pillows in the fastnesses of mountains.
From their lips the foam was dripping, from their tongues the froth of anger. This the marten deftly gathered, brought it to the maiden, Kapo, laid it in her dainty fingers. Osmotar, the beer preparer, brewer of the beer of barley, used the beer foam as a ferment, but it brought no effervescence, did not make the liquor sparkle. Osmotar, the beer preparer, thought again, and long debated, Who or what will bring the ferment, that my beer may not be lifeless? Kalavatar, magic maiden, grace and beauty in her fingers, softly moving, lightly stepping in her trimly-buckled sandals, steps again upon the bottom, turns one way and then the other, in the center of the cauldron, sees a pod upon the bottom, lifts it in her snow-white fingers, turns it o'er and o'er, and muses.
What may come of this I know not. In the hands of magic maidens, in the hands of mystic Capo, in the snowy virgin's fingers. Galavata, sparkling maiden, gave the pod to magic Capo, Capo by the aid of magic, rubbed the pod upon her kneecap, and a honey-bee came flying from the pod within her fingers. Capo thus addressed her birdling, Little bee with honeyed winglets, King of all the fragrant flowers. Fly thou, whither I direct thee, to the islands in the ocean, to the water-cliffs and grottoes, where asleep a maid has fallen, girdled with a belt of copper. By her side are honey-grasses, by her lips are fragrant flowers. Herbs and flowers, honey-laden, gather there the sweetened juices, gather honey on thy winglets from the calcius of Flowers from the tips of seven petals bring it to the hands of Capo, to the hands of Osmo's daughter.
Then the bee, the swift-winged birdling, flew away with lightning swiftness on his journey to the islands, o'er the high waves of the ocean, journeyed one day, then a second, journeyed all the next day onward, till the third day evening brought him to the islands in the ocean, to the water-cliffs and grottoes, found the maiden sweetly sleeping in her silver tinseled raiment, girdled with a belt of copper in a nameless meadow, sleeping in the Honey fields of magic. By her side were honeyed grasses. By her lips were fragrant flowers. Silver stalks with golden petals dipped its winglets in the honey, dipped its fingers in the juices of the sweetest of the flowers, brought the honey back to Capo, to the mystic maiden's fingers.
Osmota, the beer preparer, placed the honey in the liquor. Kapo mixed the beer and honey, and the wedding beer fermented. Rose the live beer upward, upward from the bottom of the vessels, upward in the tubs of birch-wood, forming higher, higher, higher, till it touched the oak. Chicken handles, overthrowing all the cauldrons. To the ground it foamed and sparkled, sank away in sand and gravel. Time had gone but little distance. Scarce a moment had passed over, ere the heroes came in numbers to the foaming beer of Northland, rushed to drink the sparkling liquor, ere all others Lemon Cannon drank and grew intoxicated on the beer of Osmo's daughter. On the honey-drink of Kalev, Asmotar, the beer-preparer, Kapu, brewer of the barley, spake these words in saddened accents.
Woe is me! My life hard-fated. Badly have I brewed the liquor, have not brewed the beer in wisdom, will not live within its vessels, overflows and fills Poiola. From the tree-top sings the Redbreast, from the aspen calls the robin. Do not, Grave, thy beer is worthy. Put it into oaken vessels, into strong willing barrels, firmly bound with hoops of copper. Thus was brewed the beer of Northland at the hands of Osmo's daughter. This the origin of brewing beer from Kalev, hops, and barley. Great indeed the reputation of the ancient beer of Kalev. Said to make the feeble hardy. Famed to dry the tears of women. Famed to cheer the brokenhearted. Make the aged young and supple. Make the timid brave and mighty.
Make the brave men even braver. Fill the heart with joy and gladness. Fill the mind with wisdom sayings. Fill the tongue with ancient legends. Only makes the fool more foolish when the hostess of Poyola heard how beer was first fermented, heard the origin of brewing. Straightway did she fill with water many oaken tubs and barrels, filled but half the largest vessels, mixed the barley with the water, added also hops abundant. Well she mixed the triple forces in her tubs of oak and birch wood, heated stones for months, succeeding thus to boil the magic mixture. Steeped through the days of summer, burned the wood of many forests, emptied all the springs of Poy, daily did the forests Lesson, and the wells gave up their waters, thus to aid the hostess Louie in the brewing of the liquors, from the water hops and barley, and from honey of the islands, for the wedding feast of Northland, for Poyola's great carousal and rejoicings at the marriage of the maiden of the rainbow, to the blacksmith Ilmarinen, metal-worker of Vynola.
Smoke is seen upon the island. Fire upon the promontory. Black smoke rising to the heavens from the fire upon the island. Fills the clouds, the half of Poya. Fills Karellans, many hamlets. All the people look and wonder. Tis the chorus of the women. One saw rising all these smoke clouds. Why this dreadful fire in Northland? Is not like the smoke of camphars? Is too large for fires of shepherds? Lamancanan's ancient mother journeyed in the early morning for some water to the fountain. Saw the smoke arise to heaven in the region of Poiola. These are the words the mother uttered. "'Tis the smoke of battled heroes from the beat of warring armies." Even Otti, Island Hero, Ancient Wizard, Lemon Cannon, also known as Kaukumieli, looked upon the scene in wonder, thought awhile, and spake as follows.
I would like to see this Nera learn the cause of all this trouble. Whence this smoke in great confusion, whether smoke from heat of battle, or the bonfires of the shepherds, Caucomiele, gazed and pondered, studied long the rising smoke-clouds, came not from the heat of battle, came not from the shepherd bonfires, heard they were the fires of Louie, brewing beer in Sarriola, on Puyola's promontory. Long and oft looked Lemmincanian, strained in eagerness his vision, stared and peered and thought and wondered, looked abashed and envy-swollen. Oh, beloved second mother, Northland's well-intentioned hostess. Blew thy beer of honey flavor. Make thy liquors foam and sparkle, for thy many friends invited.
Brew it well for Lemmincanen, for his marriage in Boyola with the maiden of the rainbow. Finally the beer was ready, beverage of noble heroes, stored away in casks and barrels, there to rest a while in silence, in the cellars of the Northland, in the copper-banded vessels, in the magic oaken hogsheads, plugs and faucets made of copper. Then the hostess of Poyola skillfully prepared the dishes, laid them all with careful fingers in the boiling pans and kettles, ordered countless loaves of barley, ordered many liquid dishes, all the delicacies of Northland for the feasting of her people, for their richest entertainment, for the nuptial songs and dances, at the marriage of her daughter with the blacksmith Ilmarinen.
When the loaves were baked and ready, when the dishes were all seasoned, time had gone but little distance, scarce a moment had passed over, ere the beer and casks, imprisoned, loudly rapped and sang, and murmured, Come, ye heroes, come and take me. Come, and let me cheer your spirits, make you sing the songs of wisdom, that with honor ye may praise me, sing the songs of beer in Molter. Straightway Louis sought a minstrel, magic bard, an artist, a singer, that the beer might well be lauded, might be praised in song and honor. First as bard they brought a salmon, also brought a pike from ocean, but the salmon had no talent, and the pike had little wisdom. Teeth of pike and gills of salmon were not made for singing legends.
Then again they sought a singer. Magic minstrel, beer-enchanter, thus to praise the drink of heroes, sing the songs of joy and gladness. And a boy was brought for singing, but the boy had little knowledge, could not praise the beer in honor. Children's tongues are filled with questions. Children cannot speak in wisdom, cannot sing the ancient legends. Stronger grew the bier imprisoned in the copper-banded vessels, locked behind the copper faucets, boiled and foamed, and sang and murmured, If you do not bring a singer that will sing my worth immortal, that will sing my praise deserving, I will burst these bands of copper, burst the heads of all these barrels. Will not serve the best of heroes till he sings my many virtues.
Louis, hostess of Poyola, called the trusted maiden servant, sent her to invite the people to the marriage of her daughter. These the words that Louis uttered. Oh, my trusted, truthful maiden, servant-maid to me belonging, call together all my people, call the heroes to my banquet. Ask the rich and ask the needy, ask the blind and deaf and crippled. Ask the young, and ask the aged. Go thou to the hills and hedges, to the highways and the byways. Urge them to my daughter's wedding. Bring the blind and sorely troubled in my boats upon the waters. In my sledges bring the halting, with the old and sick and needy. Ask the whole of Sarriola. Ask the people of Karelin. Ask the ancient Vainamoinen, famous bard, and wisdom singer.
But I give command explicit not to ask Wild Lemon Canaan, not the island-dweller Otti. This the question of the servant. Why not ask Wild Lemon Canaan, ancient islander and minstrel? Louis gave the simple answer. Good the reasons that I give thee why the wizard Lemmincanon must not have an invitation to my daughter's feast and marriage. Arti courts the heat of battle. Lemmincanon fosters trouble, skillful fighter of the virtues, evil thinking, acting evil. He would bring but pain and sorrow. He would just injure at maidens in their trimly buckled raiment. Cannot ask the evil-minded. Thus again the servant questions. Tell me how to know this Ati, also known as Lemonganon, that I may not ask him hither, do not know the Isle of Ati, nor the home of Kaukumiele, Spake the hostess of Poyola.
Easy tis to know the wizard. Easy find the Artie dwelling. Artie lives on yonder island. On that point was Lemminkainen. In his mansion near the water, far at sea, his home and dwelling. Thereupon the trusted maiden spread the wedding invitations to the people of Poyola, to the tribes of Calaverala. Ask the friendless, ask the homeless, ask the laborers and shepherds, ask the fishermen and hunters, ask the deaf, the dumb, the crippled, ask the young, and ask the aged, ask the rich, and ask the needy, did not give an invitation to the reckless Lemmincanon, island-dweller of the ocean.
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22 21 - RUNE XXI. Ilmarinen's Wedding-feast 15:58
The Kalevala.
The Kalevala.
Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune XXI. Ilmarinen's Wedding Feast. Hostess of the Northland, ancient dame of Sarriola, while at work within her dwelling, heard the whips crack on the fenlands, heard the rattle of the sledges, to the northward turned her glances, turned her vision to the sunlight, and her thoughts ran on as follow. Who are these in bright apparel on the banks of Pohia waters? Are they friends or hostile armies? Then the hostess of the Northland looked again and well considered, drew much nearer to examine, found they were not hostile armies, found that they were friends and suitors. In the midst was Ilmarinen, son-in-law to ancient Lohi. When the hostess of Poiola saw the son-in-law approaching, she addressed the words that follow.
I had thought the winds were raging, that the piles of wood were falling, thought the pebbles in commotion, or perchance the ocean roaring. Then I hastened nearer, nearer, Drew still nearer and examined. Found the winds were not in battle. Found the piles of wood unshaken. Found the ocean was not roaring, nor the pebbles in commotion. Found my son-in-law was coming, with his heroes and attendants. Heroes counted by the hundreds. Should you ask of me the question, how I recognized the bridegroom, mid the hosts of men and heroes, I should answer, I should tell you. As the hazel-bush in copses, As the oak-tree in the forest, as the moon among the planets, drives the groom a coal-black courser, running like the famished black dog, flying like the hungry raven, graceful as the lark at morning.
Golden cuckoos, six in number, twitter on the birchen crossbow. There are seven bluebirds singing, on the racers hame and collar. Noises hear they in the courtyard, on the highway hear the sledges. To the court comes Ilmarinen. With his bodyguard of heroes. In the midst the chosen suitor, not too far in front of others, not too far behind his fellows, spake the hostess of Poyola. Hie ye hither, men and heroes, haste ye watchers to the stables. There unhitch the suitor's stallion, lower well the racer's breastplate, there undo the straps and buckles, loosen well the shafts and traces, and conduct the suitor hither. Give my son-in-law good welcome. Ilmarinen turned his razor into Loey's yard and stables, and descended from his snow-sledge.
Spake the hostess of Poyola. Come, thou servant of my bidding, best of all my trusted servants. Take at once the bridegroom's courser from the shafts adorned with silver, from the curving arch of willow. Lift the harness trimmed in copper. Tie the white face to the manger. Treat the suitors' steed with kindness. Lead him carefully to shelter, by his soft and shining bridle, by his halter tipped with silver. Let him roll among the sand-hills, on the bottom soft and even, on the borders of the snow-banks, in the fields of milky color. Lead the hero's deed to water. Lead him to the Poia fountains, where the living streams are flowing, sweet as milk of human kindness, from the roots of silvery birches, underneath the shade of aspens.
Feed the courser of the suitor on the sweetest corn and barley, on the summer wheat and clover, in the cauldron steeped in sweetness. Feed him at the golden manger, in the boxes lined with copper. At my manger, richly furnished, in the warmest of the stables. Tie him with a silk-like halter to the golden rings and staples, to the hooks of purest silver, set in beams of birch and oak wood. Feed him on the hay the sweetest. Feed him on the corn nutritious, Give the best my barns can furnish. Curry well the suitor's courser, with the curry-comb of fish-bone. Brush his hair with silken brushes, put his mane and tail in order. Cover well with flannel blankets, blankets wrought in gold and silver, buckles forged from shining copper.
Come, ye small lads of the village, lead the suitor to my chambers. With your auburn locks uncovered, from your hands remove your mittens. See if ye can lead the hero. Through the door without his stooping. Lifting not the upper crossbar, lowering not the oaken threshold, moving not the birchen casings, great the hero who must enter. Ilmarinen is too stately, cannot enter through the portals, not the son-in-law and bridegroom, till the portals have been heightened. Taller by a head the suitor than the doorways of the mansion. Quick the servants of Pohiola tore away the upper crossbar, that his cap might not be lifted, Made the oaken threshold lower, that the hero might not stumble. Made the birch-wood portals wider.
Opened full the door of welcome. Easy entrance for the suitor. Speaks the hostess of the Northland, as the bridegroom freely passes through the doorway of her dwelling. Thanks are due to Dee or Ukko, that my son-in-law has entered. Let me now my halls examine, make the bridal chambers ready, finest linen on my tables, softest fur upon my benches, Birch and flooring scrubbed to whiteness, all my rooms in perfect order. Then the hostess of Pohiola visited her spacious dwelling, did not recognize her chambers. Every room had been remodeled, changed by force of mighty magic. All the halls were newly burnished. Hedgehog bones were used for ceilings, bones of reindeer for foundations, bones of wolverine for dorshills, for the crossbars bones of roebuck.
Applewood were all the rafters, Alderwood, the window-casings, scales of trout adorned the windows, and the fires were set in flowers. All the seats were made of silver, all the floors of copper tiling. Gold adorned were all the tables, on the floor were silken mattings, every fireplace set in copper, every hearthstone cut from marble. On each shelf were colored sea-shells. Caliustree was their protection. To the courtroom came the hero, chosen suitor from Wainola. These the words of Ilmarinen. Send, O Ukko, health and pleasure, to this ancient home and dwelling, to this mansion richly fashioned, spake the hostess of Pohiola. Let thy coming be auspicious to these halls of the unworthy, to the home of thine affianced, to this dwelling lowly fashioned, mid the lindens and the aspens.
Come here, maidens that should serve me, come here, fellows from the village, bring me fire upon the birch-bark, Light the faggots of the fir-tree, that I may behold the bridegroom, chosen suitor of my daughter, fairy maiden of the rainbow. See the color of his eyeballs, whether they are blue or sable, see if they are warm and faithful. Quick, the young lads from the village brought a fire upon the birch-bark, brought it on the tips of pine-wood, and the fire and smoke commingled, roll and roar about the hero, blackening the suitor's visage, and the hostess speaks as follows. Bring the fire upon a taper, on the waxen tapers bring it. Then the maidens did as bidden, quickly brought the lighted tapers, made the suitor's eyeballs glisten, made his cheeks look fresh and ruddy, made his eyes of sable color, sparkle like the foam of waters, like the reed-grass on the margin, colored as the ocean jewels, iridescent as the rainbow.
Come here, fellows of the hamlet, lead my son-in-law and hero to the highest seat at table, To the seat of greatest honor, with his back upon the blue wall, looking on my bounteous tables, facing all the guests of Northland. Then the hostess of Poyola served her guests in great abundance, richest drinks and rarest viands. First of all she served the bridegroom on his platters, honeyed biscuit, and the sweetest river-sormon, seasoned butter, roasted bacon, all the dainties of Poyola. Then the helpers served the others, filled the plates of all invited with the varied food of Northland. Spake the hostess of Pohiola. Come, ye maidens from the village, Hither bring the beer in pitchers, In the urns with double handles, To the many guests ingathered, Here all others serve the bridegroom.
Thereupon the merry maidens brought the beer in silver pitchers, From the copper-banded vessels, For the wedding guests assembled. And the beer fermenting, sparkled, on the beard of Ilmarinen, on the beards of many heroes, when the guests had all partaken of the wondrous beer of Bali, spake the beer in merry accents, through the tongues of the magicians, through the tongue of many a hero, through the tongue of Wainamoinen, famed to be the sweetest singer, of the northern bards and minstrels. These the words of the enchanter. O thou beer of honeyed flavor, let us not imbibe in silence. Let some hero sing thy praises, sing thy worth in golden measures. Let the hostess start the singing, let the bridegroom sound thy virtues.
Have our songs thus quickly vanished? Have our joyful tongues grown silent? Evil, then, has been the brewing, then the beer must be unworthy, that it does not cheer the singer, does not move the merry minstrel, that the golden guests are joyless, and the cuckoo is not singing. Never will these benches echo till the bench guests chant thy virtues, nor the floor resound thy praises till the floor guests sing in concord. Nor the windows join the chorus till the window guests have spoken. All the tables will keep silence till the heroes toast thy virtues. Little singing from the chimney till the chimney guests have chanted. On the floor a child was sitting, thus the little boy made answer. I am small and young in singing, have perchance but little wisdom.
Be that I dismay, my seniors, since the elder minstrels sing not, nor the heroes chant their legends, nor the hostess lead the singing, I will sing my simple stories, sing my little store of knowledge, to the pleasure of the evening, to the joy of the invited. Near the fire reclined an old man, and the graveyard thus made answer. Not the time for children's singing. Children's wisdom is too ready. Children's songs are filled with trifles, filled with shrewd and vain deceptions. Maidens' songs are full of follies. Leave the songs and incantations to the ancient wizard-singers. Leave the tales of time's primeval to the minstrel of Wainola, to the hero of the Northland, to the ancient Wainamoinen.
Thereupon Osmoinen answered, Are there not some sweeter singers in this honored congregation? That will clasp their hands together, sing the ancient songs unbroken. Thus begin the incantations, make these ancient halls re-echo, for the pleasure of the evening, for the joy of the ingathered. From the hearth-stones bake the graveyard, not a singer of Poiola, not a minstrel, nor magician, that was better skilled in chanting legends of the days departed, than was I when I was singing, in my years of vain ambition. Then I chanted tales of heroes on the blue back of the waters, sang the ballast of my people in the vales and on the mountains, through the verdant fields and forests, sweet my voice and skilled my singing.
All my songs were highly lauded, rippled like the quiet rivers, easy flowing like the waters, easy gliding as the snow-shoes, like the ship upon the ocean. Woe is me, my days are ended, would not recognize my singing. All its sweetness gone to others, flows no more like rippling waters, makes no more the hills we echo. Now my songs are full of discord, like the rake upon the stubble, like the sledge upon the gravel, like the boat upon the sea-shore. Then the ancient Wainamoinen spake these words in magic measures. Since no other bard appeareth that will clasp my hand in singing, I will sing some simple legends, Sing my garnered store of wisdom. Make these magic halls re-echo with my tales of ancient story.
Since a bard I was created, born an orator and singer. Do not ask the way of others. Follow not the path of strangers. Beinamoinen, famous minstrel, songs eternal, wise supporter, then began the songs of pleasure, made the halls resound with joyance, filled the rooms with wondrous singing, sang the ancient bard magician, All the oldest wisdom sayings did not fail in voice nor legends, all the wisest thoughts remembered. Thus the ancient Wainamoinen sang the joy of all assembled, to the pleasure of the evening, to the merriment of maidens, to the happiness of heroes. All the guests were stilled in wonder, at the magic of his singing, at the songs of the magician, spake again wise Wainamoinen, when his wonder tales had ended.
I have little worth or power, am a bard of little value, little consequence my singing, mine abilities as nothing, if but Ukko, my creator, should intone his wisdom sayings, sing the source of good and evil, sing the origin of matter, sing the legends of omniscience, sing his songs in full perfection. God could sing the floods to honey, sing the sands to ruddy berries, sing the pebbles into barley, Sing to beer the running waters. Sing to salt the rocks of ocean. Into cornfields sing the forests. Into gold the forest fruitage. Sing to bread the hills and mountains. Sing to eggs the rounded sandstones. He could touch the springs of magic. He could turn the keys of nature, and produce within thy pastures hurdles filled with sheep and reindeer, stables filled with fleet-foot stallions, kine in every field and fallow, Sing a fur-robe for the bridegroom, for the bride a coat of ermine, for the hostess shoes of silver, for the hero mail of copper.
Grant, O Ukko, my creator, God of love and truth and justice, grant thy blessing on our feasting. Bless this company assembled for the good of Sarriola, for the happiness of Northland. May this bread and beer bring joyance, may they come in rich abundance. May they carry full contentment to the people of Poyola, to the cabin and the mansion. May the hours we spend in singing, in the morning, in the evening, fill our hearts with joy and gladness. Hear us in our supplications. Grant to us thy needed blessings. Send enjoyment, health, and comfort to the people here assembled. To the host and to the hostess, to the bride and to the bridegroom, to the suns upon the waters, To the daughters at their weavings, to the hunters on the mountains, to the shepherds in the fenlands, that our lives may end in honor, that we may recall with pleasure Ilmarinen's magic marriage to the maiden of the rainbow, Snow-white Virgin of the Northland.
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23 22 - RUNE XXII. The Bride's Farewell 17:06
Rune 22 of the Kalevala.
Rune 22. The Bride's Farewell. When the marriage was completed, when the many guests had feasted, at the wedding of the Northland, at the dismal land carusel, spake the hostess of Poyola to the blacksmith Ilmarinen. Wherefore, bridegroom, dost thou linger? Why art waiting, Northland hero? Sittest for the father's pleasure, for affection of the mother, for the splendour of the maidens, for the beauty of the daughter? Noble son-in-law and brother, wait thou longer, having waited, long already for the virgin, thine affianced is not ready. Not prepared, thy life companion, only are her tresses braided. Chosen bridegroom, pride of poie, wait thou longer, having waited, long already for the Virgin.
Thy beloved is preparing, only is one handmaid ready. Famous artist, Ilmarinen, wait still longer, having waited, long already for the Virgin. Thy beloved is not ready, only is one foot and fur shoes. Spake again the ancient Louis, Chosen suitor of my daughter. Thou hast thrice in kindness waited. Wait no longer for the Virgin. Thy beloved now is ready. Well prepared thy life companion, Fairy maiden of the rainbow. Beauteous daughter, join thy suitor, follow him thy chosen husband. Very near is thy uniting, near indeed thy separation. At thy hand, the honoured bridegroom, near the door he waits to lead thee, guide thee to his home and kindred. At the gate his steed is waiting, restless champs his silver bridle, and the sledge awaits thy presence.
Thou wert anxious for a suitor, ready to accept his offer, wert in haste to take his jewels, place his rings upon thy fingers. Now, fair daughter, keep thy promise, to his sledge with happy footsteps, high in haste to join the bridegroom, gaily journey to the village with thy chosen life companion, with thy suitor, Ilmarino.
Little hast thou looked about thee, hast not raised thine eyes above thee, beauteous maiden of the northland, hast thou made a rueful bargain, full of waiting thine engagement, and thy marriage full of sorrow, that thy father's ancient cottage thou art leaving now for ever, leaving also friends and kindred for the blacksmith Ilmarinen? O, how beautiful thy childhood in thy father's dwelling-places, nurtured like a tender flower, like the strawberry in springtime! Soft thy couch, and sweet thy slumber, warm thy fires, and rich thy table! From the fields came corn in plenty, from the highlands milk and berries, wheat and barley in abundance, fish and fowl and hare and bacon, from thy father's fields and forests.
Never wert thou child in sorrow, never hadst thou grief nor trouble, all thy cares were left to fir-trees, all thy worry to the copses, all thy weeping to the willows, all thy sighing to the lindens, all thy thinking to the aspens and the birches on the mountains, light and airy as the leaflet, as a butterfly in summer, ready as a mountain berry, beautiful as vernal flowers. Now thou leavest home and kindred, wanderest to other firesides, goest to another mother, other sisters, other brothers, goest to a second father, to the servant folk of strangers, from thy native hills and lowlands. There and here the homes will differ. Happy are thy mother's hearthstone. Other horns will there be sounded, other portals there swing open, other hinges there be creaking.
There the doors thou canst not enter, like the daughters of Wynola, canst not tend the fires and ovens, as will please the minds of strangers. Didst thou think, my fairest maiden, thou couldst wed, and on the morrow couldst return, if thou shouldst wish it, to thy father's court and dwelling? Not for one, nor two, nor three days wilt thou leave thy mother's chambers, leave thy sisters and thy brothers, leave thy father's hills and lowlands? Long the time the wife must wander, many months and years must wander, work and struggle all her life long, even though the mother liveth. Great indeed must be the changes when thou comest back to Poya. Changed thy friends and nearest kindred, changed thy father's ancient dwellings, changed the valleys and the mountains.
Other birds will sing thy praises. When the mother thus had spoken, then the daughter spake, departing. In my early days of childhood often I intoned these measures. Art a virgin, yet no virgin, guided by an aged mother, in a brother's fields and forests, in the mansion of a father? Only wilt become a virgin, only when thou hast a suitor, only when thou wast a hero, one foot on the father's threshold, and the other for the snow-sledge that will speed thee and thy husband to his native vales and highlands. I have wished thus many summers, saying it often in my childhood, hoped for this as for the flowers, welcome as the birds of spring-time. Thus fulfilled are all my wishes, very near is my departure, one foot on my father's threshold, and the other for the journey with my husband to his people.
Cannot understand the reason that has changed my former feelings, cannot leave thee now with gladness, cannot go with great rejoicing from my dear old home and kindred, where as maiden I have lingered, from the courts where I was nurtured, from my father's hand and guidance, from my faithful mother's counsel. Now I go, a maid of sorrow, heavy-hearted to the bridegroom, like the bride of night in winter, like the ice upon the rivers. Such is not the mind of others, other brides of Northland heroes. Others do not leave unhappy, have no tears, nor cares, nor sorrows. I, alas, must weep and murmur, carry to my grave great sadness, heart as dark as death's black river. Such the feelings of the happy, such the minds of merry maidens.
Like the early dawn of springtime, like the rising sun in summer, no such radiance awaits me with my young heart filled with terror. Happiness is not my portion, like the flat shore of the ocean, like the dark rift of the storm-cloud, like the cheerless nights of winter. Dreary is the day in autumn, dreary too the autumn evening. Still more dreary is my future. An industrious old maiden, ever guarding home and kindred, spake these words of doubtful comfort. Dost thou, beauteous bride, remember? Canst thou not recall my counsels? These the words that I have taught thee. Look not joyfully for suitors, Never heed the tongues of wooers. Look not in the eyes of charmers, At their feet let fall thy vision.
He that hath a mouth for sweetness, He that hath an eye for beauty, Offers little that will comfort. Lempo sits upon his forehead, In his mouth dwells dire tuoni. Thus, fair bride, did I advise thee, thus advised my sister's daughter. Should there come the best of suitors, noblest wooers, proudest lovers, give to all these wisdom sayings, let thine answer be as follows. Never will I think it wisdom, never will it be my pleasure to become a second daughter, linger with my husband's mother. Never shall I leave my father, never wander forth to bondage at the bidding of a bridegroom. Never shall I be a servant, wife, and slave to any hero. Never will I be submissive to the orders of a husband. Fairest bride, thou didst not heed me, gav'st no thought to my advices, didst not listen to my counsel.
Wittingly thy feet have wandered into boiling tar and water. Hasten to thy suitor's snow-sledge, to the bare dens of thy husband. On his sledge, to be ill-treated, carry to his native country, to the bondage of his people, there a subject to his mother. Thou hast left thy mother's dwelling to the schooling of the master. Hard indeed the master's teachings, little else than constant torture. Ready for thee are his bridles, ready for thy bands the shackles, were not forged for any other. Soon indeed thou'rt feel the hardness, feel the weight of thy misfortune, feel thy second father's censure and his wife's inhuman treatment, hear the cold words of thy brother, quail before thy haughty sister. Listen, bride, to what I tell thee.
In thy home thou wert a jewel, wert thy father's pride and pleasure. Moonlight did thy father call thee, and thy mother called thee sunshine. Sea-foam did thy brother call thee, and thy sister called thee flower. When thou leavest home in kindred, goest to a second mother, often she will give thee censure, never treat thee as her daughter. Rarely will she give thee counsel, never will she sound thy praises. Brushwood, will the father call thee, Sledge of rags, thy husband's mother, Flight of stairs, thy stranger brother, Scarecrow, will the sister call thee. Sister of thy blacksmith husband, Then wilt think of my good counsels, Then wilt wish in tears and murmurs, That as steam thou hadst descended, That as smoke thy soul had risen, That as sparks thy life had vanished.
As a bird thou canst not wander from thy nest to circle homeward, canst not fall and die like leaflets, as the sparks thou canst not perish, like the smoke thou canst not vanish. Youthful bride and darling sister, thou hast bartered all thy friendships, hast exchanged thy loving father, thou hast left thy faithful mother for the mother of thy husband, hast exchanged thy loving brother, hast renounced thy gentle sister for the kindred of thy suitor, hast exchanged thy snow-white covers for the rocky couch of sorrow, hast exchanged these crystal waters for the waters of Wainola, hast renounced these sandy sea-shores for the muddy banks of Kalu. Glens thou hast forsaken for thy husband's barren meadows.
Thou hast left thy berry mountains for this stubble fields and deserts. Thou, O maiden, hast been thinking thou wouldst happy be in wedlock. Neither work nor care nor sorrow from this night would be thy portion with thy husband for protection. Not to sleep art thou conducted, not to happiness nor joyance. Wakefulness, thy night companion, and thy day attendant trouble! Often thou wilt drink of sorrow, often long for vanished pleasures. When at home thou hadst no headgear, thou hadst also little sadness. When thy couch was not of linen, no unhappiness came nigh thee. Headgear brings but pain and sorrow, linen breeds bad dispositions, linen brings but deeps of anguish, and the flax untimely mourning.
Happy in her home the maiden, happy at her father's fireside, like the master in his mansion, happy with her bows and arrows. Tis not thus with married women, brides of heroes may be likened to the prisoners of Moskva, held in bondage by their masters. As a wife must weep and labour, carry trouble on both shoulders. When the next hour passes over, thou must tend the fire and oven, must prepare thy husband's dinner, must direct thy master's servants. When thy When evening meal is ready, thou must search for hidden wisdom in the brain of Persian salmon, in the mouths of ocean whiting. Gather wisdom from the cuckoo. Canst not learn it from thy mother, mother dear of seven daughters? Cannot find among her treasures where were born the human instincts, where were born the minds of heroes?
Whence arose the maiden's beauty, whence the beauty of her tresses, why all life revives in springtime? Weep, O weep, my pretty young bride! When thou weepest, weep sincerely. Weep great rivers from thine eyelids, floods of tears in field and fallow, lakelets in thy father's dwelling. Weep thy rooms to overflowing, shed thy tears in great abundance, lest thou weepest on returning to thy native hills and valleys, when thou visitest thy father in the smoke of weaning glory, on his arm a withered tassel. Weep, O weep, my lovely maiden, when thou weepest, weep in earnest, weep great rivers from thine eyelids. If thou dost not weep sincerely, thou wilt weep on thy returning to thy northland home and kindred, when thou visitest thy mother, old and breathless, near the hurdles, in her arms a barley bundle.
Weep, O weep, sweet bride of beauty, when thou weepest, weep profusely. If thou dost not weep in earnest, thou wilt weep on thy returning to thy native vales and highlands, when thou visitest thy brother, lying wounded by the wayside in his hand but empty honours. Weep, O weep, my sister's daughter, weep great rivers from thine eyelids. If thou dost not weep sufficient, thou wilt weep on thy returning to the scenes of happy childhood, when thou visitest thy sister. Lying prostrate in the meadow, in her hand a birch-wood mallet.
When the ancient maid had ended, then the young bride sighed in anguish, straightway fell to bitter weeping, spake these words in deeps of sorrow. O ye sisters, my beloved, ye companions of my childhood, playmates of my early summers, listen to your sister's counsel. Cannot comprehend the reason why my mind is so dejected, why this weariness and sadness, this untold and unseen torture, cannot understand the meaning of this mighty weight of sorrow. Differently I had thought it. I had hoped for greater pleasures. I had hoped to sing as cuckoos on the hill-tops call an echo, when I had attained this station, reached at last the goal expectant. But I am not like the cuckoo singing merry on the hill-tops.
I am like the songless blue-duck, as she swims upon the waters, swims upon the cold, cold ocean, icicles upon her pinions. Ancient father, gray-haired mother, whither do ye wish to lead me? Whither take this bride, thy daughter, that this sorrow may pass over, where this heavy heart may lighten, where this grief may turn to gladness? Better it had been, O mother, hadst thou nursed a block of birchwood, hadst thou clothed the colored sandstone rather than this hapless maiden, for the fullness of these sorrows, for this keen and killing trouble. Many sympathizers tell me, Foolish bride, thou art ungrateful. Do not grieve, thou child of sorrow, Thou hast little cause for weeping. O deceive me not, my people, do not argue with me falsely, for, alas, I have more troubles than the waterfalls have pebbles, than the Ingerland has willows, than the Suomi Hills have berries.
Never could the Poya plough-horse pull this mighty weight of sorrow, shaking not his birchen crossbar, breaking not his heavy collar. Never could the Northland reindeer, heavy shod and stoutly harnessed, draw this load of care and trouble. By the stove a babe was playing, and the young child spake as follows. Why, O fair bride, art thou weeping? Why these tears of pain and sadness? Leave thy troubles to the elk herds, and thy grief to sable fillies. Let the steeds of iron bridles bear the burden of thine anguish. Horses have much larger foreheads, larger shoulders, stronger sinews, and their necks are made for labor. Stronger are their bones and muscles. Let them bear thy heavy burdens. There is little good in weeping.
Useless are thy tears of sorrow. Art not led to swamps and lowlands, nor to banks of little rivers. Thou art led to fields of flowers, led to fruitful trees and forests, led away from beer of poya to the sweeter mead of calum. At thy shoulder waits thy husband, on thy right side Ilmarinen. Constant friend and life protector, he will guard thee from all evil. Husband ready, steed and waiting, gold and silver-mounted harness, hazel-birds that sing and flutter on the coursers' yoke and crossbar. Threshers also sing and twitter, merrily on hame and collar. Seven bluebirds, seven cuckoos, sing thy wedding march in Concord. Be no longer full of sorrow. Dry thy tears, thou bride of beauty. Thou hast found a noble husband.
Better wilt thou fare than ever by the side of Ilmarinen, artist-husband, metal-master, bread-provider of thy table. On the arm of the fish-catcher, on the breast of the elk-hunter, by the side of the bear-killer, thou hast won the best of suitors, hast obtained a mighty hero. Never idle is his cross-bow, on the nails his quivers hang not. Neither are his dogs in kennel, active agents is his hunting. Thrice within the budding spring-time, in the early hours of morning, he arises from his fair couch, from his slumber in the brush-wood. Thrice within the sowing season, on his eyes the deer has fallen. And the branches brushed his vesture, and his locks been combed by fir-boughs. Hasten homeward with thy husband, where thy hero's friends await thee, where his forests sing thy welcome.
Ilmarinen there possesses all the birds that fly in mid-air, all the beasts that haunt the woodlands, all that feed upon the mountains, all that graze on hill and valley, sheep and cattle by the thousands. Sweet the grass upon his meadows, sweet the barley in his uplands, in the lowlands corn abundant wheat upon the elmwood fallows. Near the streamlets rye is waving, waving grain on many acres, on his mountains gold and silver, rich his mines of shining copper. Highlands filled with magic metals, chests of jewels in his storehouse. All the wealth of Calavon.
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24 23 - RUNE XXIII. Osmotar, the Bride-adviser 35:33
RUNE 23 OF THE KALAVALA.
The Kalevala.
Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 23. Ozmotar, the Bride Advisor. Now the bride must be instructed, who will teach the maid of beauty, who instruct the rainbow daughter. Osmotar, the wisdom maiden, Kalab's fair and lovely virgin. Osmotar will give instructions to the bride of Ilmarinen, to the orphaned bride of Poya, teach her how to live in pleasure, how to live and reign in glory, win her second mother's praises, joyful in her husband's dwelling. Osmotar, in modest accents, thus the anxious bride addresses. Maid of beauty, lovely sister, tender plant of Luhai's gardens, hear thou what thy sister teaches, listen to her sage instructions. Go thou hence, my much-beloved, wander far away, my flower.
Travel on enwrapped in colors, glide away in silks and ribbons. From this house renowned and ancient, from thy father's halls and courtyards, haste thee to thy husband's village, hasten to his mother's household. Strange the rooms in other dwellings, strange the modes in other hamlets. Full of thought must be thy going, and thy work be well considered, quite unlike thy home in Northland, on the meadows of thy father, on the highlands of thy brother. Singing through thy mother's fenlands, culling daisies with thy sister. When thou goest from thy father, thou canst take whatever pleases. Only three things leave behind thee. Leave thy daydreams to thy sister. Leave thou kindness for thy mother. To thy brother leave thy labors.
Take all else that thou desirest. Throw away thine incantations. Cast thy sighing to the pine trees. And thy maidenhood to Zephyrs. Thy rejoicings to the couches. Cast thy trinkets to the children, and thy leisure to the graybeards. Cast all pleasures to thy playmates. Let them take them to the woodlands, bury them beneath the mountain. Thou must hence acquire new habits, must forget thy former customs. Mother love must be forsaken. Thou must love thy husband's mother. Lower must thy head be bended. Kind words only must thou utter. Thou must hence acquire new habits. Must forget thy former customs. Father love must be forsaken. Thou must love thy husband's father. Lower must thy head be bended.
Kind words only must thou utter. Thou must hence acquire new habits. Must forget thy former customs. Brother love must be forsaken. Thou must love thy husband's brother. Lower must thy head be bended. Kind words only must thou utter. Thou must hence acquire new habits. Must forget thy former customs. Sister love must be forsaken. Thou must love thy husband's sister. Lower must thy head be bended. Kind words only must thou utter. Never in the course of ages. Never while the moonlight glimmers, wickedly approach thy household, nor unworthily thy servants, nor thy courts with indiscretion. Let thy dwellings sing good manners, and thy walls re-echo virtue, after mind the hero searches. And the best of men seek honor, seek for honesty and wisdom, if thy home should be immoral, if thine inmates fail in virtue.
Then thy graybeards would be black dogs, in sheep's clothing at thy firesides. All thy women would be witches, wicked witches in thy chambers, and thy brothers be as serpents, crawling through thy husband's mansion. All thy sisters would be famous for their evil thoughts and conduct. Equal honors must be given to thy husband's friends and kindred. Lower must thy head be bended. Than within thy mother's dwelling, Than within thy father's guest-room, When thou didst thy kindred honour. Ever strive to give good counsel, Wear a countenance of sunshine. Bear a head upon thy shoulders, Filled with wise and ancient sayings. Open bright thine eyes at morning, To behold the silver sunrise. Sharpen well thine ears at evening, Thus to hear the rooster crowing.
When he makes his second calling, straightway thou must rise from slumber. Let the aged sleep in quiet. Should the rooster fail to call thee, let the moonbeams touch thine eyelids. Let the great bear be thy keeper. Often go thou and consult them. Call upon the moon for counsel. Ask the bear for ancient wisdom. From the stars divine thy future. When the great bear faces southward, When his tail is pointing northward, this is time to break with slumber. Seek for fire within the ashes. Place a spark upon the tinder. Blow the fire through all the fuel. If no spark is in the ashes, then go wake thy hero husband. Speak these words to him on waking. Give me fire, O my beloved. Give a single spark, my husband.
Strike a little fire from Flintstone. Let it fall upon my tinder. From the spark, O Bride of Beauty, light thy fires and heat thine ovens. In the holder place the torchlight. Find thy pathway to the stables, there to fill the empty mangers. If thy husband's cows be lowing, if thy brother's steeds be neighing, then the cows await thy coming, and the steeds for thee are calling. Hasten, stooping through the hurdles. Hasten through the yards and stables. Feed thy husbands cows with pleasure. Feed with care the gentle lambkins. Give the cows the best of clover, hay and barley, to the horses. Feed the calves of lowing mothers. Feed the fowl that fly to meet thee. Never rest upon the haymow. Never sleep within the hurdles.
When the kine are fed and tended, when the flocks have all been watered. Hasten thence, my pretty matron, like the snowflakes to thy dwelling. There a crying babe awaits thee, weeping in his couch neglected, cannot speak and tell his troubles. Speechless babe and weeping infant, cannot say that he is hungry, whether pain or cold distresses, greets with joy his mother's footsteps. Afterward repair in silence to thy husband's rooms and presents. Early visit thou his chambers, in thy hand a golden pitcher, on thine arm a broom of birchwood, in thy teeth a lighted taper, and thyself the fourth in order. Sweep thou then thy hero's dwelling, dust his benches and his tables, wash the flooring well with water.
If the baby of thy sister, play alone within his corner, show the little child attention, bathe his eyes and smooth his ringlets. Give the infant needed comforts. Shouldst thou have no bread of barley, in his hand adjust some trinket. Lastly, when the week has ended, give thy house a thorough cleansing. Benches, tables, walls, and ceilings. What of dust is on the windows? Sweep away with broom of birch twigs. All thy rooms must first be sprinkled, at the dust may not be scattered. May not fill the halls and chambers. Sweep the dust from every crevice. Leave thou not a single atom. Also sweep the chimney corners. Do not then forget the rafters, lest thy home should seem untidy, lest thy dwelling seem neglected.
Hear, O maiden, what I tell thee. Learn the tenor of my teaching. Never dress in scanty raiment. Let thy robes be plain and comely. Ever wear the whitest linen. On thy feet wear tidy fir shoes. For the glory of thy husband. For the honor of thy hero. Tend thou well the sacred sorb tree. Guard the mountain ashes planted, in the courtyard widely branching. Beautiful the mountain ashes. Beautiful their leaves and flowers. Still more beautiful the berries. Thus the exiled one demonstrates. That she lives to please her husband, tries to make her hero happy. Like the mouse, have ears for hearing. Like the hare, have feet for running. Bend thy neck, and turn thy visage, like the juniper and aspen. Thus to watch with care thy goings.
Thus to guard thy feet from stumbling, that thou mayest walk in safety. When thy brother comes from plowing, and thy father from his garners. And thy husband from the woodlands, from his chopping, thy beloved. Give to each a water-basin, give to each a linen towel, speak to each some pleasant greeting. When thy second mother hastens, to thy husband's home and kindred, in her hand a corn-meal measure, haste thou to the court to meet her. Happy-hearted, bow before her, take the measure from her fingers. Happy, bear it to thy husband. If thou shouldst not see distinctly what demands thy next attention, ask at once thy hero's mother. Second mother, my beloved, name the task to be accomplished by thy willing second daughter.
Tell me how to best perform it. This should be the mother's answer. This the manner of thy workings, thus thy daily work accomplish. Stamp with diligence and courage. Grind with will and great endurance. Set the millstones well in order. Fill the barley pans with water. Knead with strength the dough for baking. Place the faggots on the fireplace, that thy ovens may be heated. Bake in love the honey biscuit. Bake the larger loaves of barley. Rinse to cleanliness thy platters. Polish well thy drinking vessels. If thou hearest from the mother, from the mother of thy husband, Let the cask for meal is empty. Take the barley from the garners. Hasten to the rooms for grinding. When thou grindest in the chambers, do not sing in glee and joyance.
Turn the grinding stones in silence. To the mill give up thy singing. Let the side-holes furnish music. Do not sigh as if unhappy. Do not groan as if in trouble. Lest the father think thee weary. Lest thy husband's mother fancy. That thy groans mean discontentment, that thy sighing means displeasure. Quickly sift the flour thou grindest. Take it to the casks in buckets. Bake thy hero's bread with pleasure. Knead the dough with care and patience, that thy biscuits may be worthy, that the dough be light and airy. Shouldst thou see a bucket empty, take the bucket on thy shoulder, on thine arm a silver dipper. Hasten off to fill with water. From the crystal river flowing, gracefully thy bucket carry, bear it firmly by the handles.
Hasten houseward like the zephyrs, hasten like the air of autumn. Do not tarry near the streamlet, at the waters do not linger, that the Father may not fancy, nor the ancient Dame imagine, that thou hast beheld thine image, hast admired thy form and features, hast admired thy grace and beauty. In the mirror of the fountain, in the crystal streamlet's eddies. Shouldst thou journey to the woodlands, there to gather aspen faggots, do not go with noise and bustle. Gather all thy sticks in silence. Gather quietly the birch wood, that the father may not fancy, and the mother not imagine, that thy calling came from anger, and thy noise from discontentment. If thou goest to the storehouse, To obtain the flour of barley.
Do not tarry on thy journey, on the threshold do not linger, that the father may not fancy, and the mother not imagine, that the meal thou hast divided with the women of the village. If thou goest to the river, there to wash thy birchen platters, there to cleanse thy pans and buckets, lest thy work be done in neatness. Rinse the sides, and rinse the handles. Rinse thy pitchers to perfection, spoons and forks and knives and goblets. Rinse with care thy cooking vessels. Closely watch the food utensils, that the dogs may not deface them, that the kittens may not mar them, that the eagles may not steal them, that the children may not break them. Many children in the village, many little heads and fingers, that will need thy careful watching.
Lest they steal the things of value. When thou goest to thy bathing, have the brushes ready lying in the bathroom clean and smokeless. Do not linger in the water, at thy bathing do not tarry, that the father may not fancy, and the mother not imagine. Thou art sleeping on the benches, rolling in the laps of comfort. From thy bath when thou returnest, To his bathing tempt the Father. Speak to him the words that follow. Father of my hero-husband, clean are all the bathroom benches, everything in perfect order. Go and bathe for thine enjoyment. Pour the water all sufficient. I will lend thee needed service. When the time has come for spinning, when the hours arrive for weaving, do not ask the help of others.
Look not in the stream for knowledge. For advice ask not the servants, nor the spindle from the sisters, nor the weaving-comb from strangers. Thou thyself must do the spinning, with thine own hand ply the shuttle. Loosely wind the skeins of wool yarn, tightly wind the balls of flax thread. Wind them deftly in the shuttle, fit the warp upon the rollers, beat the woof and warp together. Swiftly ply the weaver's shuttle. Weave good cloth for all thy vestments. Weave of woolen webs for dresses. From the finest wool of lambkins, one thread only in thy weaving. Hear thou what I now advise thee. Brew thy beer from early barley, from the barley's new-grown kernels. Brew it with the magic virtues. Malt it with the sweets of honey.
Do not stir it with the birch rod. Stir it with thy skillful fingers. When thou goest to the garners, do not let the seed bring evil. Keep the dogs outside the brew-house. Have no fear of wolves and hunger, nor the wild beasts of the mountains. When thou goest to thy brewing, shouldst thou wander forth at midnight. Should some stranger come to see thee, do not worry for his comfort. Ever does the worthy household Have provisions for the stranger. Bits of meat and bread and biscuit, ample for the dinner table. Seat the stranger in thy dwelling. Speak with him in friendly accents. Entertain the guest with kindness while his dinner is preparing. When the stranger leaves thy threshold, when his farewell has been spoken, lead him only to the portals.
Do not step without the doorway, that thy husband may not fancy. And the mother not imagine, thou hast interest in strangers. Shouldst thou ever make a journey to the center of the village, there to gain some needed object, while thou speakest in the hamlet, let thy words be full of wisdom, that thou shamest not thy kindred, nor disgrace thy husband's household. Village maidens oft will ask thee, mothers of the hamlet, question, Does thy husband's mother greet thee? As in childhood thou wert greeted in thy happy home in Poya, do not answer in negation. Say that she has always given thee the best of her provisions, given thee the kindest greetings, though it be but once a season. Listen well to what I tell thee, as thou goest from thy father to thy husband's distant dwelling.
Thou must not forget thy mother, her that gave thee life and beauty. Her that nurtured thee in childhood, many sleepless nights she nursed thee. Often were her wants neglected, numberless the times she rocked thee. Tender, true, and ever faithful is the mother to her daughter. She that can forget her mother, can neglect the one that nursed her, should not visit Manas' castle in the kingdom of Tuoni. In Manala she would suffer, suffer frightful retribution. Should her dear one be neglected, manna's daughters will torment her, and to wony sons revile her. They will ask her much as follows. How couldst thou forget thy mother? How neglect the one that nursed thee? Great the pain thy mother suffered, great the trouble that thou gavest, when thy loving mother brought thee into life for good or evil, when she gave the earth existence, when she nursed thee but an infant.
When she fed thee in thy childhood, when she taught thee what thou knowest. Manna's punishments upon thee, since thy mother is forgotten. On the floor a witch was sitting, near the fire a beggar-woman, one that knew the ways of people. These the words the woman uttered. Thus the crow calls in the winter. Would that I could be a singer, and my voice be full of sweetness! But, alas, my songs are worthless! I must live without the singing, leave the songs to the musicians, those that live in golden houses, in the homes of the beloved. Homeless, therefore, I must wander, like a beggar in the cornfields, and with none to do me honor. Hear now, sister, what I tell thee. Enter thou thy husband's dwelling.
Follow not his mind nor fancies. As my husband's mind I followed. As a flower was I when budding, sprouting like a rose in springtime, growing like a slender maiden, like the honey-gem of glory, like the playmates of my childhood, like the goslings of my father, like the blue ducks of my mother, like my brother's water younglings, like the bullfinch of my sister. Grew I like the heather-flower, like the berry of the meadow, played upon the sandy seashore. Rocked upon the fragrant upland, sang all day adown the valley, thrilled with song the hill and mountain, filled with mirth the glen and forest, lived and frolicked in the woodlands. Into traps are foxes driven by the cruel pangs of hunger, into traps the cunning ermine.
Thus are maidens wooed and wedded in their hunger for a husband. Thus created is the virgin, thus intended is the daughter. Subject to her hero husband. Subject also to his mother. Then to other fields I hastened, like a berry from the border, like a cranberry for roasting, like a strawberry for dinner. All the elm trees seemed to wound me. All the aspens tried to cut me. All the willows tried to seize me. All the forest tried to slay me. Thus I journeyed to my husband. Thus I traveled to his dwelling. was conducted to his mother. Then there were, as was reported, six compartments built of pinewood, twelve the number of the chambers, and the mansion filled with garrets. Studying all the forest border, every byway filled with flowers, streamlets bordered fields of barley, filled with wheat and corn the islands, grain in plenty in the garners, rye unthrashed in great abundance.
Countless sums of gold and silver, other treasures without number. When my journey I had ended, when my hand at last was given, six supports were in his cabin, seven poles as rails for fencing. Filled with anger were the bushes, all the glens disfavor showing, all the walks were lined with trouble, evil-tempered were the forests. Hundred words of evil import, hundred others of unkindness. Did not let this bring me sorrow. Long I sought to merit praises. Long I hoped to find some favor. Strove most earnestly for kindness. When they led me to the cottage, there I tried some chips to gather. Knocked my head against the portals of my husband's lowly dwelling. At the door were eyes of strangers. Sable eyes at the partition.
Green with envy in his cabin. Evil heroes in the background. From each mouth the fire was streaming, from each tongue the sparks outflying, flying from my second father, from his eyeballs of unkindness. Did not let this bring me trouble, tried to live in peace and pleasure in the homestead of my husband. In humility I suffered, skipped about with feet of rabbit, flew along with steps of ermine. Late I laid my head to slumber, early rose as if a servant. Could not win a touch of kindness, could not merit love nor honor, though I had dislodged the mountains, though the rocks had I torn open. Then I turned the heavy millstone, ground the flour with care and trouble, ground the barley grains in patience, that the mother might be nourished, that her fury throat might swallow, what might please her taste and fancy, from her gold enameled platters, from the corner of her table.
As for me, the hapless daughter, all my flour was from the siftings, on the table near the oven. Ate I from the birchen ladle. Oftentimes I brought the mosses, gathered in the lowland meadows, baked them into loaves for eating, brought the water from the river, thirsty sipped it from the dipper, ate of fish, the worst in Northland, only smelts and worthless swimmers, rocking in my boat of birch bark. Never ate I fish or biscuit from my second mother's fingers. Blades I gathered in the summers, twisted barley-stalks in winter, like the laborers of heroes, like the servants sold in bondage. In the thresh-house of my husband evermore to me was given, flail the heaviest and longest, and to me the longest lever, on the shore the strongest beater, and the largest rake in haying.
No one thought my burden heavy, no one thought that I could suffer, though the best of heroes faltered, and the strongest women weakened. Thus did I, a youthful housewife, at the right time all my duties, drenched myself in perspiration, hoped for better times to follow. But I only rose to labor, knowing neither rest nor pleasure. I was blamed by all the household, with ungrateful tongues derided. Now about my awkward manners, now about my reputation, censuring my name and station. Words unkind were heaped upon me, fell like hail on me unhappy, like the frightful flash of lightning, like the heavy hail of springtime. I did not despair entirely, would have lived to labor longer, underneath the tongue of malice, but the old one's spoiled lay temper.
roused my deepest ire and hatred. Then my husband grew a wild bear, grew a savage wolf of Hesey. Only then I turned to weeping, and reflected in my chamber, thought of all my former pleasures, of the happy days of childhood, of my father's joyful firesides, of my mother's peaceful cottage. Then began I thus to murmur. Well thou knowest, ancient mother, how to make thy sweet bud blossom? How to train thy tender shootlet? Did not know where to engraft it. Placed, alas, the little scion, in the very worst of places, on an unproductive hillock, in the hardest limb of cherry, where it could not grow and flourish, there to waste its life in weeping, hapless in her lasting sorrow. Worthier had been my conduct, in the regions that are better, in the courtyards that are wider.
In compartments that are larger, living with a loving husband, living with a stronger hero. Shoe of birch bark was my suitor, shoe of laplanders my husband, had the body of a raven, voice and visage like the jackdaw. Mouth and claws were from the black wolf, the remainder from the wild bear. Had I known that my affianced was a fount of pain and evil, to the hillside I had wandered. Been a pine-tree on the highway, Been a linden on the border. Like the black earth made my visage, Grown a beard of ugly bristles, Head of loam and eyes of lightning, For my ears the knots of birches, For my limbs the trunks of aspens. This the manner of my singing, In the hearing of my husband. Thus I sang my cares and murmurs, Thus my hero near the portals Heard the wail of my displeasure.
Then he hastened to my chamber. Straightway knew I by his footsteps. Well concluded he was angry, knew it by his steps implanted. All the winds were still in slumber, yet his sable locks stood endwise, fluttered round his head in fury, while his horrid mouth stood open. To and fro his eyes were rolling, in one hand a branch of willow, in the other club of alder. Struck at me with might of malice, aimed the cudgel at my forehead. When the evening had descended, when my husband thought of slumber, took he in his hand a whip-stalk, with a whip-lash made of deerskin, was not made for any other, only made for me unhappy. When at last I begged for mercy, when I sought a place for resting, by his side I courted slumber, merciless my husband seized me.
Struck me with his arm of envy, beat me with a whip of torture, deerskin lash, and stalk of birchwood. From his couch I leaped impulsive in the coldest night of winter, but the husband, fleetly followed, caught me in the outer portals, grasped me by my streaming tresses, tore my ringlets from my forehead, cast in curls upon the night winds, to the freezing winds of winter. What the aid that I could ask for! Who could free me from my torment? Made I shoes of magic metals, made the straps of steel and copper, waited long without the dwelling, long I listened at the portals, hoping he would end his ravings, hoping he would sink to slumber. But he did not seek for resting, did not wish to still his fury.
Finally the cold benumbed me. As an outcast from his cabin, I was forced to walk and wander. When I, freezing well reflected, this the substance of my thinking. I will not endure this torture, will not bear this thing forever, will not bear this cruel treatment. Such contempt I will not suffer, in the wicked tribe of Hisi, in this nest of evil Piru. Then I said farewell forever, to my husband's home and kindred, to my much-loved home and husband. Started forth upon a journey, to my father's distant hamlet, over swamps and over snowfields, wandered over towering mountains, over hills and through the valleys, to my brother's welcome meadows, to my sister's home and birthplace. There were rustling withered pine trees, finely feathered firs were fading, countless ravens there were cawing, all the jackdaws harshly singing.
This the Chorus of the Ravens. Thou hast here a home no longer. This is not the happy homestead of thy merry days of childhood. Heeding not this woodland chorus, straight I journeyed to the dwelling of my childhood's friend and brother, where the portals spake in concord, and the hills and valleys answered, this their saddened song and echo. Wherefore dost thou journey hither? Comest thou, for joy or sorrow, to thy father's old dominions? Here unhappiness awaits thee. Long departed is thy father, dead and gone, to visit Uko, dead and gone, thy faithful mother. And thy brother is a stranger, while his wife is chill and heartless. Heeding not these many warnings, straightway to my brother's cottage, where my weary feet directed.
Laid my hand upon the door-latch of my brother's dismal cottage. But the latch was cold and lifeless. When I wandered to the chamber, when I waited at the doorway, there I saw the heartless hostess, but she did not give me greeting, did not give her hand in welcome. Proud, alas, was I unhappy, did not make the first advances, did not offer her my friendship. And my hand I did not proffer. Laid my hand upon the oven, all its former warmth departed. On the coal I laid my fingers, all the latent heat had left it. On the rest bench lay my brother, lay outstretched before the fireplace, heaps of soot upon his shoulders, heaps of ashes on his forehead. Thus the brother asked the stranger, questioned thus his guest politely.
Tell me what thy name and station whence thou comest o'er the waters. This the answer that I gave him. Hast thou then forgot thy sister? Does my brother not remember, not recall his mother's daughter? We are children of one mother, of one bird were we the fledglings, in one nest were hatched and nurtured. Then the brother fell to weeping, from his eyes great teardrops flowing. To his wife the brother whispered, whispered thus unto the housewife, Bring thou beer to give my sister, quench her thirst and cheer her spirits. Full of envy brought the sister only water filled with evil, water for the infant's eyelids, soap and water from the bathroom. To his wife the brother whispered, whispered thus unto the housewife, Bring thou salmon for my sister.
For my sister so long absent, thus to still her pangs of hunger. Thereupon the wife obeying brought in envy only cabbage, that the children had been eating, and the house-dogs had been licking, leavings of the black dog's breakfast. Then I left my brother's dwelling, hastened to the ancient homestead, to my mother's home deserted. Onward, onward, did I wander. Hastened onward by the cold sea, dragged my body on in anguish to the cottage doors of strangers, to the unfamiliar portals, for the care of the neglected, for the needy of the village, for the children poor and orphaned. There are many wicked people, many slanderers of women, many women evil-minded, that malign their sex through envy. Many they with lips of evil, That belie the best of maidens, prove the innocent are guilty of the worst of misdemeanors.
Speak aloud in tones unceasing, speak alas with wicked motives, spread the follies of their neighbors through the tongues of self-pollution. Very few indeed the people that will feed the poor and hungry, that will bid the stranger welcome. Very few to treat her kindly, innocent and lone and needy, few to offer her a shelter from the chilling storms of winter, when her skirts with ice are stiffened, coats of ice her only raiment. Never in my days of childhood, never in my maiden lifetime, never would believe the story, though a hundred tongues had told, though a thousand voices sang it, that such evil things could happen. That such misery could follow, such misfortune could befall one, who has tried to do her duty, who has tried to live uprightly, tried to make her people happy.
Thus the young bride was instructed, beauteous maiden of the rainbow, thus by Ozmatar, the teacher.
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25 24 - RUNE XXIV. The Bride's Farewell 21:18
RUNE 24. THE BRIDE'S FAIRWELL.
Gives the wedding guests this counsel, speaks these measures to the bridegroom. Ilmarinen, artist brother, best of all my hero brothers, of my mother's sons the dearest, gentlest, truest, bravest, grandest, listen well to what I tell thee of the maiden of the rainbow, of thy beauteous life companion. Bridegroom, praise thy fate hereafter. Praise for ever thy good fortune. If thou praisest. Praise sincerely. Good the maiden thou hast wedded, good the bride that Ukko gives thee. Graciously has God bestowed her. Sound her praises to thy father. Praise her virtues to thy mother. Let thy heart rejoice in secret that thou hast the bride of beauty, lovely maiden of the rainbow. Brilliant near thee stands the maiden, at thy shoulder thy companion, happy under thy protection.
Beautiful as golden moonlight, beautiful upon thy bosom, strong to do thy kindly bidding. Labor with thee as thou wishest. Rake the hay upon thy meadows. Keep thy home in full perfection. Spin for thee the finest linen. Weave for thee the richest fabrics. Make for thee the softest raiment. Make thy weavers loom as merry as the cuckoo of the forest. Make the shuttle glide in beauty like the ermine of the woodlands. Make the spindle twirl as deftly as a squirrel spins the acorn. Village maidens will not slumber while thy young bride's loom is humming, while she plies the graceful shuttle. Bridegroom of the Bride of Beauty, noblest of the Northland heroes, forge thyself a scythe for mowing, furnish it with oaken handle.
Carve it in thine ancient smithy, hammer it upon thine anvil. Have it ready for the summer, for the merry days of sunshine. Take thy bride, then, to the lowlands, mow the grass upon thy meadows, rake the hay when it is ready. Make the reeds and grasses rustle, toss the fragrant heads of clover, make thy hay in Kalevala, when the silver sun is shining. When the time has come for weaving, To the loom attract the weaver. Give to her the spools and shuttles. Let the willing loom be worthy. Beautiful the frame and settle. Give to her what may be needed, that the weaver's song may echo. That the lathe may swing and rattle, may be heard within the village. That the aged may remark it, and the village maidens question.
Who is she that now is weaving? What new power now plies the shuttle? Make this answer to the question. It is my beloved weaving, my young bride that plies the shuttle. Shall the weaver's weft be loosened? Shall the young bride's loom be tightened? Do not let the weft be loosened, nor the weaver's loom be tightened. Such the weaving of the daughters of the moon beyond the cloudlets. Such the spinning of the maidens of the sun in high Jomala. Of the daughters of the great bear, of the daughters of the evening. Bridegroom, thou beloved hero, brave descendant of thy fathers, when thou goest on a journey, when thou drivest on the highway, driving with the rainbow daughter, fairest bride of Sarriola, do not lead her as a titmouse, as a cuckoo of the forest, Into unfrequented places, into copses of the borders, into briarfields and brambles, into unproductive marshes.
Let her wander not nor stumble, unopposing rocks and rubbish, never in her father's dwelling, never in her mother's courtyard. Has she fallen into ditches, stumbled hard against the fences? Run through briarfields nor brambles, fallen over rocks nor rubbish. Magic Bridegroom of Vainola, wise descendant of the heroes, never let thy young wife suffer, never let her be neglected, never let her sit in darkness, never leave her unattended. Never in her father's mansion, in the chambers of her mother, has she sat alone in darkness, has she suffered for attention. Sat she by the crystal window, sat and rocked in peace and plenty, Evenings for her father's pleasure, mornings for her mother's sunshine.
Never mayest thou, O bridegroom, lead the maiden of the rainbow to the mortar filled with sea-grass, there to grind the bark for cooking, there to bake her bread from stubble, there to knead her dough from tan-bark. Never in her father's dwelling, never in her mother's mansion, was she taken to the mortar, there to bake her bread from sea-grass. Thou shouldst lead the bride of beauty to the gardener's rich abundance, there to draw the till of barley, grind the flour in need for baking, there to brew the beer for drinking, wheat and flour for honey-biscuits. Hero bridegroom of Vainola, never cause thy bride of beauty to regret her day of marriage, never make her shed a tear-drop, never fill her cup with sorrow.
Should there ever come an evening when thy wife shall feel unhappy, put the harness on thy razor, hitch the fleet foot to her snow sled, take her to her father's dwelling, to the household of her mother. Never in thy hero lifetime, never while the moonbeams glimmer, give thy fair spouse evil treatment, never treat her as thy servant, do not bar her from the cellar, do not lock thy best provisions. Never in her father's mansion, never by her faithful mother, was she treated as a hireling. Honored bridegroom of the Northland, proud descendant of the fathers, if thou treatest well thy young wife, worthily wilt thou be treated. When thou goest to her homestead, when thou visitest her father, thou shalt meet a cordial welcome.
Censure not the bride of beauty. Never grieve thy rainbow maiden. Never say in tones reproachful, she was born in lowly station, that her father was unworthy. Honored are thy bride's relations, from an old-time tribe, her kindred. When of corn they sowed a measure, each one's portion was a kernel. When they sowed a cask of flaxseed, each received a thread of linen. Never, never, magic husband, treat thy beauty bride unkindly. Teach her not with lash of servants, strike her not with thongs of leather. Never has she wept in anguish from the birch-whip of her mother. Stand before her like a rampart, be to her a strong protection. Do not let thy mother chide her, let thy father not upbraid her, never let thy guests offend her.
Should thy servants bring annoyance, they may need the master's censure. Do not harm the bride of beauty, never injure her thou lovest. Three long years hast thou been wooing, hoping every month to win her. Counsel with the bride of heaven, to thy young wife give instruction. Kindly teach thy bride in secret, in the long and dreary evenings, when thou sittest at the fireside. Teach one year, in words of kindness, teach with eyes of love a second. In the third year, teach with firmness. If she should not heed thy teaching, should not hear thy kindly counsel after three long years of effort. Cut a reed upon the lowlands, cut a nettle from the border, teach thy wife with harder measures. In the fourth year, if she heed not, threaten her with sterner treatment.
Use the stalks of rougher edges. Use not yet the thongs of leather. Do not touch her with a birch-whip. If she does not heed this warning, should she pay thee no attention, cut a rod upon the mountains, or a willow in the valleys? Hide it underneath thy mantle, that the stranger may not see it. Show it to thy wife in secret. Shame her thus to her duty. Strike not yet, though disobeying. Should she disregard this warning, still refuse to heed thy wishes, then instruct her with a willow. Use the birch-rod from the mountains, in the closet of thy dwelling, in the attic of thy mansion. Strike her not upon the common. Do not conquer her in public, lest the villagers should see thee, lest the neighbors hear her weeping, and the forests learn thy troubles.
Touch thy wife upon the shoulders. Let her stiffened back be softened. Do not touch her on the forehead, nor upon the ears, nor visage. If a ridge be on her forehead, or a blue mark on her eyelids, then her mother would perceive it, and her father would take notice. All the village workmen see it. And the village women ask her, Hast thou been in heat of battle? Hast thou struggled in a conflict, or perchance the wolves have torn thee, or the forest bears embraced thee? Or the black wolf be thy husband, and the bear be thy protector? By the fireplace lay a greybeard, on the hearthstone lay a beggar, and the old man spake as follows. Never, never, hear, O husband, follow thy young wife's wishes, follow not her inclinations, as, alas, I did, regretful, bought my bride the bread of barley, veal and beer and best of butter, Fish and fowl of all descriptions.
Beer I bought, home-brewed and sparkling. Wheat from all the distant nations, all the dainties of the Northland—all of this was unavailing. Gave my wife no satisfaction. Often came she to my chamber, tore my sable locks in frenzy, with a visage fierce and frightful, with her eyeballs flashing anger. Scalding on and scolding ever. Ever speaking words of evil, using epithets the vilest, thought me but a block for chopping. Then I sought for other measures, used on her my last resources, cut a birch-whip in the forest, and she spake in tones endearing, cut a juniper or willow, and she called me hero, darling. When with lash my wife I threatened, hung she on my neck with kisses. Thus the bridegroom was instructed, thus the last advices given.
Then the maiden of the rainbow, beauteous bride of Vilmarinen, sighing heavily and moaning, fell to weeping, heavy-hearted, spake these words from depths of sorrow. Near, indeed, the separation! Near, alas, the time for parting! Near the time for my departure! O, the anguish of the parting! O the pain of separation, from these walls renowned and ancient, from this village of the Northland, from these scenes of peace and plenty, where my faithful mother taught me, where my father gave instruction to me in my happy childhood, when my years were few and tender. As a child I did not fancy, never thought of separation from the confines of this cottage, from these dear old hills and mountains. But alas, I now must journey, since I now cannot escape it.
Empty is the bowl of parting, all the farewell beer is taken, and my husband's sledge is waiting, with a brake-board looking southward, looking from my father's dwelling. How shall I give compensation, how repay on my departure all the kindness of my mother, all the counsel of my father, all the friendship of my brother, all my sister's warm affection? Gratitude to thee, dear father, for my former life and blessings, for the comforts of thy table, for the pleasures of my childhood. Gratitude to thee, dear mother, For thy tender care and guidance, for my birth and for my culture, nurtured by thy purest life-blood. Gratitude to thee, dear brother, gratitude to thee, sweet sister, to the servants of my childhood, to my many friends and playmates.
Never, never, aged father, never, thou beloved mother, never, ye my kindred spirits, never harbour care nor sorrow. Never fall to bitter weeping, since thy child has gone to others, to the distant home of strangers, to the meadows of Wainola. From her father's fields and firesides shines the sun of the Creator, shines the golden moon of Okko. Glitter all the stars of heaven in the firmament of ether, full as bright on other homesteads, not upon my father's uplands. Not upon my home in childhood shines the star of joyance only. Now the time has come for parting from my father's golden firesides, from my brother's welcome hearthstone, from the chambers of my sister, from my mother's happy dwelling.
Now I leave the swamps and lowlands, leave the grassy vales and mountains, leave the crystal lakes and rivers, leave the shores and sandy shallows, Leave the white-capped surging billows where the maidens swim and linger, where the mermaids sing and frolic. Leave the swamps to those that wander. Leave the cornfields to the ploughmen. Leave the forests to the weary. Leave the heather to the rover. Leave the copses to the stranger. Leave the alleys to the beggar. Leave the courtyards to the rambler. Leave the portals to the servant. Leave the matting to the sweeper. Leave the highways to the roebuck. Leave the woodland glens to lynxes, leave the lowlands to the wild geese, and the birch-tree to the cuckoo.
Now I leave these friends of childhood, journey southward with my husband, to the arms of night and winter, or the ice-grown seas of Northland.
Should I once again returning, pay a visit to my tribefolk? Mother would not hear me calling. Father would not see me weeping, calling at my mother's gravestone, weeping are my buried father, on their graves the fragrant flowers, junipers and mournful willows, verdure from my mother's tresses, from the greybeard of my father. Should I visit Sarriola, visit once again these borders? No one here would bid me welcome. Nothing in these hills would greet me, save perchance a few things only. By the fence a clump of osiers, and a landmark at the corner, which in early youth I planted, when a child of little stature. Mother's kine, perhaps, will know me, which so often I have watered, which I oft have fed and tended, lowing now at my departure, in the pasture cold and cheerless.
Sure my mother's kine will welcome Northland's daughter home returning. Father's steeds may not forget me. Steeds that I have often ridden. When a maiden free and happy, neighing now for me departing. In the pasture of my brother, in the stable of my father, sure my father's steeds will know me. Bid Poyola's daughter welcome. Brothers' faithful dogs may know me, that I oft have fed and petted, dogs that I have taught to frolic. That now mourn for me departing, in their kennels in the courtyard, in their kennels cold and cheerless. Sure, my brother's dogs will welcome Pogha's daughter home returning. But the people will not know me, when I come these scenes to visit, though the fords remain as ever, though unchanged remain the rivers, though untouched the flaxen fish-nets on the shores await my coming.
Fare thou well, my dear old homestead, fear ye well, my native bowers, it would give me joy unceasing, could I linger here forever. Now farewell, ye halls and portals, leading to my father's mansion. It would give me joy unceasing, could I linger here forever. Fare ye well, familiar gardens, filled with trees and fragrant flowers. It would give me joy unceasing, could I linger here forever. Send to all my farewell greetings, to the fields and groves and berries. Greet the meadows with their daisies. Greet the borders with their fences. Greet the lakelets with their islands. Greet the streams with trout disporting. Greet the hills with stately pine-trees, and the valleys with their birches. Fare ye well, ye streams and lakelets, fertile fields and shores of ocean, all ye aspens on the mountain, all ye lindens of the valleys, all ye beautiful stone lindens, all ye shade-trees by the cottage, all ye junipers and willows, all ye shrubs with berries laden, waving grass and fields of barley, arms of elms and oaks and alders.
Fare ye well, dear scenes of childhood, Happiness of days departed. Ending thus, Poyola's daughter left her native fields and fallows, left the darksome Sarriola with her husband, Elmarinen, famous son of Kalevala. But the youth remained for singing, this the chorus of the children. Hither came a bird of evil, flew in fleetness from the forest, came to steal away our virgin. Came to win the maid of beauty. Took away our fairest flower. Took our mermaid from the waters. Won her with his youth and beauty. With his keys of ancient wisdom. Who will lead us to the sea-beach? Who conduct us to the rivers? Now the buckets will be idle. On the hooks will rest the fish-poles. Now, unswept, will lie the matting.
Now, unswept, the halls of birch-wood. Copper goblets be unburnished, dark the handles of the pitchers. Fare thou well, dear rainbow maiden. Ill marinen, happy bridegroom, hastened homeward with the daughter of the hostess of Poyola. With the beauty of the Northland, fleetly flew the hero's snow-sledge, loudly creaked and roared and rattled, down the banks of Northland waters, by the side of Honey Inlet. On the back of Sandy Mountain, stones went rolling from the highway. Like the winds, the sledge flew onward. On the yoke rang hoops of iron. Loud the spotted wood resounded. Loudly creaked the bands of willow. All the birchen crossbars trembled, and the copper bells rang music in the raising of the fleetfoot.
In the courser's gallop homeward journeyed one day, then a second, journeyed still the third day onward, in one hand the reins of magic, while the other grasped the maiden, one foot resting on the crossbar, and the other in the fur robes. Merrily the steed flew homeward, quickly did the highways shorten, till at last, upon the third day, as the sun was fast declining, there appeared the blacksmith's furnace. Nearer Ilmarinen's dwelling, smoke arising high in ether, clouds of smoke to lofty heaven from the village of Wainola, from the suitor's forge and smithy, from the chimneys of the hero, from the home of the successful.
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26 25 - RUNE XXV. Wainamoinen's Wedding-songs 24:24
Rune XXV of the Kalevala.
The Kalivala, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune, twenty five, the wedding songs at the home of Ilma Long had they been watching, waiting, for the coming of the blacksmith, with his bride from Sarriola. Weary were the eyes of watchers, waiting from the father's portals, looking from the mother's windows. Weary were the young knees standing at the gates of the magician. Weary grew the feet of children, tramping to the walls and watching, worn and torn the shoes of heroes, running on the shore to meet him. Now at last, upon a morning, Of a lovely day in winter, heard they from the woods the rumble of a snow-sledge swiftly bounding. Laco, hostess of Vainola, she, the lovely Kalev daughter, spake these words in great excitement.
"'Tis the sledge of the magician, comes at last the metal-worker, from the dismal Sarriola, by his side the bride of beauty. Welcome, welcome to this hamlet. Welcome to thy mother's hearthstone, to the dwelling of thy father." By thine ancestors erected. Straightway came, great Ilma Renan. To the cottage drove the blacksmith. To the fireside of his father. To his mother's ancient dwelling. Hazelbirds were sweetly singing. On the newly-bended collar, sweetly called the sacred cuckoos. From the summit of the breakboard, merry jumped the graceful squirrel. On the oaken shafts and crossbar, Lako, Kalev's finest hostess, Beechus daughter of Vainola, spake these words of hearty welcome. For the new moon hopes the village, for the sun the happy maidens, for the boat the swelling water.
I have not the moon expected, for the sun have not been waiting. I have waited for my hero, waited for the bride of beauty. Watched at morning, watched at evening, did not know, but some misfortune, some sad fate had overtaken bride and bridegroom on their journey. Thought the maiden growing weary, weary of my son's attentions, since he faithfully had promised to return to Kalevala, ere his footprints had departed from the snowfields of his father, every morn I looked and listened. Constantly I thought and wondered, when his sledge would rumble homeward. When it would return triumphant, to his home renowned and ancient. Had a blind and beggared straw-horse hobbled to these shores awaiting, with the sledge of but two pieces, well the steed would have been lauded, had it brought my son, beloved, had it brought the bride of beauty.
Thus I waited long impatient, looking out from morn till even, watching with my head extended, with my tresses streaming southward, With my eyelids widely opened, waiting for my son's returning, to this modest home of heroes, to this narrow place of resting, finally am I rewarded, for the sledge has come triumphant, bringing home my son and hero. By his side the rainbow maiden, red her cheeks, her visage winsome, pride and joy of Sarriola, Wizard bridegroom of Vainola, take thy corset to the stable, lead him to the well-filled manger, to the best of grain and clover, give to us thy friendly greetings, greetings send to all thy people, when the greetings thou hast ended. Then relate what has befallen to our hero in his absence.
Hast thou gone without adventure to the dark fields of Pagola, searching for the maid of beauty? Didst thou scale the hostile ramparts? Did thou take the Virgin's mansion, passing o'er her mother's threshold, visiting the halls of Luhi? But I know without the asking, see the answer to my question. Comest from the north a victor, on thy journey well contented. Thou hast brought the Northland, daughter. Thou hast raised the hostile portals. Thou hast stormed the forts of Luhi. Stormed the mighty walls opposing on the journey to Pachola, to the village of the father. In thy care the bride is sitting. In thine arms the rainbow maiden, at thy side the pride of Northland, mated to the highly gifted, who has told the cruel story, who the worst of news has scattered, that thy suit was unsuccessful, that in vain thy steed had journeyed.
Not in vain has been thy wooing, not in vain thy steed has travelled, To the dismal homes of Lapland. He has journeyed heavy-laden, shaken mane and tail and forelock, dripping foam from lips and nostrils through the bringing of the maiden with the burden of the husband. Come, thou beauty, from the snow-sledge. Come, descend, thou from the cross-bench. Do not linger for assistance. Do not tarry to be carried. If too young, the one that lifts thee. If too proud, the one in waiting. Rise then, graceful like a young bird. Hither glide along the pathway, on the tan-bark scarlet-coloured, that the herds of kine have evened, that the gentle lambs have trodden, smoothened by the tails of horses. Haste thou here with gentle footsteps, through the pathway smooth and tidy, on the tiles of even surface, on thy second father's courtyard, to thy second mother's dwelling, to thy brother's place of resting.
To thy sister's silent chambers. Place thy foot within these portals. Step across this waiting threshold. Enter thou these halls of joyance, Underneath these painted rafters, Underneath this roof of ages. During all the winter evenings, Through the summer gone forever, Sang the tiling made of ivory, Wishing thou wouldst walk upon it. Often sang the golden ceiling, Hoping thou wouldst walk beneath it. And the windows often whistled, Asking thee to sit beside them, even on this merry morning, even on the recent evening, sat the aged at their windows, on the seashore ran the children. Near the walls the maidens waited, ran the boys upon the highway. There to watch the young bride's coming, coming with her hero husband.
Hail ye courtiers of Vainola, with the heroes of the fathers. Hail to thee, Vainola's hamlet. Hail ye halls with heroes peopled. Hail ye rooms with all your inmates. Hail to thee, sweet golden moonlight. Hail to thee, benign and ukko. Hail, companions of the bridegroom. Never has there been in Northland such a wedding train of honour. Never such a bride of beauty. Bridegroom, thou beloved hero. Now untie the scarlet ribbons, and remove the silken muffler. Let us see the honey maiden, see the daughter of the rainbow. Seven years hast thou been wooing. Hast thou brought the maid a fianc'd? Hast thou sought a sweeter cuckoo? Sought one fairer than the moonlight? Sought a mermaid from the ocean? But I know without the asking, see the answer to my question.
Thou hast brought the sweet-voiced cuckoo. Thou hast found the swan of beauty, plucked the sweetest flower of Northland, culled the fairest of the jewels, gathered Pogger's sweetest berry, sat a babe upon the matting, and the young child spake as follows. Brother, what is this thou bringest? Aspen-log, or trunk of willow? Slender as the mountain linden? Bridegroom, well dost thou remember? Thou hast hoped in all thy lifetime, hoped to bring the maid of beauty, thou a thousand times hast said it. Better far than any other. Not one like the croaking raven, nor the magpie from the border, nor the scarecrow from the cornfields, nor the vulture from the desert. What has this one done of credit? In the summer that has ended, wear the gloves that she has knitted, wear the mittens she has woven.
Thou hast brought her empty-handed, not a gift she brings thy father. In thy chests the mice are nesting, long-tails feeding on thy vestments, and the bride cannot repair them. Loco, hostess of Vainola, she the faithful Kalev daughter hears the young child's speech in wonder, speaks these words of disapproval. Silly Prattler, cease thy talking. Thou hast spoken in dishonour. Let all others be astonished. Reap thy malice on thy kindred. Must not harm the bride of beauty, rainbow daughter of the Northland. False indeed is this thy prattle. All thy words are full of evil. Fallen from thy tongue of mischief, from the lips of one unworthy, excellent the hero's young bride. Best of all in Sarriola, like the strawberry in summer, like the daisy from the meadow.
Like the cuckoo from the forest, like the bluebird from the aspen, like the redbreast from the heather, like the marten from the linden. Never couldst thou find in Estland such a virgin as this daughter, such a graceful, beauteous maiden, with such dignity of carriage, with such arms of pearly whiteness, with a neck so fair and lovely. Neither is she empty-handed. She has brought us furs abundant, brought us many silken garments, richest weavings of bajola. Many beauteous things the maiden with the spindle has accomplished, spun and woven with her fingers. Dresses of the finest texture, she in winter has upfolded, bleached them in the days of springtime, dried them at the hour of noonday, for our couches finest linen, for our heads the softest pillows, for our comfort woolen blankets, for our necks the silken ribbons.
To the bride speaks gracious Larko, goodly wife, thou maid of beauty. Highly wert thou praised as daughter in thy father's distant country. Here thou shalt be praised for ever by the kindred of thy husband. Thou shalt never suffer sorrow, never give thy heart to grieving. In the swamps thou wert not nurtured, wert not fed beside the brooklets. Thou wert born neath stars suspicious, nurtured from the richest garners. Thou wert taken to the brewing of the sweetest beer in Northland. Beautrous bride from Sarriola, shouldst thou see me bringing hither casks of corn or wheat or barley, bringing rye in great abundance, they belong to this thy household, good the ploughing of thy husband, good his sowing and his reaping, bride of beauty from the northland.
Thou wilt learn this home to manage, learn to labour with thy kindred, good the home for thee to dwell in, good enough for bride and daughter. At thy hand will rest the milk-pail, And the churn awaits thine order. It is well here for the maiden. Happy will the young bride labour. Easy are the resting benches. Here the host is like thy father. Like thy mother is the hostess. All the sons are like thy brothers. Like thy sisters are the daughters. Shouldst thou ever have a longing for the whiting of the ocean, for thy father's northland salmon, for thy brother's hazel chickens, ask then only of thy husband. Let thy hero husband bring them. There is not in all of Northland, not a creature of the forest, not a bird beneath the ether, not a fish within the waters, not the largest nor the smallest, that thy husband cannot capture.
It is well here for the maiden. Here the bride may live in freedom, need not turn the heavy millstone, need not move the iron pestle. Here the wheat is ground by water, for the rye the swifter current. While the billows wash the vessels, and the surging waters rinse them, thou hast here a lovely village, finest spot in all the northland. In the lowlands sweet the verdure, in the uplands fields of beauty, with the lake-shore near the hamlet, near thy home the running water, where the goslings swim and frolic, water-birds disport in numbers. Thereupon the bride and bridegroom were refreshed with richest viands. Given food and drink abundant, Fed on choicest bits of reindeer, on the sweetest loaves of barley, on the best of wheaten biscuits, on the richest beer of Northland.
Many things were on the table, many dainties of vainola. In the bowls of scarlet color, in the platters deftly painted, many cakes with honey sweetened, to each guest was butter given. Many bits of trout and whiting, larger salmon carved in slices. With the knives of molten silver, rimmed with gold the silver handles. Beer of barley ceaseless flowing. Honey drink that was not purchased, in the cellar flows profusely. Beer for all, the tongues to quicken. Mead and beer, the minds to freshen. Who is there to lead the singing, lead the songs of Kalevala? Venamoinen, old and truthful. The eternal wise enchanter, quick begins his incantations. Straightway sings the songs that follow. Golden brethren, dearest kindred.
Ye, my loved ones, wise and worthy. Ye, companions highly gifted. Listen to my simple sayings. Rarely stand the geese together. Sisters do not mate each other. Not together stand the brothers, nor the children of one mother, in the countries of the Northland. Shall we now begin the singing? Sing the songs of old tradition? Singers can but sing their wisdom, and the cuckoo call the springtime, and the goddess of the heavens only dies the earth in beauty, so the goddesses of weaving can but weave from dawn till twilight. Ever sing the youth of Lapland, in their straw-shoes full of gladness, when the coarse meat of the roebuck or of blue moose they have eaten. Wherefore should I not be singing, and the children not be chanting, of the biscuits of Vainola, of the bread of Calav waters?
Even sing the lads of Lapland in their straw shoes filled with joyance, drinking but a cup of water, eating but the bitter tan bark. Wherefore should I not be singing, and the children not be chanting, of the beer of Kalevala, brewed from barley in perfection, dressed in quaint and homely costume, as they sit beside their hearthstones? Wherefore should I not be singing, and the children too be chanting, underneath these painted rafters, In these halls renowned and ancient, this the place for men to linger, this the courtroom for the maidens, near the foaming beer of barley, honey brewed in great abundance, very near the salmon waters, near the nets for trout and whiting. Here, where food is never wanting, where the beer is ever brewing, here Vainola's sons assemble, here Vainola's daughters gather, here they never eat in trouble.
Here they live without regretting. In the lifetime of the landlord, while the hostess lives and prospers, who shall first be sung and lauded? Shall it be the bride or bridegroom? Let us praise the bridegroom's father. Let the hero host be chanted. Him whose home is in the forest, him who built upon the mountains, him who brought the trunks of lindens, with their tops and slender branches, brought them to the best of places, joined them skilfully together, For the mansion of the nation, for the famous hero-dwelling, walls procured upon the lowlands, rafters from the pine and fir-tree, from the woodlands beams of oak-wood, from the berry plains the studding, bark was furnished by the aspen, and the mosses from the fenlands.
Trimly builded is this mansion, in a haven warmly sheltered. Here a hundred men have laboured, on the roof have stood a thousand. As this spacious house was building, as this roof was tightly jointed, Here the ancient mansion-builder, where these rafters were erected, lost in storms his locks of sable, scattered by the winds of heaven, often has the hero-landlord on the rocks his gloves forgotten, left his hat upon the willows, lost his mittens in the marshes. Oftentimes the mansion-builder, in the early hours of morning, ere his workmen had awakened, unperceived by all the village, has arisen from his slumber, left his cabin in the snowfields. combed his locks among the branches, bathed his eyes in dews of mourning.
Thus obtained the pleasant landlord friends to fill his spacious dwelling, fill his benches with magicians, fill his windows with enchanters, fill his halls with Now I praise the genial hostess, who prepares the toothsome dinner. Fills with plenty all her tables, bakes the honeyed loaves of barley, kneads the dough with magic fingers, with her arms of strength and beauty, bakes her bread in copper ovens, feeds her guests and bids them welcome, feeds them on the toothsome bacon, on the trout and pike and whiting, on the rarest fish in ocean, on the dainties of Vainola. Often has the faithful hostess, risen from her couch in silence, Ere the crowing of the watcher to prepare the wedding banquet, make her tables look attractive, brew the honey-beer of wedlock.
Excellently has the housewife, has the hostess filled with wisdom, brewed the beer from hops and barley, from the corn of Kalevala, from the wheat-malt honey seasoned, stirred the beer with graceful fingers at the oven in the penthouse, in the chamber swept and polished. Neither did the prudent hostess, beautiful and full of wisdom, let the barley sprout to freely. Lest the beer should taste of black earth, be too bitter in the brewing. Often went she to the garners, went alone at hour of midnight, was not frightened by the black wolf, did not fear the beasts of woodlands. Now the hostess I have lauded, let me praise the favoured suitor, now the honoured hero bridegroom, best of all the village masters.
Clothed in purple is the hero, raiment brought from distant nations, tightly fitting to his body, snugly sets his coat of ermine. To the floor it hangs in beauty, trailing from his neck and shoulders, little of his vest appearing, peeping through his outer raiment, woven by the moon's fair daughters, and his vestment silver-tinseled. Dressed in neatness is the suitor, round his waist a belt of copper, hammered by the sun-sweet maidens, ere the early fires were lighted, ere the fire had been discovered, dressed in richness is the bridegroom, On his feet are silken stockings, silken ribbons on his ankles. Gold and silver interwoven, dressed in beauty, is the bridegroom. On his feet are shoes of deerskin, like the swans upon the water, like the blue duck on the sea waves, like the thrush among the willows, like the water birds of Northland.
Well adorned the hero's suitor, with his locks of golden color, with his goldbeard finely braided. Hero hat upon his forehead, piercing through the forest branches, reaching to the clouds of heaven, brought with countless gold and silver, priceless is the suitor's head-gear. Now the bridegroom has been lauded, I will praise the young bride's playmate. Day companion in her childhood, in the maiden's magic mansion, whence was brought the merry maiden from the village of Teneika. Thence was never brought the playmate, playmate of the bride in childhood. Has she come from distant nations, from the waters of the Dwina? O'er the ocean far outstretching? Not from Dwina came the maiden. Did not sail across the waters, grew as berry in the mountains, as a strawberry of sweetness.
On the fields the child of beauty. In the glens the golden flower. Thence has come the young bride's playmate. Thence arose her fair companion. Tiny are her feet and fingers. Small her lips of scarlet colour, like the maiden's loom of Swami. Eyes that shine in kindly beauty, like the twinkling stars of heaven. Beam the playmate's throbbing temples like the moonlight on the waters. Trinkets has the bride's companion. On her neck a golden necklace. In her tresses silken ribbons. On her arms are golden bracelets. Golden rings upon her fingers. Pearls are set in golden earrings. Loops of gold upon her temples, and with pearls her brow is studded. Northland thought the moon was shining when her jewelled earrings glistened.
Thought the sun had left his station when her girdle shone in beauty. Thought a ship was homeward sailing when her coloured headgear fluttered. Thus is praised the bride's companion, playmate of the Rainbow Maiden. Now I praise the friends assembled. All appear in graceful manners. If the old are wise and silent, all the youth are free and merry, all the guests are fair and worthy. Never was there in Wainola, never will there be in Northland such a company. Assembled, all the children speak in joyance, all the aged move sedately. Dressed in white are all the maidens. Like the hoar-frost of the morning, like the welcome dawn of springtime, like the rising of the daylight, silver then was more abundant, gold among the guests in plenty.
On the hills were money pockets, money-bags along the valleys. For the friends that were invited, for the guests in joy assembled, all the friends have now been lauded. Each has gained his mead of honor. Wainamoinen, old and truthful song-deliverer of Northland, swung himself upon the fir-bench, on his magic sledge of copper, straightway hastened to his hamlet, singing as he journeyed onward, singing charms and incantations, singing one day, then a second, all the third-day chanting legends, on the rocks the runners rattled, hung the sledge upon a birch stump, broke it into many pieces, with the magic of his singing, Double were the runners bended, all the parts were torn asunder, and his magic sledge was ruined.
Then the good old Vayner Moinen spake these words in meditation. Is there one among this number? In this rising generation, or perchance among the aged? In the passing generation, that will go to Mana's kingdom, to the empire of Tononi, there to get the magic auger for the master of Manala. That I may repair my snow-sledge, or a second sledge may fashion. What the younger people answered was the answer of the aged, not among the youth of Northland, nor among the aged heroes. Is there one of ample courage? That has bravery sufficient to attempt the reckless journey to the kingdom of Tuoni, to Manala's fields and castles, thence to bring Tuoni's augur. Wherewithal to mend thy snow-sledge? Build anew thy sledge of magic.
Whereupon Old Wainamoinen, the eternal wisdom singer, went again to Mano's empire to the kingdom of Tuoni, crossed the sable stream of Deathland, to the castles of Manala, found the augur of Tuoni, brought the instrument in safety, straightway sings Old Wainamoinen, sings to life a purple forest, in the forest slender birches, and beside them mighty oak trees, shapes them into shafts and runners, Moulds them by his will and power, makes anew his sledge of magic. On his steed he lays the harness, binds him to his sledge securely, seats himself upon the crossbench, and the racer gallops homeward to the main.
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27 26 - RUNE XXVI. Origin of the Serpent 35:44
Rune 26 of the Kalavala.
The Kalevala, translated by John Martin Crawford.
Origin of the Serpent. Arcti living on the island. Near the caco point and harbour, ploughed his field for rye and barley, furrowed his extensive pastures, heard with quickened ears an uproar, heard the village in commotion, heard a noise along the seashore, heard the footsteps on the ice-plane, heard the rattle of the sledges, quick his mind divined the reason. Knew it was Pojolo's wedding. Wedding of the Rainbow Virgin. Quick he stopped in disappointment, shook his sable locks in envy, turned his hero-head in anger, while the scarlet blood ceased flowing through his pallid face and temples, ceased his ploughing and his sowing. On the field he left the furrows. On his steed he lightly mounted.
Straight away. Galloped fleetly homeward. To his well-beloved mother, to his mother old and golden, gave his mother these directions, these the words of Lemminkainen. My beloved faithful mother, quickly bring me beer and viands. Bring me food, for I am hungry. Food and drink, for me abundant. Have my bathroom quickly heated, quickly set the room in order, that I may refresh my body, dress myself in hero raiment. Lemminkainen's aged mother brings her hero food in plenty, beer and viands for the hungry, for her thirsting son and hero. Quick she heats the ancient bathroom, quickly sets his bath in order. Then the reckless Lemminkainen ate his meat with beer inspiring, hastened to his bath awaiting, only was the bullfinch bathing, with the many-coloured bunting.
Quick the hero laved his temples, laved himself to flaxen whiteness. Quickly returning to his mother, spake in haste the words that follow. My beloved helpful mother, go at once to yonder mountain, to the storehouse on the hilltop, bring my vest. Of finest texture. Bring my hero coat of purple. Bring my suit of magic colors. Thus to make me look attractive. Thus to robe myself in beauty. First the ancient mother asked him, asked her son this simple question. Whither dost thou go, my hero? Dost thou go to hunt the roebuck? Chase the lynx upon the mountain, shoot the squirrel in the woodlands. Speak the reckless Lemminkainen, also known as Kako Melli. Worthy mother of my being, go I not to hunt the roebuck.
Chase the lynx upon the mountain, shoot the squirrel on the treetops. I am going to Pojola, to the feasting of her people. Bring at once my purple vestments, straightaway bring my nuptial outfit. Let me don it for the marriage of the maiden of the Northland. But the ancient dame dissented, and the wife forbade the husband. Two of all the best of heroes, three of nature's fairest daughters, strongly urged wild Lemminkainen not to go to Sariola. To Pajola's great carousal, to the marriage-feast of the Northland, since thou hast not been invited, since they do not wish thy presence, spake the reckless Lemminkainen these the words of Karkomele, where the wicked are invited. There the good are always welcome.
Herein lies my invitation. I am constantly reminded, by this sword of sharpened edges, by this magic blade and scabbard, that Pajola needs my presence. Lemminkainen's aged mother sought again to stay her hero. Do not go, my son beloved, to the feasting in Pajola. Full of horrors are the highways. On the road are many wonders. Three times death appears to frighten. Thrice destruction hovers over, spake the reckless Lemminkainen. These the words of Karkumeli. Death is seen by aged people. Everywhere they see perdition. Death can never frighten heroes. Heroes do not fear the spectre.
Be that as it may, dear mother, tell that I may understand thee. Name the first of all destructions. Name the first and last destroyers. Lemminkainen's mother answered, I will tell thee, son and hero, not because I wish to speak it, but because the truth is worthy. I will name the chief destruction, named the first of the destroyers. When thou hast a distance journeyed, only one day hast thou travelled. Comes a stream along the highway, stream of fire, of wondrous beauty. In the stream, a mighty fire-spout. In the spout, a rock uprising. On the rock, a fiery hillock. On the top, a flaming eagle. And his crooked beak he sharpens, sharpens, too, his bloody talons. For the coming of the stranger, for the people that approach him, spake the reckless Lemminkainen, handsome hero.
Cacomeli, women die beneath the eagle. Such is not the death of heroes. Know I well a magic lotion that will heal the wounds of eagles, make myself a steed of alders, that will walk as my companion, that will stride ahead majestic. As a duck, I'll drive beneath him, drive him o'er the fatal waters, underneath. The flaming eagle, with his bloody beak and talons, worthy mother of my being, name the second of destroyers.
Lemminkainen's mother answered, This the second of destroyers, when thou hast a distance wandered, only two days hast thou travelled, comes a pit of fire to meet thee, in the centre of the highway. Eastward far, the pit extending, stretches endless to the westward, filled with burning coals and pebbles, glowing with the heat of ages. Hundreds has this monster swallowed. In his jaws have thousands perished, hundreds with their trusty broadswords, thousands on their fiery charges. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, handsome hero Kakomele, Never will the hero perish in the jaws of such a monster. Know I well the means of safety, Know a remedy efficient, I will make of snow a master. On the snow-clad fields a hero, Drive the snowman on before me.
Drive him through the flaming vortex. Drive him through the fiery furnace. With my magic broom of copper, I will follow in his shadow. Follow close the magic image. Thus escape the frightful monster. With my golden locks uninjured. With my flowing beard untangled. Ancient mother of my being. Name the last of the destructions. Name the third. of the destroyers. Lemminkainen's mother answered, This the third of fatal dangers. Hast thou gone a greater distance? Hast thou travelled one day longer? To the portals of Pajola, to the narrowest of gateways? There a wolf will rise to meet thee. There the black bear sneak upon thee. In Pajola's darksome portals Hundreds in their jaws have perished, have devoured a thousand heroes.
Wherefore will they not destroy thee, since thy form is unprotected? Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, handsome hero Kakumeli. Let them eat the gentle lambkins, feed upon their tender tissues. They cannot devour this hero. I am girded with my buckler, girded with my belt of copper, armlets where I, of the master, from the wolf and bear protected, will not hasten to Untamo. I can meet the wolf of Lempo. For the bear I have a balsam. For his mouth I conjure bridles. For the wolf forge chains of iron. I will smite them as the willow, chop them into little fragments. Thus I'll gain the open courtyard, thus triumphant, end my journey. Lemminkainen's mother answered, Then thy journey is not ended. Greater dangers still await thee.
Greater the wonders yet before thee. Horrors three within thy pathway, three great dangers to the hero still await thy reckless footsteps. These, the worst of all thy dangers, when thou hast still farther wandered, thou wilt reach the court of poeja. Where the walls are forged from iron, And from steel the outer bulwark rises from the earth to heaven, back again to earth returning. Double spears are used for railings. On each spear are serpents winding. On each rail are stinging adders. Lizards, too, adorn the bulwarks. Play their long tails in the sunlight. Hissing lizards, venomed serpents, jump. And writhe upon the rampart, turn their horrid heads to meet thee. On the greensward lie the monsters, on the ground the things of evil, with their pliant tongues of venom, hissing, striking, crawling, writhing.
One, more horrid than the others, lies before the fatal gateway, longer than the longest rafters, larger than the largest portals, hisses with the tongue of anger, lifts his head in awful menace, raises it to strike none other than the hero of the islands. Spake the warlike Lemminkainen, handsome hero, Kakumeli, By such things the children perish. Such is not the death of heroes. Know I well the fire to manage. I can quench the flames of passion. I can meet the prowling wild beasts. Can appease the wrath of serpents. I can heal the sting of adders. I have ploughed the serpent pastures. Ploughed the adder fields of Northland, while my hands were unprotected, held the serpents in my fingers, drove the adders to Manala.
On my hands the blood of serpents, on my feet the fat of adders. Never will thy hero stumble on the serpents of the Northland. With my heel I'll crush the monsters. Stamp the horrid things to atoms. I will banish them from Poja. Drive them to Manala's kingdom. Step within Pajola's mansion. Walk the halls of Sarriola. Lemunkainen's mother answered, Do not go, my son beloved, to the firesides of Pajola. Through the Northland fields and fallows there are warriors with broadswords. Heroes clad in mail of copper are on beer intoxicated, by the beer are much embittered. They will charm thee, hapless creature, on the tips of swords of magic. Greater heroes have been conjured, stronger ones have been outwitted, spake the reckless Lemminkainen.
Formerly thy son resided in the hamlets of Pajola. Laplanders cannot enchant me, nor the Turjalanders harm me. I, the Laplander, will conjure. Charm him with my magic powers. Sing his shoulders wide sunder. In his chin I'll sing a fissure. Sing his collarbone to pieces. Sing his breast to thousand fragments. Lemminkainen's mother answered, Foolish son, ungrateful wizard, boasting of thy former visit. Boasting of thy fatal journey. Once in Northland, thou wert living, in the homesteads of Pajola. There thou tried to swim the whirlpool. Tasted there the dog-tongued waters, floated down the fatal current, sank beneath its angry billows. Thou hast seen Tuoni's river. Thou hast measured Mana's waters.
There to-day thou wouldst be sleeping, had it not been for thy mother. What I tell thee well remember. Shouldst thou gain Pajola's chambers, filled with stakes, thou'lt find the courtyard, these to hold the heads of heroes. There thy head will rest for ever, shouldst thou go to Sarriola. Spake the warlike Lemminkainen. Fools, indeed, may heed thy counsel. Cowards, too, may give attention. Those of seven conquest summers cannot heed such weak advising. Bring to me my battle armor. Bring my magic mail of copper. Bring me, too, my father's broadsword. Keep the old man's blade from rusting. Long it has been cold and idle. Long has lain in secret places, long and constantly been weeping, long been asking for a bearer.
Then he took his mail of copper, took his ancient battle armor, took his father's sword of magic, tried its point against the oak wood, tried its edge upon the sorb tree. In his hand the blade was bended, like the limber boughs of willow, like the juniper in summer, spake the hero Lemminkainen. There is none in Poya's hamlets, in the court of Sarriola, that with me can measure broadswords, that can meet this blade ancestral. From the nail he took a crossbow. Took the strongest from the rafters, spake these words in meditation. I shall recognise as worthy, recognise that one a hero, that can bend this mighty crossbow, that can break its magic sinews in the hamlets of Pajola. Lemminkainen, filled with courage, girds himself in suit of battle, dons his mighty mail of copper, To his servant speaks as follows.
Trusty slave, and whom I purchased, whom I bought with gold and silver, quick prepare my fiery charger. Harness well my steed of battle. I am going to the feasting, to the banquet fields of Lempo. Quick obeys the faithful servant, hitches well the noble warhorse, quick prepares the fire-red stallion. Speaks these words when all is ready. I have done what thou hast bidden. Ready harnessed is the charger, waiting to obey his master. Comes the hour of the departing of the hero Lemminkainen, right hand ready left unwilling, all his anxious fingers pain him, till at last, in full obedience, All his members give permission, starts the hero on his journey, while the mother gives him counsel, at the threshold of the dwelling, at the highway of the courtyard, child of courage, my beloved, son of strength, my wisdom hero, if thou goest to the feasting, shouldst thou reach the great carousal, drink thou only half a cupful, drink the goblet to the middle.
Always give the half remaining, give the worse half to another, to another more unworthy. In the lower half are serpents, worms and frogs and hissing lizards, feeding on the slimy bottom. Furthermore, she tells her hero, gives her son these sage directions on the border of the courtyard, at the portals farthest distant. If thou goest to the banquet, shouldst thou reach the great carousal, Occupy but half the settle, Take but half a stride in walking, Give the second half to others, To another less deserving, Only thus thou'rt be a hero, Thus become a son immortal, In the guest-room look courageous, Bravely move about the chambers, In the gatherings of heroes. With the hosts of magic valour, thereupon Wild Lemminkainen quickly leapt upon the crossbench of his battle-sledge of wonder, raised his pearl-enamelled birch-rod, snapped his whip above his charger, and the steed flew onward fleeting, galloped on his distant journey.
He had travelled little distance when a flight of hazel chickens, quick arose before his coming, flew before the foaming racer. There were left some feathers lying, feathers of the hazel chickens lying in the hero's pathway. These the reckless Lemminkainen gathered for their magic virtues, put them in his pouch of leather, did not know what things might happen on his journey to Pajola. All things have some little value. In a strait all things are useful. Then he drove a little distance, galloped farther on the highway. When his courser neighed in danger, and the fleetfoot ceased his running, then the stout-heart, Lemminkainen, handsome hero Kakumeli rose upon his seat in wonder, craned his neck and looked about him, found it as his mother told him, found a stream of fire posing.
Ran the fire stream like a river, ran across the hero's pathway. In the river was a firefall. In the cataract a fire rock. On the rock a fiery hillock. On its summit perched an eagle. From his throat the fire was streaming to the crater far below him. Fire out-shooting from his feathers, glowing with the fiery splendor. Long he looked upon the hero, long he gazed on Lemminkainen. Then the eagle thus addressed him. Whither art thou driving, Acti? Whither going, Lemminkainen? Kakumeli spake in answer to the feastings of Pajola, to the drinking halls of Luhi, to the banquet of her people. Move aside, and let me journey. Move a little from my pathway. Let this wanderer pass by thee. I am more like Lemminkainen.
This the answer of the eagle, screaming from his throat of splendour. Though thou art wild Lemminkainen, I shall let thee wander onward. Through my fire-throat let thee journey. Through these flames shall be thy passage, to the banquet halls of Luhi, to Pajola's great carousal. Little heeding Kakumeli, thinks himself in little trouble. thrusts his fingers in his pockets searches in his pouch of leather quickly takes the magic feathers feathers from the hazel chickens rubs them into finest powder rubs them with his magic fingers whence a flight of birds arises hazel chickens from the feathers large the bevy of the young birds quick the wizard lemminkainen drives them to the eagle's fire-mouth Thus to satisfy his hunger, thus to quench the fire out streaming, thus escapes the reckless hero, thus escapes the first of dangers, passes thus the first destroyer, on his journey to Pajola.
With his whip he strikes his courser, with his birch-whip pearl enamelled, straightaway speeds the fiery charger. Noiselessly upon his journey, gallops fast and gallops faster, till the flying steed, in terror, neighs again and ceases running. Lemminkainen, quickly rising, cranes his neck and looks about him, sees his mother's words were truthful, sees her augury well taken. Lo! before him yawned a fire-gulph, stretching crosswise through his pathway. Far to east the gulf extending, to the west an endless distance, filled with stones and burning pebbles. Running streams of burning matter, little heeding Lemminkainen, cries aloud in prayer to Ukko. Ukko, thou, O God, above me! Dear Creator, omnipresent, from the north-west send a storm-cloud.
From the east dispatch a second, from the souths and forth a third one. Let them gather from the south-west, sew their edges well together. Fill thou well the interspaces, send a snowfall high as heaven. Let it fall from upper ether, fall upon the flaming fire pit, on the cataract and the whirlpool. Mighty Ukko, the Creator. Ukko, father omnipresent, dwelling in the courts of heaven, sent a storm-cloud from the north-west, from the east he sent a second, from the south, dispatched a third one. Let them gather from the south-west, sewed their edges well together, filled their many interspaces, sent a snowfall high as heaven, from the giddy heights of ether, sent its seething to the fire pit. On the streams of burning matter.
From the snowfall in the fire-pond grows a lake with rolling billows. Quick, the hero, Lemminkainen, conjures there of ice a passage. From one border to the other, thus escapes his second danger, thus his second trouble passes. Then the reckless Lemminkainen raised his pearl-enamelled birch rod. snapped his whip above his racer, and the steed flew onward swiftly, galloped on his distant journey, o'er the highway to Pajola. Galloped fast and galloped faster, galloped on a greater distance, when the stallion, loudly neighing, stopped and trembled on the highway. Then the lively Lammankainen raised himself upon the crossbench, looked to see what else had happened. Lo, a wolf stands at the portals, in the passageway a black bear, at the high gate of Paiola, at the ending of the journey.
Thereupon young Lemminkainen, handsome hero Kakumeli, thrusts his fingers in his pockets, seeks his magic pouch of leather, pulls therefrom a lock of yew wool, rubs it firmly in his fingers. In his hands it falls to powder. Breeze the breath of life upon it, when a flock of sheep arises. Goats and sheep of sable colour. On the flock the black wolf pounces, and the wild bear aids the slaughter, while the reckless Lemminkainen rushes by them on his journey. Gallops on a little distance, to the court of Sarriola, finds the fence of molten iron, and of steel the rods and pickets. In the earth a hundred fathoms, to the azure sky a thousand double-pointed spears projecting. On each spear were serpents twisted, adders coiled in countless numbers, lizards mingled with the serpents, tails entangled, pointing earthward, while their heads were skyward whirling, writhing hissing mass of evil.
Then the stout heart, Kaku Melli, Deeply thought, and long considered, it is as my mother told me, this the wall that she predicted, stretching from the earth to heaven. Downward deep are serpents creeping, deeper still the rails extending, high as highest flight of eagles, higher still the wall shoots upward. But the hero, Lamankinin, little cares, nor feels disheartened. Draws his broadsword from its scabbard, draws his mighty blade ancestral, hues the wall with might of magic, breaks the palisade in pieces, hues to atom seven pickets, chops the serpent wall to fragments. Through the breach he quickly passes to the portals of Pajola. In the way a serpent lying, lying crosswise in the entry, longer than the longest rafters.
Larger than the posts of oak wood, Hundred-eyed the heinous serpent, And a thousand tongues the monster, Eyes as large as sifting vessels, Tongues as long as shafts of javelins, Teeth as large as hatchet handles, Back as broad as skiffs of ocean, Lemminkainen does not venture Straightway through this host opposing, Through the hundred heads of adders, Through the thousand tongues of serpents spake the magic Lemminkainen, Venomed Viper, thing of evil, ancient adder of Tuoni. Thou that crawlest in the stubble, through the flower-roots of Lempo, Who has sent thee from thy kingdom? Sent thee from thine evil coverts. Sent thee hither, crawling, writhing, In the pathway I would travel. Who bestowed thy mouth of venom?
Who insisted? Who commanded? Thou shouldst raise thy head toward heaven? Who thy tale has given action? Was this given by the father? Did the mother give this power? Or the eldest of the brothers? Or the youngest of the sisters? Or some other of the kindred? Close thy mouth, thou thing of evil. Hide thy pliant tongue of venom. In a circle wrap thy body. Coil thou like a shield in silence. Give to me one half the pathway. Let this wanderer pass thee by, or remove thyself entirely. Get thee hence to yonder heather. Quick retreat to bog and stubble. Hide thyself in reeds and rushes. In the brambles of the lowlands, like a ball of flax enfolding, like a sphere of aspen branches, with thy head and tail together, rolling thyself to yonder mountain.
In the heather is thy dwelling, underneath the sod thy caverns. Shouldst thou raise thy head in anger, mighty Ukko will destroy it. Pierce it with his steel-tipped arrows, with his death-balls made of iron. Hardly had the hero ended when the monster, little-heeding, hissing with his tongue in anger, plying like the forked lightning, pounces with his mouth of venom at the head of Lemminkainen. But the hero, quick recalling, speaks the master words of knowledge, words that came from distant ages, words his ancestors had taught him, words his mother learned in childhood. These the words of Lemminkainen, Since thou wilt not heed mine order, since thou wilt not leave the highway, puffed with pride of thine own greatness, thou shalt burst in triple pieces.
Leave thy station for the borders. I will hunt thine ancient mother. Sing thine origin of evil, how arose thy head of horror! Sayojata, thine ancient mother, thing of evil, thy creator. Sayojata once let her spittle fall upon the waves of ocean. This was rocked by winds and waters, shaken by the ocean currents. Six years rocked upon the billows rocked in water seven summers. On the blue-black of the ocean, on the billows high as heaven, lengthwise did the billows draw it, and the sunshine gave its softness. To the shores the billows washed it, on the coast the waters left it. Then appeared creation's daughters, three the daughters thus appearing, on the roaring shore of ocean, there beheld the spittle lying, and the daughters spake as follows.
What would happen from this spittle, should the breath of the Creator fall upon the writhing matter, breathe the breath of life upon it, give the thing the sense of vision? The Creator heard these measures, spake himself the words that follows, Evil only comes from evil. This is the expectoration of Felsajjata, its mother. Therefore would the thing be evil? Should I breathe a soul within it? Should I give it sense of vision? Hisi heard this conversation, ever ready with his mischief, made himself to be creator, breathed a soul into the spittle. To fell Sujata's fierce anger. Thus arose the poison monster. Thus was born the evil serpent. This the origin of evil. Whence the life that gave her action.
From the carbon pile of Hisi. Whence, then, was her heart created from the heart-throbs of her mother? Whence arose her brain of evil from the foam of rolling waters? Whence was consciousness awakened from the waterfall's commotion? Whence arose her head of venom from the seed-germs of the ivy? Whence, then, came her eyes of fury from the flaxen seeds of limpo? Whence the evil ears for hearing from the foliage of Hisi. Whence then was her mouth created, this from Sayogitar's foam-currents. Whence arose thy tongue of anger, from the spear of Kaito-Lainen. Whence arose thy fangs of poison, from the teeth of Mana's daughter. Whence then was thy back created, from the carbon-posts of Piru. How, then, was thy tale created from the brain of the hobgoblin?
Whence arose thy writhing entrails from the death-belt of Tuoni? This thine origin, O serpent, this thy charm of evil import, vilest thing of God's creation, writhing, hissing, thing of evil. With the colour of Tuoni, with the shade of earth and heaven, with the darkness of the storm-cloud, get thee hence, thou loathsome monster. Clear the pathway of this hero, I am mighty Lemminkainen, on my journey to Pajola, to the feastings and carousals, in the halls of darksome Northland. Thereupon the snake-uncoiling, hundred-eyed, and heinous monster, Crawled away to other portals, that the hero, Kakumeli, might proceed upon his errand to the dismal Sarriola, to the feastings and carousals in the banquet halls of Pogia.
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28 27 - RUNE XXVII. The Unwelcome Guest 17:19
Rune twenty-seven of the Kalavala.
The Kalevala, translated by John Martin Crawford, room twenty seven, the unwelcome guest. I have brought young Brought the islander and hero also known as Lemminkainen through the jaws of death and ruin, through the darkling deeps of Kalma, to the homesteads of Pajola, to the dismal courts of Luhi. Now must I relate his doings, must relate to all my hearers how the merry Lemminkainen, handsome hero Kakumeli, Wandered through Pajola's chambers, through the halls of Sarriola, how the hero went unbidden, to the feasting and carousal, uninvited to the banquet, Lemminkainen full of courage, Full of life and strength and magic, stepped across the ancient threshold. To the centre of the courtroom, and the floors of Linwood trembled, walls and ceilings creaked and murmured, spake the reckless Lemminkainen.
These the words that Akhti uttered. Be ye greeted on my coming. Ye that greet, be likewise greeted. Listen, all ye hosts of Pogia. Is there food about this homestead? Barley for my hungry courser? Beer to give a thirsty stranger? Sat the host of Sarriola at the east end of the table, gave this answer to the questions.
Surely is there in this homestead For thy steed an open stable. Never will this host refuse thee, shouldst thou act a part becoming. Worthy coming to these portals, waiting near the birchen rafters, in the spaces by the kettles, by the triple hooks of iron. Then the reckless Lemminkainen shook his sable locks, and answered, Lempo may perchance come hither. Let him fill this lolly station, let him stand between the kettles, that with soot he may be blackened. Never has my ancient father, never has the dear old hero, stood upon a spot unworthy, at the portals, near the rafters, for his steed the best of stables, food and shelter gladly furnished, and a room for his attendants, corners furnished for his mittens.
Hooks provided for his snow-shoes, halls in waiting for his helmet. Wherefore, then, should I not find here what my father found before me? To the centre walked the hero, walked around the dining-table, sat upon a bench and waited, on a bench of polished fir-wood, and the kettle creaked beneath him. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, As a guest am I unwelcome. Since the waiters bring no viands, bring no dishes to the stranger, Il-Patar, the Northland hostess, then addressed the words that follow. Lemminkainen, thou art evil. Thou art here but not invited. Thou hast not the look of kindness. Thou wilt give me throbbing temples. Thou art bringing pain and sorrow. All our beer is in the barley. All our malt is in the kernel.
All our grain is still ungarned, and our dinner has been eaten. Yesterday, thou shouldst have been here, come again some future season. Whereupon Wild Lemminkainen pulled his mouth awry in anger, shook his coal-black locks, and answered, All the tables here are empty, and the feasting-time is over. All the beer has left the goblets. Empty, too, are all the pitchers. Empty are the larger vessels. O thou hostess of Pajola, toothless dame of dismal Northland! Badly managed is thy wedding, and thy feast is ill-conducted, like the dogs hast thou invited. Thou hast baked the honey-biscuit. Wheaten loaves of greatest virtue, brewed thy beer from hops and barley, sent abroad thine invitations, six the hamlets thou hast honoured, nine the villagers invited.
By thy merry wedding-callers thou hast asked the poor and lowly, asked the hosts of common people, asked the blind and deaf and crippled, asked a multitude of beggars, toilers by the day and hirelings. Ask the men of evil habits, ask the maids with braided tresses. I alone was not invited. How could such a slight be given? Since I sent thee kegs of barley, others sent thee grain in cupfuls, brought it sparingly in dippers, while I sent thee fullest measure, sent the half of all my garners, of the richest of my harvest, of the grain that I had gathered, Even now young Lemminkainen, though a guest of name and station, has no beer, no food, no welcome. Nought for him art thou preparing, nothing cooking in thy kettles, nothing brewing in thy cellars, for the hero of the islands, at the closing of his journey.
Ilputar, the ancient hostess, gave this order to her servants. Come, my pretty maiden waiter. Servant-girl to me belonging. Lay some salmon to the broiling. Bring some beer to give the stranger. Small of stature was the maiden, washer of the banquet platters, rinser of the dinner-ladles, polisher of spoons of silver. And she laid some food in kettles, only bones and beads of whiting, turnip-stalks and withered cabbage, crusts of bread and bits of biscuit. Then she brought some beer in pitchers. Brought the common drink, the vilest, that the stranger, Lemminkainen, might have drink and meat in welcome, thus distill his thirst and hunger. Then the maiden spake as follows, Thou art sure a mighty hero, here to drink the beer of poja, here to empty all our vessels.
Then the minstrel, Lemminkainen, closely handled all the pitchers, looking to the very bottoms. There beheld he writhing serpents, in the centre adders swimming, on the borders worms and lizards. Then the hero Lemminkainen, filled with anger, spake as follows. Get ye hence, ye things of evil, get ye hence to Tuonella, with the bearer of these pitchers, with the maid that brought ye hither. Ere the evening moon has risen, ere the day-star seeks the ocean, O thou wretched beer of barley, thou hast met with great dishonour, into disrepute hast fallen, but I'll drink thee, notwithstanding, and the rubbish cast far from me. Then the hero to his pockets thrust his first and unnamed finger. Searching in his pouch of leather, quick withdraws a hook for fishing, drops it to the pitcher's bottom, through the worthless beer of barley.
On his fish-hook hang the serpents, catches many hissing adders, catches frogs in magic numbers, catches blackened worms in thousands, casts them to the floor before him, quickly draws his heavy broadsword, and decapitates the serpents. Now he drinks the beer remaining, when the wizard speaks as follows. As a guest am I unwelcome, since no beer to me is given, that is worthy of a hero. Neither has a ram been butchered, nor a fatted calf been slaughtered. Worthy food for Lemminkainen? Then the landlord of Pajola answered thus the island minstrel, Wherefore hast thou journeyed hither? Who has asked thee for thy presence? Spake in answer, Lemminkainen, Happy is the guest invited, happier when not expected.
Listen, son of Pajlanda, host of Sarriola, listen. Give me beer for ready payment. Give me worthy drink for money. Then the landlord of Piola, in bad humor, full of anger, conjured in the earth a lakelet at the feet of Cucumeli. Thus addressed the island hero. Quench thy thirst from yonder lakelet. There the beer that thou deservest. Little heeding, Lemminkainen, to this insolence made answer I am neither bear nor roebuck that should drink this filthy water, drink the water from this lakelet. Akhti then began to conjure, conjured he a bull before him, bull with horns of gold and silver, and the bull drank from the lakelet, drank he from the pool in pleasure. Then the landlord of Piolla, there a savage wolf created, set him on the floor before him, To destroy the bull of magic, Lemminkainen, full of courage, conjured up a snow-white rabbit, set him on the floor before him, to attract the wolf's attention.
Then the landlord of Pajola conjured there a dog of Lempo, set him on the floor before him, to destroy the magic rabbit. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, conjured on the roof a squirrel, that by jumping on the rafters he might catch the dog's attention. But the master of the Northland Conjured there a golden marten, and he drove the magic squirrel from his seat upon the rafters. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, made a fox of scarlet colour, and it ate the golden marten. Then the master of Pejola conjured there a hen to flutter near the fox of scarlet colour. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, thereupon a hawk created, that with beak and crooked talons He might tear the hen to pieces, spake the landlord of Pajola.
These the words the tall man uttered. Never will this feast be bettered till the guests are less in number. I must do my work as landlord. Get thee hence, thou evil stranger. Cease thy conjurings of evil. Leave this banquet to my people. Haste away, thou wicked wizard, to thine island home and people. Spake the reckless Lemankainen, thus no hero will be driven, not a son of any courage, will be frightened by thy presence, will be driven from thy banquet. Then the landlord of Pagiola snatched his broadsword from the rafters, drew it rashly from the scabbard, thus addressing Lemankainen. Akhti, islander of evil, thou the handsome Kakumeli, let us measure then our broadswords, let our skill be fully tested.
Surely is my broadsword better than the blade within thy scabbard. Spake the hero Laman Kainan, that my blade is good and trusty, has been proved on heads of heroes, has on many bones been tested. Be that as it may, my fellow, since thine order is commanding, let our swords be fully tested. Let us see whose blade is better. Long ago my hero father tested well this sword in battle. Never failing in a conflict, should his son be found less worthy? Then he grasped his mighty broadsword, drew the fire-blade from the scabbard, hanging from his belt of copper, standing on their hilts their broadswords, carefully their blades were measured, found the sword of Northland's master, longer than the sword of Acti, by the half-link of a finger.
Spake the reckless Lemminkainen. Since thou hast the longer broadsword, thou shalt make the first advances. I am ready for thy weapon. Thereupon, Pajola's landlord, with the wondrous strength of anger, tried in vain to slay the hero, strike the crown of Lemminkainen, chipped the splinters from the rafters, cut the ceiling into fragments, could not touch the island hero. Thereupon brave Cacumeli thus addressed Pajola's master. Have the rafters thee offended? What the crimes they have committed, since thou hewest them in pieces? Listen now, thou host of Northland, reckless landlord of Pajola. Little room there is for swordsmen in these chambers filled with women. We shall stain these painted rafters, stain with blood these floors and ceilings.
Let us go without the mansion. In the field is room for combat. On the plain is space sufficient. Blood looks fairer in the courtyard, better in the open spaces. Let it dye the snow-field, Scarlet. To the yard, the heroes hasten. There they find a monstrous ox-skin, spread it on the field of battle. On the ox-skin stand the swordsman. Spake the hero, Lemunkainen. Listen well, thou host of Northland. Though thy broadsword is the longer, though thy blade is full of horror, thou shalt have the first advantage. Use with skill thy boasted broadsword, ere the final bout is given, ere thy head be chopped in pieces. Strike with skill, or thou will perish. Strike and do thy best for Northland. Thereupon Poyola's landlord raised on high his blade of battle, struck a heavy blow in anger, struck a second, then a third time.
But he could not touch his rival, could not draw a single blood-drop from the veins of Lemminkainen, skilful islander and hero. Spake the handsome Kakumeli, Let me try my skill at fencing, let me swing my father's broadsword, Let my honored blade be tested. But the landlord of Pajola does not heed the words of Akhti. Strikes in fury, strikes unceasing, ever aiming, ever missing. When the skillful Lemminkainen swings his mighty blade of magic, Fire disports along his weapon, flashes from his sword of honor, glistens from the hero's broadsword. Balls of fire, disporting, dancing, on the blade of mighty Acti overflows upon the shoulders of the landlord of Pajola. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen, O thou son of Sariola, see, indeed, thy neck is glowing, like the dawning of the morning.
Like the rising sun in ocean, quickly turned Pajola's landlord, thoughtless host of darksome northland, to behold the fiery splendor, playing on his neck and shoulders, quick as lightning-lemmonkinin, with his father's blade of battle, with a single blow of broadsword, with united skill and power, locked the head of Pogger's master, as one cleaves the stalks of turnips. As the ear falls from the cornstalk, as one strikes the fins from salmon, thus the head rolled from the shoulders of the landlord of Pajola. Like a ball it rolled and circled. In the yard were pickets standing, hundreds were the sharpened pillars, and a head on every picket. Only one was left unheaded. Quick the victor lemminkainen took the head of Pogia's landlord, spiked it on the empty picket.
Then the islander, rejoicing, handsome hero, Kakumeli, quick returning to the chambers, gave this order to the hostess. Evil maiden, bring me water, wherewithal to cleanse my fingers, from the blood of Northland's master, wicked host of Sarriola. Ilpatar, the Northland hostess, fired with anger, threatened vengeance, conjured men with heavy broadswords, heroes clad in copper armour. Hundred warriors with their javelins and a thousand-bearing crossbows, to destroy the island hero for the death of Lemminkainen. Kakamele soon discovered that the time had come for leaving, that his presence was unwelcome at the feasting of Pajola, at the banquet of her people.
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29 28 - RUNE XXVIII. The Mother's Counsel 11:32
Rune 28. The Mother's Council. Ati, Hero of the Islands, Wild magician Lemminkainen, also known as Kaukomieli, hastened from the great carousal, from the banquet halls of Lohi, from the ever-darksym Northland, from the dismal Sariola. Stormful strode he from the mansion, hastened like the smoke of battle, from the courtyard of Pohiola, left his crimes and misdemeanors in the halls of ancient Lohi. Then he looked in all directions, seeking for his tethered courser. Anxious looked in field and stable, but he did not find his razor. Found a black thing in the fallow, proved to be a clump of willows. Who will well advise the hero? Who will give him wise directions, guide the wizard out of trouble, give his hero locks protection, keep his magic head from danger, from the warriors of Northland?
Noises heard within the village, and a din from other homesteads, from the battle hosts of Lohy, Streaming from the doors and window of the homesteads of Pohjola. Thereupon young Lemminkainen, handsome islander and hero, changing both his form and features, clad himself in other raiment, changing to another body. Quick became a mighty eagle, saw the loft on wings of magic, tried to fly to highest heaven, but the moonlight burned his temples, and the sunshine singed his feathers. Then, entreating, Lemminkainen, island hero, turned to Ukko. This the prayer that Ati uttered. Ukko, God of love and mercy, Thou the wisdom of the heavens, wise director of the lightning, Thou the author of the thunder, Thou the guide of all the cloudlets, Give to me thy cloak of vapor, Throw a silver cloud around me, That I may in its protection hasten to my native country, To my mother's island dwelling.
Fly to her that waits my coming, with a mother's grave forebodings. Father, father, Lemminkainen, flew and soared on eagle pinions, looked about him, backwards, forwards, spied a greyhawk soaring near him. In his eyes the fire of splendor, like the eyes of Poyerlanders, like the eyes of Poyer's bearmen, and the greyhawk thus addressed him. Ho, there, hero, Lemminkainen! Art thou thinking of our combat with the hero-heads of Northland? Dusty Islander made answer. These the words of Kauko Mieli. O thou greyhawk, bird of beauty, fly direct to Sarriola, fly as fast as wings can bear thee. When thou hast arrived in safety on the plains of Darksham Northland, tell the archers and the spearmen they will never catch the eagle in his journey from Poyola to his island-born and fortress.
Then the Ati eagle hastened, straightway to his mother's cottage. In his face the look of trouble, in his heart the pangs of sorrow. Ati's mother ran to meet him, when she spied him in the pathway, walking toward her island-dwelling. These the words the mother uttered. Of my sons thou art the bravest, art the strongest of my children. Wherefore then comes thine annoyance on returning from Poyola? Werd thou worsted at the banquet, at the feast and great carousal, at thy cups, if thou wert injured, thou shalt have here better treatment, thou shalt have the cup thy father brought me from the hero-castle. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen. Worthy mother, thou that nursed me, if I had been maimed at drinking, I, the landlord, would have worsted, would have slain a thousand heroes, would have taught them useful lessons.
Lemminkainen's mother answered, Wherefore, then, art thou indignant? Didst thou meet disgrace and insult? Did they rob thee of thy courser? Buy thou then a better courser, with the riches of thy mother, with thy father's hoarded treasures. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen, faithful mother of my being, if my steed had been insulted, if for him my heart was injured, I, the landlord, would have punished, would have punished all the horsemen, All of Poia's strongest riders. Lemminkainen's mother answered, Tell me then, thy dire misfortune, What has happened to my hero on his journey to Poiola? Have the Northland maiden scorned thee? Have the women ridiculed thee? If the maiden scorned thy presence, if the women gave derision, there are others thou canst laugh at, thou canst scorn a thousand women.
Said the reckless Lemminkainen. Honored mother, fond and faithful, if the Northland dames had scorned me, or the maidens laughed derision, aye, the maidens would have punished, would have scorned a thousand women. Lemminkainen's mother answered, Wherefore then art thou indignant, thus annoyed and heavy-hearted, on returning from Poyola? Was thy feasting out of season? Was the banquet beer unworthy? Were thy dreams of evil import when asleep in darksome Northland? This is Lemminkind's answer. Aged women may remember what they dream on beds of trouble. I have seen some wondrous visions since I left my island cottage. My beloved, helpful mother, fill my bag with good provisions. Flour and salt in great abundance, farther must thy hero wander.
He must leave his home behind him, leave his pleasant island-dwelling. Journey from this home of ages. Men are sharpening their broadswords, Sharpening their spears and lances for the death of Lemminkainen. Then again the mother questioned. Hurriedly she asked the reason. Why the men their swords were wetting? Why their spears are being sharpened? Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, handsome hero, Kauko Mieli. Therefore do they wet their broadswords, therefore sharpen they their lances. It is for thy son's destruction. At his heart are aimed their lances. In the courtyard of Pohiola there arose a great contention. Fierce the battle waged against me, but I slew the Northland hero, killed the host of Sarriola.
Quick to arms rose Lohi's people. All the spears and swords of Northland were directed at thy hero. All of Pohia turned against me, turned against a single foeman. This the answer of the mother. I had told thee this beforehand. I had warned thee of this danger. And forbidden thee to journey to the hostile fields of Northland. Here my hero could have lingered, passed his life in full contentment, lived forever with his mother, with his mother for protection, in the courtyard with his kindred. Here no war would have arisen, no contention would have followed. Whither wilt thou go, my hero? Whither will my loved one hasten? To escape thy fierce pursuers, to escape from thy misdoings, from thy sins to bide in safety?
From thy crimes and misdemeanors. That thy head be not endangered, that thy body be not mangled, that thy locks be not outrooted. Spake the reckless Lamminkainen. Know I not a spot befitting? Do not know a place of safety, where to hide from my pursuers, that will give me sure protection from the crimes by me committed. Helpful mother of my being, where to flee wilt thou advise me? This the answer of the mother. I do not know where I can send thee. Be a pine-tree on the mountain, or a juniper in lowlands. Then misfortune may befall thee. Often is the mountain pine-tree cut in splints for candle-lighters, and the juniper is often peeled for fence-posts for the pastures. Go a birch-tree to the valleys, or an erm-tree to the glenwood.
Even then may trouble find thee, misery may overtake thee. Often is the lowland birch-tree Cut to pieces in the warehouse. Often is the elmwood forest cleared away for other plantings. Be a berry on the highlands, cranberry upon the heather, strawberry upon the mountains, blackberry along the fences. Even there will trouble find thee, there misfortune overtake thee, for the berry-maids would pluck thee, silver-tinseled girls would get thee. Be a pike, then, in the ocean, or a troutlet in the rivers. Then would trouble overtake thee, would become thy life companion. Then the fisherman would catch thee, catch thee in his net of flex thread, catch thee with his cruel fish-hook. Be a wolf, then, in the forest, or a black bear in the thickets.
Even then would trouble find thee, and disaster cross thy pathway. Sable hunters of the northland have their spears and crossbows ready to destroy the wolf and black bear. Spake the reckless lemminkainen. Know I well the worst of places, know where death will surely follow, where misfortune's eye would find me. Since thou gavest me existence, gavest nourishment in childhood, whither shall I flee for safety, whither hide from death and danger? In my view is fell destruction, dire misfortune hovers over me. On the morrow come the spearmen, countless warriors from Pohya, Ati's had their satisfaction. This the answer of the mother. I can name a goodly refuge, name a land of small dimensions, name a distant ocean island, where my son may live in safety.
Thither archers never wander, there thy head cannot be severed, but an oath as strong as heaven thou must swear before thy mother. Thou wilt not for sixty summers join in war or deadly combat, even though thou wishest silver, wishest gold and silver treasures. Spake the grateful Lemminkainen. I will swear an oath of honor, that I'll not in sixty summers draw my sword in the arena, test the warrior in battle. I have wounds upon my shoulders, on my breast two scars of broadsword, of my former battles relies, relies of my last encounters, on the battlefields of Northland, in the wars with men and heroes. Lemminkainen's mother answered, Go thou, take thy father's vessel, go and bide thyself in safety.
Travel far across nine oceans. In the tenth sail to the center, to the island, forest-covered, to the cliffs above the waters, where thy father went before thee, where he hid from his pursuers, in the times of summer conquests, in the darksome days of battle. Good the island for thee to dwell in, goodly place to live and linger, hide one year and then a second, in the third return in safety, to thy mother's island-dwelling, to thy father's ancient mansion, To my hero's place of resting. End of rune 28.
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30 29 - RUNE XXIX. The Isle of Refuge 26:03
Rune 29 of the Kalevala.
The Kalevala, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune, Twenty-nine, The Isle of Refuge, Lemminkainen, full of joyance, Handsome hero Kakumeli, took provisions in abundance, fish and butter, bread and bacon, hastened to the Isle of Refuge, sailed away across the oceans, spake these measures on departing. Fare thee well, mine island-dwelling. I must sail to other borders, to an island more protective, till the second summer passes. Let the serpents keep the island, lynxes rest within the Glenwood. Let the blue moose roam the mountains, let the wild geese cat the barley. Fare thee well, my helpful mother, when the warriors of the Northland, from the dismal Surreola... Come with swords and spears and crossbows, asking for my head in vengeance, say that I have long departed, left my mother's island dwelling, when the barley has been garnered.
Then he launched his boat of copper through the vessel to the waters, from the iron-banded rollers, from the cylinders of oak wood. On the masts the sails he hoisted, spread the magic sails of linen. In the stern the hero settled, and prepared to sail his vessel, one hand resting on the rudder. Then the sailor spake as follows. These the words of Lemminkainen. Blow ye winds, and drive me onward. Blow ye steady winds of heaven. Toward the island in the ocean. That my bark may fly in safety to my father's place of refuge, to the far and nameless island. Soon the winds arose as bidden, rocked the vessel o'er the billows, o'er the blue-black of the waters, o'er the vast expanse of ocean, blew two months and blew unceasing, blew a third month.
Toward the island, toward his father's isle of refuge, sat some maidens on the seaside on the sandy beach of ocean, turned about in all directions, looking out upon the billows. One was waiting for her brother, and a second for her father, and a third one anxious waited for the coming of her suitor. Then they spied young Lennon Kynan. There perceived the hero's vessel, sailing o'er the bounding billows. It was like a hanging cloudlet, hanging twixt the earth and heaven. Thus the island-maidens wondered, thus they spake to one another. What this stranger on the ocean? What is this upon the waters? Art thou one of our sea-vessels? Weren't thou builded on this island? Sail thou straightway to the harbour, to the island-point of landing, that thy tribe may be discovered.
Onward did the waves propel it, rocked the vessel o'er the billows, drove it to the magic island, safely landed Lemunkainen, on the sandy shore and harbour. Spake he thus, when he had landed, these the words that Acti uttered, Is there room upon this island? Is there space within this harbour, where my bark may lie at anchor, where the sun may dry my vessel? This the answer of the virgins, dwellers on the Isle of Refuge. There is room within this harbour, on this island, space abundant, where thy bark may lie at anchor, where the sun may dry thy vessel. Lying ready are the rollers, cylinders adorned with copper. If thou hadst a hundred vessels, shouldst thou come with boats a thousand, we would give them room in welcome.
Whereupon Wild Lemminkainen rolled his vessel in the harbour on the cylinders of copper, spake these words when he had ended. Is there room upon this island, or a spot within these forests, where a hero may be hidden? From the coming din of battle, from the play of spears and arrows. Thus replied the island maidens, there are places on this island, on these plains a spot befitting, where to hide thyself in safety, hero son of little valour. Here are many, many castles, many courts upon this island. Though there come a thousand heroes, though a thousand spearmen follow, thou canst hide thyself in safety. Spake the hero Lemminkainen, Is there room upon this island, where the birch-tree grows abundant, where this sun may fell the forest, and may cultivate the fallow?
Answered thus the island maidens, There is not a spot befitting. Not a place upon the island, where to rest thy wearied members, not the smallest patch of birch wood, thou canst bring to cultivation. All our fields have been divided. All these woods have been apportioned. Fields and forests have their owners. Lemminkainen asked this question, these the words of Kakumeli, is there room upon this island? Worthy spot in field or forest, where to sing my songs of magic, chant my gathered store of wisdom, sing mine ancient songs and legends. Answered thus the island maidens, there is room upon this island, worthy place in these dominions. Thou canst sing thy gathered wisdom, thou canst chant thine ancient legends, legends of the time's primeval, in the forest.
In the castle, on the island plains and pastures, then began the reckless minstrel. To intone his wizard sayings, sang he alders to the way-sides, sang the oaks upon the mountains, on the oak-trees sang he branches, on each branch he sang an acorn, on the acorns golden rollers, on each roller sang a cuckoo. Then began the cuckoos calling, gold from every throat came streaming, copper fell from every feather, and each wing emitted silver. Filled the isle with precious metals. Sang again young Lemminkainen. Conjured on and sang and chanted. Sang to precious stones the sea sands. Sang the stones to pearls resplendent. Robed the groves in iridescence. Sang the island full of flowers. Many-coloured as the rainbow.
Sang again the magic minstrel. In the court a well he conjured. On the well a golden cover, on the lid a silver dipper, that the boys might drink the water, that the maids might lave their eyelids. On the plains he conjured lakelets, sang the duck upon the waters, golden-cheeked and silver-headed, sang the feet from shining copper. And the island maidens wondered, stood entranced at Arcte's wisdom, at the songs of Lemminkainen, at the hero's magic power. Spake the singer Lemminkainen, handsome hero Kakumeli, I would sing a wondrous legend, sing in miracles of sweetness, if within some hall or chamber I were seated at the table, if I sing not in the castle. In some spot of walls surrounded, then I sing my songs to zephyrs, fling them to the fields and forests.
Answered thus, the island maidens, on this aisle are castle chambers, halls for use of magic singers, courts complete for chanting legends, where thy singing will be welcome, where thy songs will not be scattered, to the forests of the island, nor thy wisdom lost in ether. Straightway, Lemminkainen journeyed, with the maidens to the castle. There he sang and conjured pitchers. On the borders of the tables sang and conjured golden goblets, foaming with the beer of barley. Sang he many well-filled vessels, bowls of honey-drink abundant, sweetest butter, toothsome biscuit, bacon, fish, and veal, and vinson. All the dainties of the Northland, wherewithal to still his hunger, but the proud-heart Lemminkainen was not ready for the banquet, did not yet begin his feasting, waited for a knife of silver, for a knife of golden handle.
Quick he sang the precious metals, sang a blade from purest silver, to the blade a golden handle. Straightway then began his feasting. Quenched his thirst and stilled his hunger, charmed the maidens on the island. Then the minstrel, Lemminkainen, roamed throughout the island hamlets, to the joy of all the virgins, all the maids of braided tresses. Whereso'er he turned his footsteps, there appeared a maid to greet him. When his hand was kindly offered, there his hand was kindly taken. When he wandered out at evening, even in the darksome places, there the maidens bade him welcome. There was not an island village, where there were not seven castles. In each castle seven daughters, and the daughters stood in waiting, gave the hero joyful greetings.
Only one of all the maidens, whom he did not greet with pleasure, Thus the merry lemminkainen spent three summers in the ocean, spent a merry time in refuge in the hamlets on the island. To the pleasure of the maidens, to the joy of all the daughters, Only one was left neglected, she a poor and graceless spinster, on the isle's remotest border, in the smallest of the hamlets. Then he thought about his journey o'er the ocean to his mother, to the cottage of his father. There appeared the slighted spinster, to the northland sun departing, spake these words to Lemminkainen, O thou handsome Kaukumali! Wisdom-bard and magic-singer, since this maiden thou hast slighted, may the winds destroy thy vessel, dash thy bark to countless fragments on the ocean rocks and ledges.
Lemminkainen's thoughts were homeward, did not heed the maiden's murmurs, did not rise before the dawning, of the morning on the island to the pleasure of the maiden. Of the much-neglected hamlet, finally at close of evening, he resolved to leave the island. He resolved to waken early, long before the dawn of morning, long before the time appointed, he arose, that he might wander through the hamlets of the island, bid adieu to all the maidens, on the morn of his departure. As he wandered hither, thither, Walking through the village pathways to the last of all the hamlets, saw he none of all the castles, where three dwellings were not standing, saw he none of all the dwellings, where three heroes were not watching, saw he none of all the heroes Who was not engaged in grinding swords and spears and battle-axes for the death of Lemminkainen.
And these words, the hero uttered, Now, alas, the sun arises from his couch within the ocean, on the frailest of the heroes, on the saddest child of Northland. On my neck the cloak of Lempoh might protect me from all evil. Though a hundred foes assail me, though a thousand archers follow, then he left the maids ungreeted, left his longing for the daughters of the nameless Isle of Refuge, with his farewell words unspoken, hastened toward the island harbour, toward his magic bark at anchor, but he found it burned to ashes. Sweet revenge had fired his vessel, lighted by the slighted spinster, Then he saw the dawn of evil, saw misfortune hanging over, saw destruction round about him. Straightway he began rebuilding.
Him a magic sailing vessel, new and wondrous, full of beauty. But the hero needed timber, boards and planks and beams and braces. Found the smallest bit of lumber, found of boards but seven fragments. Of a spool he found three pieces. Found six pieces of the distaff. With these fragments builds his vessel, builds a ship of magic virtue, builds the bark with secret knowledge, through the will of the magician, strikes one blow and builds the first part, strikes a second, builds the center, strikes a third, With wondrous power, and the vessel is completed. Thereupon the ship he launches, sings the vessel to the ocean, and these words the hero utters. Like a bubble, swim these waters. Like a flower, ride the billows.
Lone me of thy magic feathers. Three, O eagle, four, O raven, for protection to my vessel, lest it flounder in the ocean. Now the sailor, Lemminkainen, seats himself upon the bottom of the vessel he has builded, hastens on his journey homeward, head depressed and evil-humoured, cap awry upon his forehead, mind-dejected heavy-hearted, that he could not dwell for ever in the castles of the daughters of the nameless isle of refuge. Spake the minstrel Lemminkainen, handsome hero Kakumeli, Leave, I must, this merry island. Leave her many joys and pleasures. Leave her maids with braided tresses. Leave her dancers and her daughters. To the joys of other heroes. But I take this comfort with me, all the maidens of the island, save the spinster who was slighted.
Will bemoan my loss for ages. Will regret my quick departure. They will miss me at the dances, in the halls of mirth and joyance, in the homes of merry maidens, on my father's isle of refuge. Wept the maidens on the island, long lamenting, loudly calling, to the hero sailing homeward. Whither goest, Laman Kynan? Why depart, thou best of heroes? Dost thou leave, from inattention? Is there here a dearth of maidens? Have our greetings been unworthy? Sang the magic Lemminkainen to the maids as he was sailing, this in answer to their calling. Leaving not for want of pleasure. Do not go from dearth of women. Beautiful the island maidens, countless as the sands their virtues. This the reason of my going.
I am longing for my homeland. Longing for my mother's cabins, for the strawberries of the Northland. For the raspberries of Kalev, for the maidens of my childhood, for the children of my mother. Then the merry Lemminkainen bade farewell to all the island. Winds arose and drove his vessel. On the blue-black of the ocean, o'er the far-extending waters, toward the island of his mother. On the shore were grouped the daughters of the magic isle of refuge. On the rocks sat the forsaken. Weeping stood the island maidens, golden daughters loud lamenting. Weep, the maidens of the island, while the sailyards greet their vision, while the copper beltings listen. Do not weep to lose the sailyards, nor to lose the copper beltings.
Weep they for the loss of Acti, for the fleeing Karkumeli, guiding the departing vessel. Also weeps young Lammankainen. Sully weeps, and loud lamenting, weeps while he can see the island, while the island hilltops glisten, does not mourn the island mountains. Weeps he only for the maidens left upon the Isle of Refuge. Thereupon sailed Kakumeli, on the blue-black of the ocean, sailed one day, and then a second. But, alas, upon the third day there arose a mighty storm-wind, and the sky was black with fury. Blew the black winds from the north-west, from the south-west came the whirlwind, tore away the ship's forecastle, tore away the vessel's rudder, dashed the wooden hull to pieces. Thereupon Wildlem and Kynan headlong fell upon the waters.
With his head he did the steering, with his hands and feet the rowing. Swam whole days and nights unceasing, swam with hope and strength united, till at last appeared a cloudlet. Growing cloudlet to the westward, changing to a promontory. Into land within the ocean, swiftly to the shore swam Acti, hastened to a magic castle. Found therein a hostess baking, and her daughters kneading barley, and these words the hero uttered, O thou hostess filled with kindness! Couldst thou know my pangs of hunger? Couldst thou guess my name and station? Thou wouldst hasten to the storehouse. Bring me beer and foaming liquor, bring the best of thy provisions, bring me fish and veal and bacon, butter-bread and honeyed biscuits.
Set for me a wholesome dinner, wherewithal to still my hunger, quench the thirst of Lemminkainen, days and nights have I been swimming, buffeting the waves of ocean, seemed as if the wind protected, and the billows gave me shelter. Then the hostess, filled with kindness, hastened to the mountain storehouse, cut some butter, veal and bacon, bread and fish and honeyed biscuit, brought the best of her provisions, brought the mead and beer of barley, set for him a toothsome dinner, wherewithal to still his hunger, quench the thirst of Lemminkainen. When the hero's feast had ended, straightway was a magic vessel. Given by the kindly hostess to the weary Kakumeli, bark of beauty new and hardy, wherewithal to aid the stranger in his journey to his homeland, to the cottage of his mother.
Quickly sailed, wild Lemminkainen, on the blue-black of the ocean, sailed he days and nights unceasing. Till at last he reached the borders of his own loved home and country. There beheld he scenes familiar, saw the islands, capes, and rivers, saw his former shipping stations, saw he many ancient landmarks, saw the mountains with their fir trees, saw the pine trees on the hill-tops, saw the willows in the lowlands, did not see his father's cottage, nor the dwellings of his mother. Where the mansion once had risen, there the alder trees were growing, shrubs were growing on the homestead. Junipers within the courtyard, spake the reckless Lemminkainen. In this glen I played and wandered. On these stones I rocked for ages, on this lawn I rolled and tumbled, frolicked on these woodland borders.
When a child of little stature, Where, then, is my mother's dwelling? Where the castles of my father? Fire, I fear, has found the hamlet, and the winds dispersed the ashes. Then he fell to bitter weeping, wept one day, and then a second, wept the third day without ceasing, did not mourn the ancient homestead, nor the dwellings of his father. Wept he for his darling mother, wept he for the dear departed, for the loved ones of the island. Then he saw the bird of heaven, saw an eagle flying near him, and he asked the bird this question, Mighty Eagle Bird Majestic, grant to me the information, where my mother may have wandered, whither I may go and find her? But the eagle knew but little, only knew that Akhti's people long ago together perished, and the raven also answered that his people had been scattered by the swords and spears and arrows, Of his enemies from poacher, spake the hero Lemminkainen.
Faithful mother, dear departed, thou who nursed me in my childhood, art thou dead and turned to ashes? Didst thou perish for my follies? O'er thy head are willows weeping, junipers above thy body, alders watching o'er thy slumbers? This my punishment for evil, this the recompense of folly, fool was I, a son unworthy. That I measured swords in Northland, with the landlord of Pajola. To my tribe came fell destruction, and the death of my dear mother, through my crimes and misdemeanors. Then the minstrel looked about him, anxious looked in all directions, and beheld some gentle footprints, saw a pathway lightly trodden, where the heather had been beaten. Quick as thought the path he followed through the meadows, through the brambles.
O'er the hills and through the valleys, to a forest vast and cheerless, travelled far and travelled farther, still a greater distance travelled, to a dense and hidden glenwood, in the middle of the island, found therein a sheltered cabin, found a small and darksome dwelling, built between the rocky ledges, in the midst of triple pine trees, and within he spied his mother, found his grey-haired mother weeping, Lemminkainen loud rejoices, cries in tones of joyful greetings. These the words that Akhti utters, Faithful mother, well beloved, Thou that gavest me existence, Happy I, that thou art living, that thou hast not yet departed, To the kingdom of Tuoni, to the islands of the blessed. I had thought that thou hadst perished, Hadst been murdered by my foemen, Hadst been slain with bows and arrows.
Heavy are mine eyes from weeping, and my cheeks are white with sorrow, since I thought my mother slaughtered for the sins I had committed. Lemminkainen's mother answered, Long, indeed, hast thou been absent. Long, my son, hast thou been living, in thy father's isle of refuge, roaming on the secret island, living at the doors of strangers, living in a nameless country, refuge from the northland foemen. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen. Charming is that spot for living. Beautiful, the magic island. Rainbow-coloured was the forest. Blue the glimmer of the meadows. Silvered were the pine-tree branches. Golden were the heather blossoms. All the woodlands dripped with honey. Eggs in every rock and crevice.
Honey flowed from birch and sorb-tree. Milk in streams from fir and aspen. Beer-foam dripping from the willows, Charming there to live and linger, All their edibles delicious, This their only source of trouble, Great the fear for all the maidens, All the heroes filled with envy, Feared the coming of the stranger, Thought that all the island maidens, Thought that all the wives and daughters, All the good and all the evil, Gave thy son too much attention, Thought the stranger Lemminkainen, Saw the island-maids too often. Yet the virgins I avoided, shunned the good and shunned the evil, shunned the host of charming daughters, as the black wolf shuns the sheepfold, as the hawk neglects the chickens.
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31 30 - RUNE XXX. The Frost-fiend 16:14
The Kalevala.
Rune 30. The Frost Fiend. Lemminkainen, reckless minstrel, handsome hero, Calcomieli, hastens as the dawn is breaking, at the dawning of the morning, to the resting place of vessels, to the harbor of the island, finds the vessels sorely weeping, hears the wailing of the rigging, and the ships intone this chorus. Must we wretched lie forever in the harbor of this island, here to dry and fall in pieces? Ati wars no more in Northland, wars no more for sixty summers, even should he thirst for silver, should he wish the gold of battle. Lemminkainen struck his vessels with his gloves adorned with copper, and addressed the ships as follows. More no more, my ships of firwood, strong and hardy is your rigging.
To the wars ye soon may hasten, hasten to the seas of battle. Warriors may swarm your cabins ere tomorrow's morn has risen. Then the reckless Lemminkainen hastened to his aged mother, spake to her the words that follow. Weep no longer, faithful mother, do not sorrow for thy hero, should he leave for scenes of battle for the hostile fields of Poya. Sweet revenge has fired my spirit, and my soul is well determined to avenge the shameful insult that the warriors of Northland gave to thee, defenseless woman. To restrain him seeks his mother, warns her son again of danger. Do not go, my son beloved, to the wars of Sarriola. There the jaws of death await thee. Fell destruction lies before thee. Lemminkind in little heeding, still determined, speaks as follows.
Where may I secure a swordsman worthy of my race of heroes to assist me in the combat? Often I have heard of Tierra, heard of Kura of the Islands. This one I will take to help me, magic hero of the broadsword. He will aid me in the combat, will protect me from destruction. Then he wandered to the islands on the way to Tiara's hamlet. These the words that Ati utters as he nears the ancient dwellings. Dearest friend, my noble Tiara, my beloved hero brother, dost thou other times remember when we fought and bled together on the battlefields of Northland? There was not an island village where there were not seven mansions, in each mansion seven heroes, and not one of all these foemen whom we did not slay with broadswords, victims of our skill and valor.
Near the window sat the father, whittling out a javelin handle. Near the threshold sat the mother, skimming cream and making butter. Near the portal stood the brother, working on a sleigh of birchwood. Near the bridge pass were the sisters, washing out their varied garments. Spake the father from the window, from the threshold spake the mother, from the portal spake the brother, and the sisters from the bridge pass. Tierra has no time for combat, and his broadsword cannot battle. Tierra is but late a bridegroom, still unveiled, his bride awaits him. Near the hearth was Tiara lying, lying by the fire was Kura. Hastily, one foot was shoeing while the other lay in waiting. From the hook he takes his girdle, buckles it around his body.
Takes a javelin from its resting, not the largest nor the smallest. Buckles on his mighty scabbard, dons his heavy mail of copper. On each javelin pranced a charger, wolves were howling from his helmet. On the rings the bears were growling. Tiara poised his mighty javelin. Launched a spear upon its errand, hurled the sha- The great Sierra touched his javelin to the mighty spear of Atti, pledged his aid to Lemekainen and his combatant and comrade. Thereupon Wild Calcomiele pushed his boat upon the waters like the serpent through the heather, like the creeping of the adder, sails the boat away to Poya, o'er the seas of Sarriola. Quick the wicked Hostess Loohi sends the black frost of the heavens to the waters of Poyola, or the far-extending seaplanes gave the black frost these directions.
Much love, Frost, my son and hero, whom thy mother has instructed. Hasten whither I may send thee. Go wherever I command thee. Freeze the vessel of this hero, Lemminkainen's bark of magic, on the broadback of the ocean, on the far-extending waters. Freeze the wizard in his vessel. Freeze to ice the wicked Ati, that he nevermore may wander. Never waken while thou livest, or at least till I shall free him. Wake him from his icy slumber. Frost, the son of wicked parents, hero son of evil manners, hastens off to freeze the ocean, goes to fasten down the floodgates, goes to still the ocean currents. As he hastens on his journey, takes the leaves from all the forests, strips the meadows of their verdure, robs the flowers of their color.
When his journey he had ended, gained the border of the ocean, gained the seashore curved and endless. On the first night of his visit, freezes he the lakes and rivers, freezes to the shore of ocean, freezes not the ocean billows, does not check the ocean currents. On the sea a finch is resting, bird of song upon the waters. But his feet are not yet frozen, neither is his head endangered. When the second night frost lingered, he began to grow in portents. He became a fierce intruder. Fearless grew in his invasions, freezes everything before him. Sends the fiercest cold of Northland, turns to ice the boundless waters. Ever thicker, thicker, thicker grew the ice on sea and ocean. Ever deeper, deeper, deeper fell the snow on field and forest.
Froze the hero's ship of beauty, cold and lifeless, bark of Ati. Sought to freeze wild Lemminkainen, freeze him lifeless as his vessel, ask the minstrel for his lifeblood, for his ears and feet and fingers. Then the hero Lemminkainen, angry grew and filled with magic, hurled the black frost to the fire god, threw him to the fiery furnace, held him in his forge of iron, then addressed the frost as follows. Frost, thou evil sun of Northland, dire and only sun of winter, let my members not be stiffened, neither ears nor feet nor fingers, neither let my head be frozen. Thou hast other things to feed on, many other heads to stiffen. Leave in peace the flesh of heroes. Let this minstrel pass in safety.
Freeze the swamps, the lakes and rivers, fens and forests, hills and valleys. Let the cold stones grow still colder. Freeze the willows in the waters. Let the aspens freeze and suffer. Let the bark peel from the birch trees. Let the pines burst on the mountains. Let this hero pass in safety. Do not let his locks be stiffened. If all these prove insufficient, feed on other worthy matters. Let the hot stones freeze asunder. Let the flaming rocks be frozen. Freeze the fiery blocks of iron. Freeze to ice the iron mountains. Stiffen well the mighty Woksi. Let Imatra freeze to silence. Freeze the sacred stream and whirlpool. Let their boiling billows stiffen. O'er thine origin I'll sing thee. Tell thy lineage of evil.
Well, I know thine evil nature, know thine origin and power. Whence thou camest, where thou goest, know thine ancestry of evil. Thou wert born upon the aspen, wert conceived upon the billows, near the borders of Poyola, in the courts of dismal Northland. Sin begotten was thy father, and thy mother was dishonor, while in infancy who fed thee, while thy mother could not nurse thee. Surely thou wert fed by adders, nursed by fowl and slimy serpents. North winds rocked thee into slumber, cradled thee in roughest weather. In the worst of willow marshes, in the springs forever flowing, evil born and evil nurtured, grew to be an evil genius. Evil was thy mind and spirit, and the infant still was nameless, till the name of Frost was given to the progeny of evil.
Then the young lad lived in hedges, dwelt among the weeds and willows, lived in springs and days of summer, on the borders of the marshes, tore the lindens in the winter, stormed among the glens and forests, raged among the sacred birch trees, rattled in the alder branches, froze the trees, the shoots, the grasses, evened all the plains and prairies, ate the leaves within the Northlands, made the stalks drop down their blossoms, peeled the bark on weeds and willows. Thou hast grown to large proportions, hast become too tall and mighty. Dost thou labor to benumb me? Dost thou wish mine ears and fingers? Or my feet wouldst thou deprive me? Do not strive to freeze this hero in his anguish and misfortune.
In my stockings I shall kindle fire to drive thee from my presence. In my shoes lay flaming faggots, coals of fire in every garment. Heated sandstones in my rigging thus will hold thee at a distance. Then thine evil form I'll banish to the farthest Northland borders when thy journey is completed, when thy home is reached in safety. Freeze the cauldrons in the castle, freeze the coal upon the hearthstone. In the dough the hand The infant frees the colt beside its mother. If thou shouldst not heed this order, I shall banish thee still farther, to the carbon piles of Hisi, to the chimney hearth of Lempo. Hurl thee to his fiery furnace, lay thee. I will be on the iron anvil, that thy body may be hammered, with the sledges of the blacksmith, may be pounded into atoms, twixt the anvil and the hammer.
If thou shouldst not heed this order, shouldst not leave me to my freedom, know I still another. I will drive thee to the summer, lead thy tongue to warmer climates, there a prisoner to suffer, never to obtain thy freedom, till thy spirit I deliver. Will I go myself and free thee? Wicked Frost, the son of Winter, saw the magic bird of evil hovering above his spirit. Straightway prayed for Otty's mercy, these the words the Frostfiend uttered. Let us now agree together, neither one to harm the other, never in the course of ages, never while the moon-like glimmers on the snow-capped hills of Northland. If thou hearest that I bring thee, cold to freeze thy feet and fingers, hurl me to the fiery furnace, hammer me upon the anvil of the blacksmith Ilmarinen, lead my tongue to warmer climates, banish me to lands of summer, there a prisoner to suffer, never more to gain my freedom.
Thereupon Wild Lemminkainen left his vessel in the ocean, frozen in the ice of Northland, left his warlike boat forever, started on his cheerless journey to the borders of Poyola, and the mighty Tierra followed in the tracks of his companion. On the ice they journeyed northward, briskly walked upon the ice plain, walked one day and then a second, till the closing of the third day, when the hunger land approached them, when appeared Starvation Island. Here the hardy Lemminkainen hastened forward to the castle, this the hero's prayer and question. Is there food within the castle, fish or fowl within its larders, to refresh us on our journey, mighty heroes, cold and weary? When the hero Lemminkainen found no food within the castle, neither fish nor fowl nor bacon, thus he cursed it and departed.
May the fire destroy these chambers, may the waters flood this dwelling, wash it to the seas of Mana. Then they hastened onward, onward, hastened on through field and forest, over byways long untrodden, over unknown paths and snowfields. Here the hardy Lemminkainen, reckless hero Kalkomieli, pulled the soft wool from the ledges, gathered lichens from the tree trunks, wove them into magic stockings, wove them into shoes and mittens, on the settles of the hoarfrost in the stinging cold of Northland. Then he sought to find some pathway that would guide their wayward footsteps, and the hero spake as follows. O Thalteira, friend beloved, shall we reach our destination, wandering for days together through these Northland fields and forests?
Kura thus replies to Ati. We, alas, have come for vengeance, come for blood and retribution, to the battlefields of Northland, to the dismal Sarriola, here to leave our souls and bodies, here to starve and freeze and perish in the dreariest of places in this sun-forsaken country. Never shall we gain the knowledge, never learn it, never tell it. Which the pathway that can guide us to the forest beds to suffer, to the Poya plains to perish, in the homeland of the ravens, fitting food for crows and eagles. Often do the Northland vultures hither come to feed their fledglings, hither bring the birds of heaven, bits of flesh and blood of heroes. Often do the beaks of ravens tear the flesh of kindred corpses, often do the eagles' talons carry bones and trembling vitals such as ours to feed their nestlings in their rocky homes and ledges.
Oh, my mother can but wonder, never can divine the answer, where her reckless son is roaming, where her hero's blood is flowing. Whether in the swamps and lowlands, whether in the heat of battle, or upon the waves of the ocean, or upon the hop-felled mountains, or along some forest byway, nothing can her mind discover of the frailest of her heroes, only think that he has perished. Thus the hoary-headed mother weeps and murmurs in her chambers, where is now my son beloved in the kingdom of the world? Now the bow receives its respite from the fingers of my tiara. Bow and arrow now are useless. Now the merry birds can fatten in the fields and fens and forests. Bears may live in dens of freedom. On the fields may sport the elk herds.
Spake the reckless Lemminkainen. Thus it is, mine aged mother, thou that gavest me existence. Thou hast reared thy broods of chickens, hatched and reared thy flights of white swans. All of them the winds have scattered, or the evil Lempo frightened. One flew hither, and one thither, and a third one lost for ever. Think thou of our former pleasures, of our better days together, when I wondered like the flowers, like the berry in the meadows. Many saw my form majestic, many thought me well proportioned. Now is not as then with Ati into evil days have fallen, since I see but storms and darkness. Then my eyes beheld but sunshine, then we did not weep and murmur, did not fill our hearts with sorrow when the maids in joy were singing, when the virgins twined their tresses.
Then the women joined in joyance, whether brides were happy wedded, whether bridegrooms chose discreetly, whether they were wise or unwise. But we must not grow disheartened, let the island maidens cheer us, here we are not yet enchanted, not bewitched by magic singing, on the paths not left to perish, sink and perish on our journey. Full of youth we should not suffer, strong we should not die, unworthy, whom the wizards have enchanted, have bewitched with songs of magic. Sorcerers may charm and conquer, bury them within their dungeons, hide them spellbound in their cabins, let the wizards charm each other and bewitch their magic offspring, bring their tribes to fell destruction. Never did my gray-haired father bow submission to a wizard, offer worship to magicians, these the words my father uttered, these the thoughts his son advances.
Guard us, thou O Great Creator. Shield us, thou O God of mercy. With thine arms of grace protect us. Help us with thy strength and wisdom. Guide the minds of all thy heroes. Keep aright the thoughts of women. Keep the old from speaking evil. Keep the young from sin and folly. Be to us a help forever. Be our guardian and father, that our children may not wander from the ways of their Creator, from the path that God has given. Then the hero Lemminkainen made from cares the fleetest racers, sable racers from his sorrows, reins he made from days of evil, from his sacred pains made saddles. To the saddle quickly springing, galloped he away from trouble to his dear and aged mother. And his comrade, faithful Tierra, galloped to his island dwelling, now departs while Lemminkainen, brave and reckless Calcomiele, from these ancient songs End of Rune 30 Kyle Robb.
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32 31 - RUNE XXXI. Kullerwoinen, Son of Evil 16:46
Rune thirty-one of the Kalavala.
The Kalevala. Compiled by Elias Lonroth. RUNE XXXI KULA VOINAN Son of Evil In the ancient times a mother, Hatched and raised some swans and chickens, Placed the chickens in the brushwood, Placed her swans upon the river. Came an eagle, hawk, and falcon. Scattered all her swans and chickens. One was carried to Cariala, and a second into Eiersterland. Left a third at home in Puella. And the one to Eiersterland taken soon became a thriving merchant. He that journeyed to Cariala flourished, and was called Calervo. He that hid away in Poya, took the name of Untamoinen, flourished to his father's sorrow, to the heart-pain of his mother. Untamoinen sets his fishnets in the waters of Calervo, Kulavuenem sees the fish-nets, takes the fish home in his basket.
Then Untammo, evil-minded, angry grew and sighed for vengeance, clutched his fingers for the combat, bared his mighty arms for battle, for the stealing of his salmon, for the robbing of his fish-nets. Long they battled fierce the struggle. Neither one could prove the victor. Should one beat the other fiercely, he himself was fiercely beaten. Then arose a second trouble. On the second and the third days Kalavoynen sowed some barley near the barns of Untamoinen. Untamoinen, sheep in hunger, ate the crop of Kulavoynen. Kulavoinen's dog in malice tore Untomo's sheep in pieces. Then Untomo sorely threatened to annihilate the people of his brother Kulavoinen, to exterminate his tribefolk, to destroy the young and aged, to outroot his race and kingdom, conjures men with broadswords girded for the war he fashions heroes, Fashions youth with spears adjusted, bearing axes on their shoulders, conjures thus a mighty army, hastens to begin a battle, bring a war upon his brother.
Kalawainan's wife in beauty sat beside her chamber window. Looking out along the highway, spake these words in wonder-guessing. Do I see some smoke arising? Or perchance a heavy storm-cloud? Near the border of the forest, near the ending of the prairie. It was not some smoke arising, nor indeed a heavy storm-cloud. It was Untamoinen's soldiers marching to the place of battle. Warriors of Untamoinen came equipped with spears and arrows, killed the people of Kelervo, slew his tribe and all his kindred, burnt to ashes many dwellings, Levoed many courts and cabins, only left Kallerbo's daughter with her unborn child survivors of the slaughter of Untamo, and she led the hostile army to her father's halls and mansion, swept the rooms and made them cheery, gave the heroes home attention.
Time had gone but little distance, ere a boy was born in magic of the virgin Untamala, Of a mother trouble-laden, him the mother named Quilevo, Pearl of Combat, said Untamo. Then they laid the child of wonder, fatherless, the magic infant, in the cradle of attention, to be rocked and fed and guarded. But he rocked himself at pleasure, rocked until his lock stood endwise, rocked one day, and then a second rocked. The third from morn till noontide, but before the third day ended, kicks the boy with might of magic, forwards, backwards, upwards, downwards, kicks in miracles of power, bursts with might his swaddling garments, creeping from beneath his blankets, knocks his cradle into fragments, tears to tatters all his raiment, seemed that he would grow a hero, and his mother, Untamala, Thought that he, when full of stature, when he found his strength and reason, would become a great magician, first among a thousand heroes.
When three months the boy had thriven, he began to speak as follows. When my form is full of stature, when these arms grow strong and hardy, then will I avenge the murder of Klerbo and his people. Untamoinen hears the saying. Speaks these words to those about him. To my tribe he brings destruction. In him grows a new Kalevo. Then the hero is well considered, and the women gave their counsel how to kill the magic infant that their tribe may live in safety. It appeared the boy would prosper finally, they all consenting. He was placed within a basket, and, with willows firmly fastened, taken to the reeds and rushes, lowered to the deepest waters, in his basket there to perish. When three knights had circled over messengers of Untermoinen went to see if he had perished in his basket in the waters.
But the prodigy whilst living had not perished in the rushes. He had left his willow-basket, sat in triumph on a billow, in his hand a rod of copper, on the rod a golden fish-line, fishing for the silver whiting, measuring the deeps beneath him. In the sea was little water, scarcely would it fill three measures. Unto Moinen then reflected, this the language of the wizard, whither shall we take this wonder? Lay this prodigy of evil, that destruction may o'ertake him, where the boy will sink and perish. Then his messengers he ordered to collect dried poles of brushwood, birch-trees with their hundred branches, pine-trees full of pitch and resin, ordered that a pyre be builded, that the boy might be cremated, that Colervo thus might perish.
High they piled the poles and branches, dried limbs from the sacred birch-tree. Branches from a hundred fir trees, knots and branches full of resin, filled with bark a thousand sledges, seasoned oak a hundred measures. Piled the brushwood to the tree-top, set the boy upon the summit, set on fire the pile of brushwood, burned one day and then a second, burned the third from morn till evening, when Untomo sent his heralds to inspect the pyrant wizard. There to learn if young Calervo had been burned to dust and ashes. There they saw the young boy sitting on a pyramid of embers, in his hand a rod of copper, raking coals of fire about him, to increase their heat and power. Not a hair was burned nor injured, not a ringlet singed nor shrivelled.
Then Untamo evil-humoured, thus addressed his trusted heralds. Whither shall the boy be taken? To what place this thing of evil? That destruction may o'ertake him, that the boy may sink and perish? Then they hung him to an oak-tree, crucified him in the branches, that the wizard there might perish. When three days and nights had ended, Untamoinen spake as follows. It is time to send my heralds, to inspect the mighty oak-tree, there to learn if young Kolevo, Lives or dies among the branches. Thereupon he sent his servants, and the heralds brought this message. Young Kulebo has not perished, has not died among the branches of the oak-tree where we hung him. In the oak he maketh pictures with a wand between his fingers, pictures hang from all the branches, carved and painted by Kulebo, and the heroes Thick as acorns, with their swords and spears adjusted, fill the branches of the oak tree.
Every leaf becomes a soldier. Who can help the grave Untamo kill the boy that threatens evil to Untamo's tribe and country, since he will not die by water, nor by fire, nor crucifixion? Finally it was decided that his body was immortal, could not suffer death nor torture. In despair grave unta moinen, thus addressed the boy Qu'lervo. Wilt thou live a life becoming? Always do my people honour. Should I keep thee in my dwelling? Shouldst thou render servants duty, then thou wilt receive thy wages. Reaping whatsoe'er thou sowest, thou canst wear the golden girdle, or endure the tongue of censure. When the boy had grown a little, Had increased in strength and stature, he was given occupation. He was made to tend an infant, made to rock the infant's cradle.
These the words of Unter Moinen. Often look upon the young child, feed him well and guard from danger, wash his linen in the river, give the infant good attention. Young Kuleva, wicked wizard, nurses one day, then a second, on the morning of the third day. Gives the infant cruel treatment, blinds its eyes and breaks its fingers, and, when evening shadows gather, kills the young child while it slumbers, throws its body to the waters, breaks and burns the infant's cradle. Untamoinen thus reflected, Never will this fell Kulevo be a worthy nurse for children, cannot rock a babe in safety, do not know how I can use him. What employment I can give him. Then he told the young magician he must fell the standing forest, and Kulevo gave this answer.
Only will I be a hero when I wield the magic hatchet. I am young and fair and mighty, far more beautiful than others, have the skill of six magicians. Thereupon he sought the blacksmith. This the order of Kulevo. Listen, O thou metal artist. Forge for me an axe of copper, forge the mighty axe of heroes, wherewith I may fell the forest, fell the birch and oak and aspen. This behest the blacksmith honours, forges him an axe of copper, wonderful the blade he forges, Kulavoynan grinds his hatchet, grinds his blade from morn till evening, and the next day makes the handle. Then he hastens to the forest, to the upward sloping mountain, To the tallest of the birches, to the mightiest of oak trees. There he swings his axe of copper, swings his blade with might and magic, cuts with sharpened edge the aspen.
With one blow he fells the oak tree, with a second blow the linden. Many trees have quickly fallen by the hatchet of Kulevo. Then the wizard spake as follows. This the proper work of Lampo. Let a hiss he fell the forest. In the birch he sank his hatchet, made an uproar in the woodlands, called aloud in tones of thunder, whistled to the distant mountains till they echoed to his calling. When Kulevo spake as follows. May the forest in the circle where my voice rings fall and perish. In the earth be lost for ever. May no tree remain unleveled. May no saplings grow in springtime. Never while the moonlight glimmers. Where Kulevo's voice has echoed. Where the forest hears my calling. Where the ground with seed is planted.
And the grain shall sprout and flourish. May it never come to ripeness, but may the ears of corn be blustered. When the strong man, Untamoinen, went to look at early evening, how Kulevo was progressing in his labours in the forest, little was the work accomplished, was not worthy of a hero. Untamoinen thus reflected, Young Kulevo is not fitted for the work of clearing forests. Waste the best of all the timber to my lands. He brings destruction. I shall set him making fences. Then the youth began the building of a fence for Untamoinen, took the trunks of stately fir-trees, trimmed them with his blade for fence-boats, cut the tallest in the woodlands for the railing of his fences, made the smaller poles and cross-bars from the longest of the lindens, Made the fence without a passway, made no wicket in his fences, and Kulebo spake these measures.
He that does not rise as eagles, does not sail on wings through ether, cannot cross Kulebo's pickets, nor the fences he has builded. Unta Moinen left He locked his mansion to inspect the young boy's labours. View the fences of Kulevo, saw the fence without a passway, not a wicket in his fences. From the earth the fence extended to the highest clouds of heaven. These the words of Untamoinen. For this work he is not fitted. Useless is the fence thus builded. Is so high that none can cross it, and there is no passage through it. He shall thresh the rye and barley. Young Kulevo, quick preparing, made an oaken flail for threshing, threshed the rye to finest powder, threshed the barley into atoms, and the straw to worthless fragments.
Untamoinen went at evening, went to see Kulevo's threshing, view the work of Kulavoinen, found the rye with ground to powder, grains of barley crushed to atoms, and the straw to worthless rubbish. Ontamoinen then grew angry, spake these words in bitter accents. Kullavoinen, as a workman, is a miserable failure. Whatsoever work he touches is but ruined by his witchcraft. I shall carry him to Ersterland. In Karyala I shall sell him to the blacksmith Ilmarinen, there to swing the heavy hammer. Untamoinen sells Klerbo, trades him off in Var Karyala, to the blacksmith Ilmarinen, to the master of the metals. This the sum received in payment. Seven worn and worthless sickles, three old cauldrons worse than useless, three old scythes and hoes and axes, recompense indeed sufficient.
For a boy that will not labor for the good of his employer.
End of Rune 31
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33 32 - RUNE XXXII. Kullervo as a Shepherd 17:40
Rune 32 of the Kalevala. Kulevo as a Shepherd. Kulevoinen, Wizard Serpent of the Blacksmith Ilmarinen. Purchased slave from Untermoinen, magic sun, with sky-blue stockings, with a head of golden ringlets, in his shoes of martin-leather, waiting little, ask the blacksmith, ask the host for work at morning. In the evening, ask the hostess, these the words of Kuller-Woynen. Give me work at early morning, in the evening occupation, labor worthy of thy servant. Then the wife of Ilmarinen, once the maiden of the rainbow, thinking long and long debating how to give the youth employment, how the purchased slave could labour, finally a shepherd made him, made him keeper of her pastures, but the over-scornful hostess, baked a biscuit for the herdsman, baked a loaf of wondrous thickness, baked the lower half of oatmeal and the upper half of barley, Baked a flintstone in the centre, poured around it liquid butter, then she gave it to the shepherd, food to still the shepherd's hunger.
Thus she gave the youth instructions, Do not eat the bread in hunger till the herd is in the woodlands. Then the wife of Ilmarinen sent the cattle to the pastures. Thus addressing Cullerwainen, drive the cows to yonder bowers, to the birch trees and the aspens. That they there may feed and fatten, fill themselves with milk and butter, in the open forest pastures, on the distant hills and mountains, in the glens among the birch trees, in the lowlands with the aspens, in the golden pine-tree forests, in the thickets silver-laden. Guard them thou, O kind Creator, shield them omnipresent Uko, shelter them from every danger, and protect them from all evil. That they may not want nor wander from the paths of peace and plenty, as at home thou didst protect them, in the shelters and the hurdles guard them now beneath the heavens, shelter them in woodland pastures, that the herds may live and prosper.
To the joy of Norfolk's hostess, and against the will of Lempo, if my herdsmen prove unworthy, if the shepherd made seem evil, let the pastors be their shepherds. Let the alders guard the cattle, make the birch-tree their protector, let the willow drive them homeward. Ere the hostess go to seek them, ere the milkmaids wait and worry, should the birch-tree not protect them, nor the asperland assistance, nor the linden be their keeper, nor the willow drive them homeward, wilt thou give them better herdsmen? Let creation's beautest daughters be their kindly shepherdesses. Thou hast many lovely maidens. Many hundreds that obey thee, in the ether's spacious circles. Beautiest daughters of creation.
Summer daughter, magic maiden, southern mother of the woodlands. Pine-tree daughter, katejata, pilajata of the aspen. Older maiden to Pio's daughter, daughter of the Glenmelicki. And the mountain maid to Lervo. Of my herds be ye protectors. Keep them from the evil-minded. Keep them safe in days of summer, in the times of fragrant flowers, while the tender leaves are whispering, while the earth is verdure-laden, summer daughter, charming maiden, southern mother of the woodlands. Spread abroad thy robes of safety. Spread thine apron o'er the forest. Let it cover all my cattle, and protect the unprotected. That no evil winds may harm them. May not suffer from the storm clouds. Guard my flocks from every danger.
Keep them from the hands of wild beasts. From the swamps with sinking pathways. From the springs that bubble trouble. From the swiftly running waters. From the bottom of the whirlpool. That they may not find misfortune. May not wander to destruction. In the marshes sink and perish. Though against God's best intentions. Though against the will of Ukko. From a distance bring a bugle, bring a shepherd's horn from heaven, bring the honey flute of Ukko. Play the music of creation, blow the pipes of the magician, play the flowers on the highlands, charm the hills and dales and mount. Charm the borders of the forest, fill the forest trees with honey, fill with spice the fountain borders. For my herds give food and shelter.
Feed them all on honeyed pastures. Give them drink at honeyed fountains. Feed them on thy golden grasses, on the leaves of silver saplings, from the springs of life and beauty, from the crystal waters flowing, from the waterfalls of vrucha, from the uplands green and golden, from the glens enriched in silver. Dig thou also golden fountains on the foresides of the willow, that the cows may drink in sweetness, and their udders swell with honey. That their milk may flow in streamlets. Let the milk be caught in vessels. Let the cows, if not, be wasted. Be not given to Manala. Many are the sons of evil. That to Mana take their milkings. Give their milk to evildoers. Wasted into Oni's empire. Few there are, and they the worthy, that can get the milk from Mana.
Never did my ancient mother ask for counsel in the village, never in the courts for wisdom. She obtained her milk from Mana, took the sour milk from the dealers, sweet milk from the greater distance, from the kingdom of Manala, from Tuoni's fields and pastures, brought it in the dusk of evening, through the byways in the darkness, that the wicked should not know it, that it should not find destruction. This the language of my mother, and these words I also echo. Whither does the cowskiff wander? Whither has the milk departed, has it gone to feed the strangers, banished to the distant village, gone to feed the hamlet lover, or perchance to feed the forest, disappeared within the woodlands, scattered o'er the hills and mountains, mingled with the lakes and rivers?
It shall never go to mana, never go to feed the stranger, never to the village lover, neither shall it feed the forest, nor be lost upon the mountains. Neither sprinkled in the woodlands, nor be mingled with the waters. It is needed for our tables, worthy food for all our children. Summer daughter made of beauty. Southern daughter of creation. Give Swatiki tender father. To Watiki give pure water. To Hermiki milk abundant. Fresh provisions to Turiki. From Meriki let the milk flow. Fresh milk from my cows in plenty. Coming from the tips of grasses, from the tender herbs and leaflets, from the meadows rich in honey, from the mother of the forest, from the meadows sweetly dripping, from the berry-laden branches, from the heath of flower maidens, from the verdure maiden bowers, from the clouds of milk providers, from the virgin of the heavens, that the milk may flow abundant, from the cows that I have given, to the keeping of Colervo.
Rise, thou Virgin of the valley, from the springs arise in beauty. Rise, thou maiden of the fountain, beautiful arise in ether. Take the waters from the cloudlets, and my roaming herds besprinkle, that my cows may drink and flourish, may be ready for the coming of the shepherdess of evening. O Maliki Forest Hostess, mother of the herds at pasture, send the tallest of thy servants, send the best of thine assistants, that my herds may well be guarded. Through the pleasant days of summer, given us by our Creator, beauteous Virgin of the Woodlands, Tapio's most charming daughter, fair to Lervo forest maiden, softly clad in silken raiment, beautiful in golden ringlets. Do thou give my herds protection, in the Met-Sola dominions, on the hills of Tapiola, shield them with thy hands of beauty, stroke them gently with thy fingers, give to them a golden lustre.
Make them shine like fins of salmon. Grow them robes as soft as ermine. When the evening star brings darkness, when appears the hour of twilight, send my lowing cattle homeward. Milk within their vessels coursing. Water on their backs in lakelets. When the sun has set in ocean, when the evening bird is singing, thus address my herds of cattle. Ye that carry horns now hasten to the sheds of Ilmarinen. Ye enriched in milk go homeward, To the hostess now in waiting, Home the better place for sleeping, Forest beds are full of danger, When the evening comes in darkness. Straightway journey to the milkmaids, Building fires to light the pathway, On the turf enriched in honey, In the pastures berry laden.
Thou, O Tapio-san Niriqi, Forest sun enrobed in purple, Cut the fir-trees on the mountains, Cut the pines with cones of beauty, Lay them o'er the streams for bridges. Cover well the sloughs of quicksand, in the swamps and in the lowlands, that my herd may pass in safety, on their long and dismal journey. To the clouds of smoke may hasten when the milkmaids wait their coming. If the cows heed not this order, do not hasten home at evening. Then, O service berry maiden, cut a birchrod from the glenwood, from the juniper a whipstick, near to tape your spacious mansion. Standing on the ashtree mountain, drive my wayward lowing cattle, in two Metzola's wide milk-yards, when the evening star is rising.
Thou, O Otso forest apple, woodland bear with honeyed fingers, let us make a lasting treaty, make a vow for future ages, that thou wilt not kill my cattle, wilt not eat my milk providers, that I will not send my hunters to destroy thee and thy kindred, never in the days of summer. The Creator's warmest season. Dost thou hear the tones of cowbells? Hear the calling of the bugles? Ride thyself within the meadow? Sink upon the turf in slumber? Bury both thine ears in clover? Crouch within some alder thicket? Climb between the mossy ledges? Visit thou some rocky cavern? Flee away to other mountains? Till thou canst not hear the cowbells, nor the calling of the herdsmen? Listen, Otso of the Woodlands.
Sacred bear with honeyed fingers, to approach the herd of cattle. Thou thyself are not forbidden, but thy tongue and teeth and fingers must not touch my herd in summer, must not harm my harmless creatures. Go around the scented meadows, amble through the milky pastures, from the tones of bells and shepherds, should the herd be on the mountain. Go thou quickly to the marshes, should my cattle browse the lowlands. Sleep thou then within the thicket. Should they feed upon the uplands, thou must hasten to the valley. Should the herd graze at the bottom, thou must feed upon the summit. Wander like the golden cuckoo. Like the dove of silver brightness, like a little fish in ocean, ride thy claws within thy hair-foot.
Shut thy wicked teeth in darkness, that my herd may not be frightened, may not think themselves in danger. Leave my cows in peace and plenty. Let them journey home in order, through the vales and mountain byways. Over plains and through the forest, harming not my harmless creatures. Cool to mind our former pledges at the river of Tuoni near the waterfall and whirlpool, in the ears of our Creator. Thrice to Otso was it granted in the circuit of the summer to approach the land of cowbells, where the herdsman's voices echo. But to thee it was not granted Otso never had permission to attempt a wicked action to begin a work of evil. Should the blinding thing of malice come upon thee in thy roamings?
Should thy bloody teeth feel hunger, throw thy malice to the mountains, and thy hunger to the pine trees. Sink thy teeth within the aspens, in the dead limbs of the birches, prune the dry stalks from the willows. Should thy hunger still impel thee, go thou to the berry mountain, eat the fungus of the forest, feed thy hunger on the ant hills, eat the red roots of the bear tree. Metzeler's rich cakes of honey. Not the grass my herd would feed on, or if Metzeler's rich honey should ferment before the eating, on the hills of golden color, on the mountains filled with silver, there is other food for hunger. Other drink for thirsting, Otso. Everlasting will the food be, and the drink be never wanting.
Let us now agree in honour and conclude a lasting treaty that our lives may end in pleasure, may be merry in the summer, Both enjoy the woods in common. Though our food must be distinctive, shouldst thou still desire to fight me, let our contests be in winter. Let our wars be on the snow-fields. Swamps will thaw in days of summer, warm the water in the rivers. Therefore shouldst thou break this treaty, shouldst thou come where golden cattle roam these woodland hills and valleys, we will slay thee with our cross-bows. Should our arrow-men be absent, we have here some archer-women. And among them is the hostess, that can use the fatal weapon, that can bring thee to destruction. Thus will end the days of trouble, that thou bringest to our people, and against the will of Ukko.
Ukko, ruler in the heavens, lend an ear to my entreaty, metamorphose all my cattle through the mighty force of magic, into stumps and stones convert them, if the enemy should wander near my herd in days of summer. If I had been born an woodso, I would never stride and amble at the feet of aged women. Elsewhere there are hills and valleys. Farther on are honey-pastures, where the lazy bear may wander, where the indolent may linger, sneak away to yonder mountain, that thy tender flesh may lessen, in the blue-glens deep recesses, in the bear-dens of the forest. Thou canst move through fields of acorns, Through the sand and ocean pebbles, there for thee is tracked a pathway, through the woodlands on the sea-coast, to the northland's farthest limits, to the dismal plains of Lapland, there tis well for thee to lumber.
There to live will be a pleasure. Shoeless there to walk in summer, stockingless in days of autumn, on the blueback of the mountain, through the swamps and fertile lowlands, if thou canst not journey thither, canst not find the Lapland highway, Hasten on a little distance, in the bare path leading norward, to the grove of Tuonella, to the honey plains of Calma. Swamps there are in which to wander, heaths in which to roam at pleasure. There are Kyrios, there are Kairios, and of beasts a countless number, with their fetters strong as iron, fattening within the forest. Be ye gracious groves and mountains, full of grace, ye darks and thickets, peace and plenty to my cattle. Through the pleasant days of summer, the Creator's warmest season.
Nepanna, O King of forests, thou the greybeard of the woodlands, watch thy dogs in fen and fallow, lay a sponge within one nostril, and an acorn in the other, that they may not scent my cattle, tie their eyes with silken fillets, that they may not see my herdlings, may not see my cattle grazing. Should all this seem inefficient, drive away thy barking children. Let them run to other forests. Let them hunt in other marshes. From these verdant strips of meadow, from these far outstretching borders, hide thy dogs within thy caverns. Firmly tie thy yelping children. Tie them with thy golden fetters, with thy chains adorned with silver, that they may not do me damage, may not do a deed of mischief.
Should all this prove inefficient, thou, O Uko King of Heaven, wise director full of mercy, Hear the golden words I utter. Hear a voice that breathes affection. From the alder make a muzzle, for each dog within the kennel. Should the alder prove too feeble, cast a band of purest copper. Should the copper prove a failure, forge a band of ductile iron. Should the iron snap asunder, in each nose a small ring fasten, made of molten gold and silver. Chain thy dogs in forest caverns, that my herd may not be injured. Then the wife of Ilmarinen, life companion of the blacksmith, opened all her yards and stables, led her herd across the meadow, placed them in the herdman's keeping, in the care of Kulavoynen.
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34 33 - RUNE XXXIII. Kullervo and the Cheat-cake 10:41
Rune thirty-three of the Kalevala. The Kalevala.
Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune thirty-three. Cullervo and the Cheat-Cake. Thereupon the lad Kulavu laid his luncheon in his basket. Drove the herd to mountain pastures, over the hills and through the marshes, to their grazings in the woodlands, speaking as he carelessly wandered. Of the youth am I the poorest, hapless lad, and full of trouble. Evil luck to me befallen. I, alas, must idly wander, over the hills and through the valleys, as a watch-dog for the cattle. Then he sat upon the greensward, in the sunny spot selected. Singing, chanting words as follow. Shine, O shine, thou sun of heaven, cast thy rays, thou fire of Ukko, on the herdsman of the blacksmith, on the head of Kullerwoinen, on this poor and luckless shepherd, not in ill-marinen smithy, nor the dwellings of his people.
Good the table of the hostess cuts the best of wheaten biscuit. Honey-cakes she cuts in slices, spreading each with golden butter. Only dry bread has the herdsman, Eats with pain the oaten bread-crusts. Filled with chaff his arid biscuit, Feeds upon the worst of straw bread, Pine-tree-bark the bread he feeds on. Sipping water from the birch-bark, Drinking from the tips of grasses. Go, O sun, and go, O barley, Haze away, thou light of ukko, Hide within the mountain pine-trees, Go, O wheat, to yonder thickets, To the trees of purple berries, To the junipers and alders, safely lead the herdsmen homeward, to the biscuit golden-buttered, to the honeyed cakes and viands. While the shepherd-led was singing Kullerwoinen's song and echo, Ilmarinen's wife was feasting on the sweetest bread of Northland, on the toothsome cakes of barley, on the richest of provisions.
Only laid aside some cabbage for the herdsmen Kullerwoinen, set apart some wasted fragments, Leaving of the dogs at dinner, for the shepherd home returning. From the woods a bird came flying, sang this song to Kullerwoinen. This the time for forest dinners, for the fatherless companion of the herds to eat his viands, eat the good things from his basket. Kullerwoinen heard the songster, looked upon the sun's long shadow, straightway spake the words that follow. True the singing of the song-bird, it is time indeed for feasting, time to eat my basket-dinner. Thereupon young Kullerwoinen called his herd to rest in safety, sat upon a grassy hillock, took his basket from his shoulders, took therefrom the arid oat-loaf, turned it over in his fingers, carefully the loaf inspected, spake these words of ancient wisdom.
Many loaves are fine to look on, on the outside seem delicious, On the inside, chaff and tan-bark. Then the shepherd, Kullervoinen, drew his knife to cut his oat-loaf, cut the hard and arid biscuit, cuts against the stone imprisoned. Well embedded in the center, breaks his ancient knife in pieces. When the shepherd-youth, Kullervo, saw his magic knife had broken, weeping saw his bake as follows. "'Tis the blade that I hold sacred. "'Tis the one thing that I honor, relic of my mother's people.' On the stone within this oat-loaf, on this cheat-cake of the hostess, I my precious knife have broken. How shall I repay this insult? How avenge this woman's malice? What the wages for deception? From a tree the raven answered, O thou little silver-buckle, only son of old Kalevo!
Why art thou in evil humor, wherefore sat in thy demeanor? Take a young shoot from the thicket, Take a birch rod from the valley. Drive thy herd across the lowlands, through the quicksands of the marshes. To the wolves let one half wander. To the bear dance lead the other. Sing the forest wolves together. Sing the bears down from the mountains. Call the wolves thy little children, and the bears thy standard-bearers. Drive them like a cowherd homeward. Drive them home like spotted cattle. Drive them to thy master's milk-yards. Thus thou wilt repay the hostess for her malice and derision. Thereupon the wizard answered these the words of Kullerwoinen. Wait, yea, wait, thou bride of Hisi! Do I mourn my mother's relic?
Mourn the keepsake thou hast broken? Thou thyself shalt mourn as sorely when thy cows come home at evening. From the tree he cuts a birch wand, from the juniper a whip-stick. Drives the herd across the lowlands, through the quicksands of the marshes. To the wolves lets one half wander, to the bear-dance leads the other. Calls the wolves his little children, calls the bears his standard-bearers. Changes all his herd of cattle into wolves and bears by magic. In the west the sun is shining, telling that the night is coming. Quick the wizard Kullerwoinen wanders over the pine-tree mountain, hastens through the forest homeward, Drives the wolves and bears before him, Toward the milk-yards of the hostess.
To the herd he speaks as follows, As they journey on together. Tear and kill the wicked hostess, Tear her guilty flesh in pieces, When she comes to hew her cattle, When she stoops to do her milking. Then the wizard, Kullerwoinen, From an ox-bone makes a bugle, Makes it from Tuoniki's cow-horn, Makes a flute from Kyrio's shin-bone, Plays a song upon his bugle, Place upon his flute of magic, thrice upon the homeland hill-tops, six times near the coming gateways. Ilmarinen's wife and hostess long had waited for the coming of her herd with Kulervoinen, waited for the milk at evening, waited for the new-made butter, heard the footsteps in the cow-path. On the heath she heard the bustle, spake these joyous words of welcome.
Be thou praised, O gracious Ukko, that my herd is home returning. But I hear a bugle sounding, this the playing of my herdsman, playing on a magic cow-horn, bursting all our ears with music. Kullerwoinen drawing nearer to the hostess bake as follows. Found the bugle in the woodlands, and the flute among the rushes. All thy herd are in the passage, all thy cows within the hurdles. This the time to build the camp-fire. This the time to do the milking. Ilmarinen's wife, the hostess, Thus addressed an aged servant. "'Go, thou, old one, to the milking, have the care of all my cattle. Do not ask for mine assistance, since I have to knead the biscuit.' Kullerwoinen speak as follows. "'Always dost a worthy hostess, ever dost a wisdom mother, go herself unto the milking, tend the cows within the hurdles.' Then the wife of Illmarinen built a field-fire in the passage, went to milk her cows awaiting, looked upon her herd in wonder, Spake these happy words of greeting.
Beautiful, my herd of cattle, glistening like the skins of lynxes, hair as soft as fur of ermine, peaceful waiting for the milk-pail. On the milk-stool sits the hostess, milks one moment, then a second, then a third time milks and ceases, when the bloody wolves disguising quick attack the hostess milking, and the bears lend their assistance, tear and mutilate her body, with their teeth and sharpened fingers. Kullervoinen, cruel wizard, thus repaid the wicked hostess, thus repaid her evil treatment. Quick the wife of Ilmarinen cried aloud in bitter anguish. Thus addressed the youth Kullervo. Evil son, thou bloody herdsman, thou hast brought me wolves in malice, driven bears within my hurdles. These the words of Kullervoinen.
Have I evil done as shepherd? Worse the conduct of the hostess? Bake the stone inside my oat-cake? On the inside rock and tanbark, on the stone my knife was broken, treasure of my mother's household, broken virtue of my people. Ilmarinen's wife made answer. Noble herzman, Kullervoinen, change, I pray thee, thine opinion. Take away thine incantations, from the bears and wolves release me. Save me from this spell of torture. I will give thee better raiment, give the best of milk and butter, set for thee the sweetest table. Thou shalt live with me in welcome, Need not labor for thy keeping. If thou dost not free me quickly, dost not break this spell of magic, I shall sing into the death-land, shall return to Tuornella.
This is Kullavoynen's answer. It is best that thou shouldst perish, Let destruction overtake thee, There is ample room in manna, Room for all the dead in calma, There the worthiest must slumber, There must rest the good and evil. Ilmarinen's wife made answer. Ukko, thou O God in heaven, Spend the strongest of thy crossbows, Test the weapon by thy wisdom, Lay an arrow forged from copper On the crossbow of thy forging. Rightly aim thy flaming arrow, With thy magic hurl the missile, Shoot this wizard through the vitals, Pierce the heart of Kullerwoinen With the lightning of the heavens, With thine arrows tipped with copper. Kullerwoinen prays as follows. Ukko, God of truth and justice, do not slay thy magic servant, slay the wife of Ilmarinen.
Kill in her the worst of women, in these hurdles let her perish, lest she wander hence in freedom to perform some other mischief, do some greater deed of malice. Quick as lightning fell the hostess, quick the wife of Ilmarinen, fell and perished in the hurdles, on the ground before her cottage, Thus the death of Northern's hostess, Cherished wife of Ilmarinen, Once the maiden of the rainbow, Wooed and watched for many summers, Pride and joy of Kalevala.
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35 34 - RUNE XXXIV. Kullervo finds his Tribe-folk 9:02
Rune 34 of the Kalevala.
The Kalevala. Compiled by Ilias Lönnroth. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 34. Kullervo finds his tribefolk. Kullervo in a young magician In his beauteous golden ringlets, in his magic shoes of deerskin, left the home of Ilmarinen, wandered forth upon his journey, ere the blacksmith heard the tidings of the cruel death and torture of his wife and joy-companion, lest the bloody fight should follow. Kullervoinen left the smithy, blowing on his magic bugle, joyful left the lands of Ilma, blowing blithely on the heather, made the distant hills re-echo. Made the swamps and mountains tremble, made the heather blossoms answer to the music of his cow-horn, in its wild reverberations, to the magic of his playing.
Songs were heard within the smithy, and the blacksmith stopped and listened, hastened to the door and window, hastened to the open courtyard, if perchance he might discover what was playing on the heather, what was sounding through the forest. Quick he learned the cruel story, learned the cause of the rejoicing, Saw the hostess dead before him, knew his beauteous wife had perished, saw the lifeless form extended in the courtyard of his dwelling. Thereupon the metal artist fell to bitter tears and wailings, wept through all the dreary nighttime, deep the grief that settled over him, black as night his darkened future, could not stay his tears of sorrow. Kullerwoinen hastened onward, straying, roaming, hither, thither, wandered on through field and forest, over the heasy plains and woodlands.
When the darkness settled over him, when the bird of night was flitting, sat the fatherless at evening, the forsaken sat and rested on a hillock of the forest. Thus he murmured, heavy-hearted, Why was I, alas, created? Why was I so ill-begotten, since for months and years I wander, lost among the ether spaces? Others have their homes to dwell in, others hasten to their firesides, as the evening gathers round them. But my home is in the forest, and my bed upon the heather, and my bathroom is the rain-cloud. Never didst thou, God of mercy, never in the course of ages, give an infant birth unwisely. Wherefore, then, was I created, fatherless to roam in ether, motherless and lone to wander. Thou, O Uco, art my father, Thou hast given me form and feature, as the seagull on the ocean, as the duck upon the waters.
Shines the sun upon the swallow, shines as bright upon the sparrow, gives the joy-bird song and gladness, does not shine on me unhappy. Nevermore will shine the sunlight, never will the moonlight glimmer on this hapless son and orphan. Do not know my hero, father, cannot tell who was my mother. On the shore, perhaps the gray duck, Left me in the sand to perish. Young was I, and small of stature, When my mother left me orphaned. Dead my father and my mother, Dead my honored tribe of heroes. Shoes they left me, that are icy, Stockings filled with frosts of ages, Let me on the freezing ice-plains Fall to perish in the rushes. From the giddy heights of mountains Let me tumble to destruction. O thou wise and good creator, Why my birth and what my service?
I shall never fall and perish on the ice-plains in the marshes, never be a bridge in Swampland, not while I have arms of virtue that can serve my honored kindred. Then Kullervo thought to journey to the village of Untamo, to avenge his father's murder, to avenge his mother's tortures and the troubles of his tribefolk. These the words of Kullervoinen. Wait, yea, wait, thou Untamoinen, thou destroyer of my people! When I meet thee in the combat, I will slay thee and thy kindred, I will burn thy homes to ashes. Came a woman on the highway, dressed in blue, the aged mother. To Kullervo spake as follows. Whither goest, Kullervoinen? Whither hastens the wayward hero? Kullervoinen gave this answer. I have thought that I would journey to the far-off land of strangers, to the village of Untermo, to avenge my father's murder, to avenge my mother's tortures, and the troubles of my tribefolk.
Thus the gray-haired woman answered, Surely thou dost rest in error, for thy tribe hath never perished, and thy mother still is living, with thy father in the northland, living with the old Kallervo. O thou ancient dame, beloved, worthy mother of the woodlands, tell me where my father liveth, where my loving mother lingers. Yonder lives thine aged father, and thy loving mother with him. On the farthest shore of Northland, on the long point of the Fish Lake. Tell me, O thou woodland mother, how to journey to my people, how to find mine honored tribefolk. Easy is the way for strangers. Thou must journey through the forest, hasten to the river border, travel one day, then a second, and the third from morn till even, to the northwest thou must journey.
If a mountain comes to meet thee, go around the nearing mountain, westward bold thy weary journey, Till thou comest to a river, on thy right hand flowing eastward. Travel to the river border, where three waterfalls will greet thee. When thou comest to a headland, on the point thou'lt see a cottage, where the fishermen assemble. In this cottage is thy father, with thy mother and her daughters, beautiful thy maiden sisters. Kullerwoynen, the magician, hastens northward on his journey, walks one day and then a second, walks the third from morn till evening. To the northwest walks Kullerwo. Till a mountain comes to meet him, walks around the nearing mountain, westward, westward holds his journey, till he sees the river coming, hastens to the river border, walks along the streams and rapids, till three waterfalls accost him, travels till he meets a headland, on the point he spies a cottage, where the fishermen assemble.
Quick he journeys to the cabin, quick he passes through the portals of the cottage on the headland. Where he finds his long-lost kindred, no one knows the youth, Kullervo, no one knows whence comes the stranger, where his home, nor where he goers. These the words of young Kullervo. Dost thou know me not, my mother? Dost thou know me not, my father? I am hapless Kullervoinen, whom the heroes of Untamo carried to their distant country, when my height was but a hand-breadth. Quick the hopeful mother answers. O my worthy son, beloved, O my precious silverbuckle! Hast thou with thy mind of magic wandered through the fields of Northland, searching for thy home and kindred? As one dead I long have mourned thee, had supposed thee in Manala.
Once I had two sons and heroes, had two good and beauteous daughters, two of these have long been absent, elder son and elder daughter. For the wars my son departed, while my daughter strayed and perished. If my son is home returning, yet my daughter still is absent. Kullerwoinen asked his mother. Whither did my sister wander? What direction did she journey? This the answer of the mother. This the story of thy sister. Went for berries to the woodlands. To the mountains went my daughter, where the lovely maiden vanished, where my pretty berry perished. Died some death beyond my knowledge. Nameless is the death she suffered. Who is mourning for the daughter? No one mourns her as her mother, walks and wanders, mourns and searches, for her fairest child and daughter.
Therefore did the mother wander, searching for thy lovely sister, like the bear she roamed the forest, ran the glenways like the adder, searched one day and then a second, searched a third from morn till even, till she reached the mountain summit. There she called, and called her daughter, Till the distant mountains answered, called to her who had departed. Where art thou, my lovely maiden? Come, my daughter, to thy mother. Thus I called and sought thy sister. This the answer of the mountains, thus the hills and valleys echoed. Call no more, thou weeping mother. Weep no more for the departed. Nevermore in all thy lifetime, never in the course of ages, will she join again her kindred at her brother's landing-places, In her father's humble dwelling.
End of rune 34.
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36 35 - RUNE XXXV. Kullervo's Evil Deeds 14:11
Rune thirty-five of the Kalevala. This is the Kalevala compiled by Elias Lonrot, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune number 35. Kalevala's evil deeds. Kullovoinen, youthful wizard, in his blue and scarlet stockings, henceforth lingered with his parents, but he could not change his nature, could not gain a higher wisdom, could not win a better judgment. As a child he was ill-nurtured, early rocked in stupid cradles, by a nurse of many follies, by a minister of evil. To his work went Kullovoinen. Strove to make his labors worthy. First Kallervo went a-fishing, set his fishing nets in ocean, with his hands upon the rowlocks. Kollerwoinen spake as follows. Shall I pull with all my forces, pull with strength of youthful heroes, or with weakness of the aged?
From the stern arose a greybeard, and he answered thus Kallervo. Pull with all thy youthful vigor. Shouldst thou row with magic power, thou couldst not destroy this vessel, couldst not row this boat to fragment. Thereupon the youth Klerbo rode with all his youthful vigor. With the mighty force of magic rode the bindings from the vessel. Ribs of juniper he shattered, rode the aspen oars to pieces. When the aged sire Klerbo saw the work of Klervoinen, he addressed his son as follows. Does not understand the rowing? Thou hast burst the bands asunder. Bands of juniper and willow rowed my Aspen boat to pieces. To the fish-nets drive the salmon. This, perchance, will suit thee better. Thereupon the son Calervo, hastened to his work as bidden, Throve the salmon to the fish-nets, Spake in innocence as follows.
Shall I with my youthful vigor Scare the salmon to the fish-nets, Or with little magic vigor shall I drive them to their capture," spake the master of the fishnets. That would be but work of women, shouldst thou use but little power in the frightening of the salmon. Cullerboinen does as bidden, scares the salmon with the forces of his mighty arms and shoulders with the strength of youth and magic, stirs the water thick with black earth, Beats the scare-net into pieces, into pulp he beats the salmon. When the aged sire Kolovo saw the work of Kollerwoynen, to his son these words he uttered. Does not understand this labor? For this work thou art not suited. Canst not scare the perch and salmon to the fish-nets of thy father?
Thou hast ruined all my fish-nets, tore my scare-net into tatters, beaten into pulp the whiting, Torn my net props into fragments, beaten into bits my wedges. Leave the fishing to another. See if thou canst pay the tribute. Pay me yearly contribution. See if thou canst better travel. On the way, show better judgment. Thereupon the son Colervo, hapless youth in purple vestments, in his magic shoes of deerskin, in his locks of golden color, sallied forth to pay the taxes. Pay the tribute for his people. When the youth had paid the tribute, paid the yearly contribution, he returned to join the snow-slage, took his place upon the cross-bench, snapped his whip above the courser, and began his journey homeward.
Rattled on along the highway, measured as he galloped onward, Wainamoinen's hills and valleys, and his fields in cultivation, came a golden maid to meet him. On her snow-shoes came a virgin. O'er the hills of Wiener Moinen, o'er his cultivagic lowlands, quick the wizard son Klerbo checked the motion of his racer, thus addressed the charming maiden. "'Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge. In my fur-robes rest and linger.' As she ran, the maiden answered, "'Let the deaf maid sit beside thee, rest and linger, in thy fur-robes.' Thereupon the youth colorbo snapped his whip above the courser. Fleet as wind, he gallops homeward, dashes down along the highway. With the roar of falling waters, gallops onward, onward, onward, o'er the broadback of the ocean, o'er the icy plains of Lapland.
Comes a winsome maid to meet him, golden-haired and wearing snow-shoes, on the far outstretching ice-plains. Quick the wizard checks his racer, charmingly accosts the maiden. Chanting carefully these measures. Come, thou beauty, to my snow-sledge, hither come, and rest, and linger. Tauntingly, the maiden answered. Take Tuoni to thy snow-sledge. At thy side let Marnalainen sit with thee, and rest, and linger. Quick the wizard, Kolorvoinen, struck his fiery, prancing racer with the birch-whip of his father. Like the lightning flew the fleet-foot, galloped on the highway homeward. O'er the hills, the snow-sledge bounded, and the coming mountains trembled. Koloboynon, wild magician, measures on his journey homeward, northland's far-extending borders, and the fertile plains of Poya.
Comes a beauteous maid to meet him, with a tin-pin on her bosom, on the heather of Poyola, o'er the Poya hills and moorlands. Quick the wizard's son, Kolobo, holds the bridle of his courser. Charmingly intones these measures. Come, fair maiden, to my snow-sledge. In these fur-ropes rest and linger. Eat with me the golden apples. Eat the hazel-nut in joyance. Drink with me the beer delicious. Eat the dainties that I give thee. This the answer of the maiden, with the tin-pin on her bosom. I have scorned to give thy snow-sledge. Scorn for thee, thou wicked wizard. Cold it is beneath thy fur-ropes, and thy sledge is chill and cheerless. Thereupon the youth Calervo, wicked wizard of the Northland, drew the maiden to his snow-sledge, drew her to a seat beside him, quickly in his furs enrapped her, and the Tinedorden made an answer.
These the accents of the maiden. Loose me from thy magic power. Let me leave at once thy presence, lest I speak in wicked accents, lest I say the prayer of evil. Free me now, as I command thee, or I'll tear thy sledge to pieces. Throw these fur robes to the north winds. Straightway wicked, coloroinen, evil wizard and magician, opens all his treasure boxes, shows the maiden gold and silver, shows her silken wraps of beauty, silken hose with golden borders, golden belts with silver buckles, jewelry that dims the vision, blunts the conscience of the virgin, Silver leads one to destruction, gold entices from uprightness. Kolorvoinen, wicked wizard, flatters lovingly the maiden. One hand on the reins of leather, one upon the maiden's shoulder.
Thus they journey through the evening, past the night in merry-making, when the day-star led the morning, when the second day was dawning, then the maid addressed Kolorvo. Question thus the wicked wizard. Of what tribe art thou descended? Of what race thy hero father? Tell thy lineage and kindred. This Klerbo's truthful answer. Am not from a mighty nation, not the greatest nor the smallest, but my lineage is worthy. Am Klerbo's son of folly, am a child of contradictions, hapless son of cold misfortune. Tell me of thy race of heroes. Tell thine origin of kindred. This the answer of the maiden. Came not from a race primeval, not the largest nor the smallest, but my lineage is worthy. Am Klerbo's wretched daughter, am his long-lost child of error, am a maid of contradictions, hapless daughter of misfortune.
When a child I lived in plenty, in the dwellings of my mother. To the woods I went for berries, went for raspberries to uplands, gathered strawberries on mountains, gathered one day, then a second. But alas, upon the third day could not find the pathway homeward, forestward the highways led me, all the footpaths to the woodlands. Long I sat in bitter weeping. Wept one day, and then a second. Wept the third, from morn till even. Then I climbed a lofty mountain. There I called in wailing accents, and the woodlands gave this answer. Thus the distant hills re-echoed. Call no longer, foolish virgin. All thy calls and tears are useless. There is none to give the answer. Far away, thy home and people.
On the third, and on the fourth days, on the fifth, and sixth, and seventh, Constantly I sought to perish, but in vain were all my efforts. Could not die upon the mountains. If this wretched maid had perished, in the summer of the third year she had fed Earth's vegetation, she had blossomed as a flower. Knowing neither pain nor sorrow, scarcely had the maiden spoken when she bounded from the snow-sledge, rushed upon the rolling river to the cataract's commotion, to the fiery stream and whirlpool. Thus Kulervo's lovely sister, hastened to her own destruction, to her death by fire and water, found her peace in Tuonella, in the sacred stream of mana. Then the wicked Kulervoinen, fell to weeping, sorely troubled, wailed and wept, and heavy-hearted, spake these words in bitter sorrow.
Woe is me, my life hard-fated! I have slain my virgin sister, shamed the daughter of my mother, Woe to thee, my ancient father! Woe to thee, my grey-haired mother! Wherefore was I born and nurtured? Why, this hapless child's existence? Better fate to Cullerwoynen! Had he never seen the daylight, or, if born, had never thriven in these mournful days of evil? Death has failed to do his duty, sickness, sinned in passing by me, should have slain me in the cradle when the seventh day had ended. Thereupon he slips the collar of his prancing royal racer, mounts the silver-headed fleetfoot, gallops like the lightning homeward, gallops only for a moment when he halts his foaming courser at the cabin of his father.
In the courtyard stood the mother. Thus the wicked son addressed her. Faithful mother, fond and tender, hathst thou slain me when an infant, smoked my life out in the chamber, in a winding sheet hath thrown me to the cataract and whirlpool. In the fire had set my cradle, after seven nights had ended. Worthy would have been thy service. Had the village maidens asked thee, where is now the little cradle? Wherefore is the bathroom empty? This had been a worthy answer. I have burned the wizard's cradle. Cast the infant to the fire-dogs. In the bathroom corn is sprouting, from the barley malt is brewing. Thereupon the aged mother asked her wizard son these questions. What has happened to my hero? What new fate has overcome thee?
Comest thou as from Tuoni, from the castles of Manala? This Polovo's frank confession. Infamous, the tale I bring thee, my confession is dishonour. On the way I met a maiden, met the long-lost wayward daughter, did not recognise my sister. Fatal was the sin committed. When the taxes had been settled, when the tribute had been gathered, came a matchless maid to meet me. Whom I witless led to sorrow. This my mother's long-lost daughter. When she saw in me her brother, quick she bounded from the snow-sledge, hastened to the roaring waters, to the cataract's commotion, to the fiery stream and whirlpool, hastened to her full destruction. Now, alas, must I determine, now must find a spot befitting, where thy sinful son may perish.
Help me, all-forgiving mother, where to end my life of trouble? Let me stop the black wolf's howling. Let me satisfy the hunger of the vicious bear of Northland. Let the shark or hungry sea-dog be my dwelling-place hereafter. This the answer of the mother. Do not go to stop the howling of the hungry wolf of Northland. Do not haste to still the black bear growling in his forest cavern. Let not shark nor vicious sea-dog be thy dwelling-place hereafter. Spacious are the rooms of Suomi. Limitless, the sower borders, large enough to hide transgression, man's misdeeds to hide for ages, with his sins and evil actions. Six long years man's sins lie hidden in the borderland of Kalma, even nine for magic heroes, till the years bring consolation, till they quiet all his mourning.
Kulvoinen, wicked wizard, answers thus his grieving mother. I can never hide from sorrow, cannot flee from my misconduct. To the jaws of death I hasten, to the open courts of Calver, to the hunting-grounds of Poir, to the battlefields of heroes. Untamoinen still is living, unmolested roams the wicked. Unavenge my father's grievance, unavenge my mother's tortures, unavenge the wrongs I suffer.
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37 36 - RUNE XXXVI. Kullerwoinen's Victory and Death 12:33
Room 36 of the Kalevala. The Kalavannah by Elias Lonrot. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Room 36, victory and death. Wicked wizard. In his purple-colored stockings, now prepares himself for battle, grinds a long time on his broadsword, sharpens well his trusty weapon, and his mother speaks as follows. Do not go, my son, beloved. Go not to the wars, my hero. Struggle not with hostile spearmen. Who so goes to war for nothing, undertakes a fearful combat, undertakes a fatal issue. Those that war without a reason will be slaughtered for their folly. Is he prey to bows and arrows? Go thou with a goat to battle, shouldst thou go to fight the roebuck. Tis the goat that will be vanquished, and the roebuck will be slaughtered.
With a frog, thou journey homeward, victor, with but little honor. These the words of Kolvoinen. Shallot journey through the marshes, shallot sink upon the heather, on the homeland of the raven, where the eagles scream at daybreak. When I yield my life forever, bravely will I fall in battle. Fall upon the field of glory, beautiful to die in armor, and the clang and clash of armies, beautiful the strife for conquest. Thus Tlerbo soon will hasten to the kingdom of Tuoni, to the realm of the departed, undeformed by wasting sickness. This the answer of the mother. If thou diest in the conflict, who will stay to guard thy father? Who will give thy sire protection? These are the words of Cullerwoynen.
Let him die upon the courtyard, sleeping out his life of sorrows. Who will then protect thy mother? Be her shield in times of danger. Let her die within the stable, or the cabin where she lingers. Who then well will defend thy brother? Give him aid in times of trouble. Let him die within the forest, sleep his life away unheeded. Who will comfort then thy sister? Who will aid her in affliction? Let her sink beneath the waters, perish in the crystal fountain. Where the brook flows on in beauty, like a silver serpent winding, through the valley to the ocean. Thereupon the wild Calurbo hastens from his home to battle. To his father speaks, departing. Fare thou well, my aged father. Wilt thou weep for me, thy hero?
When thou hearest, I have perished, fallen from thy tribe forever, perished on the field of glory. Thus the father speaks in answer. I shall never mourn the downfall of my evil son, Klerbo, shall not weep when thou hast perished, shall beget a second hero. That will do me better service. That will think and act. In wisdom, Koloboynon gives this answer. Neither shall I mourn thy downfall, shall not weep when thou hast perished. I shall make a second father, make the head from loam and sandstone, make the eyes from swampland berries, make the beard from withered sea-grass, make the feet from roots of willow. Make the form from birchwood fungus. Thereupon, youth Kullervo, to his brother, speaks as follows.
Fare thou well, beloved brother. Will thou weep for me departed? Shouldst thou hear that I have perished, fallen on the field of battle? This is the answer of the brother. I shall never mourn the downfall of my brother Kullervoinen. Shall not weep when thou hast perished? I shall find a second brother. Find one worthier and wiser. This is Kullervoinen's answer. Neither shall I mourn thy downfall. Shall not weep when thou hast perished. I shall form a second brother, make the head from dust and ashes, make the eyes from pearls of ocean, make the beard from withered verdure, make the form from pulp of birch-wood. To his sister speaks Colerbo. Fare thou well, beloved sister? Surely thou wilt mourn my downfall.
Weep for me when I have perished. When thou hearest, I have fallen in the heat and din of battle, fallen from thy race forever. But the sister makes this answer. Never shall I mourn thy downfall, shall not weep when thou hast perished. I shall seek a second brother, seek a brother purer, better, one that will not shame his sister. Tolivoin, thus makes answer. Neither shall I mourn thee for, and shall not weep when thou hast perished. I shall form a second sister, make the head from white and marble, make the eyes from golden moonbeams, make the tresses from the rainbow, make the ears from ocean flowers, and her form from gold and silver. Fare Thou well, beloved mother, mother beautiful and faithful.
Will Thou weep when I have perished, fallen on the field of glory, fallen from thy race forever? Thus the mother speaks in answer. Canst not fathom love maternal? Canst not smother her affection? Bitterly I'll mourn thy downfall. I would weep if Thou shouldst perish, shouldst Thou leave my race forever? I would weep in court or cabin, sprinkle all these fields with tear-drops, weep great rivers to the ocean. Weep to melt the snows of Northland. Make the hillocks green with weeping. Weep at morning. Weep at evening. Weep three years in bitter sorrow. O'er the death of colorvoinland. Thereupon the wicked wisdom went rejoicing to the combat. In delight to war he hastened. O'er the fields and fens and fallows, shouting loudly on the heather, singing o'er the hills and mountains, rushing through the glens and forests, blowing war upon his bugle.
Time had gone but little distance when a messenger appearing spake these words to Kulvoinen. Lo, thy aged sire has perished, for and from thy race forever. Hasten home, and do him honor. Lay him in the lap of Kalmer. Kulvoinen made this answer. Has my aged father perished? There is home a sable stallion that will take him to his slumber. Lay him in the lap of Kalmer. Then Kulvo journeyed onward. Calling war upon his bugle, till a messenger appearing brought this word to Kolvoinand. "'Look! thy brother, too, has perished. Dead he lies within the forest. Manolinen's trumpet called him. Home return, and do him honor. Lay him in the lap of Kalma.' Kolvoinand thus replying, "'Has my hero brother perished?
There is home a sable stallion that will take him to his slumber. Lay him in the lap of Kalma.' Young Kolovo journeyed onward, over Vale and over Mountain, playing on his reed of battle, till a messenger appearing brought the warrior these tidings. Lo, my sister too has perished, perished in the crystal fountain, where the waters flow in beauty like a silver serpent winding through the valley to the ocean. Home return and do her honor, lay her in the lap of Kalma. These the words of Kolovoinen. Has my beugious sister perished? Fallen from my race forever. There is home a sable filly. That will take her to her resting. Lay her in the lap of Kalma. Still Tolervo journeyed onward. Through the fens he went rejoicing, sounding war upon his bugle, till a messenger appearing brought to him these words of sorrow.
Lo, thy mother, too, has perished. Died in anguish, brokenhearted. Home return, and do her honor. Lay her in the lap of Kalma. These the measures of Tolervo. Woe is me, my life hard-fated, that my mother too has perished. She that nursed me in my cradle, made my couch a golden cover, twog for me the spool and spindle, though Kolovo was not present when his mother's life departed, may have died upon the mountains, perished there from cold and hunger. Laive the dead form of my mother in the crystal waters flowing, wrap her in the robes of ermine, tie her hands with silk and ribbon, Take her to the grave of ages. Lay her in the lap of calma. Bury her with songs of mourning. Let the singers chant my sorrow.
Cannot leave the fields of battle, while Untamo goes unpunished, fell destroyer of my people. Pulleboinen journeyed onward, still rejoicing to the combat. Sang these songs in supplication. Ukko, mightiest of rulers, loan to me thy sword of battle. Grant me thy matchless weapon. And against a thousand armies I will war and ever conquer. Ukko gave the youth his broadsword, gave his blade of magic powers to the wizard Kulavoinen. Thus equipped the mighty hero, slew the people of Untamo, burned their villages to ashes, only left the stones and ovens, and the chimneys of their hamlets. Then the conqueror Kulavo turned his footsteps to his homeland, to the cabin of his father, to his ancient fields and forests.
Empty did he find the cabin, and the forests were deserted. No one came to give him greeting, none to give the hand of welcome. He laid his fingers on the oven, but found it cold and lifeless. Then he knew to satisfaction that his mother lived no longer. Laid his hand upon the fireplace. Cold and lifeless were the hearth-stones. Then he knew to satisfaction that his sister, too, had perished. Then he sought the landing-places, Found no boats upon the rollers. Then he knew to satisfaction that his brother, too, had perished. Then he looked upon the fish-nets, and he found them torn and tangled. And he knew to satisfaction that his father, too, had perished. Bitterly he wept and murmured. Wept one day, and then a second.
On the third day spake as follows. Faithful mother, fond and tender, why hast left me here to sorrow? In this wilderness of trouble! But thou dost not hear my calling, though I sing in magic accents, though my teardrops speak lamenting, though my heart bemoans thine absence. From her grave awakes the mother. To Clervo speaks these measures. Thou hast still the dog remaining. He will lead thee to the forest. Follow thou the faithful watcher. Let him lead thee to the woodlands, to the farthest woodland border, to the caverns of the wood-nymphs. There the forest maidens linger. They will give thee food and shelter. Give my hero joyful greetings. Pullovoinan, with his watchdog, hastens onward through the forest.
Journeys on through fields and fallows, journeys but a little distance, till he comes upon the summit, where he met his long-lost sister. Finds the turf itself is weeping, finds the glenwood filled with sorrow, finds the heather shedding tear-drops, Weeping are the meadow-flowers, o'er the ruins of his sister. Kullerwoinen, wicked wizard, grasped the handle of his broadsword. Ask the blade this simple question. Tell me, O my blade of honor, dost thou wish to drink my life-blood? Drink the blood of Kullerwoinen? Thus his trusty sword makes answer, well divining his intentions. Why should I not drink thy life-blood, blood of guilty Kullerwoinen, since I feast upon the worthy? Drink the life-blood of the righteous.
Thereupon the youth Kolovo, wicked wizard of the Northland, lifts the mighty sword of Ukko, bids adieu to earth and heaven, firmly thrust the hilt in hither. To his heart he points the weapon, throws his weight upon his broadsword, pouring out his wicked life-blood. Airby journeys to Manala, thus the wizard finds destruction. This the end of Kolovoinen, born in sin and nursed in folly. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, as he hears the joyful tidings, learns the death of fell Klovo, speaks these words of ancient wisdom. O ye many unborn nations, never evil nurse your children, never give them out to strangers, never trust them to the foolish. If the child is not well nurtured, is not rocked and led uprightly, though he grows to years of manhood, bear a strong and shapely body, He will never know discretion, never eat the bread of honor, never drink the cup of wisdom.
End of Room 36.
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38 37 - RUNE XXXVII Ilmarinen's Bride of Gold 10:55
Rune 37 of the Kalevala. The Kalefala, translated by John Martin Crawford, RUNE, THE MARINEN'S BRIDE OF GOLD, Metal worker, wept one day, and then a second, wept the third from morn till evening, over the death of his companion, once the maiden of the rainbow, did not swing his heavy hammer, did not touch its copper handle, made no sound within his smithy, made no blow upon his anvil, till three months had circled over. Then the blacksmith spake as follow. Woe is me, unhappy hero, do not know how I can prosper. Long the day is and cold and dreary, longer still the night and colder. I am weary in the evening, in the morning still am weary, have no longing for the morning, and the evening is unwelcome, have no pleasure in the future.
All my presence gone forever with my faithful life companion, slaughtered by the hand of witchcraft, Often will my heart-strings quiver when I rest within my chamber, when I wake at dreamy midnight, half unconscious, vainly searching for my noble wife departed.
Wifelessly lived the morning blacksmith, altered his form and features, webbed one month and then another, webbed three months in full succession, then the magic metal worker, Gathered gold from depths of ocean, gathered silver from the mountains, gathered many heaps of birchwood, filled with faggot sturdy sledge, burned the birchwood into ashes, put the ashes in the furnace, laid the gold upon the embers, likewise laid a piece of silver of the size of lambs in autumn, or the fleet-foot hair in winter. Place servants at the bellows. Thus to melt the magic metals, eagerly the servant's labor, gloveless, headless, to the workmen, fan the flames within the furnace, ill-married, and magic blacksmith, works unceasing at its forging, thus to mold a golden image, mold a bride from gold and silver.
But the workmen fail their master, faithless stand they at the bellows, Woe the artist, Ilmarinen. Fends the flame with force of magic. Blows one day, and then a second. Blows the third from morn till even. Then he looks within the furnace. Looks around the oven border, hoping there to see an image rising from the molten metals. Comes a lambkin from the furnace, rising from the fire of magic, wearing hair of gold and copper, laced with many threads of silver. All rejoice but Ilmarinen. At the beauty of the image, this is the language of the blacksmith. May the wolf admire thy grace. I desire a bride of beauty, born from molten gold and silver. Ilmarinen, the magician, to the furnace through the lambkin, added gold in the great abundance, and increased the mass of silver, added other magic metals, said the workman at the pillows.
Zealously, the servant's labor, Gloveless, headless, do the workmen fanned the flames within the furnace. Ilmarinen, wizard forzman, works unceasing with his metals, molding well a golden image, wife of molten gold and sulfur. But the workmen failed their master. Fatheless do they ply the bellows. Now the artist, Ilmarinen, fanned the flames by force of magic. Blow one day, and then a second. Blow a third from morn till evening, when he looks within the furnace, looks around the oven border, hoping there to see an image rising from the molten metals. From the flames a cold arises, golden-maned and silver-headed. Hooves are formed of shining copper, all rejoiced by Thielmarinen at the wonderful creation.
This is the language of the blacksmith. Let the bear admire their grace. I desire a bride of beauty born of many magic metals. Thereupon a wander further drives the cold back to the furnace, Adds a greater mass of silver and of gold to rightful measures. Set the workmen at the bellows, eagerly the servants' labor. Gloveless, headless to the workmen, fan the flames within the furnace. Ilmarin and the magician, works unceasing at his fifth craft, molding well a golden maiden, bright of molten gold and silver. But the workmen fail their master. Faithlessly they ply the billows. Now the blacksmith in Marinon fans the flame with magic powers, blows one day and then a second, blows a third from morn till even, then he looks within his furnace, looks around the oven border, trusting there to see a maiden, coming from the molten metals, from the fire of virgin rice, golden-haired and silver-headed, Beautiful in form and feature, all are filled with awe and wonder.
But the artist and magician's Ilmarinen metal-worker forged night and days unceasing on the bride of his creation. Feet he forged for the maiden, hands and arms of gold and silver, but her feet are not for walking, neither can her arms embrace him. Ears here forged for the virgin, but her ears are not for hearing. Forge her a mouth of beauty, eyes he forged bright and sparkling, but the magic mouth is speechless, and the eyes are not for seeing, spake the artist Ilmarinen. This, indeed, a priceless maiden! Could she only speak in wisdom? Could she breathe the breath of Ukko? Thereupon he lays the virgin, on his silken couch of slumber, on his downy place of resting, Ilmarinen hath his bathroom.
Make it ready for his service, binds together silken brushes, brings three cans of crystal water, wherewithal to live the image, live the golden maid of beauty. When these talks had been completed, Ilmarinen, hoping, trusting, laid his golden bride to slumber on his downy couch of resting, ordered many silken wrappings, ordered bare skins, three in numbers, ordered seven lambs' wool blankets, thus to keep him warm in slumber, sleeping by good golden image. He paid forage from magic metals. Warm the side of Ilmarinen, that was wrapped in verse and blanket, chilled apart beside the maiden by his bride of gold and silver. One side warm, the other lifeless, turning into ice from coldness, spake the artist Ilmarinen.
Not for me was born this virgin from the magic molten metals. I sole take her to Wainola, give her to old Wainamoinen. As a bright and lively companion, comfort to him in his dotage. Ilmerinen, much disheartened, takes the virgin to Wainola. To take plains of Kalevala, to his brother speaks as follows. O thou ancient Wainamonen! Look with favour on this image. Make the maiden fair and lovely. Beautiful in form and feature, sweeter to thy years declining. Wainamoinen, old and thoughtful, look in wonder on the Virgin, on the golden bride of beauty, spake these words to Ilmarinen. Wherefore dost thou bring this maiden? Wherefore bring thou Wainamoinen, bride of molten gold and silver? Spake in answer in Marianne.
Wherefore should I bring this image but for purpose the nobles? I have brought her as companion to thy life in years declining as a joy and consolation, when thy days are full of trouble.
Spake the good old Phnomonan. Magic brother, wonder forther, Throw the virgin to the furnace, to the flames, thy golden image. Forge from her a thousand trinkets. Take the image into its land. Take her to the plains of Pohya. Take for her the mighty powers may engage in deadly contest. Worthy trophy for the victor. Not for me, this bride of wonder. Neither for my worthy people. I soul never wet an image, born from many magic metals. Never wed a silver maiden, never wed a golden virgin. Then the hero of the waters, called together all his people, spake this fort of ancient wisdom. Every child of Northland, listen, whether poor of fortune favored, never bow before an image born of molten gold and silver.
Never while the sunlight's bludgeoned, never while the moonlight's glimmers, Choose a maiden of metals. Choose the bride from gold created. Cold the lips of golden maiden. Silver breathes the breath of sorrow.
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39 38 - RUNE XXXVIII. Ilmarinen's Fruitless Wooing 12:50
Rune 38 of the Kalevala.
The Kalevala, translated by John Martin Crawford, the Marienan's Fridtlis Ilmarinen, the magician, the eternal metal artist, lays aside the golden image, beauteous made of magic metals, throws the harness of his cursor, binds him to his sledge of birch wood, sits himself upon the cross bench, snaps the whip above the razor, thinking once again to journey to the mansion of Poggiola. There, too, a bride in honor, second daughter of the Northland, on he journeyed, restless northward, journeyed one day, then a second, so the third from morn till evening, when he reached a Northland village on the plains of Sarriola, lohe, hoses of Pojola, standing in the open courtyard, spied the hero Ilmarinen, thus addressed the metal worker.
Tell me how my child is living, how the bride of beauty prospers as a daughter to thy mother. Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, head bent down and brow dejected, thus addressed the Northland hostess. O thou dame of Sarriola, do not ask me of thy daughter, since— Ella's eye in Tuonela sleeps the maiden of the rainbow, sleeps in death the bride of beauty underneath the fragrant hether in the kingdom of Manala. Come, I for a second daughter, for the fires of thy virgin, beauteous hosses of Pojola. Give to me thy youngest maiden, for my former wife's compartments, for the chambers of her sister. Lohi, hostess of the Northland, spake these words to Ilmarinen. Foolish was the Northland hostess, when she gave her fairest virgin, in the bloom of youth and beauty, to the blacksmith of Mainola, only to be led to manna, like a lambkin to the slaughter.
I shall never give my daughter, shall not give my youngest maiden. Bride of Thine to be hereafter, life companion at Thy fireside, sooner would I give the Fair One to the Cataract and Whirlpool, to the River of Manala, to the waters of Tuoni. Then the blacksmith's ill-marrieden drew away his head, disdainful, shook his sable locks in anger, and turned to the inner court-room, where the maiden sat in waiting, begged dismissers to the daughter. Come with me, thou bright-eyed maiden, to the cottage where thy sister lived and lingered in contentment. Beg for me the sootsome biscuit, brew for me the beer of barley, Kept my dwelling-place in order. On the floor a babe was lying. Thus he sung to Ilmarinen.
Uninvited, leave this mansion. Go, thou stranger, from this dwelling. Once before thou camest hither, only bringing pain and trouble. Filling all our hearts with sorrow, fairest daughter of my mother, do not give this sweeter welcome. Look not on his eyes with pleasure, nor admire his form and features. In his mouth are only wolf teeth, cunning fox clothes in his mittens. In his shoes are only bare clothes. In his belt a hungry dagger, weapons these of blood and murder, only worn by the unworthy. Then the daughter spake as follows to the blacksmith in my name. Follow the days, maid will never, never heed unworth the suitors. Though her slain the bride of beauty, once the maiden of the rainbow, though would also slay her sister, I deserve a better suitor, wish a truer, nobler husband.
Wish to ride in richer sledge, have a better home protection. Never will I swap the cottage and the cold place of a blacksmith. Then the hero Ilmarinen, the eternal metal artist, turned his head away, disdainful, shook his humble locks in anger, quickly seized the trembling maiden, Held her in his grasp of iron, hastened from the court of Loughy, till he sleds upon the highway. In his sleight he sits the virgin, snugly wraps her in his far-robes, snaps his whip above the razor, gallops on the high road homeward. With one hand the reins be tightened, with the other holds the maiden, speaks the virgin daughter, weeping. We have reached the lowland berries. Hear the herbs of water borders. Leave me here to sink and perish, as a child of cold misfortune.
Quick, Elmarinen. Listen. If thou dost not quickly free me, I will break thy sleds to pieces, throw thy furropes to the north winds. Elmarinen makes this answer. When the blacksmith built his no-sledge, all the parts are hopped with iron. Therefore will the beauteous maiden never beat my sledge to fragments. Then the silver-tinseled daughter wept and wailed in bitter accent, wrung her hands in desperation, spake again to Ilmerinen. If thou dost not quickly free me, I shall change to ocean salmon, be a whithing of the waters. Thou wilt never does escape me, as a pike I'll fleetly follow. Then the maiden of Pohjola, waved and wailed in bitter accent, wrung her hands in desperation, spake again to Ilmerinin.
If thou dost not quickly free me, I shall husten to the forest, mid the rocks become an ermine. "'Thou wilt never thus escape me, as a serpent I will follow.' Then the beauty of the Northland, wailed and wept in bitter accent, wrung her hands in desperation, spake once more to Ilmarinen. "'Surely if thou dost not free me, as a lark I will fly in this ether, hide myself within the storm clouds. Neither while thou dost escape me, as an eagle I will follow.' They had gone but little distance. When the courser's seat and halted, frightened at some passing object, and the maiden looked in wonder, in the snow beheld some footprints, spake this word to Ilmerinen. Who has run across our highway? This the timid hae, he answered.
There upon the stolen maiden, sobbed and moaned, In depths of sorrow, heavy-hearted, spake these measures. Woe is me, ill-fated virgin, happier for my life hereafter if the heir I could but follow to his burrow in the woodlands. Crook-legs' fore to me is finer than the robes of Ilmarinen. Ilmarinen the magician tossed his head in full resentment. Gallop on the highway homeward, traveled but a little distant, when again his courses halted, frighted at some passing stranger. Quick the maiden looked and wondered, in the snow beheld some footprints, spake this measure to the blacksmith, who has crossed our snowy pathway. "'This a fox,' replied the minstrel. Thereupon the beauteous virgin, moaned again in depths of anguish, sang this accent, heavy-hearted.
Woe is me, ill-fated maiden, happier fall my life hereafter with the cunning fox to wander than with this ill-mannered sweater. Reynolds' fortum is finer than the robes of Irmarinen. Thereupon the metal-worker shot his lip in sore displeasure, hastened on the highway homeward, traveled but a little distance, when again his courses halted. Quick the maiden looked in wonder. In the snow beheld some footprints. Speck these words to the magician. Who again has crossed our pathway? This the wolf, said Ilmarinen. Thereupon the fated daughter fell again to bitter weeping, and intoned this word of sorrow. Woe is me, a hapless maiden, happier for my life hereafter, brighter fall would be my future, if these tracks I could but follow, on the wall of the hair is finer than the first of Ilmarinen, fathless sweeter of the Northland.
Then the minstrel of Wainola closed his lips again in anger, shocked his sabal locks, resentful snapped a whiff above the razor, and the steed flew onwards swiftly, over the way to Kalevala. To the village of the blacksmith, sad and weary from his journey, Ilmarinenholm returning, fell upon his couch in slumber, and the maiden laughed derision. In the morning, slowly waking, head confused and looks disheveled, spake the wizard's words as follow. Saul, I set myself to singing magic songs and incantations. Saul, I know, enhanced this maiden to a black wolf on the mountains, to a salmon of the ocean. Saul not send her to the woodlands. All the forests would be frightened. Saul not send her to the waters.
All the fish would flee in terrors. This my sword, Saul, drink her life blood, and her rain of scorn and heart hurt. Quick, the sword fills his intention. Quick divines his evil purpose, speaks these words to Ilmerinen. Was not born to drink the life-blought of a maiden pure and lovely of a fair but helpless virgin. Thereupon the magic minstrel, filled with rage, began his singing. Sang the very rocks asunder, till the distant hills re-echo. Sang the maiden to a seagull, croaking from the ocean ledge, calling from the ocean island, screeching on the sandy sea coast, flying to the winds opposing. When his conjuring had ended, Elmerinan joined his nose-ledge, whipped his teeth upon the gallop, hastened to his ancient smithy, to his home in Calefala.
While Namoynen, old and truthful, comes to meet him on the highway, speak this word to the magician. Ilmarinen, worthy brother, wherefore cometh heavy-hearted from the dismal Sarriola? Does Pohjola live and prosper? Speck the mincerle Ilmarinen. Why should not pohjola prosper? There the sampo grins unceasing. Noisy rocks the lead in colors. Grins one day the flower for eating. Grins the second flower to selling. Grins the third day flower for keeping. Thus it is pohjola prosper, while the sampo is in Norland. There is plowing, there is sowing, there is growth of every fruit too. There is welfare never ending. Spake the ancient wine namoynen. Ilmarinen, artis' brother, where, then, is the Northland daughter?
For we know and beauteous maiden, for whose hand, though, has been absent. These are the words of Ilmarinen. I have changed the hateful virgin to a seagull on the ocean. Now she calls above the waters, screeches from the ocean island. On the rocks she calls and murmurs, faintly calling for a suitor.
End of rune thirty-eight.
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40 39 - RUNE XXXIX. Wainamoinen's Sailing 13:46
The Kalevala.
Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 39, Vaynemoinen's Sailing. Vainamoinen, old and faithful, spake these words to Ilmarinen. O thou wonder-working brother, let us go to Sarriola, there to gain the magic sampo, there to see the lid in colors. Ilmarinen gave this answer. Hard indeed to seize the sampo, neither can the lid be captured from the never-pleasant northland from the dismal Sarriola. Luo-hi took away the sample, carried off the lid in colors, to the stone mount of Poyola, hid it in the copper mountain where nine locks secure the treasure. Many young roots sprout around it, grow nine fathoms deep in sand-earth, one great root beneath the mountain, in the cataract a second, and a third beneath the castle, built upon the mount of ages.
Spake the ancient Vena Moinen. Brother mind and wonder-worker, let us go to Sarriola, that we may secure the Sampo. Let us build a goodly vessel, bring the Sampo to Vainola, bring away the lid and colors from the stone-berg of Poyola, from the copper-bearing mountain, where the miracle lies anchored. Ilmarinen thus made answer. By the land the way is safer, Lempo travels on the ocean, ghastly death upon his shoulder. On the sea the waves will drift us, and the storm winds wreck our vessel. Then our hands must do the rowing, and our feet must steer us homeward. Spake the ancient Veinamoinen, safe indeed by land to journey, but the way is rough and trying. Long the road and full of turnings, lovely is the ship on ocean, beautiful to ride the billows, journey easy o'er the waters, sailing in a trusty vessel.
Should the west wind cross our pathway, will the south wind drive us northward? Be that as it may, my brother, since thou dost not love the water, by the land then let us journey. Forge me now the sword of battle, forge for me the mighty fire sword, that I may destroy the wild beasts, frighten all the Northland people, as we journey for the Sampo, to the cold and dismal village, to the never pleasant Northland, to the dismal Sarriola. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen, the eternal forger-artist, laid the metals in the furnace. In the fire laid steel and iron, in the hot coals gold and silver. Rightful measure of the metals set the workmen at the furnace. Lustily they plied the bellows. Like the wax the iron melted.
Like the dough the hard steel softened. Like the water ran the silver, and the liquid gold flowed after. Then the minstrel Ilmarinen, the eternal wonder-forger, looks within his magic furnace on the border of his oven. There beholds the fire-sword forming, sees the blade with golden handle, takes the weapon from the furnace, lays it on his heavy anvil for the falling of the hammer. Forges well the blade of magic, well the heavy sword he tempers, ornaments the hero weapon with the finest gold and silver. Vainamoinen, the magician, comes to view the blade of conquest, lifts admiringly the fire sword, then these words the hero utters. Does the weapon match the soldier? Does the handle suit the bearer?
Yea, the blade and hilt are molded to the wishes of the minstrel. On the sword point gleams the moonlight. On the blade the sun is shining. On the hilt the bright stars twinkle. On the edge a horse is neighing. On the handle plays a kitten. On the sheath a dog is barking. Vainamoinen wields his fire sword, tests it on the Iron Mountain, and these words the hero utters. With this broadsword I could quickly cleave in twain the Mount of Poya, cut the flinty rocks asunder. Spake the blacksmith Ilmarinen, wherewith shall I guard from danger? How protect myself from evil, from the ills by land and water? Shall I wear an iron armor, belt of steel around my body? Stronger is a man in armor, safer in a male of copper.
Now the time has come to journey to the never pleasant Northland, Veinamoinen, ancient minstrel, and his brother Ilmarinen hasten to the field and forest, searching for their fiery coursers, in each shining belt a bridle with the harness on their shoulders. In the woods they find a racer, in the glen a steed of battle, ready for his master's service. Vainamoinen old and trusty, and the blacksmith Ilmarinen throw the harness on the courser, hitch him to the sledge of conquest. Hasten on their journey northward, drive along the broad sea's margin, till they hear someone lamenting, on the strand hear something wailing, near the landing place of vessels. Vainamoinen ancient minstrel speaks these words in wonder, guessing.
This must be some maiden weeping, some fair daughter thus lamenting. Let us journey somewhat nearer, to discover whence this wailing. Drew they nearer, nearer, nearer, hoping thus to find a maiden weeping on the sandy seashore. It was not a maiden weeping, but a vessel sad and lonely, waiting on the shore and wailing. Spake the ancient Vaynamoinen, Why art weeping, goodly vessel, what the cause of thy lamenting? Art thou mourning for thy rowlocks? Is thy rigging ill-adjusted? Dost thou weep since thou art anchored on the shore in times of trouble? Thus the warship spake in answer. To the waters would this vessel haste upon the well-tarred rollers, as a happy maiden journeys, to the cottage of her husband.
Ay, alas, a goodly vessel, weep because I lie at anchor, weep and wail because no hero sets me free upon the waters, free to ride the rolling billows. It was said when I was fashioned, often sung when I was building, that this bark should be for battle, should become a mighty warship, carry in my hull great treasures, priceless goods across the ocean. Never have I sailed to conquest, never have I carried booty, other vessels not as worthy, to the wars are ever sailing, sailing to the songs of battle. Three times in the summer season, come they home with treasures laden, in their hulls bring gold and silver. I, alas, a worthy vessel, many months have lain at anchor, I, a warship well constructed, am decaying in the harbor, never having sailed to conquest.
Worms are gnawing at my vitals, in my hull their dwelling places, and ill-omened birds of heaven build their nests within my rigging. Frogs and lizards of the forest play about my oars and rudder, three times better for this vessel were he but a valley birch tree or an aspen on the heather, with the squirrels in his branches and the dogs beneath them barking. They, Nimoynen, old and faithful, thus address the ship at anchor. Weep no more, thou goodly vessel, man of war no longer murmur, thou shalt sail to Sarriola, sing the war songs of the Northland, sail with us to deadly combat. Weren't thou built by the Creator, thou canst sail the roughest waters, sidewise journey o'er the ocean, dost not need the hand to touch thee, dost not need the foot to turn thee, needing nothing to propel thee.
Thus the weeping boat made answer, cannot sail without assistance, neither can my brother vessels, sail unaided o'er the waters, sail across the waves undriven. Spake the ancient Vainamoinen, should I lead thee to the broad sea, wilt thou journey north unaided, sail without the help of rowers, sail without the aid of south winds, sail without the helm to guide thee. Thus the wailing ship replying, Cannot sail without assistance, neither can my brother vessels, sail without the aid of rowers, sail without the help of south winds, nor without the helm to guide them. These the words of Vaynemoinen. Wilt thou run with aid of oarsmen when the south winds give assistance guided by a skillful pilot?
This the answer of the warship. Quickly can I course these waters when my oars are manned by rowers, when my sails are filled with south winds. All my goodly brother vessels sail the ocean with assistance when the master holds the rudder. Then the ancient Vainamoinen left the racer on the seaside, tied him to the sacred birch tree, hung the harness on a willow, rolled the vessel to the waters, sang the ship upon the broad sea, asked the boat this simple question. O thou vessel well appearing from the mighty oak constructed, art thou strong to carry treasures as in view thou art commanding. Thus the goodly ship made answer. Strong am I to carry treasures. In my hull a golden cargo. I can bear a hundred oarsmen, and of warriors a thousand.
Vainamoinen the Magician then began his wondrous singing. On one side the magic vessel sang he youth with golden virtues, bearded youth with strength of heroes sang them into mail of copper. On the other side the vessel sang he silver tinseled maidens girded them with belts of copper, golden rings upon their fingers. Sings again the great magician, fills the magic ship with heroes, ancient heroes, brave and mighty, sings them into narrow limits, since the young men came before them. At the helm, himself be seated near the last beam of the vessel, steered his goodly boat in joyance, thus addressed the willing warship. Glide upon the trackless waters, sail away, my ship of magic. Sail across the waves before thee, speed thou like a dancing bubble, like a flower upon the billows.
Then the ancient Vayneamoynon set the young men to the rowing, let the maidens sit in waiting. Eagerly the youthful heroes bend the oars and try the rowlocks, but the distance is not lessened. Then the minstrel Vayneamoynon set the maidens to the rowing, let the young men rest in waiting. Eagerly the merry maidens bend the aspen oars in rowing, but the distance is not lessened. Then the master of Vienamoinen set the old men to the rowing, let the youth remain in waiting. Lustily the aged heroes bend and try the oars of Aspen, but the distance is not lessened. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen grasped the oars with master magic, and the boat leaped o'er the surges, swiftly sped across the billows.
Far and wide the oars resounded, quickly was the distance lessened. With a rush and roar of waters, Ilmarinen sped his vessel, benches, ribs, and rowlocks creaking, oars of aspen far resounding. Flap the sails like wings of moorcocks, and the prow dips like a white swan. In the rear it croaks like ravens, lough the oars and rigging rattle. Straightway ancient Vainamoinen, sitting by the bending rudder, turns his magic vessel landward to a jutting promontory where appears a Northland village. On the point stands Lemminkainen, Kalkumieli black magician, Atti wizard of Vainola, wishing for the fish of Poya, weeping for his fated dwelling, for his perilous adventures, hard at work upon a vessel, on the sail yards of a fish boat, near the hunger point and island, near the village home deserted.
Good the ears of the magician, good the wizard's eyes for seeing, casts his vision to the southeast, turns his eyes upon the sunset, sees afar a wondrous rainbow, farther on a cloudlet hanging, but the bow was a deception, and the cloudlet a delusion. Tis a vessel swiftly sailing, tis a warship flying northward, over the blue back of the broad sea, on the far extending waters, at the helm the master standing, at the oars a mighty hero. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, do not know this wondrous vessel, not this well-constructed warship, coming from the distant Suomi, rowing for the hostile Pouya. Thereupon wild Lemminkainen, called aloud in tones of thunder, o'er the waters to the vessel, made the distant hills re-echo with the music of his calling.
Whence this vessel on the waters, who's the warship sailing hither? Spake the master of the vessel to the reckless Lemminkainen. Who art thou from fen or forest, senseless wizard from the woodlands, that thou dost not know this vessel, magic warship of Vainola? Dost not know him at the rudder, nor the hero at the rowlocks? Spake the wizard Lemminkainen, well I know the helm director, and I recognize the rower. Vainamoinen, old and trusty, at the helm directs the vessel, Ilmarin, and does the rowing. Whither is the vessel sailing, whither wandering, my heroes? Spake the ancient Vainamoinen, we are sailing to the Northland, there to gain the magic sampo, there to get the lid in colors, from the stoneberg of Poyola, from the copper-bearing mountain.
Spake the evil Lemminkainen, O thou good old Vainamoinen, take me with thee to Poyola, make me third of magic heroes, since thou goest for the sampo, goest for the lid in colors. I shall prove a valiant soldier when thy wisdom calls for fighting, I am skilled in arts of warfare. Vainamoinen ancient minstrel gave assent to Ahti's wishes. Thereupon wild Lemminkainen hastened to Vainola's warship, bringing floats of aspen timber to the ships of Vainamoinen. Thus the hero of the Northland speaks to reckless Lemminkainen. There is aspen on my vessel, aspen floats in great abundance, and the boat is heavy laden. Wherefore dost thou bring the aspen to the vessel of Vainola? Lemminkainen gave this answer.
Not through caution sinks a vessel, nor a haystack by its proppings. Seas abound in hidden dangers. Heavy storms arise and threaten. Fell destruction to the sailor that would brave the angry billows. Spake the good, old Vainamoinen. Therefore is this warlike vessel built of trusty steel and copper, trimmed and bound in toughest iron, that the winds may not destroy it, may not harm my ship of magic.
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41 40 - RUNE XL. Birth of the Harp 11:12
Rune 40 of the Kalevala.
Rune 40 Birth of the Harp Vainamoinen, ancient minstrel, onward steered his goodly vessel. Vainamoinen, ancient minstrel, onward steered his goodly vessel from the isle of Lemminkainen, from the borders of the village, steered his warship through the waters, sang it o'er the ocean billows, joyful steered it to Poyola. On the banks were maidens standing, and the daughters spake these measures. List the music on the waters, what this wonderful rejoicing, what this singing on the billows. Far more beautiful this singing, this rejoicing on the waters, than our ears have heard in Northland. Venamoynen the magician steered his wonder vessel onward, steered one day along the seashore, steered the next through shallow waters, steered the third day through the rivers.
Then the reckless Lemminkainen suddenly some words remembered he had heard along the fire stream, near the cataract and whirlpool, and these words the hero uttered. Cease, O cataract thy roaring, cease, O waterfall thy foaming, maidens of the foam and current sitting on the rocks in water. On the stone blocks in the river, Take the foam and white-capped billows in your arms, and still their anger, that our ships may pass in safety. Aged dame beneath the eddy, thou that livest in the sea foam, swimming rise above the waters, lift thy head above the whirlpool, gather well the foam and billows in thine arms, and still their fury, that our ship may pass in safety. Ye, O rocks beneath the current, underneath the angry waters, lower well your heads of danger, sink below our magic vessel, that our ship may pass in safety.
Should this prayer prove inefficient, Kimo, hero, son of Kamo, bore an outlet with thine auger, cut a channel for this vessel through the rocks beneath the waters, that our ship may pass in safety. Should all this prove unavailing, Hostess of the running water, Change to moss these rocky ledges, Change this vessel to an airbag, That between these rocks and billows It may float and pass in safety. Virgin of the sacred whirlpool, Thou whose home is in the river, Spin from flax of strongest fiber, Spin a thread of crimson color, Draw it gently through the water, That the thread our ship may follow, And our vessel pass in safety. Goddess of the helm, thou daughter, of the ocean winds and sea foam, take thy helm endowed with mercy.
Guide our vessel through these dangers, hasten through these floods enchanted, passing by the house of envy, by the gates of the enchanters, that our ship may pass in safety. Should this prayer prove inefficient, Ukko ruler of creation, guide our vessel with thy fire sword, guide it with thy blade of lightning, through the dangers of these rapids, through the cataract and whirlpool, that our ship may pass in safety. Thereupon, old Vainamoinen steered his boat through winds and waters, through the rocky chinks and channels, through the surges wildly tossing, and the vessel passed in safety, through the dangers of the current, through the sacred stream and whirlpool, as it gains the open waters, gains at length the broad lake's bosom.
Suddenly, its motion ceases on some object firmly anchored. Thereupon, young Ilmarinen and the aid of Lemminkainen plunges in the lake the rudder, struggles with the aid of magic, but he can't The world cannot move the vessel, cannot free it from its moorings. Vainamoinen, old and truthful, thus addresses his companion. O thou hero Lemminkainen, stoop and look beneath this warship, see on what the boat is anchored, see on what our craft is banging, in the broad expanse of water, in the broad lake's deepest soundings, if upon some rock or tree snag, or upon some other hindrance. Thereupon wild Lemminkainen looked beneath the magic vessel, peering through the crystal waters, spake in these the words he uttered.
Does not rest upon a sandbar, nor upon a rock or tree snag, but upon the back and shoulders of the mighty pike of Northland, on the fin bones of the monster. Veinamoinen old and trusty spake these words to Lemminkainen. Many things we find in water, rocks and trees and fish and sea duck. Are we on the pike's broad shoulders, on the fin bones of the monster? Pierce the waters with thy broadsword, cut the monster into pieces. Thereupon wild Lemminkainen, reckless wizard, filled with courage, pulls his broadsword from his girdle, from its sheath the bone divider, strikes with might of magic hero, headlong falls into the water. And the blacksmith Ilmarinen lifts the wizard from the river, speaks these words to dripping Ati.
Accidents will come to mortals, accidents will come to heroes, by the hundreds, by the thousands, even to the gods above us. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen drew his broadsword from his girdle, from its sheath his blade of honor tried to slay the pike of Northland with the weapon of his forging, but he broke his sword in pieces, did not harm the water monster. Vainamoinen, old and trusty, thus addresses his companions. Poor apologies for heroes. When occasion calls for victors, when we need some great magician, need a hero filled with valor, then the arm that comes is feeble and the mind insane or witless strength and reason gone to others. Straightway ancient Vynamoinen, miracle of strength and wisdom, draws his fire sword from his girdle, wields the mighty blade of magic, strikes the pike beneath the vessel, and impales the mighty monster.
Raises him above the surface. In the air the pike he circles. Cuts the monster into pieces. To the water falls the pike tail. To the ship the head and body. Easily the ship moves onward. Vienemoynen, old and faithful, to the shore directs his vessel. On the strand the boat he anchors. Looks in every nook and corner. For the fragments of the monster. Gathers well the parts together. Speaks these words to those about him. Let the oldest of the heroes slice for me the pike of Northland, slice the fish to fitting morsels. Answered all the men and heroes, and the maidens spake assenting. Worthier the catcher's fingers, Wynemoynen's hands are sacred. Thereupon the wise magician drew a fish-knife from his girdle, sliced the pike to fitting morsels, spake again to those about him.
Let the youngest of the maidens cook for me the pike of Northland, set for me a goodly dinner. All the maidens quick responded, all the virgins vied in cooking, neither could outdo the other, thus the pike was rendered toothsome. Feasted all the old magicians, feasted all the younger heroes, feasted all the men and maidens. On the rocks were left the fishbones, only relics of their feasting. Vienamoinen ancient minstrel looked upon the pile of fragments, on the fishbones looked and pondered, spake these words in meditation. Wondrous things might be constructed from the relies of this monster were they in the blacksmith's furnace in the hands of the magician in the hands of Ilmarinen, spake the blacksmith of Wainola.
Nothing fine can be constructed from the bones and teeth of fishes by the skillful forger artist by the hands of the magician. These the words of Wainamoinen. Something wondrous might be builded from these jaws and teeth and fishbones. Might a magic harp be fashioned, could an artist be discovered that could shape them to my wishes? But he found no fishbone artist that could shape the harp of joyance, from the realize of their feasting, from the jawbones of the monster, to the will of the magician. Thereupon wise Vienemoynen set himself at work designing, quick became a fishbone artist, made a harp of wondrous beauty, lasting joy and pride of Suomi. Whence the harp's enchanting arches from the jawbones of the monster, whence the necessary harp-pins from the pike-teeth firmly fastened, whence the sweetly singing harp-strings from the tale of Lempo's stallion.
Thus was born the harp of magic from the mighty pike of Northland, from the relies of the feasting of the heroes of Vynola. All the young men came to view it, all the aged with their children, mothers with their beauteous daughters, maidens with their golden tresses, all the people of the islands came to view the harp of joyance, pride and beauty of the Northland. Vynamoinen ancient minstrel let the aged try the harp strings, gave it to the young magicians, to the dames and to their daughters, to the maidens silver tinsel, to the singers of Vynola. When the young men touched the harp strings, then arose the notes of discord. When the aged play upon it, dissonance their only music. Spake the wizard Lemminkainen, O ye witless, worthless children, O ye senseless, useless maidens, O ye wisdom-lacking heroes, cannot play this harp of magic, cannot touch the notes of concord.
Give to me this thing of beauty, hither bring the harp of fishbones, let me try my skillful fingers. Lemminkainen touched the harp strings, carefully the strings adjusted, turned the harp in all directions, fingered all the strings in sequence, played the instrument of wonder, but it did not speak in concord, did not sing the notes of joyance. Spake the ancient Wiener Moinen. There is none among these maidens, none among these youthful heroes, none among the old magicians that can play the harp of magic, touch the notes of joy and pleasure. Let us take the harp to Poya, there to find a skillful player that can touch the strings in Concord. Then they sailed to Sarriola, to Poyola took the wonder, there to find the harp a master.
All the heroes of Poyola, all the boys and all the maidens, ancient dames and bearded minstrels, vainly touched the harp of beauty. Lohi, hostess of the Northland, took the harp strings in her fingers. All the youth of Sarriola, youth of every tribe and station, vainly touched the harp of Fishbone. Could not find the notes of joyance, dissonance their only pleasure, shrieked the harp-strings like the whirlwinds, all the tones were harsh and frightful. In the corner slept a blind man, lay a graybeard on the oven, rousing from his couch of slumber, murmured thus within his corner. Cease at once this wretched playing, make an end of all this discord, it benumbs mine ears for hearing, racks my brain, despoils my senses, robs me of the sweets of sleeping.
If the harp of Suomi's people true delight cannot engender, cannot bring the notes of pleasure, cannot sing to sleep the aged, cast the thing into the waters, sink it in the deeps of ocean, take it back to Kalevala, to the home of him that made it, to the hands of its creator. Thereupon the harp made answer, to the blind man sang these measures. Shall not fall upon the waters, shall not sink within the ocean, I will play for my Creator, sing in melody and concord, in the fingers of my Master. Carefully the harp was carried to the artist that had made it, to the hands of its Creator, to the feet of Wiener Moinen.
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42 41 - RUNE XLI. Wainamoinen's Harp-songs 13:29
RUNE 41 OF THE CALAVELLA.
The Kalavala. RUNE 41 – Weinermoynen's Harpsongs Vainamoinen, ancient minstrel, the eternal wisdom-singer, laves his hands to snowy whiteness. Sits upon the rock of joyance, on the stone of song he settles, on the mount of silver clearness, on the summit golden-coloured. Takes the harp by him created, in his hands the harp of fishbone, with his knee the arch supporting, takes the harp-strings in his fingers, speaks these words to those assembled. Hither come! Ye Northland people, come and listen to my playing, to the harps entrancing measures, to my songs of joy and gladness. Then the singer of Bainola took the harp of his creation, quick adjusting, sweetly tuning, deftly plied his skillful fingers to the strings that he had fashioned.
Now was gladness rolled on gladness, and the harmony of pleasure echoed from the hills and mountains. Added singing to his playing, out of joy did joy come welling. Now resounded marvellous music. All of Northland stopped and listened, every creature in the forest, all the beasts that haunt the woodlands on their nimble feet. came bounding, came to listen to his playing, came to hear his songs of joyance. Leap the squirrels from the branches, merrily from birch to aspen, climb the ermines on the fences, o'er the plains the elk-deer bounded, and the lynxes purred with pleasure. Wolves awoke in far-off swamplands, Bounded o'er the marsh and heather, and the bear, his den deserted, left his lair within the pinewood, settled by a fence to listen, leaned against the listening gate-posts, but the gate-posts yield beneath him.
Now he climbs the poetry branches that he may enjoy and wonder, climbs and listens to the music, Of the harp of Wainamoinen, Tapiola's wisest senior, Metzala's most noble landlord, and of Tapiola the people, young and aged men and maidens, flew like red deer up the mountains, there to listen to the playing to the harp of Wainamoinen. Tapiola's wisest mistress, hostess of the glen and forest, Robed herself in blue and scarlet, bound her limbs with silken ribbons, sat upon the woodland summit on the branches of a birch-tree, there to listen to the playing, to the high-born heroes harping, to the songs of Wainamoinon.
All the birds that fly in mid-air fell like snowflakes from the heavens, flew to hear the minstrels playing, hear the harp of Wainamoinen. Eagles, in their lofty eerie, heard the songs of the enchanter. Swift they left their unfledged young ones, flew and perched around the minstrel. From the heights the hawks descended. From the clouds down swooped the falcon. Ducks arose from inland waters. Swans came gliding from the marshes. Tiny finches, green and golden, flew in flocks that darkened sunlight, came in myriads to listen, perched upon the head and shoulders of the charming Wainamoinen, sweetly singing to the playing. of the ancient Bard and Minstrel.
And the daughters of the well-kind, Nature's well-beloved daughters, listened all in rapt attention. Some were seated on the rainbow, some upon the crimson cloudlets, some upon the dome of heaven. In their hands the moon's fair daughters held their weaving combs of silver, In their hands the sun's sweet maidens grasp the handles of their distaffs, weaving with their golden shuttles, spinning from their silver spindles, on the red rims of the cloudlets, on the bow of many colors. As they hear the minstrel playing, hear the harp of Wainamoinen, quickly drop their combs of silver, drop the spindles from their fingers, And the golden threads are broken. Broken are the threads of silver. All the fish in swalmy waters heard the songs of the magician, came on flying fins to listen.
To the harp of Wainamoinen came the trout with graceful motions, water dogs with awkward movements, from the water cliffs the salmon, from the sea caves came the whiting, From the deeper caves, the bill-fish. Came the pike from beds of sea-fern, little fish with eyes of scarlet, leaning on the reeds and rushes, with their heads above the surface. Came to bear the harp of joyance, hear the songs of the enchanter. Ato, king of all the waters, ancient king with beard of sea-grass, Raised his head above the billows in a boat of water-lilies, glided to the coast in silence, listened to the wondrous singing, to the harp of Wainamoinen. These the words the sea-king uttered. Never have I heard such playing, never heard such strains of music, never since the sea was fashioned Has the songs of this enchanter, this sweet singer, Wainamoinen.
Satkor's daughter from the blue-deep sisters of the wave-washed ledges on the colored strands were sitting, smoothing out their sea-green tresses with the combs of molten silver, with their silver-handled brushes, Brushes forged with golden bristles. When they hear the magic playing, hear the harp of Wainamoinen, fold their brushes on the billows, fold their combs with silver handles to the bottom of the waters, unadorned their heads remaining, and uncombed their sea-green tresses, came the hostess of the waters, Ancient hostess robed in flowers, rising from her deep-sea castle, swimming to the shore in wonder, listen to the minstrels playing, to the harp of Wainamoinen. As the magic tones re-echoed, as the singer's song out-circled, sank the hostess into slumber on the rock of many colors, on her watery couch of joyance, deep the sleep that settled o'er her.
Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, played one day, and then a second, played the third from morn till even. There was neither man nor hero, neither ancient dame nor maiden, not in Metzola a daughter. Whom he did not touch to weeping, wept the young and wept the aged, wept the mothers, wept the daughters, wept the warriors and heroes at the music of his playing, at the songs of the magician.
Wynermoynen's tears came flowing, welling from the master's eyelids. Pearly Teardrops coursing downward, Larger than the Wartle-berries, Finer than the Pearls of Ocean, Smoother than the Eggs of Moorhens, Brighter than the Eyes of Swallows. From his eyes the Teardrops started, Flowed adown his Burrowed Visage, Falling from his beard in streamlets, Trickled on his heaving bosom, streaming o'er his golden girdle, coursing to his garment's border, then beneath his shoes of ermine flowing on and flowing ever, part to earth for her possession, part to water for her portion.
As the teardrops fall and mingle, Formed they streamlets from the eyelids of the minstrel vinminen, to the blue mere sandy margin, to the deeps of crystal waters lost among the reeds and rushes, spake at last the ancient minstrel, Is there one in all this concourse, one in all this vast assembly, that can gather up my tear-drops from the deep, pellucid waters? Thus the younger heroes answered, answered thus the bearded seniors. There is none in all this concourse, none in all this vast assembly, that can gather up thy teardrops from the deep pellucid waters. Spake again, wise Wainamoinen, he that gathers up my teardrops from the deeps of crystal waters shall receive a beauteous plumage. Came a raven, flying, croaking, and the minstrel thus addressed him.
Bring, O raven, bring my tear-drops from the crystal lake's abysses. I will give thee, beauteous plumage, recompense for golden service. But the raven failed his master. Came a duck upon the waters. And the hero thus addressed him. Bring, O Water Bird, my tear-drops. Often thou dost dive the deep sea. Sink thy bill upon the bottom of the waters thou dost travel. Dive again, my tears, to gather. I will give thee beauteous plumage recompense for golden service. Thereupon the duck departed, hither, thither, swam and circled. Dive beneath the foam and billow. Gathered Wynermoynon's tear-drops from the blue sea's pebbly bottom, from the deep pellucid waters. Brought them to the great magician, beautifully formed and colored, glistening in the silver sunshine, glimmering in the golden moonlight.
Many-colored. As the rainbow, fitting ornaments for heroes, jewels for the maids of beauty, this the origin of sea-pearls and the blue ducks, beauteous, plumage.
End of Rune 41.
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43 42 - RUNE XLII. Capture of the Sampo 20:40
The Kalevala. Capture of the Sampo. Wainer Moynan, old and truthful, with the blacksmith Ilmer With the reckless son of Lempo, handsome hero, Kalkumeli. On the sea's smooth plain departed, on the far-extending waters, to the village cold and dreary, to the never-pleasant Northland, where the heroes fall and perish. Ilmarinen led the rowers, on one side the magic warship, and the reckless Lemminkainen led the rowers, on the other. Wainamoinen, old and trusty, laid his hand upon the rudder, steered his vessel o'er the waters through the foam and angry billows, to Pajola's place of landing, to the cylinders of copper, where the warships lie at anchor. When they had arrived at Pogia, when their journey they had ended, on the land they rolled their vessel, on the copper-banded rollers.
Straightway journeyed to the village, hastened to the halls and hamlets of the dismal Sarriola. Luhi, hostess of the Northland, thus addressed the stranger heroes. Magic heroes of Vainola, what the tidings ye are bringing to the people of my village. Vainamoinen, ancient minstrel, gave this answer to the hostess. All the hosts of Kala Valla, Are inquiring for the Sampo, asking for the lid in colours. Hither have these heroes journeyed, to divide the priceless treasure. Thus the hostess spake in answer. No one would divide a partridge, nor a squirrel with three heroes. Wonderful the magic Sampo, plenty does it bring to Northland, and the coloured lid re-echoes from the copper-bearing mountains.
From the stone-berg of Pajola, to the joy of its possessors. Vaynamoinen, ancient minstrel, thus addressed the ancient Luhi. If thou wilt not share the Sampo, give to us an equal portion, we will take it to Vaynola, with its lid of many colors, take by force the hope of Pogia. Thereupon the Northland hostess Angry grew and sighed for vengeance, called her people into council, called the hosts of Sarriola, heroes with their trusted broadswords, to destroy old Wainamoinen with his people of the Northland. Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, hastened to his harp of fishbone and began his magic playing. All of Pogia stopped and listened. Every warrior was silenced. By the notes of the magician. Peaceful-minded grew the soldiers, all the maidens danced with pleasure, while the heroes fell to weeping.
And the young men looked in wonder. Vayner Moinen plays unceasing, plays the maidens into slumber, plays to sleep the young and aged. All of Northland sleeps and listens, wise and wondrous Vayner Moinen, the eternal bard and singer. Searches in his pouch of leather, draws therefrom his slumber arrows, locks the eyelids of the sleepers of the heroes of Pajola, sings and charms to deeper slumber all the warriors of the Northland. Then the heroes of Vainola hasten to obtain the Sampo, to procure the lid in colours from the copper-bearing mountains, from behind nine locks of copper in the stoneberg of Pajola. Vayner Moinen, ancient minstrel, then began his wondrous singing, saying in gentle tones of magic, at the entrance to the mountain, at the border of the stronghold, trembled all the rocky portals, and the iron-banded pillars fell and crumbled at his singing.
Ilmer Ridden, magic blacksmith, well anointed all the hinges, all the bars and locks anointed, and the bolts flew back by magic. All the gates unlocked in silence, open for the great magician. Spake the minstrel, Vanamoinen, O thou daring Lammankainen, friend of mine in times of trouble, enter thou within the mountain, bring away the wondrous Sampo, bring away the Lied in colours. Quick, the reckless Lemminkainen, handsome hero, Kaku Melli, ever ready for a venture, hastens to the mountain caverns. There to find the famous Sampo, there to get the lid in colours, strides along with conscious footsteps. Thus himself he vainly praises. Great am I, and full of glory, wonder hero, son of Ukko. I will bring away the Sampo, turn about the lid in colors, turn it on its magic hinges.
Lemminkainen finds the wonder, finds the Sampo in the mountain, labors long with strength heroic, tugs with might and mane to turn it. Motionless remains the treasure. Deeper sinks the lid in colours, for the roots have grown about it, grown nine fathoms deep in sand-earth. Lived a mighty ox in Northland, powerful in bone and sinew, beautiful in form and colour, horns the length of seven fathoms, mouth and eyes of wondrous beauty, Lemminkainen, reckless hero. Harnesses the ox in pasture, takes the master plough of poja, ploughs the roots about the sampo, ploughs around the lid in colours, and the sacred sampo loosens, fools the coloured lid in silence, straightway ancient Wainamoinen, brings the blacksmith Ilmarinen, brings the daring lemon Kynan, lastly brings the magic sampo from the stoneberg of Pajola, from the copper-bearing mountain.
Hides it in his waiting vessel, in the warship of Vainola. Vainamoinen called his people, called his crew of men and maidens, called together all his heroes, rolled his vessel to the water into billowy depths and dangers, spake the blacksmith Ilmarinen. Whither shall we take the Sampo? Whither take the Lidin colors from the Stoneburg of Pajola, from this evil spot of Northland? Wainamoinen, wise and faithful, gave this answer to the question, "'Thither shall we take the Sampo, thither take the Lidin colors, to the fog-point on the waters, to the island forest-covered, there the treasure may be hidden, may remain in peace for ages, free from trouble, free from danger, where the sword will not molest it.' Then the minstrel, Wainamoinen, joyful left the Pogia borders.
Homeward sailed, and happy-hearted, spake these measures on departing. Turn, O man-o'-war from poeja, turn thy back upon the strangers. Turn thou to my distant country. Rock, O winds, my magic vessel. Homeward drive my ship, O billows. Lend the rowers your assistance. Give the oarsmen easy labor on this vast expanse of waters. Give me of thine oars, O acto. Lend thine aid, O King of Sea-Waves. Guide us with thy helm in safety. Lay thy hand upon the rudder, and direct our warship homeward. Let the hooks of metal rattle, o'er the surging of the billows, on the white-capped waves commotion. Then the master, Wainamoinen, guided home his willing vessel, and the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, with the lively Lemminkainen, Led the mighty host of rowers, and the war-ship glided homeward, O'er the sea's unruffled surface, O'er the mighty waste of waters.
Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Once before I rode these billows. There were viands for the heroes, There was singing for the maidens, But to-day I hear no singing, Hear no songs upon the vessel, Hear no music on the waters. Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Answered thus, Wild Lemminkainen, Let none sing upon the blue sea, On the waters no rejoicing. Singing would prolong our journey, Songs disturb the host of rowers. Soon will die the silver sunlight, Darkness soon will overtake us, On this evil waste of waters, On this blue sea smooth and level. These the words of Lemminkainen, Time will fly on equal pinions, Whether we have songs or silence. Soon will disappear the daylight, and the night as quickly follow, whether we be sad or joyous.
Venamoinen, the magician, o'er the bluebacks of the billows, steered one day, and then a second, steered the third from morn till even. When the wizard Lemminkainen once again addressed the master, Why wilt thou, O famous minstrel, sing no longer for thy people, since the sampo thou hast captured Captured, too, the lid in colours. These the words of Wainamoinen. Tis not well to sing too early. Time enough for songs of joyance, when we see our homeland mansions, when our journeyings have ended. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen at the helm, if I were sitting, I would sing at morn and evening, though my voice has little sweetness. Since thy songs are not forthcoming, listen to my wondrous singing.
Thereupon wild Lemminkainen, handsome hero Karkumeli, raised his voice above the waters, o'er the sea his song resounded. But his measures were discordant, and his notes were harsh and frightful, sang the wizard Lemminkainen. Screeched the reckless Kakumeli till the mighty warship trembled. Far and wide was heard his singing. Heard his songs upon the waters. Heard within the seventh village. Heard beyond the seven oceans. Sat a crane within the rushes. On a hillock clothed in verdure, and the crane his toes was counting, suddenly he heard the singing of the wizard Lemminkainen. Then, with horrid voice and screeching, Flew the crane across the broad sea. To the lakes of Sarriola. O'er Pajola's hills and hamlets, screeching, screaming over Northland, till the people of the darkness were awakened from their slumbers.
Luhi hastens to her hurdles, hastens to her droves of cattle, hastens also to her garners, counts her herds, inspects her storehouse. Undisturbed she finds her treasures. Quick she journeys to the entrance, to the copper-bearing mountain. Speaks these words as she approaches. Woe is me! My life hard fated! Woe to Luhi, broken-hearted! Hear the tracks of the destroyers. All my locks and bolts are broken by the hands of cruel strangers. Broken are my iron hinges. Open stand the mountain portals, leading to the Northland treasure. Has Pajola lost her Sampo? Then she hastened to the chambers, where the Sampo had been grinding, but she found the chambers empty, Lid and Sampo gone to others, from the stone berg of Pajola.
From behind nine locks of copper, in the copper-bearing mountain, Luhi, hostess of the Northland, angry grew and cried for vengeance. As she found her fame departing, found her strength thus disappearing, thus addressed the sea-fog virgin. Daughter of the morning vapours, sift thy fogs from distant cloudlands, sift the thick air from the heavens, sift the vapours from the ether on the blueback of the broad sea, on the far-extending waters, that the ancient Wainamoinen, friend of ocean-wave and billow, may not baffle his pursuers. Should this prayer prove unavailing, Ikuturso, son of old age, raise thy head above the billows, and destroy Vainola's heroes. Sink them to thy deep-sea castles, there devour them at thy pleasure.
Bring thou back the golden Sampo to the people of Pajola. Should these words be ineffective, Uko, mightiest of rulers, golden king beyond the welkin? Sitting on a throne of silver, fill thy skies with heavy storm-clouds, call thy fleetest winds about thee, send them o'er the seven broad seas, there to find the fleeing vessel, that the ancient Wainamoinen may not baffle his pursuers. Quick the Virgin of the vapours, breathed a fog upon the waters, made it settle on the worship of the heroes of the Northland. Held the minstrel Wainamoinen anchored in the fog and darkness, bound him one day, then a second, then a third till dawn of morning in the middle of the blue sea, whence he could not flee in safety from the wrath of his pursuers.
When the third night had departed, resting in the sea and helpless, Wainamoinen spake as follows. Not a man of strength and courage, not the weakest of the heroes. Who upon the sea will suffer, sink and perish in the vapours, perish in the fog and darkness? With his sword he smote the billows, from his magic blade flowed honey. Quick the vapour breaks and rises, leaves the waters clear for rowing. Far extend the sky and waters, large the ring of the horizon, and the troubled sea enlarges. Time had journeyed little distance, scarce a moment had passed over. When they heard a mighty roaring, heard a roaring and a rushing, near the border of the vessel, where the foam was shooting skyward, o'er the boat of Wainamoinen, straightway youthful Ilmarinen, sank in gravest apprehension, from his cheeks the blood departed, pulled his cap down o'er his forehead, shook and trembled with emotion.
Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, cast his eyes upon the waters. Near the broad rim of his warship, there perceives an ocean wonder, with his head above the sea-foam. Wainamoinen, brave and mighty, seizes quick the water-monster, lifts him by his ears and questions. Ikuturso, son of old age, why art rising from the blue sea? Wherefore dost thou leave thy castle, show thyself to mighty heroes, to the heroes of Wainola? Ikuturso, son of old age, ocean monster, manifested neither pleasure nor displeasure, was not in the least affrighted, did not give the hero answer. Whereupon the ancient minstrel asked the second time, the monster urgently inquired a third time, Ikuturso, son of old age, Why art rising from the waters?
Wherefore dost thou leave the blue sea? Ikuturso gave this answer. For this cause I left my castle underneath the rolling billows, came I here with the intention to destroy the Kalev heroes, and return the magic sampo to the people of Pajola. If thou wilt restore my freedom, spare my life from pain and sorrow, I will quick retrace my journey, never more to show my visage to the people of Vainola, never while the moonlight glimmers on the hills of Kalevala. Then the singer, Wainamoinen, freed the monster Ikku Terso, sent him to his deep-sea castles, spake these words to him departing, Ikku Terso, son of old age, nevermore arise from ocean, nevermore let Northland heroes see thy face above the waters.
Nevermore has Ikku Terso risen to the ocean level, never since have Northland sailors seen the head of this sea monster. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, onward rode his goodly vessel, journeyed but a little distance, scarce a moment had passed over, when the king of all creators, mighty Ukku of the heavens, made the winds blow full of power, made the storms arise in fury, made them rage upon the waters. From the west the winds came roaring, from the northeast came in anger, winds came howling from the southwest, came the winds from all directions, in their fury rolling, roaring, tearing branches from the lindens, hurling needles from the pine trees, blowing flowers from the heather, grasses blowing from the meadow, tearing up the very bottom of the deep and boundless blue sea, roared the winds and lashed the waters, till the waves were white with fury.
Tossed the warship high in ether, tossed away the harp of fishbone, magic harp of Vayner Moinen. To the joy of King Valamo, to the pleasure of his people, to the happiness of Akto, Akto rising from his caverns. On the floods beheld his people, carry off the harp of magic to their home below the billows. Vayner Moinen Ancient Minstrel Heavy-hearted spake these measures. I have lost what I created. I have lost the harp of joyance. Now my strength has gone to others. All my pleasure, too, departed. All my hope and comfort vanished. Nevermore the harp of fishbone will enchant the host to sue me. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen, sorrow-laden, spake as follows. Woe is me, my life hard-fated. Would that I had never journeyed on these waters filled with dangers, on the rolling waste before me, in this warship false and feeble, winds and storms have I encountered, wretched days of toil and trouble I have witnessed in the Northland.
Never have I met such dangers, on the land nor on the ocean, never in my hero lifetime. Then the ancient Wainamoinen spake, and these the words he uttered. Weep no more, my goodly comrades. In my bark let no one murmur. Weeping cannot mend disaster. Tears can never steal misfortune. Mourning cannot save from evil. See, command thy warring forces. Bid thy children cease their fury. Acto, still thy surging billows. Sink, Valamo, to thy slumber, that our boat may move in safety. Rise ye storm winds to your kingdoms. Lift your heads above the waters, to the regions of your kindred, to your people and dominions. Cut the trees within the forest, bend the lindens of the valley, let our vessels sail in safety.
Bend the reckless Lemminkainen, handsome wizard, Karkumeli. Spake these words in supplication. Come, O eagle, Tersia lander. Bring three feathers from thy pinions, three, O raven, three, O eagle, to protect this bark from evil. All the heroes of Wainola call their forces to the rescue and repair the sinking vessel by the aid of master magic. Wainamoinen saved his warship, saved his people from destruction, Well repaired his ship to battle with the roughest seas of Northland. Steers his mighty boat in safety through the perils of the whirlpool, through the watery deeps and dangers.
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44 43 - RUNE XLIII. The Sampo lost in the Sea 15:04
RUNE 43. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lohnruth, translated by John Martin Crawford, Rune 43, The Sampo Lost in the Sea.
Hostess of Pajola, called her many tribes together, gave the archers bows and arrows, gave the brave men spears and broadswords, fitted out her mightiest warship, in the vessel placed her army, with their swords a hundred heroes, with their bows a thousand archers, quick erected masts and sail yards. On the masts her sails of linen, hanging like the clouds of heaven, like the white clouds in the ether, sailed across the seas of Pogia, to retake the wondrous Sampo from the heroes of Vainola. Vayner Moinen, old and faithful, sailed across the deep blue waters, spake these words to Lemminkainen. O thou daring son of Lempo, best of all my friends and heroes, Mount the highest of the topmasts, look before you into ether, look behind you at the heavens, well examine the horizon, whether clear or filled with trouble.
Climb the daring Lemminkainen, ever ready for a venture, to the highest of the mastheads. Looked he eastward, also westward, looked he northward, also southward. Then addressed wise Vayner Moinen, Clear the sky appears before me, but behind a dark horizon, in the north a cloud is rising, and a longer cloud at north-west. Vayner Moinen thus made answer, Art thou speaking truth or fiction? I am fearful that the warships of Pajola are pursuing. Look again with keener vision. Thereupon Wild Lemunkainen looked again, and spake as follows. In the distance seems a forest. In the south appears an island. Aspen groves with falcons laden, orders laden with the wood-grouse. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen.
Surely thou art speaking falsehood. Tis no forest in the distance, neither aspen birch nor alders, laden with the grouse or falcon. I am fearful that Pajola follows with her magic armies. Look again with keener vision. Then the daring Lemminkainen. Looked the third time from the topmast. Spaken these the words he uttered from the north, a boat, Pesuzus, driven by a hundred rowers, carrying a thousand heroes. Knew at last, old Wainamoinen. Knew the truth of his inquiry. Thus addressed his fleeing people. Row, O blacksmith, Ilmarinen. Row, O mighty Lemminkainen. Row all ye, my noble oarsmen, that our boat may skim the waters, may escape from our pursuers, rowed the blacksmith Ilmarinen. Rowed the mighty Lemminkainen.
With them rowed the other heroes. Heavily grown the helm of birchwood, loudly rattled all the rowlocks. All the vessel shook and trembled like a cataract. It thundered as it ploughed the waste of waters. Tossing sea-foam to the heavens, strongly rode Vanola's forces, strongly were their arms united, but the distance did not widen, twixt the boat and their pursuers, quick the hero, Vanamoinen, saw misfortune hanging over, saw destruction in the distance, heavy-hearted, long-reflecting, trouble-laden, spake as follows. Only is there one salvation. No one miracle for safety. Then he grasped his box of tinder. From the box he took a flintstone. Of the tinder took some fragments. Cast the fragments on the waters.
Spake these words of master magic. Let from these arise a mountain, from the bottom of the deep sea. Let a rock arise in water, that the worship of Bojola, with her thousand men and heroes, may be wrecked upon the summit. By the aid of surging billows. Instantly a reef arises, in the sea-spring's upper mountain, eastward-westward through the waters came the warship of the Northland. Through the floods the boat came steering, sailed against the mountain-ledges, fastened on the rocks in water, wrecked upon the mount of magic. In the deep sea fell the topmasts, fell the sails upon the billows. Carried by the winds and waters, o'er the waves of toil and trouble. Luhi, hostess of Pajola, tries to free her sinking vessel, tries to rescue from destruction, but she cannot raise the warship.
Firmly fixed upon the mountain, shattered are the ribs and rudder. Ruined is the ship of Pogia, then the hostess of the Northland, much disheartened spake as follows. Wear the force in earth or heaven, that will help us all in trouble. Quick she changes form and feature, makes herself another body, takes five sharpened sides of iron, Also takes five goodly sickles, shapes them into eagle talons, takes the body of the vessel, makes the framework of an eagle, takes the vessel's ribs and flooring, makes them into wings and breastplate. For the tail, she shapes the rudder. In the wings she plants a thousand, seniors with their bows and arrows, sets a thousand magic heroes, in the body armed with broadswords.
In the tail a hundred archers, with their deadly spears and crossbows. Thus the bird is hero-feathered. Quick she spreads her mighty pinions, rises as a monster eagle, flies on high and soars in circles. With one wing she sweeps the heavens, while the other sweeps the waters. Spake the hero's ocean-mother. O thou ancient Wainamoinen, turn thy vision to the northeast. Cast thine eyes upon the sunrise. Look behind thy fleeing vessel. See the eagle of misfortune. Wainamoinen turned as bidden, turned his vision to the northeast, cast his eyes upon the sunrise. There beheld the northland hostess, wicked witch of Sarriola, flying as a monster eagle. Swooping on his mighty warship, flies and perches on the topmast, on the sail-yards firmly settles, nearly overturns the vessel of the heroes of Wainola, underneath the weight of envy.
Then the hero Ilmarinen turned to Ukko as his refuge, Thus entreated his creator, Ukko, thou, O God in heaven, thou creator full of mercy, guard us from impending danger, that thy children may not perish, may not meet with fell destruction, hither bring thy magic fire-cloak, that thy people thus protected may resist Pajola's forces, well may fight against the hostess of the dismal Sarriola, may not fall before her weapons, may not in the deep sea perish. Then the ancient Wainamoinen, thus addressed the ancient Luhi, O thou hostess of Pajola, wilt thou now divide the Sampo, on the fog-point in the water, on the island forest-covered? Thus the northland hostess answered, I will not divide the Sampo, not with thee, thou evil wizard, not with wicked Wainamoinen, quick the mighty eagle Luhi, swoops upon the lid in colours.
Grasps the Sampo in her talons, but the daring Lemunkainen straightway draws his blade of battle, draws his broadsword from his girdle, cleaves the talons of the eagle, one toe only is uninjured, speaks these magic words of conquest. Down ye spears, and down ye broadswords, down ye thousand witless heroes, down ye feathered hosts of Luhi, spake the hostess of Pejola, calling screeching from the Salyards. O thou faithless Lemminkainen, wicked wizard, Kakumeli, to deceive thy trusting mother! Thou didst give to her thy promise not to go to war for ages, not to war for sixty summers, though desire for gold impels thee, though thou wishest gold and silver. Wiener Moynan, ancient hero, the eternal wisdom singer, Thinking he had met destruction, snatched the rudder from the waters.
With it smote the monster eagle. Smote the eagle's iron talons. Smote her countless feathered heroes. From her breast her hosts descended. Spearmen fell upon the billows. From the wings descend a thousand. From the tail a hundred archers. Swoops again the bird of poeja. To the bottom of the vessel. Like the hawk from birch or aspen. Like the falcon from the linden, grasps the sampo with one talon, drags the treasure to the waters, drops the magic lid in colours, from the red rim of the warship to the bottom of the deep sea, where the sampo breaks in pieces, scatters through the aloo waters. In the mighty deeps for ages to increase the ocean's treasures, treasures for the host of Acto. Nevermore will there be wanting riches for the Acto nation.
Never while the moonlight brightens, on the waters of the Northland, many fragments of the Sampo floated on the purple waters, on the waters deep and boundless, rocked by winds and waves of Swami, carried by the rolling billows, to the seasides of Vainola. Vainamoinen, ancient minstrel, saw the fragments of the treasure floating on the billows landward, fragments of the Lidin colours. Much rejoicing spake as follows. Thence will come the sprouting seed-grain, the beginning of good fortune, the unending of resources, from the ploughing and the sowing, from the glimmer of the moonlight, from the splendour of the sunshine, on the fertile plains of Swamy, on the meads of Kalavala. Luhi, hostess of Pajola, thus addressed Old Vainamoinen.
Know I other mighty measures? Know I means that are efficient? And against thy golden moonlight, and the splendour of thy sunshine, and thy ploughing, and thy reaping, in the rocks I'll sink the moonbeams. Hide the sun within the mountain. Let the frost destroy thy sowings, freeze the crops on all thy cornfields. Iron hail I'll send from heaven, on the richness of thine acres, on the barley of thy planting. I will drive the bear from forests, send the otso from the thickets, That he may destroy the cattle, may annihilate thy sheepfolds, may destroy thy seeds at pasture, I will send thee nine diseases, each more fatal than the other. That will sicken all thy people, make thy children sink and perish, never more to visit Northland, never while the moonlight glimmers on the plains of Kalevala.
Thus the ancient bard made answer, not a Laplander can banish, Vainamoinen and his people. Never can a turgelander drive my tribes from Kalavala. God alone has power to banish. God controls the fate of nations. Never trusts the arms of evil. Never gives his strength to others. As I trust in my Creator, call upon Benin and Ukko. He will guard my crops from danger. Drive the Frostfiend from my cornfields. Drive great Otso to his caverns. Wicked Luhi of Pajola, thou canst banish evil-doers. In the rocks canst hide the wicked. In thy mountains lock the guilty. Thou canst never hide the moonlight. Never bide the silver sunshine. In the caverns of thy kingdom, freeze the crops of thine own planting.
Freeze the barley of thy sowing. Send thine iron hail from heaven to destroy the Lapland cornfields, to annihilate thy people. To destroy the hosts of Poja, send great Otso from the heather, send the Sharptooth from the forest to the fields of Sarriola, and the herds and flocks of Luhi. Thus the wicked hostess answered, All my power has departed, all my strength has gone to others, all my hope is in the deep sea, in the waters lies my Sampo. Then the hostess of Pojola home departed, weeping, wailing. To the land of cold and darkness, only took some worthless fragments of the Sampo to her people. Carried she the lid to poja, in the blue sea left the handle, hence the poverty of Northland, and the famines of Pajola.
Vayner Moinen, ancient minstrel, hastened to the broad sea's margin, stepped upon the shore in joyance, found their fragments of the Sampo, fragments of the lid in colours, on the borders of the waters. On the curving sands and seasides, gathered well the Sampo relics, from the waters near the fog-point, on the island forest-covered, spake the ancient Wainamoinen, spake these words in supplication. Grant, O Uko, our Creator. Grant to us, thy needful children, peace and happiness and plenty, that our lives may be successful, that our days may end in honour, on the vales and hills of Swami. On the prairies of Vainola, in the homes of Kalavala, Uko, wise and good creator, Uko, God of love and mercy, shelter and protect thy people from the evil-minded heroes, from the wiles of wicked women, that our country's plagues may leave us, that the faithful tribes may prosper, be our friend and strong protector, be the helper of thy children, in the night a roof above them, in the day a shield around them.
That the sunshine may not vanish, that the moonlight may not lessen, that the killing frosts may leave them, and destructive hail pass over. Build a metal wall around us, from the valleys to the heavens. Build of stone a mighty fortress, on the borders of Vainola, where thy people live and labour, as their dwelling-place for ever. Sure protection to thy people, where the wicked may not enter, nor the thieves break through and pilfer. Never while the moonlight glistens, and the sun brings golden blessings, to the plains of Kala Vala.
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45 44 - RUNE XLIV. Birth of the Second Harp 12:34
Rune 44 of the Kalevala.
The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lohnroth, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 44. Birth of the Second Harp. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, long reflecting, sang these measures. It is now the time befitting to awaken joy and gladness, time for me to touch the harp-strings, time to sing the songs primeval in these spacious halls and mansions, in these homes of Kalevala. But, alas, my harp lies hidden. Sunk upon the deep sea's bottom, to the salmon's hiding-places, to the dwellings of the whiting, to the people of Valamo, where the Northland Pike assemble, nevermore will I regain it, Arcto never will return it, joy and music gone forever. O thou blacksmith Ilmerenin, forge for me a rake of iron.
Thickly set the teeth of copper, many fathoms long the handle, make a rake to search the waters, search the broad sea to the bottom, rake the weeds and reeds together, rake them to the curving sea-shore, that I may regain my treasure, may regain my harp of fishbow, from the whiting's place of resting, from the caverns of the salmon, from the castles of Volamo. Thereupon, young Ilmarrennen, The eternal metal-worker forges well a rake of iron, teeth in length a hundred fathoms, and a thousand long the handle thickly sets the teeth of copper, straight where ancient Wernemoynen takes the rake of magic metals, travels but a little distance to the cylinders of oakwood, to the copper-banded rollers, where he finds two ships awaiting.
One was new, the other ancient. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, thus addressed the new-made vessel. Go, thou boat of master magic, hasten to the willing waters, speed away upon the blue sea, and without the hand to move thee, let my will impel thee seaward. Quick the boat rolled to the billows, on the cylinders of oak wood, quick descended to the waters, Willingly obeyed his master. Vayner Moinen, the magician, then began to rake the sea-beds, raked up all the water-flowers, bits of broken reeds and rushes, deep-sea shells and coloured pebbles, did not find his harp of fish-bone lost forever to Vayner. Thereupon the ancient minstrel left the waters homeward-hastened. Cap pulled down upon his forehead.
sang this song with sorrow-laden. Nevermore shall I awaken with my harp-strings joy and gladness. Nevermore will wainamoinen charm the people of the northland with the harp of his creation. Nevermore my songs will echo o'er the hills of Kallavala. Thereupon the ancient singer went lamenting through the forest, wandered through the sighing pine-woods, heard the wailing of a birch-tree, heard a juniper complaining, drawing nearer, waits and listens, thus the birch-tree he addresses. Wherefore, brother, art thou weeping? Merry birch, and robed in silver, silver-leaved, and silver-tasseled. Art thou shedding tears of sorrow? Since thou art not led to battle, not in force to war with wizards? Wisely does the birch make answer.
This the language of the many. Others speak as thou unjustly. That I only live in pleasure, that my silver leaves and tassels only whisper my rejoicings, that I have no cares nor sorrows, that I have no hours unhappy, knowing neither pain nor trouble. I am weeping for my smallness, am lamenting for my weakness, have no sympathy, no pity, stand here motionless for ages, stand alone in fen and forest, in these woodlands vast and joyless. Others hope for coming summers, for the beauties of the springtime I, alas, a helpless birch tree, dread the changing of the seasons. I must give my bark to others. Lose my leaves and silken tassels. Men come, the swami children, peel my bark and drink my lifeblood.
Wicked shepherds in the summer. Come and steal my belt of silver, of my bark make berry baskets. Dishes make and cups for drinking. Oftentimes the Northland maidens cut my tender limbs for birch brooms. Bind my twigs and silver tassels into brooms to sweep their cabins. Often have the Northland heroes chopped me into chips for burning, three times in the summer season, in the pleasant days of springtime. Foresters have ground their axes on my silver trunk and branches, robbed me of my life for ages. This my springtime joy and pleasure, this my happiness in summer, and my winter days no better. When I think of former troubles, sorrow settles on my visage, and my face grows white with anguish. Often do the winds of winter and the hoar-frost bring me sadness, blast my tender leaves and tassels, bear my foliage to others, rob me of my silver raiment, leave me naked on the mountain, lone and helpless, and disheartened.
Spake the good old Wainamoinen. Weep no longer, sacred birch-tree. Mourn no more, my friend and brother. Thou shalt have a better fortune. I will turn thy grief to joyance. Make thee laugh, and sing with gladness. Then the ancient Vainamoinen made a harp from sacred birch-wood, fashioned in the days of summer. Beautiful the harp of magic, by the master's hand created. On the fog-point in the big sea, on the island forest-covered, Fashion from the birch the archings, and the framework from the aspen. These the words of the magician. All the archings are completed, and the frame is fitly finished, whence the hooks and pins for tuning, that the harp may sing in concord. Near the wayside grew an oak-tree, skyward grew with equal branches.
On each twig an acorn growing, golden balls upon each acorn. On each ball a singing cuckoo. As each cuckoo's call resounded, five the notes of song that issued. From the songster's throat of joyance, from each throat came liquid music, gold and silver for the master, flowing to the hills and hillocks, to the silvery vales and mountains. Thence he took the merry harp-pins, that the harp might play in concord. Spake again, wise Wainamoinen, I the pins have well completed. Still the harp is yet unfinished. Now I need five strings for playing. Where shall I procure the harp-strings? Then the ancient bard and minstrel journeyed through the fen and forest. On a hillock sat a maiden, sat a virgin of the valley, and the maiden was not weeping.
Joyful was the sylvan daughter, singing with the woodland songsters, that the eventide might hasten, in the hope that her beloved would the sooner sit beside her. Wainamoinen, olden-trusted, hastened tripping to the Virgin, asked her for her golden ringlets. These the words of the magician. Give me, maiden, of thy tresses. Give to me thy golden ringlets. I will weave them into harp-strings, to the joy of Wainamoinen, to the pleasure of his people. Thereupon the forest maiden gave the singer of her tresses. Gave him of her golden ringlets, and of these he made the harp-strings. Sources of eternal pleasure to the people of Wainola. Thus the sacred harp is finished, and the minstrel, Wainamoinen, sits upon the Rock of Joynance, takes the harp within his fingers, turns the arch up, looking skyward, with his knee the arch supporting, sets the strings in tuneful order, Runs his fingers o'er the harp-strings, and the notes of pleasure follow.
Straightway ancient Wiener Moinen, the eternal wisdom-singer, plays upon his harp at Birchwood. Far away is heard the music. Wide the harp of joy re-echoes. Mountains dance and valleys listen. Flinty rocks are torn asunder. Stones are hurled upon the waters. Pebbles swim upon the big sea. Pines and lindens laugh with pleasure, alders skip about the heather, and the aspen sways in concord. All the daughters of Vainola straightway leave their shining needles, hasten forward like the current. Speed along like rapid rivers, that they may enjoy and wonder. Laugh the younger men and maidens, happy-hearted are the matrons, flying swift to hear the playing, to enjoy the common pleasure, hear the harp of Vainamoinen.
Aged men and bearded seniors, gray-haired mothers with their daughters, stop in wonderment and listen. Creeps the babe in full enjoyment as he hears the magic singing, hears the harp of Wainamoinen. All the Northland stops in wonder, speaks in unison these measures. Never have we heard such playing, never heard such strains of music, never since the earth was fashioned, as the songs of this magician This sweet singer, Wainamoinen. Far and wide the sweet tones echo, ring throughout the seven hamlets. O'er the seven islands echo, every creature of the Northland hastens forth to look and listen, listen to the songs of gladness. To the harp of Wainamoinen. All the beasts that haunt the woodlands fall upon their knees and wonder at the playing of the minstrel, at his miracles of concord.
All the songsters of the forests perch upon the trembling branches, singing to the wondrous playing of the harp of Wainamoinen. All the dwellers of the waters leave their beds and eaves and grottos, swim against the shore and listen to the playing of the minstrel, to the harp of Wainamoinen. All the little things in nature rise from earth and fall from ether, come and listen to the music, to the notes of the enchanter. To the songs of the Magician, to the harp of Wiener Moynihan. Plays the singer of the Northland, plays in miracles of sweetness, plays one day and then a second, plays the third from morn till even, plays within the halls and cabins, in the dwellings of his people. Till the floors and ceilings echo, till resound the roofs of pinewood, till the windows speak and tremble, till the portals echo joyance.
And the hearthstones sing in pleasure, as he journeys through the forest, as he wanders through the woodlands. Pine and sorbetree bid him welcome. Birch and willow bend her basins. Beech and aspen bow submission, and the linden waves her branches, to the measure of his playing, to the notes of the magician, as the minstrel plays and wanders, sings upon the mead and heather. Glen and hill his songs re-echo. Fens and flowers laugh in pleasure. And the shrubs attune their voices to the music of the harp strings to the songs of Venom. End of Rune 44.
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46 45 - RUNE XLV. Birth of the Nine Diseases 11:25
The Kalevala. Birth of the Nine Diseases. Lohi, hostess of the Northland, heard the word in Sarula. Heard the news with ears of envy, that Wainola lives and prospers, that Osmoinen's wealth increases through the ruins of the Sampo, ruins of the Liden Colors. There upon her wrath she kindled, well considered, long reflected, how she might prepare destruction for the people of Wainola, for the tribes of Kalevala. With this prayer she turns to Ukko, thus entreats the god of thunder. Ukko, Thou who art in heaven, help me slay Vainola's people, with thine iron hail of justice, with thine arrows tipped with lightning, or from sickness let them perish, let them die the death deserving, let the men die in the forest, and the women in the hurdles.
The blind daughter of Tuoni, old and wicked witch Loviatar, worst of all the deathland women, ugliest of manna's children, source of all the host of evils, All the ills and plagues of Northland, black in heart and soul and visage, evil genius of La Pala, made her couch along the wayside, on the fields of sin and sorrow. Turned her back upon the east wind, to the source of stormy weather, to the chilling winds of morning. When the winds arose at evening, heavy-laden grew Loviatar, through the east wind's impregnation, on the sand plains, vast and barren. Long she bore her weight of trouble, many morns she suffered anguish, till at last she leaves the desert, makes her couch within the forest, on a rock upon the mountain.
Labours long to leave her burden by the mountain springs and fountains, by the crystal waters flowing, by the sacred stream and whirlpool, by the cataract and fire stream. But her burden does not lighten. Blind Loviatar, old and ugly, knew not where to look for succor. How to lose her weight of sorrow, Where to lay her evil children. Spake the highest from the heavens, These the words of mighty Ukko. Is a triangle in swamp-field Near the border of the ocean, In the never pleasant northland, In the dismal sariola. Thither go, and lay thy burden, In Poyola leave thine offspring. There the Laplanders await thee, There will bid thy children welcome. Thereupon the blind Loviatar, blackest daughter of Tuoni, manas' old and ugly maiden, hastened on her journey northward, to the chambers of Poyola, to the ancient halls of Lohi, there to lay her heavy burdens, there to leave her evil offspring.
Lohi, hostess of the Northland, old and toothless witch of Poya, takes Loviatar to her mansion. Silently she leads the stranger to the bathrooms of her chamber. Pours the foaming beer of barley, lubricates the bolts and hinges, that their movements may be secret. Speaks these measures to Loviatar. Faithful daughter of creation, Thou most beautiful of women, first and last of ancient mothers, Hasten on thy feet to ocean, to the ocean's center hasten. Take the sea-foam from the waters, take the honey of the mermaids, and anoint thy sacred members. That thy labors may be lightened. Should all this be unavailing, Ukko, thou who art in heaven, hasten hither, thou art needed. Come thou to thy child in trouble, help the helpless and afflicted.
Take thy golden-colored sceptre, charm away opposing forces, strike the pillars of the stronghold, open all resisting portals, that the great and small may wander from their ancient hiding-places, Through the courts and halls of freedom. Finally, the blind Loviatr, wicked witch of Tuonella, was delivered of her burden, laid her offspring in the cradle, underneath the golden covers. Thus at last were born nine children, in an evening of the summer, from Loviatr, blind and ancient, ugly daughter of Tuone. Faithfully, the virgin mother guards her children in affection, As an artist loves and nurses what his skilful hands have fashioned. Thus L'oviata named her offspring, colic, pleurisy and fever, ulcer, plague and dread consumption, gout, sterility and cancer.
And the worst of these nine children, blind L'oviata, quickly banished, drove away as an enchanter, to bewitch the lowland people, to engender strife and envy. L'ovi, hostess of Poiola, Banished all the other children to the fog-point in the ocean, to the island forest-covered. Banished all the fatal creatures, gave these wicked sons of evil to the people of Vainola, to the youth of Kalevala, for the Callius tribe's destruction. Quick Vainola's maidens sicken, young and aged, men and heroes, with the worst of all diseases, with diseases new and nameless, sick and dying is Vainola. Thereupon old Wainamoinen, wise and wonderful enchanter, hastens to his people's rescue, hastens to a war with Mana, to a conflict with Tuoni, to destroy the evil children of the evil maid Loviatar.
Wainamoinen heats the bathrooms, heats the blocks of healing sandstone, with the magic wood of Northland, gathered by the sacred river. Water brings in covered buckets from the cataract and whirlpool. Brooms he brings, enwrapped with ermine. Well the bath the healer cleanses, softens well the brooms of birch wood. Then a honey heat he wakens, fills the rooms with healing vapors, from the virtue of the pebbles, glowing in the heat of magic. Thus he speaks in supplication. Come, O Ukko, to my rescue. God of mercy, lend thy presence. Give these vapor baths new virtues, grant to them the powers of healing, and restore my dying people. Drive away these fell diseases, banish them to the unworthy. Let the holy sparks enkindle.
Keep this heat in healing limits, that it may not harm thy children, may not injure the afflicted. When I pour the sacred waters on the heated blocks of sandstone, may the water turn to honey, laden with the balm of healing. Let the stream of magic virtues ceaseless flow to all my children. From this bath enrolled in Seamos, that the guiltless may not suffer, that my tribefolk may not perish, till the master gives permission, until Ukko sends his minions, sends diseases of his choosing, to destroy my trusting people. Let the hostess of Poyola, wicked witch that sent these troubles, suffer from a gnawing conscience, suffer for her evil doings. Should the master of Vainola lose his magic skill and weaken, Should he prove of little service, to deliver from misfortune, to deliver from these evils, then may Ukko be our healer, be our strength and wise physician.
Omnipresent God of mercy, thou who livest in the heavens, hasten hither, thou art needed, hasten to thine ailing children, to observe their cruel tortures, to dispel these fell diseases, drive destruction from our borders. Bring with thee thy mighty fire-sword, Bring to me thy blade of lightning, that I may subdue these evils, that these monsters I may banish. Send these pains and ills and tortures to the empire of Tuoni, to the kingdom of the East Twins, to the islands of the wicked, to the caverns of the demons, to the rocks within the mountains, to the hidden beds of iron, that the rocks may fall and sicken, and the beds of iron perish. Rocks and metals do not murmur at the hands of the invader.
Torture, daughter of Tuoni, sitting on the Mount of Anguish, at the junction of three rivers, turning rocks of pain and torture, turn away these fell diseases through the virtues of the bluestone. Lead them to the water channels. Sink them in the deeps of ocean, where the winds can never find them, where the sunlight never enters. Should this prayer prove unavailing, O health-virgin, made of beauty, come and heal my dying people. Still their agonies and anguish. Give them consciousness and comfort. Give them healthful rest and slumber. These diseases take and banish. Take them in thy copper vessel, to thy eaves within the mountains, to the summit of the pain rock. Hurl them to thy boiling cauldrons.
In the mountain is a touchstone, lucky stone of ancient story, with a hole bore through the center. Through this pour these pains and tortures, wretched feelings, thoughts of evil, human ailments, days unlucky, tribulations and misfortunes, that they may not rise at evening, may not see the light of morning. Ending thus old Wainamoinen, the eternal wise enchanter, rubbed his sufferers with balsams, rubbed the tissues, red and painful, with the balm of healing flowers. Balsams made of herbs enchanted, sprinkled all with healing vapors, spake these words in supplication. Ukko, thou who art in heaven, God of justice and of mercy, send us from the east a rain-cloud, send a dark cloud from the northwest, from the north let fall a third one, send us mingled rain and honey, balsam from the great physician, to remove this plague of Northland.
What I know of healing measures only comes from my Creator. Lend me, therefore, of thy wisdom, that I may relieve my people. Save them from the fell destroyer. If my hands should fall in virtue, let the hands of Ukko follow. God alone can save from trouble. Come to us with thine enchantment. Speak the magic words of healing, that my people may not perish. Give to all alleviation from their sicknesses and sorrows. In the morning, in the evening, let their wasting ailments vanish. Drive the death-child from Wainola, never more to visit Northland, never in the course of ages, never while the moonlight glimmers over the lakes of Kalevala. Wainamoinen, the enchanter, the eternal wisdom-singer, thus expelled the nine diseases, evil children of Loviatar, healed the tribes of Kalevala, saved his people from destruction.
End of Rune.
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47 46 - RUNE XLVI. Otso the Honey-eater 21:48
The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lohnruth, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 46. Otso the honey-eater. Came the tidings to Pajola, to the village of the Northland, that Vainola had recovered from her troubles and misfortunes, from her sicknesses and sorrows. Luhi, hostess of the Northland, toothless dame of Sarriola, envy-laden, spake these measures. No I other means of trouble. I have many more resources. I will drive the bear before me, from the heather and the mountain. Drive him from the fen and forest, drive great Utza from the glenwood, on the cattle of Vainola, on the flocks of Kalevala. Thereupon the Northland hostess drove the hungry bear of Pogia from his caverns to the meadows, to Vainola's plains and pastures.
Vainamoinen, ancient minstrel, to his brother spake as follows. O thou blacksmith Ilmarinen, forge a spear from magic metals. Forge a lancet triple-pointed. Forge the handle out of copper, that I may destroy great Utzo, slay the mighty bear of Northland, that he may not eat my horses, nor destroy my herds of cattle, nor the flocks upon my pastures. Thereupon the skillful blacksmith forged a spear from magic metals, forged a lancet triple-pointed. Not the longest nor the shortest forged the spear in wondrous beauty. On one side a bear was sitting, sat a wolf upon the other, on the blade an elk lay sleeping, on the shaft a colt was running, near the hilt a roebuck bounding. Snows had fallen from the heavens, made the flocks as white as ermine, o'er the hair in days of winter, and the minstrel sang these measures.
My desire impels me onward to the Metzola Dominions, to the homes of forest maidens. To the courts of the White Virgins I will hasten to the forest, labor with the woodland forces. Ruler of the Tapio forests, make of me a conquering hero. Help me clear these boundless woodlands. O Miliki forest hostess, Tapio's wife, thou fair Telervo, call thy dogs and wellen chain them. Set in readiness thy hunters, let them wait within their kennels. Otso thou, O forest apple, bare of honey-paws and fur robes, learn that Vayner Moinen follows, that the singer comes to meet thee, hide thy claws within thy mittens, let thy teeth remain in darkness, that they may not harm the minstrel. May be powerless in battle.
Mighty Otso much-beloved, honey-eater of the mountains, settle on the rocks in slumber, on the turf and in thy caverns. Let the aspen wave above thee. Let the merry birch-tree rustle o'er thy head for thy protection. Rest in peace, thou much-loved Otso. Turn about within thy thickets, like the partridge at her brooding, in the springtime like the wild goose. When the ancient Vayner-Mainen heard his dog bark in the forest, heard his hunter's call and echo, he addressed the words that follow. Thought it was the cuckoo calling, thought the pretty bird was singing, it was not the sacred cuckoo, not the liquid notes of songsters, t'was my dog that called and murmured, t'was the echo of my hunter at the cavern doors of Utso on the border of the woodlands.
Wainamoinen, old and trusty, finds the mighty bear in waiting, lifts in joy the golden covers, well inspects his shining fur robes, lifts his honey-paws in wonder, then addresses his creator. Be thou praised, O mighty Ukko, as thou givest me great Otzo. Givest me the forest apple, thanks be paid to thee unending. To the bear he spake these measures. Otzo, thou my well-beloved. Honey-eater of the woodlands, let not anger swell thy bosom. I have not the force to slay thee, willingly thy life thou givest, as a sacrifice to Northland. Thou hast from the tree descended, glided from the aspen branches, slippery the trunks in autumn, in the fog days smooth the branches, golden friend of fen and forest, in thy fur robes rich and beauteous.
Pride of woodlands, famous lightfoot, leave thy cold and cheerless dwelling, leave thy home within the alders. Leave thy couch among the willows, hasten in thy purple stockings, hasten from thy walks restricted, come among the haunts of heroes, join thy friend in Karlavala. We shall never treat thee evil. Thou shalt dwell in peace and plenty, thou shalt feed on milk and honey, honey is the food of strangers. Haste away from this thy covert. From the couch of the unworthy, to a couch beneath the rafters of Wainola's ancient dwellings, haste thee onward o'er the snow-plain, as a leaflet in the autumn, skip beneath these birchen branches, as a squirrel in the summer, as a cuckoo in the spring-time.
Wainamoinen, the magician, the eternal wisdom-singer, over the snow-fields hastened homeward, singing o'er the hills and mountains. With his guest, the ancient Otso, with his friend, the famous Lightfoot, with the honeypore of Northland, far away was heard the singing. Heard the playing of the hunter, heard the songs of Wainamoinen, all the people heard and wondered, men and maidens, young and aged, from their cabins spake as follows. Hear the echoes from the woodlands, hear the bugle from the forest, hear the flute notes of the songsters. Hear the pipes of forest maidens. Feinermoynen, old and trusty, soon appears within the courtyard. Rush the people from their cabins, and the heroes ask these questions.
Has a mine of gold Has the forest yield her treasures? Give to thee the honey-eater? Does the hostess of the woodlands give to thee the lynx and adder? Since thou comest home rejoicing, playing, singing on thy snowshoes. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, gave this answer to his people. For his songs I caught the adder, caught the serpent for his wisdom, therefore do I come rejoicing, singing, playing on my snowshoes. Not the mountain, lynx, nor serpent, comes, however, to our dwellings. The illustrious is coming, Pride and beauty of the forest. Tis the master comes among us. Covered with his friendly fur robe, Welcome, Otzo, welcome, light foot, Welcome, loved one from the Glenwood. If the mountain guest is welcome, Open wide the gates of entry.
If the bear is thought unworthy, Bar the doors against the stranger. This the answer of the tribe folk? We salute thee, mighty Otzo, Honey, poor, we bid thee welcome. Welcome to our courts and cabins. Welcome, Lightfoot, to our tables, decorated for thy coming. We have wished for thee for ages, waiting since the days of childhood, for the notes of Tapio's bugle, for the singing of the wood-nymphs, for the coming of dear Otso, for the forest gold and silver, waiting for the year of plenty, longing for it as for summer, as the shoe waits for the snow-fields. As the sledge for beaten highways, as the maiden for her suitor, and the wife her husband's coming, sat at evening by the windows. At the gates have sat at morning, sat for ages at the portals.
Near the granaries in the winter vanished, till the snow-fields warmed, and till the sails unfurled in joyance, till the earth grew green and blossomed, thinking all the while as follows. Where is our beloved Otso? Who delays our forest treasure? Has he gone to distant Estland, to the upper glens of Swamy? Spake the ancient Venamoinen. Whither shall I lead the stranger? Whither take the golden lightfoot? Shall I lead him to the garner? To the house of straw conduct him? This the answer of his tribefolk. To the dining hall lead Otso, greatest hero of the Northland, famous lightfoot forest apple, pride and glory of the woodlands. Have no fear before these maidens. Fear not curly-headed virgins.
Clad in silver-tincelled raiment, maidens hasten to their chambers. When dear Otso joins their number, when the hero comes among them. This the prayer of Wainamoinen. Grant, O Ukko, peace and plenty, underneath these painted rafters, in this ornamented dwelling, thanks be paid to gracious Ukko. Spake again the ancient minstrel. Whither shall we lead dear Otso? Whither take the fur-clad stranger? This the answer of his people. Hither let the fur-robed Lightfoot be saluted on his coming. Let the honey-pour be welcomed to the hearthstone of the penthouse. Welcome to the boiling cauldrons, that we may admire his fur-robe, may behold his cloak with joyance. Have no care, thou much-loved Otso. Let not anger swell thy bosom.
As thy coat we view with pleasure, we thy fur shall never injure, shall not make it into garments to protect unworthy people. Thereupon, wise Wainamoinen, pulled the sacred robe from Otso, spread it in the open courtyard, cut the members into fragments, laid them in the heating cauldrons, in the copper-bottomed vessels, O'er the fire the crane was hanging! On the crane were hooks of copper, on the hooks the broiling vessels, filled with bear-steak for the feasting, seasoned with the salt of Dwyna, from the Saxon land imported, from the distant Dwyna waters, from the salts he bought in shallops. Ready is the feast of Otso. From the fire a-swung the kettles, on the crane of polished iron, in the centres of the tables, is the bear displayed in dishes, golden dishes decorated.
Of the fir-tree and the linden were the tables newly fashioned. Drinking-cups were forged from copper, knives of gold and spoons of silver filled the vessels to their borders with the choicest bits of lightfoot, fragments of the forest-apple. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, ancient one with bosom golden, potent voice in Tapio's counsel, Metzeler's most lovely hostess, hostess of the glen and forest, hero's son of Tapiola, stalwart youth in cap of scarlet, Tapio's most beauteous virgin. Fair Tullovo of the woodlands, Metzola with all her people, come and welcome to the feasting, to the marriage feast of Otso, all sufficient the provisions, food to eat and drink abundant, plenty for the hosts assembled, plenty more to give the village.
This the question of the people. Tell us of the birth of Otso. Was he born within the manger? Was he nurtured in the bathroom? Was his origin ignoble? This is Wainamoinen's answer. Otzo was not born a beggar, was not born among the rushes, was not cradled in a manger. Hanipur was born in ether, in the regions of the moonland. On the shoulders of a tava, with the daughters of creation, through the ether walked a maiden on the red rims of the cloudlets. On the border of the heavens, in her stockings purple-tinted, in her golden-coloured sandals, in her hand she held a wool-box, with a hair-box on her shoulder, through the wool upon the ocean, and the hair upon the river. These are rocked by winds and waters, water-currents, bear them onward, bear them to the sandy seashore, land them near the woods of honey, on an island, forest-covered, famaliki.
Woodland hostess. Tapio's most cunning daughter. Took the fragments from the seaside. Took the white wool from the waters. Sewed the hair and wool together. Laid the bundle in her basket. Basket made from bark of birch wood. Bound with cords the magic bundle. With the chains of gold she bound it. To the pine trees topmost branches. Then she rocked the thing of magic. Rocked to life the tender baby. Mid the blossoms of the pine tree. On the fir-top set with needles, thus the young bear well was nurtured, thus was sacred Otzo cradled, on the honey tree of Northland, in the middle of the forest. Sacred Otzo grew and flourished, quickly grew with graceful movements, short of feet with crooked ankles, wide of mouth and broad forehead, short his nose, his fur-robe velvet, but his claws were not well-fashioned, Neither were his teeth implanted.
Fair maid Licky, forest hostess, spake these words in meditation, clause I should be pleased to give him, and with teeth endow the wonder. Would he not abuse the favor? Swore the bear a promise sacred, on his knees before Malicky, hostess of the Glen and forest, and before omniscient Uco, first and last of all creators. That he would not harm the worthy, never do a deed of evil, then Malicki, woodland hostess, wisest maid of tapiola, sought for teeth and claws to give him, from the stoutest mountain-ashes, from the juniper and oak-tree, from the dry-knots of the alder, teeth and claws of these were worthless, would not render goodly service, grew a fir-tree on the mountain, grew a stately pine in northland, and the fir had silver branches, bearing golden cones abundant.
These the silvan maiden gathered, teeth and claws of these she fashioned, in the jaws and feet of Utzo, set them for the best of uses. Then she freed her new-made creature, let the lightfoot walk and wander, let him lumber through the marshes, let him amble through the forest, roll upon the plains and pastures, taught him how to walk a hero. How to move with graceful motion, how to live in ease and pleasure, how to rest in full contentment, in the moors and in the marshes, on the borders of the woodlands, how unshod to walk in summer, stockingless to run in autumn, how to rest and sleep in winter, in the clumps of alder bushes, underneath the sheltering fir-tree, underneath the pine's protection, wrapped securely in his fur robes, with the juniper and willow.
This the origin of Utzo, honey-eater of the Northlands, whence the sacred booty cometh, thus again the people questioned. Why became the woods so gracious? Why so generous and friendly? Why is Tapio so humid, that he gave his dearest treasure, gave to thee his forest apple, honey-eater of his kingdom? Was he startled with thine arrows, frightened with the spear and broadsword? Wainamoinen, the magician, gave this answer to the question. Filled with kindness was the forest, Glen and Woodland, full of greetings, Tapia showing greatest favour, Fair Maliki forest hostess, Met Sola's bewitching daughter, Beutous woodland maid, Tellervo. Gladly led me on my journey, smoothed my pathway through the Glenwood, marked the trees upon the mountains, pointing me to Utso's caverns, to the Great Bear's Golden Island.
When my journeyings had ended, when the bear had been discovered, had no need to launch my javelins, did not need to aim the arrow. Otzo tumbled in his vaulting, lost his balance in his cradle, in the fir-tree where he slumbered, tore his breast upon the branches, freely gave his life to others. Mighty Otzo, my beloved, thou my golden friend and hero, take thy fir-cap from thy forehead, lay aside thy teeth forever, hide thy fingers in the darkness. Close thy mouth, and still thine anger, while thy sacred skull is breaking. Now I take the eyes of Utsu, lest he lose his sense of seeing, lest their former powers shall weaken. Though I take not all his members, not alone must these be taken. Now I take the ears of Utsu, lest he lose the sense of hearing, lest their former powers shall weaken.
Though I take not all his members, not alone must these be taken. Now I take the nose of Utsu, lest he lose the sense of smelling, lest its former powers shall weaken. Though I take not all his members, not alone must this be taken. Now I take the tongue of Utsu, lest he lose the sense of tasting, lest its former powers shall weaken. Though I take not all his members, not alone must this be taken. Now I take the brain of Utsu, lest he lose the means of thinking, lest his consciousness shall fail him. Lest his former instincts weaken, though I take not all his members, not alone must this be taken. I will reckon him a hero. That will count the teeth of Lightfoot, that will loosen Otzo's fingers from the settings firmly fastened.
None he finds with strength sufficient to perform the task demanded. Therefore, ancient Wainamoinen counts the teeth of sacred Otzo, loosens all the claws of Lightfoot, with his fingers strong as copper, slips them from their firm foundations, speaking to the bear these measures. Otsow thou my honey-eater, thou my furball of the woodlands, onward, onward must thou journey, from my low and lonely dwelling, to the courtrooms of the village. Go, my treasure, through the pathway, near the herds of swine and cattle, to the hill-tops forest-covered, to the high and rising mountains, to the spruce-trees filled with needles, to the branches of the pine-tree. There remain my forest apple. Linger there in lasting slumber, where the silver bells are ringing, to the pleasure of the shepherd.
Thus beginning and thus ending, Wainamoinen, old and truthful, hastened from his emptied tables, and the children thus addressed him. Whither hast thou led thy booty? Where hast left thy forest apple, sacred Otso of the woodlands? Hast thou left him on the iceberg, buried him upon the snowfield? Hast thou sunk him in the quicksand? Laid him low beneath the heather? Wainamoinen spake in answer. Have not left him on the iceberg. Have not buried him in snowfields. There the dogs would soon devour him. Birds of prey would feast upon him. Have not hidden him in swampland. Have not buried him in heather. There the worms would live upon him. Insects feed upon his body. Thither I have taken Utzo. To the summit of the gold-hill, to the copper-bearing mountain, laid him in his silken cradle, in the summit of a pine-tree, where the winds and sacred branches rock him to his lasting slumber, to the pleasure of the hunter, to the joy of man and hero, to the east his lips are pointing, while his eyes are northward-looking.
But dear Otzo looks not upward, for the fierceness of the storm-winds would destroy his sense of vision. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, touched again his harp of joyance, sang again his songs enchanting, to the pleasure of the evening, to the joy of morn arising, spake the singer of Wainola, Light for me a torch of pinewood, for the darkness is appearing, that my playing may be joyous, and my wisdom-songs find welcome. Then the ancient sage and singer, wise and worthy Wainamoinen, sweetly sang and played and chanted through the long and dreary evening, Ending thus his incantation. Grant O'Uco, my creator, that the people of Vainola may enjoy another banquet in the company of Lightfoot. Grant that we may long remember Kelevala's feast with Otso.
Grant O'Uco, my creator, that the signs may guide our footsteps, that the notches in the pine-tree may direct my faithful people to the bare dens of the woodlands, that great Tapio's sacred bugle may resound through glen and forest. That the wood-nymph's call may echo, may be heard in field and hamlet, to the joy of all that listen. Let great Tapio's horn for ages ring throughout the fen and forest, through the hills and dales of Northland, o'er the meadows and the mountains, to awaken song and gladness in the forests of Vainola, on the snowy plains of Swammy, on the meads of Kalevala, for the coming generations. End of Rune.
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48 47 - RUNE XLVII. Louhi steals Sun, Moon, and Fire 14:07
Rune forty-seven of the Kalevala. Kalevala.
Translated by John Martin Crawford. Lo, he steals sun, moon, and fire. Touched again his magic harp-strings. Sang in miracles of concord. Filled the north with joy and gladness. Melodies arose to heaven. Song arose to luna's chambers. Echoed through the sun's bright windows. And the moon has left her station. Drops and settles in the birch-tree. And the sun comes from his castle. Settles in the fir-tree branches. Comes to share the common pleasure. Comes to listen to the singing. To the harp of Veinamönen. Lohi, hostess of Pohjola, Northland's old and toothless wizard, makes the sun and moon her captives. In her arms she takes Fair Luna from her cradle in the birch-tree, holds the sun down from his station from the fir-tree's bending branches, carries them to Upper Northland to the dark Somsaryola, hides the moon no more to glimmer in a rock of many colors.
Hides the sun to shine no longer in the iron-bended mountain. Thereupon these words she utters, Moon of gold and sun of silver, hide your faces in the caverns of Pohyla's dismal mountain. Shine no more to gladden Northland, till I come to give ye freedom, drawn by courses nine in number, sable courses of one mother. When the golden moon had vanished, and the silver sun had hidden, In the iron-bended caverns, lohe stole the fire from Northland, from the regions of Beinle, left the mansions cold and cheerless, and the cabins full of darkness. Night was king, and reigned unbroken, darkness ruled in Illmarinen, darkness in the home of Okko. Hard to live without the moonlight, harder still without the sunshine.
Ukko's life is dark and dismal when the sun and moon desert him. Ukko, first of all creators, lived in wonder at the darkness. Long reflected, well considered, why this miracle in heaven, what this accident in nature, to the moon upon her journey. Why the sun no more is shining? Why has disappeared the moonlight? Then great Ukko walked the heavens to the border of the cloudlets, in his purple-colored vestments, in his silver-tincelled sandals, seeking for the golden moonlight, looking for the silver sunshine. Lightning Ukko struck in darkness from the edges of his fire-sword, shot the flames in all directions from his blade of golden color, into heaven's upper spaces, into ether's starry pastures, When a little fire had kindled, Okko hid it in the cloud space, in a box of gold and silver, in a case adorned with silver, gave it to the aether maidens, called a virgin-dent rocket, that it might become a new moon, that a second sun might follow.
On the long cloud rocked the virgin, on the blue edge of the aether, rocked the fire of the Creator in her copper-colored cradle, with her ribbon silver-studded. Lowly bent the bands of silver, loud the golden cradle echoes, and the clouds of northland thunder low descends the dome of heaven, at the rocking of the lightning, rocking of the fire of Ukko. Thus the flame was gently cradled by the virgin of the ether. Long the fair and faithful maiden stroked the fire-child with her fingers, Tended it with care and pleasure, till in an unguarded moment it escaped the Aether Virgin, slipped the hands of her that nursed it. Quick the heavens are burst asunder, quick the vault of Ukko opens. Downward drops the wayward Firechild, downward quick the Red Wall rushes, shoots across the arc of heaven, hisses through the startled cloudlets, flashes through the troubled Welking, through nine-starry vaults of Aether.
Then the ancient Wainemoynen spake, and these the words he uttered. Blacksmith, brother Ilmarinen, let us haste and look together. What the kind of fire that falleth, what the form of light that shineth from the upper walls of heaven, from the lower earth and ocean. Has a second moon arisen? Can it be a ball of sunlight? Thereupon the heroes wandered, onward journeyed and reflected. How to gain the spot illumined, how to find the sacred firechild? Came a river rushing by them, broad and stately as an ocean. Straightway ancient Wainamöinen there began to build a vessel, build a boat to cross the river. With the aid of Illmarinen, From the oak he cut the rowlocks, from the pine the oars he fashioned, from the aspen shapes the rudder.
When the vessel day had finished, quick they rolled it to the current, hard they rowed and ever forward, on the Neva stream and waters, at the head of Neva river. Ilmatar, the Aether daughter, foremost daughter of creation, came to meet them on their journey, thus addressed the coming strangers. Who are ye of Northland heroes, rowing on the Neva waters? Wainemönen gave this answer. This the blacksmith Ilmarinen, I, the ancient Wainemönen. Tell us now thy name and station, whither going whence thou comest, where thy tribefolk live and linger. Spake the daughter then of Ether. I, the oldest of the women, am the first of Ether's daughters, am the first of ancient mothers. Seven times have I been wedded to the heroes of creation.
Whither do your strangers journey? Answered thus, old Vayne Moenen. Fire has left vain less hearthstones, light has disappeared from Northland. Have been sitting long in darkness, cold and darkness our companions. Now we journey to discover, but the fire that fell from heaven, falling from the clouds' redlining, to the deeps of earth and ocean. Ilmatar returned this answer. Hard the flame is to discover, hard indeed to find the fire-child. Has committed many mischiefs, nothing good has he accomplished. Quick the fire-ball fell from ether, from the red rims of the cloudlets, from the planes of the Creator, through the ever-moving heavens, through the purple ether-spaces, through the blackened flues of Thuri, to Palvoinen's room uncovered.
When the fire had reached the chambers of Palvoinen, son of evil, he began his wicked workings, he engaged in lawless actions, raged against the blushing maidens, fired the youth to evil conduct, singed the beds of men and heroes. When the mother nursed her baby in the cold and cheerless cradle, thither flew the wicked fire-child, there to perpetrate some mischief. In the cradle burned the infant, by the infant burned the mother, that the babe might visit Mana, in the kingdom of Thoni. Said the child was born for dying, only destined for destruction, through the tortures of the fire-child. Greater knowledge had the mother, did not journey to Manala. Knew the word, to check the red flame, how to banish the intruder through the eyelet of a needle, through the death-hole of the hatches.
Then the ancient Vaynamoen questioned Ilmatar as follows. Whither did the fire-child wander? Whither did the red flame hasten from the border fields of Turi to the woods or to the waters? Straightway Ilmatar does answers. When the fire had fled from Turi, From the castles of Palvoinen, through the islet of the Needle, through the death-hole of the Hatchet. First it burned the fields and forests, burned the lowlands and the heather. Then it sought the mighty waters, sought the Alwe Sea and river. And the waters hissed and sputtered in their anger at the Firechild. Fiery red the boiling Alwe. Three times in the nights of summer, nine times in the nights of autumns, boil the waters to the tree-tops, roll and tumble to the mountain, through the red bull's force and fury.
Hurls the pike upon the pastures, to the mountain cliffs the salmon, where the ocean dwellers wonder, long reflect and well consider, how to still the angry waters. Wept the salmon for his grotto, Maun'd the whiting for his cavern, and the lake-trout for his dwelling, quick the crook-necked salmon darted, tried to catch the fire intruder, but the red bull quick escaped him. Darted then the daring whiting, swallowed quick the wicked fire-child, swallowed quick the flame of evil. Quiet grow the alwe waters, slowly settled to their shore-lines, to their long-accustomed places, in the long and dismal evening. Time had gone but little distance, when the whiting grew affrighted. Fear befell the fire-devourer.
Burning pain and writhing tortures seized the eater of the fire-child. Swam the fish in all directions, called and moaned, and swam in circle. Swam one day, and then a second, swam the third from morn to even. Swam she to the whiting island, to the caverns of the salmon, where a hundred islands cluster. And the islands there assembled thus addressed the fire devourer. There is none within these waters, in the narrow Aulae lakelet, that will eat the fated fire-fish, that will swallow thee in trouble, in thine agonies and tortured, from the fire Chaldo hast eaten. Hearing this atroath forth darting, swallowed quick as light the whiting, quickly ate the fire devourer. Time had gone but little distance, when the trout became affrighted.
Fear befell the whiting-eater. Burning pain and riding torment seized the eater of the fire-fish, swam the trout in all directions, called and mourned, and swam and circled, swam one day, and then a second, swam the third from morn to eb. Swam she to the salmon island, swam she to the whiting grottoes, where a thousand islands cluster, and the islands there assembled thus addressed tortured lake trout. There is none within this river, in these narrow aloe waters, that will eat the wicked firefish that will swallow thee in trouble. In thine agonies and tortures from the firefish thou hast eaten. Hearing this, the gray pike darted, swallowed quick as light the lake trout, quickly ate the tortured firefish.
Time had gone but little distance, when the gray pike grew affrighted. Fear befell the lake trout eater. Burning pain and riding torment, seized the reckless trout devourer. Swam the pike in all directions, called and moaned, and swam in circle. Swam one day, and then a second, swam the third from morn to evening. To the cave of ocean swallows, to the sand-hills of the sea-gulls, where a hundred islands cluster, and the islands there assembled thus addressed the fire-devourer. There is none within this lakelet, in these narrow aloe waters, that will eat the fated firefish, that will swallow thee in trouble, in thine agonies and tortures from the firefish thou hast eaten. Weinamöinen, wise and ancient, with the aid of Illmarinen, weaves with skill a mighty fishnet from the juniper and seagrass, dyes the net with all the waters, ties it well with thongs of willow.
Straightway ancient Beinemönin called the maidens to the fish-net, and the sisters came as bidden. With the netting rowed they onward, rowed they to the hundred islands, to the grottoes of the salmon, to the caverns of the whiting, to the reeds of sable color, where the gray pike rests and watches. On they hastened to the fishing, dragged the net in all directions, dragged it lengthwise, sidewise, crosswise, and diagonally zigzag. But they did not catch the firefish. Then the brothers went fishing. Dragged the net in all directions, backwards, forwards, lengthwise, sidewise, through the homes of ocean-dwellers, through the grottoes of the salmon, through the dwellings of the whiting, through the reed-beds of the lake-trout, where the gray pike lies in ambush.
But the fated fire-fish came not, came not from the lake's abysses, came not from the aloe-barters. Little fish could not be captured in the large nets of the masters. Murmured then the deep-sea-dwellers, spake the salmon to the lake-trout, and the lake-trout to the whiting, and the whiting to the gray-pike. Have the heroes of Wainula died, or have they all departed from these fertile shores and waters? Where, then, are the ancient weavers, weavers of the nets of flaxthread, those that frighten us with fish-poles, drag us from our homes unwilling? Hearing this, wise Veinemönen answered thus the deep-sea-dwellers. Neither have Veineless heroes died, nor have they all departed from these fertile shores and waters.
Two are born where one has perished. Longer poles and finer fish-nets have the sons of Kalevala.
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49 48 - RUNE XLVIII. Capture of the Fire-fish 12:30
The Kalevala. Capture of the Fire-Fish. Weinamoinen, the Enchanter, the Eternal Wisdom-Singer, Long reflected, well considered, how to weave the nets of flax-yarn, weave the fish-net of the fathers. Spake the minstrel of Wainola, who will plough the field and fallow, sow the flax, and spin the flax-threads, that I may prepare the fish-net, wherewith I may catch the fire-pike, may secure the thing of evil. Soon they found a fertile island, found the fallow soil befitting, on the border of the heather, and between two stately oak-trees. They prepared the soil for sowing, searching everywhere for flaxseed, founded in Tuoni's kingdom, in the keeping of an insect. Then they found a pile of ashes, where the fire had burned the vessel.
In the ashes sowed the seedlings, near the Alri Lake and border, in the rich and loamy fallow. There the seed took root and flourished, quickly grew to great proportions, in a single night in summer. Thus the flax were sowed at evening, Placed within the earth by moonlight. Quick it grew, and quickly ripened. Quick, Wainola's heroes pulled it. Quick they broke it on the hackles, hastened with it to the waters, dipped it in the lake, and washed it. Quickly brought it home, and dried it. Quickly broke, and combed, and smoothed it. Brushed it well at early morning. Laid it into laps for spinning. Quick the maidens twirl the spindles, spin the flaxen threads for weaving. In a single night in summer, Quick the sisters wind and reel it, make it ready for the needle.
Brothers weave it into fish-nets, and the fathers twist the cordage, while the mothers knit the meshes. Rapidly the mesh sticks circles. Soon the fish-net is completed, in a single night in summer. As the magic net is finished, and in length a hundred fathoms, on the rim three hundred fathoms. Rounded stones are fastened to it. Joined thereto are seven float boards. Now the young men take the fish-net, and the old men cheer them onward, wish them good luck at their fishing. Long they row and drag the flaxen. Here and there the net is lowered. Now they drag it lengthwise, sidewise, drag it through the slimy reed-beds. But they do not catch the fire-pike, only smelts and luckless redfish, little fish of little value.
Spake the ancient Weinermoynen. O thou blacksmith, illmarinen. Let us go ourselves a-fishing. Let us catch the fish of evil. To the fishing went the brothers, magic heroes of the Northland, pulled the fish-net through the waters, toward an island in the deep sea. Then they turn and drag the fish-net, toward a meadow jutting seaward. Now they drag it toward Wainola, draw it lengthwise, sidewise, crosswise, catching fish of every species, salmon, trout and pike, and whiting, Do not catch the evil fire-fish. Then the master Weinamoinen made additions to its borders, made it many fathoms wider and a hundred fathoms longer. Then these words the hero uttered. Famous blacksmith Ilmarinen, let us go again a-fishing, row again the magic fish-net, drag it well through all the waters, that we may obtain the fire-pike.
Thereupon the northern heroes go a second time a-fishing. Drag their nets across the rivers, lakelets, seas and bays and inlets. Catching fish of many species, but the fire-fish is not taken. Weinermoyne, an ancient singer, long reflecting, spake these measures. Dear Valamo, water-hostess, ancient mother with the reed-breast, come, exchange thy water-raiment, change thy coat of reeds and rushes, for the garments I shall give thee. Light sea-foam, Thine inner vesture, and thine outer moss and sea-grass, fashioned by the wind's fair daughters, woven by the flood's sweet maidens. I will give thee linen vestments, spun from flax of softest fibre, woven by the moon's white virgins, fashioned by the sun's bright daughters, fitting raiment for Valamo.
Ato, king of all the waters, ruler of a thousand grottoes, take a pole of seven fathoms, search with this the deepest waters, Rummage well the lowest bottoms, stir up all the reeds and sea-weeds, hither drive a school of gray-pike. Drive them to our magic fish-net, from the haunts in pike abounding, from the caverns and the trout-holes, from the whirlpools of the deep-sea, from the bottomless abysses, where the sunshine never enters, where the moonlight never visits, and the sands are never troubled. Rose a pygmy from the waters, from the floods a little hero, Riding on a rolling billow. And the pygmy spake these measures. Dost thou wish a worthy helper, one to use the pole and frighten, pike and salmon, to thy fishnets?
Weinamoinen, old and faithful, answered thus the lake-born hero. Yeah, we need a worthy helper, one to hold the pole and frighten, pike and salmon, to our fishnets. Thereupon the water-pygmy cut a linden from the border, spake these words to Weinamoinen. Shall I scare with all my powers, with the forces of my being? As thou needest, shall I scare them? Spake the minstrel Wainamoinen. If thou scarest, as is needed, thou wilt scare with all thy forces, with the strength of thy dominions. Then began the Pygmy hero to affright the deep-sea-dwellers, drove the fish in countless numbers to the net of the magicians. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, drew his net along the waters, Drew it with his robes of flex-thread, spake these words of magic import.
Come here, fish of Northland waters, to the regions of my fish-net, as my hundred meshes lower. Then the net was drawn and fastened, many were the gray pike taken, by the master and magician. Wainamoinen, happy-hearted, hastened to a neighboring island, to a blue point in the waters, near a red bridge on the headland, landed there his draft of fishes. Cast a pike upon the sea-shore, and the fire-pike was among them. Cast the others to the waters. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, May I touch thee with my fingers, using not my gloves of iron, using not my bluestone mittens? This the sun-child hears and answers. I should like to carve the fire-fish, I should like this pike to handle, if I had the knife of good luck.
Quick a knife falls from the heavens, from the clouds a magic fish-knife. Silver-edged and golden-headed, to the girdle of the sun-child. Quick he grasped the copper-handle. Quick the hero carves the fire-pike. Finds therein the tortured lake-trout. Carves the lake-trout thus discovered. Finds therein the fated whiting. Carves the whiting. Finds a blue ball. In the third cave of his body. He, the blue ball quick unwinding, finds within a ball of scarlet. Carefully removes the cover. Finds the ball of fire within it. Finds the flame from heaven fallen, from the heights of the seventh heaven, through nine regions of the ether. Weinamoinen long reflected how to get the magic fireball to Wainola's fireless hearthstones, to his cold and cheerless dwellings.
Quick he snatched the fire of heaven from the fingers of the sun-child. Weinamoinen's beard it singes, burns the brow of Illmarinen, burns the fingers of the blacksmith. Rolling forth it hastens westward, Hastens to the Alwy shore-lines. Burns the juniper and alder. Burns the arid heath and meadow. Rises to the lofty linden. Burns the firs upon the mountains. Hastens onward, onward, onward. Burns the islands of the northland. Burns the Sava fields and forests. Burns the drylands of Karjala. Straightway, ancient Wainamoinen, hastens through the fields and fenlands. Tracks the ranger to the Glenwood. Finds the fire-child in an elm-tree. Sleeping in a bed of fungus. Thereupon wise Wainamoinen wakes the child and speaks these measures.
Wicked fire that God created, flame of Ukko from the heavens, thou hast gone in vain to sea-caves, to the lakes without a reason. Better go thou to my village, to the hearthstones of my people. Hide thyself within my chimneys, in mine ashes sleep and linger. In the daytime I will use thee to devour the blocks of birch-wood, In the evening I will hide thee underneath the golden circle. Then he took the willing panu, took the willing fire of Ukko, bladed in a box of tinder, in the punkwood of a birch-tree, in a vessel forged from copper, carried it with care and pleasure to the fog-point in the waters, to the island forest-covered. Thus returned the fire to Northland, to the chambers of Wainola, to the hearths of Kalevala.
Ilmarinen, famous blacksmith, Hastened to the deep sea's margin, sat upon the rock of torture, feeling pain the flame had given, laved his wounds with briny water, thus to still the fire-child's fury, thus to end his persecutions. Long reflecting, Ilmarinen thus addressed the flame of Ukko. Evil Panu from the heavens, wicked son of God from ether, tell me what has made thee angry, made thee burn my weary members, burn my beard and face and fingers. Made me suffer death-land tortures. Spake again young Ilmarinen. How can I wild Panu conquer? How shall I control his conduct, make him end his evil doings? Come, thou daughter from Poyola. Come, white virgin of the hoar-frost. Come on shoes of ice from Lapland, icicles upon thy garments.
In one hand a cup of white frost, in the other hand an ice-spoon. Sprinkle snow upon my members, Where the fire-child has been resting, let the hoar-frost fall and settle. Should this prayer be unavailing, come, thou son of Sariola, come, thou child of frost from Poya, come, thou long man from the ice-plains, of the height of stately pine-trees, slender as the trunks of lindens. On thy hands the gloves of hoar-frost, cap of ice upon thy forehead, on thy waist a white frost girdle. Bring the ice-dust from Poyola. From the cold and sunless village. Rain is crystallized in Northland. Ice in Poya is abundant. Lakes of ice and ice-bound rivers, frozen smooth the sea of ether. Bounds the hare in frosted fur-rope, climbs the bear in icy raiment, ambles over the snowy mountains, swans of frost descend the rivers, ducks of ice in countless numbers, swim upon thy freezing waters, near the cataract and whirlpool.
Bring me frost upon thy snow-sledge, Snow and ice in great abundance, From the summit of the wild-top, From the borders of the mountains. With thine ice and snow and hoar-frost, Cover well mine injured members, Where wild panu has been resting, Where the child of fire has lingered. Should this call be ineffective, Ukko, God of love and mercy, First and last of the creators, From the east send forth a snow-cloud, From the west dispatch a second. Join their edges well together. Let there be no vacant places. Let these clouds bring snow and hoar-frost. Lay the healing balm of Ukko on my burning tortured tissues, where wild Panu has been resting. Thus the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Stills the pains by fire engendered, Stills the agonies and tortures, Brought him by the child of evil, Brought him by the wicked Panu.
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50 49 - RUNE XLIX. Restoration of the Sun and Moon 15:55
Rune forty-nine of the Kalevala. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Lovalla. Rune 49. Restoration of the Sun and Moon. Thus has fire returned to Northland. But the gold moon is not shining, neither gleams the silver sunlight in the chambers of Vainola, on the plains of Kalevala, on the crops the white frost settled, and the cattle died of hunger. Even birds grew sick and perished, men and maidens faint and famished. Perished in the cold and darkness, from the absence of the sunshine, from the absence of the moonlight, knew the pike his holes and hollows, and the eagle knew his highway, knew the winds the times for sailing.
But the wise men of the Northland could not know the dawn of morning, on the fog-point in the ocean, on the islands forest-covered, young and aged talked and wondered, well-reflected, long debated. How to live without the moonlight, live without the silver sunshine, in the cold and cheerless Northland, in the homes of Kalevala. Long conjectured all the maidens, orphans ask the wise for counsel, spake a maid to Ilmarinen, running to the blacksmith's furnace. Rise, O artist, from thy slumbers, hasten from thy couch unworthy. Forge from gold the moon for Northland. Forge anew the sun from silver. Cannot live without the moonlight, nor without the silver sunshine. From his couch arose the artist, from his couch of stone the blacksmith, and began his work of forging, forging sun and moon for Northland.
Came the ancient Vayner Minen, in the doorway sat and lingered. Spake these words to Ilmarinen, Blacksmith, my beloved brother, thou the only metal-worker, Tell me why thy magic hammer falls so heavy on thine anvil. Spoke the youthful Ilmarinen, Moon of gold and sun of silver I am forging for Vainola. I shall swing them into ether, plant them in the starry heavens. Spake the wise old Vayner Moinen, senseless blacksmith of the ages, vainly dost thou swing thy hammer, vainly rings thy mighty anvil. Silver will not gleam as sunshine. Not of gold is born the moonlight. Ilmarinen, little heeding, ceases not to ply his hammer. Sun and moon the artist forges, wings the moon of magic upward, hurls it to the pine-tree branches, does not shine without her master.
Then the silver sun he stations, in an elm-tree on the mountains. From his forehead drips the sweat-drops, perspiration from his fingers, through his labours at the anvil. while the sun and moon were forging. But the sun shone not at morning from his station in the elm-tree, and the moon shone not at evening from the pine-tree's topmost branches. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen. Let the fates be now consulted and the oracles examined. Only thus may we discover where the sun and moon lie hidden. Thereupon, old Wainamoinen, only wise and true magician, cut three chips from trunks of alder, Laid the chips in magic order, touched and turned them with his fingers, spake these words of master magic. Of my maker seek I knowledge, ask in hope and faith the answer, from the great magician Ukko.
Tongue of alder tell me truly, symbol of the great creator, where the sun and moon are sleeping, for the moon shines not in season, nor appears the sun at midday. From their stations in the sky-vault, Speak the truth, O magic Alda. Speak not words of man nor hero. Hither bring but truthful measures. Let us form a sacred compact. If thou speakest me of falsehood, I will hurl thee to Manala. Let the nether fires consume thee, that thine evil signs may perish. Thereupon the Alda answered, spake these words of truthful import. Verily the sun lies hidden, And the golden moon is sleeping in the stoneberg of Pajola, in the copper-bearing mountain. These are the words of Vayner Moinen. I shall go at once to Northland, to the cold and dark Pajola.
Bring the sun and moon to Gladden, all Vaynerola's fields and forests. Forth he hastens on his journey to the dismal Sarriola, to the Northland cold and dreary, travels one day, then a second. So the third from morn till evening. When appear the gates of Poja, with their snow-clad hills and mountains, Wainamoinen, the magician at the river of Pajola, loudly calls the fairy maiden. Bring a boat, O Poja daughter, bring a strong and trusty vessel. Røm me o'er these chilling waters, o'er this rough and rapid river. But the fairy maiden heard not, did not listen to his calling. Thereupon, old Wainamoinen... Laid a pile of well-dried brushwood, knots and needles of the fir tree, made a fire beside the river, sent the black smoke into heaven, curling to the home of Ukko.
Luhi, hostess of the Northland, hastened to her chamber window, looked upon the bay and river, spake these words to her attendants. Why the fire across the river, where the current meets the deep sea, smaller than the fires of Fomen, larger than the flames of Hunters? Thereupon a polyander hastened from the court of Luhi that the cause he might discover. Bring the sought-for information to the hostess of Bojola. Saw upon the river-border some great hero from Vainola. Vainamoinen saw the stranger called again in tones of thunder, Bring a skiff, thou son of Northland, for the minstrel Vainamoinen. Thus the pojolander answered, Hear no skiffs a-lying, idle. Row thyself across the waters. Use thine arms and feet and fingers to propel thee o'er the river.
Oh, the sacred stream of Poja! Wainamoinen, long reflecting, bravely thus silly loquizes. I will change my form and features. Will assume a second body, neither man nor ancient minstrel, master of the northern waters. Then the singer Wainamoinen leapt a pike upon the waters, quickly swam the rapid river, gained the frigid Poja border. There his native form resuming, walked he as a mighty hero on the dismal Isle of Luhi. Spake the wicked sons of Northland. Come now to Pajolus Courtroom. To Pajolus Court he hastened. Spake again the sons of evil. Come now to the halls of Luhi. To Pajolus Halls he hastened. On the latch he laid his fingers. Set his foot within the forehall. Hastened to the inner chamber, underneath the painted rafters, where the Northland heroes gather.
There he found the poja masters, girded with their swords of battle, with their spears and battle-axes. With their fatal bows and arrows. For the death of Wainamoinen, ancient bard Sivontalainen. Thus they asked the hero-stranger, magic swimmer of the Northland, son of evil, what the message, that thou bringest from thy people, what thy mission to Pajola. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, thus addressed the hosts of Luhi. For the sun I come to Northland, come to seek the moon in Pogia. Tell me where the sun lies hidden, where the golden moon is sleeping. Spake the evil sons of Pogia, Both the sun and moon are hidden in the rock of many colours, in the copper-bearing mountain, in a cavern iron-banded, in the stone-berg of Pajola.
Never more to gain their freedom, never more to shine in Northland. Spake the hero Venamoynon, If the sun be not uncovered, if the moon leave not her dungeon, I will challenge all Pajola to the test of spear or broadsword. Let us now our weapons measure. Quick, the hero of Venola drew his mighty sword of magic. On its border shone the moonlight. On its hilt, the sun was shining. On its back, a neighing stallion. On its face, a cat was mewing. Beautiful, his magic weapon. Quick, the hero's swords are tested, and the blades are rightly measured. Venomoinen's sword is longest, by a single grain of barley, by a blade of straw the widest. To the courtyard rush, the heroes hasten to the deadly combat on the plains of Sarriola.
Wainamoinen, the magician, strikes one blow, and then a second strikes a third time, cuts and conquers. As the housemaids slice the turnips, as they lop the heads of cabbage, as the stalks of flax are broken, so the heads of Luhi's heroes fall before the magic broadsword of the ancient Wainamoinen. Then the victor from Wainola, ancient bard and great magician, went to find the sun in slumber, and the golden moon discover. In the copper-bearing mountains, in the cavern iron-banded, in the stone-berg of Pajola. He had gone but little distance when he found a sea-green island. On the island stood a birch tree. Near the birch tree stood a pillar, carved in stone of many colours. In the pillar nine large portals, bolted in a hundred places.
In the rock he found a crevice, sending forth a gleam of sunlight. Quick he drew his mighty broadsword. From the pillar struck three colours. From the magic of his weapon, and the pillar fell asunder. Through the number of the fragments, Wainamoinen, old and faithful, through the crevice looked and wondered. In the centre of the pillar, from a scarlet-coloured basin, noxious serpents' beer were drinking, and the adders eating spices. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, therefore has Bajola's hostess little drink to give to strangers, since her beer is drank by serpents, and her spices given to adders. Quick he draws his magic fire-blade, cuts the viper's green in pieces, lops the heads off all the adders, speaks these words of master magic.
Thus hereafter let the serpent drink the famous beer of barley feed upon the Northland spices. Wainamoinen, the magician, the eternal wizard-singer, sought to open wide the portals with the hands and words of magic, but his hands had lost their cunning, and his magic gone to others. Thereupon the ancient minstrel quick returning heavy-hearted, To his native halls and hamlets, thus addressed his brother heroes. Woman he without his weapons, with no implements a weakling. Sun and moon have I discovered, but I could not force the portals, leading to their rocky cavern in the copper-bearing mountain. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, O thou ancient Venamoinen, why was I not taken with thee, to become thy war-companion?
Would have been of goodly service. Would have drawn the bolts, or broken all the portals to the cavern, where the sun and moon lie hidden, in the copper-bearing mountain. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, thus replied to Lemminkainen, Empty words will break no portals, draw no bolts of any moment. Locks and bolts are never broken with the words of little wisdom. Greater means than thou, Commandest, must be used to free the sunshine, free the moonlight from her dungeon. Wainamoinen, not discouraged, hastened to the forge and smithy, spake these words to Ilmarinen. O thou famous metal artist, Forge for me a magic trident, Forge from steel a dozen stout rings, Master keys a goodly number, Iron bars and heavy hammers, That the sun we may uncover, In the copper-bearing mountain, In the stone berg of Pajola.
Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-worker, Forge the needs of Wainer Moynen, Forge for him the magic trident, Forge from steel a dozen stout rings, Master keys a goodly number, Iron bars and heavy hammers, not the largest nor the smallest, forged them all of right dimensions. Luhi, hostess of Pajola, Northland's old and toothless wizard, fastened wings upon her shoulders, as an eagle sailed the heavens, over field and fen and forest, over Pogia's many waters, to the hamlets of Vainola, to the forge of Ilmarinen. Quick the famous metal-worker went to see if winds were blowing, found the winds at peace and silent. Found an eagle sable-coloured perched upon his window-casement. Speak the artist Ilmarinen.
Magic bird, whom art thou seeking? Why art sitting at my window? This the answer of the eagle. Art thou blacksmith Ilmarinen, the eternal iron-forger, master of the magic metals, Northland's wonder-working artist? Ilmarinen gave this answer. There is nothing here of wonder, since I forged the dome of heaven, forged the earth a concave cover. Spake again the magic eagle. Why this ringing of thine anvil? Why this knocking of thy hammer? Tell me what thy hands are forging. This the answer of the blacksmith. "'Tis a collar I am forging for the neck of wicked Luhi, toothless witch of Sarriola, stealer of the silver sunshine, stealer of the golden moonlight. With this collar I shall bind her to the iron rock of Estland."
Luhi, hostess of Pajola, saw misfortune fast approaching, saw destruction flying over. Saw the signs of bad luck lower, quickly winged her way through ether, to her native halls and chambers, to the darksome Sarriola. There unlocked the massive portals, where the sun and moon were hidden, in the rock of many colours, in the cavern iron-banded, in the copper-bearing mountain. Then again the wicked Luhi changed her withered form and features, and became a dove of good luck. Straightway wing the starry heavens over field and fen and forest to the meadows of Vainola, to the plains of Calavala, to the forge of Ilmarinen. This is the question of the blacksmith. Wherefore comest dove of good luck? What the tidings that thou bringest?
Thus the magic bird made answer. Wherefore come I to thy smithy? Come to bring the joyful tidings, that the sun has left his cavern, left the rock of many colours, left the stone berg of Pajola, that the moon no more is hidden. In the copper-bearing mountains, in the caverns iron-banded. Straightway hastened Ilmarinen to the threshold of his smithy, quickly scanned the far horizon, saw again the silver sunshine, saw once more the golden moonlight, bringing peace and joy and plenty to the homes of Kalevala. Thereupon the blacksmith hastened to his brother, Vayner Moinen, spake these words to the magician. O thou ancient bard and minstrel, the eternal wizard-singer, see the sun again is shining.
And the golden moon is beaming from their long-neglected places, from their stations in the sky-vault. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, straightway hastened to the courtyard, looked upon the far horizon, saw once more the silver sunshine, saw again the golden moonlight, bringing peace and joy and plenty to the people of the Northland. And the minstrel spake these measures. Greetings to thee, son of fortune. Greetings to thee, moon of good luck. Welcome, sunshine, welcome, moonlight. Golden is the dawn of morning. Free art thou, O sun of silver, free again, O moon beloved, as the sacred cuckoos singing, as the ring-doves' liquid cooings. Rise, thou, silver sun, each morning, source of light and life hereafter.
Bring us daily joyful greetings. Fill our homes with peace and plenty, that our sowing, fishing, hunting may be prospered by thy coming. Travel on thy daily journey. Let the moon be ever with thee. Glide along thy way rejoicing. End thy journeyings in slumber. Rested evening in the ocean, when the daily cares have ended. To the good of all thy people, to the pleasure of Vainola, to the joy of Kalevala.
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51 50 - RUNE L. Mariatta (Wainamoinen's Departure) 16:49
Rune 50 of The Kalevala. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lunruth. Translated by John Martin Crawford. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rune 50 Mariatta, Vainamoinen's departure. Marietta, child of beauty, grew to maidenhood in Northland, in the cabin of her father, in the chambers of her mother, golden ringlets, silver girdles, worn against the key's paternal, glittering upon her bosom. Wore away the father's threshold with the long robes of her garments. Wore away the painted rafters with her beauteous silken ribbons. Wore away the gilded pillars with the touching of her fingers. Wore away the birchen flooring with the tramping of her fur shoes.
Marietta, child of beauty, magic maid of little stature, guarded well her sacred virtue, her sincerity and honor, fed upon the dainty whiting, on the inner bark of birchwood, on the tender flesh of lambkins. When she hastened in the evening to her milking in the hurdles, spake in innocence as follows. Never will the snow-white virgin milk the kind of one unworthy. When she journeyed over snow-fields, on the seat beside her father, spake in purity as follows, Not behind a steed unworthy will I ever ride the snow-sleigh. Mariata, child of beauty, lived a virgin with her mother, as a maiden highly honored, lived in innocence and beauty, daily drove her flocks to pasture, walking with the gentle lambkins.
When the lambkins climbed the mountains, when they gambled on the hilltops, stepped the virgin to the meadow, skipping through a grove of lindens, at the calling of the cuckoo to the songster's golden measures. Mariata, child of beauty, looked about, intently listened, sat upon the berry meadow, sat awhile and meditated, on a hillock by the forest, and soliloquized as follows. Call to me, thou golden cuckoo, sing, thou sacred bird of Northland, sing, thou silver-breasted songster, speak, thou strawberry of Estland, tell how long must I, unmarried, as a shepherdess neglected, wander o'er these hills and mountains, through these flowery fens and fallows. Tell me, cuckoo of the woodlands, sing to me how many summers I must live without a husband as a shepherdess neglected.
Marietta, child of beauty, lived a shepherd maid for ages as a virgin with her mother. Wretched are the lives of shepherds, lives of maidens still more wretched, guarding flocks upon the mountains. Serpents creep in bog and stumble, on the greensward dart the lizards. But it was no serpent singing, nor a sacred lizard calling. It was but the mountain berry calling to the lonely maiden. Come, O Virgin, come and pluck me. Come and take me to thy bosom. Take me, tinsel-breasted Virgin. Take me, maiden, copper-belted. Ere the slimy snail devours me. Ere the blackworm feeds upon me. Hundreds pass my way unmindful. Thousands come within my hearing. Berry maidens swarm about me. Children come in countless numbers.
None of these has come to gather. Come to pluck this ruddy berry. Mariata, child of beauty, listened to the gentle pleading, ran to pick the berry, calling, with her fair and dainty fingers, saw it smiling near the meadow, like a cranberry in feature, like a strawberry in flavor. But be virgin Mariata could not pluck the woodland stranger, thereupon she cut a charmstick, downward pressed upon the berry, when it rose as if by magic rose above her shoes of ermine, then above her copper girdle, darted upward to her bosom, leaped upon the mage. Maria. Pagliata, child of beauty, thus became a bride impregnant, wedded to the mountain berry, lingered in her room at morning, sat at midday in the darkness, hastened to her couch at evening, thus the watchful mother wonders.
What has happened to our Mary, to our virgin Marietta, that she throws aside her girdle, shyly slips through hall and chamber, lingers in her room at morning, hastens to her couch at evening, sits at midday in the darkness? On the floor a babe was playing, and the young child thus made answer. This has happened to our Mary, to our virgin Marietta, this misfortune to the maiden, she has lingered by the meadows, played too long among the lambkins, tasted of the mountain berry. Long the Virgin watched and waited, anxiously the days she counted, waited for the dawn of trouble. Finally she asked her mother these the words of Mariata. Faithful mother, fond and tender, mother whom I love and cherish, make for me a place befitting where my troubles may be lessened and my heavy burdens lightened.
This the answer of the mother, woe to thee, thou hisi maiden, since thou art a bride unworthy, wedded only to dishonor. Mariata, child of beauty, thus replied in truthful measures. I am not a maid of Isi. I am not a bride unworthy. Am not wedded to dishonor. As a shepherdess I wandered, with the lambkins to the Glenwood. Wandered to the berry mountain, where the strawberry had ripened. Quickest thought I plucked the berry. On my tongue I gently laid it. To and fro it rocked and lingered, settled in my heaving bosom. This the source of all my trouble, only cause of my dishonor. As the mother was relentless, ask the maiden of her father, this the virgin mother's pleading. O my father, full of pity, source of both my good and evil, build for me a place befitting, where my troubles may be lessened, and my heavy burdens lightened.
This the answer of the father, of the father unforgiving. Go, thou evil child of Hisi, go, thou child of sin and sorrow, wedded only to dishonor, to the great bear's rocky chamber, to the stone cave of the growler, there to lessen all thy troubles, there to cast thy heavy burdens. Mariata, child of beauty, thus made answer to her father. I am not a child of Hisi. I am not a bride unworthy. Am not wedded to dishonor. I shall bear a noble hero. I shall bear a son immortal, who will rule among the mighty, rule the ancient Vainamoinen. Thereupon the virgin mother wandered hither, wandered thither, seeking for a place befitting, seeking for a worthy birthplace, for her unborn son and hero. Finally these words she uttered.
Pilty thou, my youngest maiden, trustiest of all my servants, seek a place within the village, ask it of the brook of Sarah for the troubled Mariatta, child of sorrow and misfortune. Thereupon the little maiden Pilty spake these words in answer, Whom shall I entreat for succor who will lend me his assistance? These the words of Mariatta. Go and ask it of Ruotus where the reed brook pours her waters. Thereupon the servant Pilty, ever hopeful, ever willing, hastened to obey her mistress, needing not her exhortation, hastened like the rapid river, like the flying smoke of battle, to the cabin of Ruotus. When she walked, the hilltops tottered. When she ran, the mountains trembled. Shore reeds danced upon the pasture.
Sandstones skipped about the heather, as the maiden Pilty hastened to the dwelling of Ruotus. At his table in his cabin sat Ruotus eating, drinking, in his simple coat of linen. With his elbows on the table spake the wizard in amazement. Why hast thou, a maid of evil, come to see me in my cavern? What the message thou art bringing? Thereupon the servant Pilty gave this answer to the wizard. Seek I for a spot befitting, seek I for a worthy birthplace, for an unborn child and hero, seek it near the sara streamlet, where the reedbrook pours her waters. Came the wife of old Ruotus, walking with her arms akimbo, thus addressed the maiden Pilty. Who is she that asks assistance who the maiden thus dishonored, what her name, and who her kindred?
I have come for Mariata, for the worthy virgin mother, spake the wife of old Ruotus, evil-minded, cruel-hearted. Occupied are all our chambers, all our bathrooms near the reed brook, in the mount of fire are couches, is a stable in the forest for the flaming horse of Hisi, in the stable is a manger, fitting birthplace for the hero, from the wife of cold misfortune, worthy couch for Mariata. Thereupon the servant Pilti hastened to her anxious mistress spake these measures much regretting. There is not a place befitting on the silver brook of Sara spake the wife of old Rhotus. Occupied are all the chambers, all the bathrooms near the reed brook, in the mount of fire are couches, is a stable in the forest for the flaming horse of Hisi, in the stable is a manger, fitting birthplace for the hero, from the wife of cold misfortune, worthy couch for Mariata.
Thereupon the hapless maiden, Mariata, virgin mother, fell to bitter tears and murmurs, spake these words in depths of sorrow. I, alas, must go and outcast, wander as a wretched hireling, like a servant in dishonor, hasten to the burning mountain, to the stable in the forest, make my bed within a manger, near the flaming steed of Hisi. Quick the hapless virgin mother, outcast from her father's dwelling, gathered up her flowing raiment, grasped up broom of birchen branches, hastened forth in pain and sorrow, to the stable in the woodlands, on the heights of Tapio's mountains, spake these words in supplication. Come, I pray thee, my Creator, only friend in times of trouble, come to me and bring protection to thy child, the Virgin Mother, to the maiden Mariata in this hour of sore affliction.
Come to me, benignant Uko, come thou only hope and refuge, lest thy guiltless child should perish, die the death of the unworthy. When the Virgin Mariata had arrived within the stable of the flaming horse of Hisi, she addressed the steed as follows. Breathe, O sympathizing Fire Horse, breathe on me, the Virgin Mother. Let thy heated breath give moisture, let thy pleasant warmth surround me, like the vapor of the morning. Let this pure and helpless maiden find a refuge in thy manger. Thereupon the Horse, in pity, breathed the moisture in his nostril, on the body of the Virgin, wrapped her in a cloud of vapor, gave her warmth and needed comforts, gave his aid to the afflicted, to the Virgin Marietta.
There the babe was born and cradled, cradled in a woodland manger, of the virgin, Mariata, pure as pearly dews of morning, holy as the stars in heaven. There the mother rocks her infant, in his swaddling clothes she wraps him, lays him in her robes of linen. Carefully the babe she nurtures, well she guards her much beloved, guards her golden child of beauty, her beloved gem of silver. But alas, the child has vanished, vanished while the mother slumbered. Mariata, lone and wretched, fell to weeping, brokenhearted, hastened off to seek her infant. Everywhere the mother sought him, sought her golden child of beauty, her beloved gem of silver. Sought him underneath the millstone, in the sleigh she sought him vainly, underneath the sieve she sought him, underneath the willow basket.
Touched the trees, the grass she parted, long she sought her golden infant, sought him on the fir-tree mountain, in the vale and hill and heather, looks within the clumps of flowers, well examines every thicket, lifts the juniper and willow, lifts the branches of the alder. Lo, a star has come to meet her, and the star she thus beseeches. O thou guiding star of Northland, star of hope by God created, dost thou know and wilt thou tell me where my darling child has wandered, where my holy babe lies hidden? Thus the star of Northland answers. If I knew, I would not tell thee, tis thy child that me created, set me here to watch at evening, in the cold to shine for ever, here to twinkle in the darkness.
Comes the golden moon to meet her, and the moon she thus beseeches. Golden Moon, by Uko fashioned, hope and joy of Kalevala, dost thou know and wilt thou tell me where my darling child has wandered, where my holy babe lies hidden? Speaks the Golden Moon in answer. If I knew I would not tell thee, tis thy child that me created, here to wander in the darkness, all alone at eve to wander, on my cold and cheerless journey, sleeping only in the daylight, shining for the good of others. Thereupon the virgin mother falls again to bitter weeping, hastens on through fen and forest, seeking for her babe departed. Comes the silver sun to meet her, and the sun she thus addresses. Silver sun by Uko fashion, source of light and life of Northland, dost thou know and wilt thou tell me where my darling child has wandered, where my holy babe lies hidden?
Wisely does the sun make answer. Well, I know thy babe's dominions, where thy holy child is sleeping, where Vinola's light lies hidden. Tis thy child that me created, made me king of earth and ether, made the moon and stars attend me, set me here to shine at midday, makes me shine in silver raiment, lets me sleep and rest at evening. Yonder is thy golden infant, there thy holy babe lies sleeping, hidden to his belt in waters, hidden in the reeds and rushes. Mariata, child of beauty, virgin mother of the Northland, straightway seeks her babe in swampland, finds him in the reeds and rushes, takes the young child on her bosom to the dwelling of her father. There the infant grew in beauty, gathered strength and light and wisdom all of Suomi saw and wondered.
No one knew what name to give him. When the mother named him Flower, others named him Son of Sorrow. When the virgin Mariata sought the priesthood to baptize him, came an old man, Vodokanas, with a cup of holy water, bringing to the babe his blessing, and the graybeard spake as follows. I shall not baptize a wizard, shall not bless a black magician, with the drops of holy water. Let the young child be examined. Let us know that he is worthy, lest he prove the son of witchcraft. Thereupon Olvirokanas called the ancient Vainamoinen the eternal wisdom-singer to inspect the infant wonder to report him good or evil. Vainamoinen old and faithful, carefully the child examined, gave this answer to his people.
Since the child is but an outcast, born and cradled in a manger, since the berry is his father, let him lie upon the heather, let him sleep among the rushes, let him live upon the mountains, take the young child to the marshes, dash his head against the birch tree. Then the child of Mariata, only two weeks old, made answer. O thou ancient Vainamoinen, son of folly and injustice, senseless hero of the Northland, falsely hast thou rendered judgment. In thy years, for greater follies, greater sins and misdemeanors, thou wert not unjustly punished in thy former years of trouble. When thou gavest thine own brother for thy selfish life a ransom, thus to save thee from destruction, then thou wert not sent to swampland to be murdered for thy follies.
In thy former years of sorrow, when the beauteous I know perished in the deep and boundless blue sea to escape thy persecutions, then thou wert not evil-treated, wert not banished by thy people. Thereupon, Odviro Canas, of the wilderness the ruler, touched the child with holy water, gave the wonder babe his blessing, gave him rights of royal airship, free to live and grow a hero, to become a mighty ruler, king and master of Cariala. As the years passed, Vainamoinen recognized his waning powers, empty-handed, heavy-hearted, sang his farewell song to Northland, to the people of Vainola. Sang himself a boat of copper, beautiful his bark of magic. At the helm sat the magician, sat the ancient wisdom singer.
Westward westward sailed the hero, over the blueback of the waters, singing as he left Finola, this his plaintive song and echo. Suns may rise and set in Suomi, rise and set for generations, when the North will learn my teachings, will recall my wisdom sayings, hungry for the true religion. Then will Somi need my coming, watch for me at dawn of morning, that I may bring back the Sampo, bring anew the harp of joyance, bring again the golden moonlight, bring again the silver sunshine, peace and plenty to the Northland. Thus the ancient Vahinamoinen in his copper-banded vessel left his tribe in Kalevala, sailing o'er the rolling billows, sailing through the azure vapors, sailing through the dusk of evening, sailing to the fiery sunset, to the higher-landed regions, to the lower verge of heaven, quickly gained the far horizon, gained the purple-colored harbor.
There his bark he firmly anchored, rested in his boat of copper, but he left his harp of magic, left his songs and wisdom sayings to the lasting joy of Suomi.
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52 51 - Epilogue 4:07
Epilogue of The Kalevala. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala. Compiled by Elias Loonroot. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Epilogue.
Now I end my measured singing. Bid my weary tongue keep silence. Leave my songs to other singers. Horses have their times of resting after many hours of labor. Even sickles will grow weary when they have been long at reaping. Waters seek a quiet haven after running long in rivers. Fire subsides and sinks in slumber at the dawning of the morning. Therefore I should end my singing as my song is growing weary for the pleasure of the evening, for the joy of morn arising. Often I have heard it chanted, often heard the words repeated. Worthy cataracts and rivers never empty all their waters. Thus the wise and worthy singer sings not all his garnered wisdom. Better leave unsung some sayings than to sing them out of season.
Thus beginning and thus ending, do I roll up all my legends, roll them in a ball for safety, in my memory arrange them in their narrow place of resting, lest the songs escape unheeded while the lock is still unopened, while the teeth remain unparted and the weary tongue is silent. Why should I sing other legends, chant them in the glen and forest, sing them on the hill and heather? Cold and still my golden mother lies beneath the meadow sleeping, hears my ancient songs no longer, cannot listen to my singing. Only will the forest listen, sacred birches sighing pine trees, junipers endowed with kindness, alder trees that love to bear me, with the aspens and the willows. When my loving mother left me, young was I and low of stature, like the cuckoo of the forest, like the thrush upon the heather, like the lark I learned to twitter, learned to sing my simple measures, guided by a second mother, stern and cold without affection, drove me helpless from my chamber to the windside of her dwelling, to the north side of her cottage, where the chilling winds in mercy carried off the unprotected.
As a lark I learned to wander, Wander as a lonely songbird, Through the forests and the fenlands, Quietly o'er hill and heather, Walked in pain about the marshes, Learned the songs of winds and waters, Learned the music of the ocean, And the echoes of the woodlands. Many men that live to murmur, many women live to censure, many speak with evil motives, many they with wretched voices curse me for my wretched singing, blame my tongue for speaking wisdom, call my ancient songs unworthy, blame the songs and curse the singer. Be not thus, my worthy people. Blame me not for singing badly, unpretending as a minstrel. I have never had the teaching, never lived with ancient heroes, never learned the tongues of strangers, never claimed to know much wisdom.
Others have had language masters. Nature was my only teacher. Woods and waters my instructors. Homeless, friendless, lone, and needy, save in childhood with my mother, when beneath her painted rafters, where she twirled the flying spindle, by the workbench of my brother, by the window of my sister, in the cabin of my father, in my early days of childhood. Be this as it may, my people, this may point the way to others, to the singers better gifted, for the good of future ages, for the coming generations, for the rising folk of Suomi.
End of Epilogue. Recording by Kyle Robb.
End of The Kalevala. Compiled by Elias Loonroot. Translated by John Martin Crawford.