Chapter 4

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 the azure water-ridges, On the mighty waste before her. Where her hand she turned in water, There arose a fertile hillock; Wheresoe’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; When 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, Wainamoinen, Had not yet beheld the sunshine, Had not seen the golden moonlight, Still remaining undelivered.

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Lingering within his dungeon Thirty summers altogether, And of winters, also thirty, Peaceful on the waste of waters, On the broad-sea’s 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 he 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 Great 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, Wainamoinen, Thus the wonderful enchanter Was delivered from his mother, Ilmatar, the Ether’s daughter.

RUNE II. WAINAMOINEN’S SOWING.

Then arose old Wainamoinen, 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 Pellerwoinen, First-born of the plains and prairies, When a slender boy, called Sampsa, Who should sow the vacant island, Who the forest seeds should scatter. Pellerwoinen, 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 hill-tops, 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, Mountain-ash in virgin places, On the banks of streams the hawthorn, Junipers in hilly regions; This the work of Pellerwoinen, Slender Sampsa, in his childhood. Soon the fertile seeds were sprouting, Soon the forest trees were growing, Soon appeared the tops of fir-trees, And 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, Wainamoinen, Stands aloft to look about him, How the Sampsa-seeds are growing, How the crop of Pellerwoinen; 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.

Wainamoinen, ancient hero, Spies four maidens in the distance, Water-brides, he spies a fifth-one, On the soft and sandy sea-shore, 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 Tursas, 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 raked 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.

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Thought awhile, 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? Wainamoinen, deeply thinking, Spake these words soliloquizing: “Kapé, daughter of the Ether, Ancient mother of my being, Luonnotar, 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 ocean, 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 Wainamoinen Thought awhile and well considered, And his measures are as follow: “Art thou, sir, divine or human? Which of these thou only knowest; Tell me what thy name and station. Very like a man thou lookest, Hast the bearing of a hero, Though the length of man’s first finger, Scarce as tall as hoof of reindeer.”

Then again spake Wainamoinen To the form from out the ocean: “Verily I think thee human, Of the race of pigmy-heroes, Might as well be dead or dying, Fit for nothing but to perish.”

Answered thus the pigmy-hero, Spake the small one from the ocean To the valiant Wainamoinen: “Truly am I god and hero, From the tribes that rule the ocean; Come I here to fell the oak-tree, Lop its branches with my hatchet.”

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Answers thus the sea-born hero: “Never hast thou force sufficient, Not to thee has strength been given, To uproot this mighty oak-tree, To upset this thing of evil, Nor to lop its hundred branches.”

Scarcely had he finished speaking, Scarcely had he moved his eyelids, Ere the pigmy full unfolding, Quick becomes a mighty giant. With one step he leaves the ocean, Plants himself, a mighty hero, On the forest-fields 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 whets it, Using six hard blocks of sandstone, And of softer whetstones, 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 stop 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 outshooting; 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 tree-tops, To the South the leaves were scattered, To the North its hundred branches. Whosoe’er a branch has taken, Has obtained eternal welfare; Who secures himself a tree-top, 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 there by the winds and waters, Like a boat upon the billows; Storm-winds blew them to the Northland, Some the ocean currents carried.

Northland’s fair and slender maiden, Washing on the shore a head-dress, Beating on the rocks her garments, Rinsing there her silken raiment, In the waters of Pohyola, There beheld the chips and splinters, Carried by the winds and waters. In a bag the chips she gathered, Took them to the ancient court-yard, There to make enchanted arrows, Arrows for the great magician, There to shape them into weapons, Weapons for the skilful 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, O’er 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 tree-tops, 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.

Wainamoinen, 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 sea-shore, Hides them in his trusty pouches, Fashioned from the skin of squirrel, Some were made from skin of marten; Hastens forth the seeds to scatter, Quickly sows the barley kernels, On the brinks of Kalew-waters, On the Osma-hills and lowlands.

Hark! the titmouse wildly crying, From the aspen, words as follow: “Osma’s barley will not flourish, Not the barley of Wainola, If the soil be not made ready, If the forest be not levelled, And the branches burned to ashes.”

Wainamoinen, 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 he came 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 nest 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.

Wainamoinen, 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, Hastes 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 that livest Far below 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 slumber-land 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, up yonder, Thou O Father of the heavens, Thou that livest high in Ether, Curbest 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 North-east send a rain-cloud, From the West another send us, From the North-west, 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 and ripen, That the barley-fields may rustle.”

Thereupon benignant 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 North-east, sent a rain-cloud, From the West another sent he, From the North-west, 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. Straightway 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 Wainamoinen.

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.

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Turned his face, and looked about him, Lo! there comes a spring-time 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 Wainamoinen: “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.”

RUNE III. WAINAMOINEN AND YOUKAHAINEN.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Passed his years in full contentment, On the meadows of Wainola, 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 travelled, 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 of Northland heard the story.

Far away in dismal Northland, Lived the singer, Youkahainen, 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 Youkahainen, 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 Wainola, To the cabins of the Northland, There as bard to vie in battle, With the famous Wainamoinen.

“Nay,” replies the anxious father, “Do not go to Kalevala.”

“Nay,” replies the fearful mother, “Go not hence to Wainamoinen, 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 snow-drift, Turn to ice thy pliant fingers, Turn to ice thy feet and ankles.” These the words of Youkahainen: “Good the judgement 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 Suomi, Shall be worsted in the contest, Shall become a hapless minstrel; By my songs shall I transform him, That his feet shall be as flint-stone, 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 flint-stone gauntlet, On his brow a stony visor.”

Then the wizard, Youkahainen, Heeding not advice paternal, Heeding not his mother’s counsel, Leads his courser from his stable, Fire outstreaming from his nostrils, From his hoofs, the sparks outshooting, 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-enamelled. Instantly the prancing racer Springs away upon his journey; On he, restless, plunges northward, All day long he 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 Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala.

As it happened, Wainamoinen, Wainamoinen, the magician, Rode that sunset on the highway, Silently for pleasure driving Down Wainola’s peaceful meadows, O’er the plains of Kalevala.

Youkahainen, 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 are the reins and traces. Thus perforce they make a stand-still, Thus remain and well consider; Water drips from hame and collar, Vapors rise from both their horses. Speaks the minstrel, Wainamoinen: “Who art thou, and whence? Thou comest Driving like a stupid stripling, 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 dashed to pieces.”

Youkahainen then make answer, Spake at last the words that follow: “I am youthful Youkahainen, But make answer first, who thou art, Whence thou comest, where thou goest, From what lowly tribe descended?”

Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Answered thus the youthful minstrel: “If thou art but Youkahainen, Thou shouldst give me all the highway; I am many years thy senior.”

Then the boastful Youkahainen Spake again to Wainamoinen: “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 ages; 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.”