Chapter 8

Wainamoinen, 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 be struggled onward. On the evening of the eighth day, Wainamoinen grew disheartened, Felt a very great discomfort, For his feet had lost their toe-nails, And his fingers dead and dying. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Sad and weary, spake as follows: "Woe is me, my old life fated! Woe is me, misfortune's offspring! Fool was I when fortune, favored, To forsake 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 Pohyola, 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; O'er 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 Wainamoinen, On the blue-back 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 Youkola's foaming river, Where the evil Youkahainen Slew my steed with bow and arrow, Tried to slay me with his weapons. On the waters fell I headlong, Plunged beneath the salt-sea's surface, From the saddle of the courser, From my dappled steed of magic. "Then arose a mighty storm-wind, 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 wheresoe'er thou willest. Well do I the day remember Where thou didst the eagle service, When thou didst the birds a favor. Thou didst leave the birch-tree standing, When were cleared the Osmo-forests, From the lands of Kalevala, As a home for weary song-birds, As a resting-place for eagles." Then arises Wainamoinen, 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 Wainamoinen, Bears him on the path of zephyrs, Floating on the vernal breezes, To the distant shore of Northland, To the dismal Sariola, Where the eagle leaves his burden, Flies away to join his fellows. Wainamoinen, 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 dishevelled 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 foot-print, 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 should 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 bad wakened, From their beds beneath the ocean. Ere the cock had crowed the day-break, 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 softest 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 tables, 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, Hears a wailing from the waters, Hears a weeping from the sea-shore, Hears 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 sea-coast, On the shore some one lamenting." Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Ancient, toothless dame of Northland, Hastens from her door and court-yard, Through the meadow to the sea-shore, 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 Louhi answers: "This is not the wail of children, These are not the tears of women, In this way weep bearded heroes; This the hero-cry of anguish." Quick she pushed her boat to water, To the floods her goodly vessel, Straightway rows with lightning swiftness, To the weeping Wainamoinen; 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 dishevelled. Ears, and eyes, and lips of sadness. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus addresses Wainamoinen: "Tell me what has been thy folly, That thou art in this condition." Old and truthful Wainamoinen Lifts aloft his bead 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." Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus replied to Wainamoinen: "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." Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, 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 sea-shore, To the dwellings of Pohyola. There she feeds the starving hero, Rests the ancient Wainamoinen, Gives him warmth, and food, and shelter, And the hero soon recovers. Then the hostess of Pohyola Questioned thus the ancient singer: "Wherefore didst thou, Wainamoinen, 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 Wainamoinen'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 alders bring discomfort, My companions, winds and waters, Only does the Sun seem friendly, In this cold and cruel country, Near these unfamiliar portals." Louhi thereupon made answer, Weep no longer, Wainamoinen, 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 Wainamoinen, 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 birch-wood, Than in foreign lands to wander, There to drink the rarest liquors From the golden bowls of strangers." Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus replied to the magician: "What reward wilt 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 Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala?" These the words of Wainamoinen: "What would be reward 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 Louhi'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 home-land, To the borders of Wainola, There to hear the cuckoo singing, Hear the sacred cuckoo calling." Wainamoinen, much regretting, Gave this answer to her question: "Cannot forge for thee the Sampo, Cannot make the lid in colors. Take me to my distant country, I will send thee Ilmarinen, He will forge for thee the Sampo, Hammer thee the lid in colors, He may win thy lovely maiden; Worthy smith is Ilmarinen, In this art is first and master; He, the one that forged the heavens. Forged the air a hollow cover; Nowhere see we hammer-traces, Nowhere find a single tongs-mark." Thus replied the hostess, Louhi: "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 Wainamoinen, Placed the hero on the cross-bench, Made him ready for his journey; Then addressed the ancient minstrel, These the words that Louhi 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 Wainamoinen Fleetly drove upon his journey, Merrily he hastened homeward, Hastened homeward, happy-hearted From the ever-darksome Northland From the dismal Sariola.

RUNE VIII.

MAIDEN OF THE RAINBOW.

Pohyola'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 fabric, 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 Sariola; Few the furlongs he had driven, Driven but a little distance, When he heard the sky-loom 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. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Quickly checks his fleet-foot racer, Looks upon the charming maiden, Then addresses her as follows: "Come, fair maiden, to my snow-sledge, 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-sledge." Speaks the ancient Wainamoinen, Answers thus the Maid of Beauty: "This the reason for thy coming: Thou shalt bake me honey-biscuit, 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 Wainola 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 song-bird 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 this simple question: 'Sing to me, thou pretty song-bird, 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 song-bird 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 enchained in kennel, Rarely do they ask for favors, Not to wives are favors given.'" Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Answers thus the Maid of Beauty: "Foolish is the thrush thus singing, Nonsense is the song-bird's twitter; Like to babes are maidens treated, Wives are queens and highly honored. Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge, I am not despised as hero, Not the meanest of magicians; Come with me and I will make 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." Wainamoinen, 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-sledge, I have done what thou desirest." Thus the maiden wisely answered: "Never enter I thy snow-sledge, Till thou peelest me the sandstone, Till thou cuttest me a whip-stick From the ice, and make no splinters, Losing not the smallest fragment." Wainamoinen, true magician, Nothing daunted, not discouraged, Deftly peeled the rounded sandstone, Deftly cut from ice a whip-stick, Cutting not the finest splinter, Losing not the smallest fragment. Then again be called the maiden, To a seat within his snow-sledge. But the Maid or 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 a-floating, 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 skilful Wainamoinen, 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 be 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, Lempo 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 Wainamoinen. Lempo guides the sharpened hatchet, And the veins fell Hisi severs. Quickly gushes forth a blood-stream, And the stream is crimson-colored. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, The renowned and wise enchanter, Thus outspeaks 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 Wainamoinen 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 blood-stream does not cover As it flows and rushes onward From the knee of the magician, From the veins of Wainamoinen. 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. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Feeling pain and fearing languor, Falls to weeping, heavy-hearted; Quickly now his steed he hitches, Hitches to the sledge of birch-wood, Climbs with pain upon the cross-bench, 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 be nears a Northland village, Where the way is triple-parted. Wainamoinen, 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; Some one lives in yonder cottage, That perchance can do thee service." Wainamoinen, 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 road-side, 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 fire-place lay the beldame, Thus she spake to Wainamoinen, 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; Some one lives in yonder cottage, That perchance can do thee service." Wainamoinen, 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-doorsill: "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 gray-beard, Thus he answered Wainamoinen: "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."

RUNE IX.

ORIGIN OF IRON.