Kalevala : the Epic Poem of Finland Part 7

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 gra.s.ses 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 s.p.a.cious 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.

Wainamoinen, thus encouraged, Quickly rises in his snow-sledge, Asking no one for a.s.sistance, Straightway hastens to the cottage, Takes a seat within the dwelling.

Come two 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 Wainamoinen.

From the fire-place calls the old man, Thus the gray-beard 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 metals, Sing the origin of iron, How at first it was created."

Then the ancient Wainamoinen Made this answer to the gray-beard: "Know I well the source of metals, Know the origin of iron; f can tell bow 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, Ere was born the metal, iron.

Ukko, maker of the heavens, Firmly rubbed his hands together, Firmly pressed them on his knee-cap, Then arose three lovely maidens, Three most beautiful of daughters; These were mothers of the iron, And of steel of bright-blue color.

Tremblingly they walked the heavens, Walked the clouds with 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.

Whero the black milk had been sprinked, Grew the dark and ductile iron; Where the white milk had been sprinkled.

Grew the iron, lighter-colored; Where the red milk had been sprinkled, Grew the red and 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 flame's 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 broad backs of the marshes, Where the swans their nests have builded, Where the wild geese hatch their goslings.

"Thus is iron in the swamp-lands, Stretching by the water-courses, 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, Ilmarinen, 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 other, 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 swamp-lands, Where the iron hid abundant; There he built his smelting furnace, There he laid his leathern bellows, Hastened where the wolves had travelled, Followed where the bears had trampled, Found the iron's young formations, In the wolf-tracks of the marshes, In the foot-prints of the gray-bear.

"Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, '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 swamp-lands, 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 Ilmarinen, 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.

Ilmarinen 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, Ilmarinen, Take, O take me from thy furnace, From this fire and cruel torture.'

"Ilmarinen 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 life-time, Should I serve my fellow-beings, Serve as tools for their convenience, Than as implements of warfare, Slay my friends and nearest. kindred, Wound the children of my mother.'

"Now the master, Ilmarinen, The renowned and skilful 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 Ilmarinen, Deeply thought and long reflected.

Then he gathered birchen ashes, Steeped the ashes in the water, Made a lye to harden 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 Ilmarinen: '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 Hisi'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 Hisi horrors, Brought the blessing 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, skilful blacksmith, First of all the iron-workers, 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!'

"Ilmarinen, 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 be 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 gray-beard, 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 forever!