Nordic Hero Tales From the Kalevala

by James Baldwin

  “Blow, my men, blow!” cried Ilmarinen, and then, lifting his eyes, he saw that he was alone in the smithy.

  Angry and half-despairing, he seized the lever of the bellows in his own hands, he put his own naked shoulder to the work, and again the flames leaped up, the fire glowed, the caldron quaked and trembled in the terrible heat. For hours and hours he toiled, till the sweat poured in torrents from his brow, and his hands were blistered and his fingers cramped with grasping the long, unyielding lever of iron. At length he paused from his labor and looked down into the furnace. He lifted the lid from the caldron and sang a wild, weird song, every word of which was a word of enchantment. And what do you think arose from the mixture in the vessel, from the gray clouds of vapor which filled it?

  It was not that which the Smith had hoped to see, for the ill-working serving-men had broken the spells that he was weaving. It was not a golden war-steed with shoes of silver. It was not a monstrous eagle with beak of hardest iron. It was only a young lamb, small and feeble, with fleece of mingled gold and silver.

  Ilmarinen looked at the tiny beast and felt no pleasure. A child might have liked it as a plaything, but a hero delights not in useless toys.

  “I did not call for you, my lambkin,” he said, disappointed and sorrowing. “You are gentle, you are harmless, but my magic spells should have wrought something far better and more beautiful. I desire a golden maiden and no other form will please me.”

  So saying, he thrust the lamb back into the boiling caldron, forcing it down to the very bottom. Then he threw in more gold, and with each handful of the yellow metal he muttered a new rune of magic words and magic import. The fire burned fitfully beneath and around the caldron. Tongues of blue flame encircled it, sheets of white flame enveloped it, a sound like the humming of bees issued from its broad mouth.

  Ilmarinen threw fresh coal into the furnace and heaped it high above the draught hole. He worked the bellows, steadily, gently, persistently. The fire roared, the flames danced, the heat became intense. For hours the hero labored without cessation; for hours he muttered spells of enchantment, suffering nothing to break in upon his thoughts or distract from the mystic power of his words. When he at last, had reached the end, had recited all the proper runes and sayings, he stopped blowing the bellows, and with great caution stooped down and looked into the caldron.

  The flames died suddenly away, and out of the vessel there sprang a wonderful image—the image of a beautiful maiden. In face and form she was indeed lovely—lovelier than any other woman, save one, that Ilmarinen had ever seen. Her head was of silver and her hair was golden. Her eyes sparkled like precious stones and were blue as the summer sky, yet she saw nothing. Her ears were dainty and blushing like pink rose leaves, yet she heard nothing. Her lips were tender and sweet and red like twin cranberries meeting beneath her faultless nose, yet she tasted not, smelled nothing. Her mouth served not for speaking nor yet for eating or smiling. Her fingers were long and tapering and her hands small and shapely, yet she felt nothing. Her feet were well-formed and comely, yet they would not support her, she could not stand.

  “O my loved one! O my lost one! O thou who wert once the Maid of Beauty, come and dwell in this golden body!” cried the enraptured Smith. “Come, and once more be the joy of my poor life!”

  He lifted the Golden Maiden and placed her in the cushioned seat wherein his lost wife had often reposed. He put his arm around her waist, but she did not return his caress. He kissed her cherry red lips, but they were cold, cold, cold. He spoke many endearing words in her ear, but she gave him no answer. He took her hands between his own, but there was no throbbing of life in them.

  “She is cold, so cold!” he muttered. “She is like ice, like snow in midwinter!”

  Then he laid her on a silken couch, put soft pillows beneath her head, and covered her with warm blankets and quilted coverlets. And as he did so he prayed unceasingly to the dear dead one whom he had loved so much:

  “O thou who wert once the Maid of Beauty, come and dwell in this body of gold! Come and give life to this precious maiden; fill her veins with blood, give warmth to her body, sight to her eyes, hearing to her ears!”

  All night long he sat beside the couch, holding the maiden’s hands and breathing his own warm breath into her face. All night long he moaned and wept and called the name of his lost wife whom the beasts had devoured. At length the new day dawned and the sunlight streamed into the room and fell upon the couch. The Golden Maiden was as cold as before, her face was white with frost, her body was frozen to the blankets.

  “Ah, me! there is no hope!” said the Smith, despairing utterly; and he lifted the image from its resting place. “Never will the dead come to life again, never will my loved one return to me. Henceforth I shall walk alone upon the earth.”

  He took the Golden Maiden gently in his arms, he smoothed the drapery about her, and carried her to his old friend, the Minstrel.

  “O Wainamoinen, tried and true!” he cried. “Here I bring you a present—a maiden of great worth, golden and beautiful. See her fair face, her comely form, her feet so small and shapely.”

  The Minstrel, wise and steadfast, looked at the image closely, admiringly. Then he said, “She is indeed a pretty maiden, and the likeness is perfect. But wherefore do you bring her to me?”

  “Dear brother, friend, companion,” answered the Smith, “I bring her to you because I love you, because I would make you happy. Years ago we both wooed the same Maid of Beauty. I won her because I was young; you lost her because you were old. I know what must have been your sorrow and disappointment. Now, when there can be no more joy for me, I bring you this Golden Maiden to be your solace and delight. She has the form and features of the Maid of Beauty, and I doubt not she will please you. She will sit on your knee and nestle dovelike in your arms—and she is worth her weight in gold.”

  “I want no golden maiden!” cried the Minstrel half angrily, sternly. “For what is gold without sense, without soul? I have heard of young fools who wedded silly maidens, brainless women, soulless ladies, just for gold. But think you that one in my position would stoop to such folly?”

  “I know that you are wise, my brother,” said the Smith, “and you are the master of all magic. Perhaps you might endow this Golden Maiden with sense, with warm blood, with a noble soul.”

  “Jumala alone has that power,” answered Wainamoinen, “and to Jumala let us give all praise. Carry this image back to your smithy, thrust the Golden Maiden into your furnace, and then you may forge from her all sorts of objects, beautiful, useful, precious. For never will your Maid of Beauty return from Tuonela to dwell in a body so base and worthless.”

  Sorrowfully, regretfully, Ilmarinen obeyed. Back to his smithy he carried the golden image; he thrust it into his furnace; he watched it melt and disappear in the terrible heat. Then he turned himself about and walked out silently into the darkness. And for many a sad day the people of Wainola sought him in vain and then mourned him as dead.

  XXXI. THE FAMINE

  Sad were the days and joyless were the months in the Land of Heroes. The sky was cloudless and gray and the ground was parched and dry for long lack of rain. In the fields the crops failed and the cattle died. In the forest there was no game for the huntsmen. In the sea the fishes had fled to other waters, leaving the fishermen to toil in vain. In Wainola the children were crying for food and the men and women were sitting on their doorsteps, silent, with stony faces, hopeless, helpless, despairing.

  Then one day a little boat came creeping into the harbor with but one man on board. Many of the people saw the lone sailor as he moored his vessel to the shore, but none had the courage to go and meet him. He walked slowly up the deserted pathway to the village, looking at the barren fields and the fruitless trees, the empty barns and the gloomy houses, the many signs of poverty and distress. His eyes wandered onward to the ruined farmhouse, and past it to the smokeless smithy which had once been the joy and the pride of the hero, Ilmarinen.
/>
  “Ah, me! Can this be Wainola, the village once so happy and prosperous?” he said to himself. “Can this be the smithy, can this be the home which echoed to the merry sounds of love and peace?”

  Then from out of the shadows an old man, feeble and tottering, came to meet him. It was Wainamoinen, pale with fasting, gaunt with hunger, but brave and steadfast as in former days.

  “Hail, stranger!” said the Minstrel. “Welcome to Wainola and to the best that its people can offer!”

  “Hail, friend and brother!” answered the stranger heartily and with gentleness. He lifted the cap which had concealed his forehead, he loosed the broad scarf that had been well drawn up about his chin and cheeks. His ruddy face was wrinkled with sorrow although for the moment it was wreathed in smiles.

  The Minstrel old and feeble uttered a cry of joy. “O Ilmarinen! Ilmarinen! Have you returned? We had mourned you as dead! We had given you up as lost!” And the next moment each was locked in the other’s arms.

  “Now, tell me, my young brother, where have you been since you departed from Wainola and the Land of Heroes? Word came to us that you had perished, that you had gone to dwell in Tuonela; and when this great blight of famine and sorrow came upon the land, we were fain to believe that it was indeed so. Why did you leave us? Where have you been?”

  “I went away from Wainola because of my sorrow,” answered Ilmarinen sadly. “I went to the far North Land, to Pohyola’s shores, because the voice of my dear lost Maid of Beauty seemed to call me thither. For twelve months—yes, for two long, sorrowing years—I sought her in that land. But Tuoni holds her captive in his castle beside the river of silence. She cannot come to me, but I can go to her. I am even now seeking the road to Tuonela.”

  “You need not go far to find it,” said the Minstrel. “Look around you and see your neighbors starving, dying—hear your neighbors’ children moaning, crying. The road to Tuonela is here, and many are the feet that are travelling in it. But tell me, was it thus in Pohyola? Have they a famine there also?”

  “A famine! Far from it,” answered Ilmarinen. “Never was there a more prosperous people than those of Pohyola. They plough, they sow, they reap in great abundance. Of grain and fruit there is no end, and no man nor woman, child nor dog, knows the meaning of hunger.”

  “How strange that a land of mists and fogs, a land so dreary and forbidding, should be so blessed with plenty!” said the Minstrel. “Is it by some power of magic that this is so? Why is it that you, the prince of wizards, cannot find some way to bless and save our own kinsmen, our own people?”

  “Do you remember the Sampo?” said the Smith. “Do you remember the magic mill which I made for Dame Louhi many years ago? That mill is still grinding in Pohyola, its lid of many colors turns and turns and turns forever. Safely locked in a stony cavern, still it grinds wealth and food and clothing without end. The soil draws richness from it, the fields of grain thrive upon its grindings, the fruit trees send their roots downward and suck up the wealth which it pours out.”

  “The Sampo, the Sampo!” said the Minstrel, feebly as in a dream. “If only we might bring it to our own country, how quickly we could save our people!”

  “It was I that forged the wonderful mill, I, the prince of smiths and wizards,” said Ilmarinen with a far-off look in his eyes. “Never can another be made that is like it.”

  “And if you forged it, why is it not your own?” queried Wainamoinen, wise though feeble.

  “I forged it for another,” answered Ilmarinen. “I made it for wise old Louhi, the Mistress of Pohyola; and the reward which she ought to have given me, I obtained by other means. Neither gold nor silver nor aught else have I ever received for my labor.”

  “Then surely you have a valid claim upon the Sampo,” said Wainamoinen. “O my friend and brother, we must hasten to Pohyola and seize that mill of plenty, that we may bring it to our own sweet land. We must save our starving people.”

  “Nay, nay, it cannot be,” returned the Smith. “The mill is securely stored away in a stony cavern beneath a hill of copper. Nine heavy doors shut it in, and nine locks of strongest metal make each door fast and safe. No man nor men can seize the mighty Sampo.”

  But the Minstrel persisted. All that night he held the Smith’s strong hand and talked of naught but the Sampo and how, by it, they might save the lives of their famishing friends and neighbors. At length Ilmarinen ceased objecting. “You are wise, my elder brother,” he said, “much wiser than I. The task is a mighty one, but for the sake of our people and our country I will not shrink from it. None but women say, ‘I cannot,’ none but cowards say, ‘I dare not.’”

  XXXII. THE WEEPING SHIP

  Hour after hour the two heroes sat together and talked of their great project and the desire of their hearts. Nor could they readily agree by what road they should journey to Pohyola, whether by sea or whether by land.

  “Twice have I sailed thither in a ship,” said the Minstrel.

  “Twice have I made the journey in a sledge,” returned the Smith.

  “It is nearest by water,” said the Minstrel.

  “It is safest by land,” said the Smith.

  “It is pleasantest to go thither by ship.”

  “It is surest to ride thither along the shore.”

  “Well, let this be as it may,” at length said Wainamoinen. “We shall not quarrel. If the land way pleases you, I say no more; but it is beset with perils, and we must be well armed. As you know, it is not the habit of minstrels to carry weapons, and I have neither spear nor club. So get you to your smithy, kindle the fire in your furnace so long idle and cold, and forge me a keen-edged sword with which to fight wild men and savage beasts.”

  The Smith obeyed. Once more the flames leaped up within his furnace, once more the black smoke poured from the roof-hole, and once more the song of the anvil rang out cheerily in the morning air. Into the fire the mighty wizard threw first a bar of purest iron, then upon this he scattered a handful of gold, all that remained of the Golden Maiden. He blew the bellows with might and main till the whole smithy trembled and groaned and the flames leaped up to lick the sky. Then he drew out the half-melted mass and held it upon the anvil while he beat and turned it, and beat and turned it, until he had shaped it into a wonderful weapon the like of which no man had seen before.

  “Ha! this is indeed a sword well suited to a hero,” he said when it was finished.

  He held it up and looked admiringly at its well-shaped blade and jewelled handle. Pictures rare and beautiful adorned its sides. The hilt was shaped like a prancing horse, the knob was the image of a mewing cat.

  He looked long and lovingly at the blade and then handed it to Wainamoinen. “Take it, friend and brother,” he said. “It is worthy of you. Its name is Faultless. With it you can cleave the hardest rocks; with it you can vanquish all your foes; with it you can carve for yourself great honor and fame.”

  Soon came the time for starting, and the courage of both began to waver. “We must have horses,” said the Minstrel. “The way is long, the paths are rough, the journey cannot be made on foot. Let us seek out steeds for ourselves.”

  So into the fields they went, wondering whether any of Ilmarinen’s steeds had escaped the wolves and the hungry bears and the starving days of the drought. Long they sought, and at last they found among the bushes in the great marsh a wild colt, scarcely grown, and a gaunt, long-legged, yellow-maned steed which had once been the pride of Ilmarinen’s stable. With much labor they caught these beasts and bridled them, and upon their backs they threw rough blankets to serve in place of saddles.

  They mounted and rode through the woods, the Minstrel going first with his great sword drawn. They rode along the pathway which each had travelled once before, the pathway which followed the windings of the coast; for this they judged was the safest way. They rode slowly, for their horses were neither swift nor strong, and their eyes and ears were alert for every strange sight or unexpected sound.

  Suddenly,
as they were skirting the shore of a small secluded inlet, they heard what seemed to be the moaning of some one in great distress. They stopped and listened.

  “What can it be?” asked the Smith.

  “I know not,” answered the Minstrel. “It may be some child who has lost his way and is weeping by the shore. It may be some she-bear moaning for her dead cubs. It may be only a dove cooing among the branches of her nesting-tree. Let us ride along the beach and learn what we may.”

  So they rode onward, close to the water-side, listening and looking and drawing nearer and nearer to the place from whence the strange sounds issued. Presently, in a little cove, they saw not a child nor a mother bear nor even a dove, but a fine large boat with red hull and scarlet prow, and with oars and rowlocks and everything needed for a lengthy voyage. As the wavelets rippled against the sides of the pretty vessel and caused its keel to grate upon the sandy beach, it gave forth groans and lamentations like the cries of some living creature suffering from sorrow or pain.

  “O little red vessel, why do you weep?” cried Wainamoinen. “Why do you complain so loudly, so grievously?”

  “I weep for the great deep sea,” answered the boat. “I am unhappy because I am tied to the shore. I long to be free, to speed over the water, to glide upon the waves.”

  “Where is your master, and why do you lie here idle?” asked Ilmarinen.

  “I am waiting for my master,” said the boat. “The wizard who sang my boards together bade me wait here for the hero who is to guide me across the sea. But he does not come, he does not come!” and with that it began again to cry and lament in tones of impatience and grief.

  “Do not fret yourself, O boat with rowlocks!” said Wainamoinen. “Your master will surely come soon to claim you. Then you shall ride proudly upon the waves, you shall sail to unknown shores, you shall mix in the battle struggle and return home laden with plunder. Only be patient and wait.”