Nordic Hero Tales From the Kalevala

by James Baldwin

  “I have waited long already,” answered the boat. “I have waited till my rowlocks are rusty and my deck boards are rotting. Worms are gnawing through my beams; toads are leaping in my hold; birds are nesting on my mast; all my sails and ropes are mildewed. I would rather be a mountain pine tree, or an oak in the valley with squirrels leaping among my branches.”

  “Have patience, O boat!” said Wainamoinen. “Lament no more, for your master has surely come.”

  Then the heroes leaped from their horses, turning them loose to wander free among the sand-hills. They put their shoulders to the little vessel and pushed it into deeper water. They climbed quickly on board of it, singing as it floated slowly from the shore:

  “Little boat so snug, so strong,

  Listen to our earnest song.

  You are fair to gaze upon,

  Are you as safe to sail upon?”

  The boat answered:

  “Two men may on me safely sail.

  Two men I surely will not fail;

  A hundred men with oars might row me;

  A thousand men could not o’erthrow me.”

  While the Smith sat at the helm and guided the vessel out through the narrow inlet, the Minstrel stood up beneath the flapping sail and sang songs of magic, songs which he had wellnigh forgotten. He sang of the earth and the sea, of the sun and the stars, of love and battle, and of the great mysteries of life and death. Then, while with his sword he kept time to the rhythm of his song, he began a soft carol, sweet and low and very persuasive. And, behold! as he sang, one side of the boat was filled with strong young men, handsome youths, with long hair and downy cheeks and hands all hardened by labor.

  He changed his theme, and the other side of the boat was filled with maidens—pretty girls, their hair in puffs and curls, with belts of copper round their waists and rings of gold upon their fingers. And as the Minstrel continued to sing, the boat grew broader, longer, roomier, and became a gallant ship. On each side were seats for fifty rowers, and in each of the fifty rowlocks a long and supple oar lay resting.

  No sooner was the vessel outside of the inlet than it paused and refused to go farther. It stood in its place, rocking on the waves of the open sea. The Minstrel sat himself down in the prow and bade the young men begin their rowing.

  “Wield the oars with strength, my heroes,” he cried. “Row hard, row hard, and drive our good ship o’er this wide expanse of water, speed it through this treeless region.”

  The fifty youths obeyed. They leaned forward, they dipped their oars in the waves, they strained every muscle till the rowlocks groaned and cracked. But all in vain: the ship stood still.

  Then in anger the Minstrel bade them drop their oars and change seats with the maidens, who had been idly looking on.

  “Wield the oars with love, girls, wield them with all your power. Row hard, row hard, and speed our good ship on its way. Make it float lightly, joyously, swiftly over the curling waves.”

  The maidens obeyed. They grasped the oars with their slender fingers, they strained with their arms, their faces blushed scarlet red. But all in vain: the ship stood still.

  Thereupon the hero Ilmarinen went toward the prow and seated himself upon one of the benches. He took the oar in his labor-hardened hands, he dipped its blade in the singing water and began rowing. Instantly the ship sprang forward like a wild bird beginning its flight. Instantly the prow of copper began to sing and the waves parted to make a path for the speeding vessel. Instantly the fifty maidens and the fifty stalwart youths, with joyous hearts, renewed their rowing.

  The hero Ilmarinen shouted to the ship, to the sea, to the hundred rowers; and the ship, the sea, and the rowers answered him in tones of gladness. The oars bent and groaned, the rowlocks creaked, the seats shook and trembled. The dashing spray fell in showers to the right and the left. The slender mast croaked to the wind like a raven croaking to its mate. And Wainamoinen stood at the helm and wisely steered the fair red vessel on its pathless way.

  By his hut on that bleak headland which juts farthest into the great icy sea a poor fisherman was sitting. He was mending his net and weeping because the fishes were so few. Suddenly a sound, seemingly far, far away but drawing nearer, touched his ears and caused him to start up. What was it? Was it a sea-gull breasting the morning gale and crying to its mate in the shelter of the ragged cliffs? Or was it some beast of the shore wandering along the desolate beach and howling from hunger and loneliness?

  Very small was the fisherman’s body, but his head was large and his arms were long. Very awkward were his fingers and dull of feeling, but his hearing was keen and his sight even keener.

  He leaped quickly to his feet and gazed northward. Nothing there did he behold but the endless sea, the white-capped waves, and the cheerless, chilly sky. He turned and looked southward. At first he saw nothing there; then suddenly on the horizon a rainbow appeared with a single gray cloud beyond it.

  Was it indeed a rainbow? Was it a gray cloud? Ah, no! It was a red ship speeding onward, and the rainbow was the spray that she dashed from her cleaving prow.

  The vessel drew nearer, she was in plain sight, she loomed up large upon the waters. The fisherman could see the oars rising and falling, he could see the rowers sitting upon the benches. Then he heard clearly the shouting of the young men and the singing of the maidens, and above all the clear, commanding tones of the master.

  With wild gestures he ran far out upon the beach, shouting loudly over the water:

  “Who are you, O sailormen? What ship is this with crimson prow that ploughs the sea so swiftly?”

  Three times he shouted and made inquiry, and then from the rowers came the answer:

  “Who are you, lone fisherman? Why do you dwell on this bleak promontory far from your fellow-men?”

  “My name is Ahti,” answered the long-armed one. “I dwell here because it is my home and I have no other. I am strong, I am wise. Even though you tell me nothing I know your steersman: he is Wainamoinen, the great Minstrel. I know your master oarsman: he is Ilmarinen, the prince of wizards.”

  By this time the ship was close inshore, but still speeding on its way. Then the rowers rested on their oars, and it was easy to understand all that was being said whether on the ship or on the shore.

  “Where are you going, O heroes?” asked the fisherman. “Why do you sail so swiftly through these barren waters?”

  “We are sailing to the North Country,” answered the Minstrel. “We are going to the Frozen Land, to the shores of Pohyola, where we shall ask Dame Louhi to share the Sampo with us.”

  “And what if she will not do so?” asked Ahti, running along the shore to keep abreast of the ship.

  “Then we shall seize the mill of plenty and carry away its lid of many colors,” said Ilmarinen.

  “O take me with you! take me with you!” shouted the fisherman, waving his long arms and leaping into the sea.

  A sturdy swimmer he was, like the seals, his only neighbors; and the water held no terrors for him, buffet him as it might. Bravely he launched out toward the speeding vessel, and quickly he came abreast of her fast-receding stern. The Minstrel reached over, he seized the man’s long arms and drew him aboard. Then the hundred rowers took to their oars again and the ship bounded forward into the vast and trackless sea of the North.

  XXXIII. THE KANTELE

  With eyes that never failed and arms that never tired the Minstrel stood by the helm and guided the vessel around the jutting headland and straight forward into the great white sea. On the benches the rowers sat, wielding their oars with strength and deftness and singing and shouting for gladness. On the deck the long-armed Ahti danced nimbly and joyously, forgetful of his fishing, forgetful of his hunger.

  For one long day and through the moonlit night the ship sped onward across the open sea. On the next day it skirted the low, marshy shores of the Frozen Land. On the third day it sailed through narrow straits between small islands, approaching by stealth the longed-for haven of Pohyola
. And now the rowers were silent, the maidens had ceased their singing, the young men refrained from shouting, even the nimble Ahti left off his dancing and sat quietly at the feet of Ilmarinen.

  Suddenly, in a deep channel, the vessel’s bottom grated upon something, and the ship shivered and stood still. It remained fast in its place and no effort of the rowers could move it. The nimble Ahti seized a long pole and thrust it into the water, trying with all his great strength to push the ship along. What was it that had thus so suddenly stopped the flight of the gallant vessel?

  “O thou lively Ahti,” then cried the Minstrel, “lean far over the gunwales and look below. See what it is that keeps us moveless. Is it some rock, or is it the snaggy trunk of some forest tree lying deep beneath the waves?”

  The long-armed hero obeyed. Holding fast with one hand to the vessel’s edge, he let himself down into the water. He looked under the ship’s hull, he peered closely at her keel, and then he leaped quickly back among the rowers.

  “It is not a rock,” he shouted, “neither is it a tree! It is a fish, a mighty pike that has stopped the vessel. Never have I seen so large a fish. It lies in the water silent, motionless, asleep, like a senseless mountain. The ship is wedged against its back fin—a fin as large as the sail upon our mast. If the fish should sink, it will drag our vessel down into the depths; if it should rise, it will tumble us all headlong into the sea.”

  “Too much talk will never save us,” said Wainamoinen. “Never yet was pike slain by idle words. Draw your sword and wield it valiantly with your long, ungainly arms. Sever in twain the fish on which we are grounded.”

  “Surely I will do so,” answered Ahti. “I will carve him into a thousand pieces.”

  He drew his fish-knife from his belt, he reached downward with his long arms, he slashed furiously this way and that; but nothing did he cut save the yielding water.

  Up leaped Ilmarinen from his seat among the rowers. He seized the boaster by the hair and thrust him back among the benches. “Easy it is to brag,” he said, “but to do is quite another story.”

  Then with his sword of truest metal he reached down—deep down beneath the ship’s round hull. With all his strength he struck at the fish, thinking to cleave it in twain. But the scales of the monster were like iron plates lapping one upon another. The sword was shivered in pieces, it fell from the hero’s hand, and the pike still slept unharmed in the quiet water.

  “This is no boy’s work!” cried Wainamoinen. “A man is needed—a man’s sense, a man’s strength, a man’s skill. Stand aside, and see what a real man can do.”

  Then, drawing the sword—the keen-edged sword, Faultless, which the Smith had forged for him—he leaped into the sea, he dived deep down to the fish’s resting-place. With one tremendous stroke he severed the mighty pike in twain, with another he hewed off its head. The monstrous body sank to the bottom; but the Minstrel dragged the head up to the surface, and with Ahti’s help he hoisted the mighty jaws into the vessel.

  “Now, row! Row all together!” shouted Ilmarinen.

  Instantly the hundred oars were dipped into the waves, all the rowers pulled together and the ship began again to move steadily, proudly through the water. Wainamoinen stood at the helm. With masterly skill he piloted the vessel through narrow ways, he guided it along deep, winding channels, and finally steered it to the mainland, where it rested in a safe, well-sheltered haven close by the village of Pohyola.

  All leaped out upon the sands, glad that the long voyage was ended. A fire was built and the young men and maidens clustered round it. The head of the pike was brought, and all examined its huge scales, its staring eyes, its sharp-pointed teeth.

  “It is long since we tasted food,” said the Minstrel. “Let the fairest of the maidens cook this fish. Let them broil it for our breakfast. Never shall we enter Pohyola while hunger pinches us, while famine robs us of strength.”

  Forthwith the maidens began the cooking. Ten of the most beautiful were chosen to perform the work. The young men hastened to gather sticks on the shore to feed the fire, to make hot coals for the broiling. Wainamoinen drew his knife blade from its sheath and with skilful strokes divided the head into a hundred pieces—yes, into more than a hundred he cleaved it, that each of the crew might have abundance. The flames roared, the red coals glowed upon the sand, the juicy morsels sizzled loudly and gave forth savory odors very pleasant indeed to the nostrils.

  Soon the breakfast was prepared and all sat down upon the sand to eat the delicious morsels which the maidens had cooked. Sharp were their appetites, and when they had finished, nothing was left of the mighty head save its bones and its dagger-like teeth which lay scattered on the beach.

  “What a pity that these should be wasted!” said the Minstrel, picking up a fragment of the jawbone—a fragment with the teeth still fast within their sockets. “Surely, if Ilmarinen had them in his smithy he might shape them into something useful, beautiful, wonderful.”

  “Nay, nay!” answered Ilmarinen. “Nothing can be made from such useless things. The skilfulest smith can never fashion fish-bones into anything of value.”

  “It may be so,” said Wainamoinen thoughtfully, “and yet, perhaps I, who am not a smith, may make something from them that will give joy to men and women.”

  Thereupon, with his sharp-edged knife he set to work to fashion from the fish-bones a thing to give forth music. Of a piece of cedar he made the framework; of the pike’s jawbone he made the bridge; of the pike’s sharp teeth he made the pegs to hold the harp strings. Then out into the fields he went, searching in the thickets and among the briars. Soon he found five horsehairs which the wild steeds of Pohyola had lost while pasturing there—five horse-hairs, long and strong and resonant. “These will serve right well for harp strings,” he said.

  He hung the horsehairs in their places, he stretched them tight, he gave to each its proper length and tension. “Ha! ha!” he laughed. “Who now will say that nothing can be made of fish-bones? Here is something that will breathe forth music sweeter than a minstrel’s song. It will delight the young, the old, the rich, the poor—all sorts of people—with its rare and matchless melodies. Call it the kantele, call it the harp of the North, and let minstrels never fail to play upon it.”

  The news of his invention spread quickly. The youths, the maidens came crowding round him. From the fields and the fishermen’s boats the men came running. From the huts and the washing pools the women came dancing. Half-grown boys and little girls pushed shyly forward—all curious to gaze on the wonderful kantele, all anxious to hear its sweet music. And Wainamoinen passed it from hand to hand, saying, “Look at it, let your fingers play upon it, let its melodies rejoice your hearts.”

  Wistfully the little girls, the maidens, the older women, all held the harp in their hands and with their tender fingers swept the harp strings. Boldly, confidently, the half-grown boys, the young men, the old fishermen, all grasped the wonderful instrument and tried to play upon it. But the tones which they drew from it were harsh, unpleasant, unmusical.

  “It is not thus the kantele is played,” said Wainamoinen. “Not one of you can draw cheerful music from it, and yet the melodies are there; they lie hidden in the strings of horsehair, in the jawbone of the pike.”

  “I can play it,” said the nimble Ahti. “With my long arms I can call forth the melodies that now lie slumbering within it. Let me try what I can do.”

  Wainamoinen put the harp of fish-bone in his gnarly hands; he rested it upon his knees; very eagerly the little fellow swept the harp strings with the tips of his long fingers. But the sound which came forth was not music—it was a noise, discordant, grating, painful to the ears.

  “It is always thus,” said the Minstrel, growing impatient at last. “The poorest doers are the biggest boasters. The music of the kantele lies still beneath its bridge, beneath the jawbone of the pike. Not one of you has the skill to coax it forth from its lurking-place. Let us all go now to the village, to the roomy dwelling of Da
me Louhi. Perhaps the Mistress of the land, the old, the grim, the gray, the Wise Woman of the North, will be able to touch the harp strings aright—perhaps she will know how to play the kantele and bring sweet melodies from its heart.”

  And all the young men shouted, “To Dame Louhi’s dwelling! Let us see what the Wise Woman can do. Yes, lead us to Dame Louhi’s dwelling.”

  XXXIV. THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC

  Old Dame Louhi, unlovely and unloved, sat in the doorway of her dwelling. She looked out and saw that which made her wrinkled, uncanny face beam with joy. Her toothless mouth expanded into the mockery of a smile. Her small, greedy eyes twinkled beneath her shaggy eyebrows. Her long, crooked fingers trembled nervously, they seemed to be grasping at something invisible.

  She was pleased because where once were naught but vast brown meadows she now saw fields of ripening grain. Where once were miry marsh lands she saw green pastures with hundreds of sleek cattle grazing thereon. Where once were sandy barrens and wind-swept hills she saw fruitful orchards and blooming gardens. And in the village, instead of wretched huts she saw neat cottages and well-filled barns, the homes of contentment and plenty. Who can wonder that her face was wreathed with smiles while her heart was overflowing with joy?7

  “My mill of fortune has done all this,” she muttered to herself. “This fair, sweet country shall now no longer be called the Frozen Land. It shall everywhere be known as the Land of Plenty, the home of the Sampo.”

  She turned her head and listened. A faint, musical sound, far away, came to her ears. It was the sound made by the magic mill, grinding, grinding forever in the cave beneath the hill of copper. She could hear its pictured cover turning, turning—pouring out wealth for all the people. She could hear the grains of gold dropping, dropping—the precious royal sap feeding the rootlets of the corn, filling the apple blossoms with nectar, and pervading the rich warm soil itself.