Part 33

“Grew a fir-tree on the mountain, Grew a stately pine in Northland, And the fir had silver branches, Bearing golden cones abundant; These the sylvan maiden gathered, Teeth and claws of these she fashioned In the jaws and feet of Otso, Set them for the best of uses. Then she freed her new-made creature, Let the Light-foot walk and wander, Let him lumber through the marshes, Let him amble through the forest, Roll upon the plains and pastures; Taught him how to walk a hero, How to move with graceful motion, How to live in ease and pleasure, How to rest in full contentment, In the moors and in the marshes, On the borders of the woodlands; How unshod to walk in summer, Stockingless to run in autumn; How to rest and sleep in winter In the clumps of alder-bushes Underneath the sheltering fir-tree, Underneath the pine’s protection, Wrapped securely in his fur-robes, With the juniper and willow. This the origin of Otso, Honey-eater of the Northlands, Whence the sacred booty cometh.” Thus again the people questioned: “Why became the woods so gracious, Why so generous and friendly? Why is Tapio so humored, That he gave his dearest treasure, Gave to thee his Forest-apple, Honey-eater of his kingdom? Was he startled with thine arrows, Frightened with the spear and broadsword?”

Wainamoinen, the magician, Gave this answer to the question: “Filled with kindness was the forest, Glen and woodland full of greetings, Tapio showing greatest favor. Fair Mielikki, forest hostess, Metsola’s bewitching daughter, Beauteous woodland maid, Tellervo, Gladly led me on my journey, Smoothed my pathway through the glen-wood. Marked the trees upon the mountains, Pointing me to Otso’s caverns, To the Great Bear’s golden island.

“When my journeyings had ended, When the bear had been discovered, Had no need to launch my javelins, Did not need to aim the arrow; Otso tumbled in his vaulting, Lost his balance in his cradle, In the fir-tree where he slumbered; Tore his breast upon the branches, Freely gave his life to others.

“Mighty Otso, my beloved, Thou my golden friend and hero, Take thy fur-cap from thy forehead, Lay aside thy teeth forever, Hide thy fingers in the darkness, Close thy mouth and still thine anger, While thy sacred skull is breaking.

“Now I take the eyes of Otso, Lest he lose the sense of seeing, Lest their former powers shall weaken; Though I take not all his members, Not alone must these be taken.

“Now I take the ears of Otso, Lest he lose the sense of hearing, Lest their former powers shall weaken; Though I take not all his members, Not alone must these be taken.

“Now I take the nose of Otso, Lest he lose the sense of smelling, Lest its former powers shall weaken; Though I take not all his members, Not alone must this be taken.

“Now I take the tongue of Otso, Lest he lose the sense of tasting, Lest its former powers shall weaken; Though I take not all his members, Not alone must this be taken.

“Now I take the brain of Otso, Lest he lose the means of thinking, Lest his consciousness should fail him, Lest his former instincts weaken; Though I take not all his members, Not alone must this be taken.

“I will reckon him a hero, That will count the teeth of Light-foot, That will loosen Otso’s fingers From their settings firmly fastened.”

None he finds with strength sufficient To perform the task demanded. Therefore ancient Wainamoinen Counts the teeth of sacred Otso; Loosens all the claws of Light-foot, With his fingers strong as copper, Slips them from their firm foundations, Speaking to the bear these measures: “Otso, thou my Honey-eater, Thou my Fur-ball of the woodlands, Onward, onward, must thou journey From thy low and lonely dwelling, To the court-rooms of the village. Go, my treasure, through the pathway Near the herds of swine and cattle, To the hill-tops forest covered, To the high and rising mountains, To the spruce-trees filled with needles, To the branches of the pine-tree; There remain, my Forest-apple, Linger there in lasting slumber, Where the silver bells are ringing, To the pleasure of the shepherd.”

Thus beginning, and thus ending, Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Hastened from his emptied tables, And the children thus addressed him: “Whither hast thou led thy booty, Where hast left thy Forest-apple, Sacred Otso of the woodlands? Hast thou left him on the iceberg, Buried him upon the snow-field? Hast thou sunk him in the quicksand, Laid him low beneath the heather?” Wainamoinen spake in answer: “Have not left him on the iceberg, Have not buried him in snow-fields; There the dogs would soon devour him, Birds of prey would feast upon him; Have not hidden him in Swamp-land, Have not buried him in heather; There the worms would live upon him, Insects feed upon his body. Thither I have taken Otso, To the summit of the Gold-hill, To the copper-bearing mountain, Laid him in his silken cradle In the summit of a pine-tree, Where the winds and sacred branches Rock him to his lasting slumber, To the pleasure of the hunter, To the joy of man and hero. To the east his lips are pointing, While his eyes are northward looking; But dear Otso looks not upward, For the fierceness of the storm-winds Would destroy his sense of vision.”

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Touched again his harp of joyance, Sang again his songs enchanting, To the pleasure of the evening, To the joy of morn arising. Spake the singer of Wainola: “Light for me a torch of pine-wood, For the darkness is appearing, That my playing may be joyous And my wisdom-songs find welcome.”

Then the ancient sage and singer, Wise and worthy Wainamoinen, Sweetly sang, and played, and chanted, Through the long and dreary evening, Ending thus his incantation: “Grant, O Ukko, my Creator, That the people of Wainola May enjoy another banquet In the company of Light-foot; Grant that we may long remember Kalevala’s feast with Otso!

“Grant, O Ukko, my Creator, That the signs may guide our footsteps, That the notches in the pine-tree May direct my faithful people To the bear-dens of the woodlands; That great Tapio’s sacred bugle May resound through glen and forest; That the wood-nymph’s call may echo, May be heard in field and hamlet, To the joy of all that listen! Let great Tapio’s horn for ages Ring throughout the fen and forest, Through the hills and dales of Northland O’er the meadows and the mountains, To awaken song and gladness In the forests of Wainola, On the snowy plains of Suomi, On the meads of Kalevala, For the coming generations.”

RUNE XLVII. LOUHI STEALS SUN, MOON, AND FIRE.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Touched again his magic harp-strings, Sang in miracles of concord, Filled the north with joy and gladness. Melodies arose to heaven, Songs arose to Luna’s chambers, Echoed through the Sun’s bright windows And the Moon has left her station, Drops and settles in the birch-tree; And the Sun comes from his castle, Settles in the fir-tree branches, Comes to share the common pleasure, Comes to listen to the singing, To the harp of Wainamoinen.

Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Northland’s old and toothless wizard, Makes the Sun and Moon her captives; In her arms she takes fair Luna From her cradle in the birch-tree, Calls the Sun down from his station, From the fir-tree’s bending branches, Carries them to upper Northland, To the darksome Sariola; Hides the Moon, no more to glimmer, In a rock of many colors; Hides the Sun, to shine no longer, In the iron-banded mountain; Thereupon these words she utters: “Moon of gold and Sun of silver, Hide your faces in the caverns Of Pohyola’s dismal mountain; Shine no more to gladden Northland, Till I come to give ye freedom, Drawn by coursers nine in number, Sable coursers of one mother!”

When the golden Moon had vanished, And the silver Sun had hidden In the iron-banded caverns, Louhi stole the fire from Northland, From the regions of Wainola, Left the mansions cold and cheerless, And the cabins full of darkness. Night was king and reigned unbroken, Darkness ruled in Kalevala, Darkness in the home of Ukko. Hard to live without the moonlight, Harder still without the sunshine; Ukko’s life is dark and dismal, When the Sun and Moon desert him.

Ukko, first of all creators, Lived in wonder at the darkness; Long reflected, well considered, Why this miracle in heaven, What this accident in nature To the Moon upon her journey; Why the Sun no more is shining, Why has disappeared the moonlight. Then great Ukko walked the heavens, To the border of the cloudlets, In his purple-colored vestments, In his silver-tinselled sandals, Seeking for the golden moonlight, Looking for the silver sunshine. Lightning Ukko struck in darkness From the edges of his fire-sword; Shot the flames in all directions, From his blade of golden color, Into heaven’s upper spaces, Into Ether’s starry pastures.

When a little fire had kindled, Ukko hid it in the cloud-space, In a box of gold and silver, In a case adorned with silver, Gave it to the ether-maidens, Called a virgin then to rock it, That it might become a new-moon, That a second sun might follow. On the long-cloud rocked the virgin, On the blue-edge of the ether, Rocked the fire of the Creator, In her copper-colored cradle, With her ribbons silver-studded. Lowly bend the bands of silver, Loud the golden cradle echoes, And the clouds of Northland thunder, Low descends the dome of heaven, At the rocking of the lightning, Rocking of the fire of Ukko. Thus the flame was gently cradled By the virgin of the ether. Long the fair and faithful maiden Stroked the Fire-child with her fingers, Tended it with care and pleasure, Till in an unguarded moment It escaped the Ether-virgin, Slipped the hands of her that nursed it. Quick the heavens are burst asunder, Quick the vault of Ukko opens, Downward drops the wayward Fire-child, Downward quick the red-ball rushes, Shoots across the arch of heaven, Hisses through the startled cloudlets, Flashes through the troubled welkin, Through nine starry vaults of ether.

Then the ancient Wainamoinen Spake and these the words he uttered: “Blacksmith brother, Ilmarinen, Let us haste and look together, What the kind of fire that falleth, What the form of light that shineth From the upper vault of heaven, From the lower earth and ocean. Has a second moon arisen, Can it be a ball of sunlight?”

Thereupon the heroes wandered, Onward journeyed and reflected, How to gain the spot illumined, How to find the sacred Fire-child. Came a river rushing by them, Broad and stately as an ocean. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen There began to build a vessel, Build a boat to cross the river. With the aid of Ilmarinen, From the oak he cut the row-locks, From the pine the oars he fashioned, From the aspen shapes the rudder. When the vessel they had finished, Quick they rolled it to the current, Hard they rowed and ever forward, On the Nawa-stream and waters, At the head of Nawa-river.

Ilmatar, the ether-daughter, Foremost daughter of creation, Came to meet them on their journey, Thus addressed the coming strangers: “Who are ye of Northland heroes, Rowing on the Nawa-waters?” Wainamoinen gave this answer: “This the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, I the ancient Wainamoinen. Tell us now thy name and station, Whither going, whence thou comest, Where thy tribe-folk live and linger?” Spake the daughter of the Ether: “I the oldest of the women, Am the first of Ether’s daughters, Am the first of ancient mothers; Seven times have I been wedded To the heroes of creation. Whither do ye strangers journey?” Answered thus old Wainamoinen: “Fire has left Wainola’s hearth-stones, Light has disappeared from Northland; Have been sitting long in darkness, Cold and darkness our companions; Now we journey to discover What the fire that fell from heaven, Falling from the cloud’s red lining, To the deeps of earth and ocean.” Ilmatar returned this answer: “Hard the flame is to discover, Hard indeed to find the Fire-child; Has committed many mischiefs, Nothing good has he accomplished; Quick the fire-ball fell from ether, From the red rims of the cloudlets, From the plains of the Creator, Through the ever-moving heavens, Through the purple ether-spaces, Through the blackened flues of Turi, To Palwoinen’s rooms uncovered. When the fire had reached the chambers Of Palwoinen, son of evil, He began his wicked workings, He engaged in lawless actions, Raged against the blushing maidens, Fired the youth to evil conduct, Singed the beards of men and heroes.

“Where the mother nursed her baby, In the cold and cheerless cradle, Thither flew the wicked Fire-child, There to perpetrate some mischief; In the cradle burned the infant, By the infant burned the mother, That the babe might visit Mana, In the kingdom of Tuoni; Said the child was born for dying, Only destined for destruction, Through the tortures of the Fire-child. Greater knowledge had the mother, Did not journey to Manala, Knew the word to check the red-flame, How to banish the intruder Through the eyelet of a needle, Through the death-hole of the hatchet.”

Then the ancient Wainamoinen Questioned Ilmatar as follows: “Whither did the Fire-child wander, Whither did the red-flame hasten, From the border-fields of Turi, To the woods, or to the waters?” Straightway Ilmatar thus answers: “When the fire had fled from Turi, From the castles of Palwoinen, Through the eyelet of the needle, Through the death-hole of the hatchet, First it burned the fields, and forests, Burned the lowlands, and the heather; Then it sought the mighty waters, Sought the Alue-sea and river, And the waters hissed and sputtered In their anger at the Fire-child, Fiery red the boiling Alue!

“Three times in the nights of summer, Nine times in the nights of autumn, Boil the waters to the tree-tops, Roll and tumble to the mountain, Through the red-ball’s force and fury; Hurls the pike upon the pastures, To the mountain-cliffs, the salmon, Where the ocean-dwellers wonder, Long reflect and well consider How to still the angry waters. Wept the salmon for his grotto, Mourned the whiting for his cavern, And the lake-trout for his dwelling. Quick the crook-necked salmon darted, Tried to catch the fire-intruder, But the red-ball quick escaped him; Darted then the daring whiting, Swallowed quick the wicked Fire-child, Swallowed quick the flame of evil. Quiet grow the Alue-waters, Slowly settle to their shore-lines, To their long-accustomed places, In the long and dismal evening.

“Time had gone but little distance, When the whiting grow affrighted, Fear befel the fire-devourer; Burning pain and writhing tortures Seized the eater of the Fire-child; Swam the fish in all directions, Called, and moaned, and swam, and circled, Swam one day, and then a second, Swam the third from morn till even; Swam she to the whiting-island, To the caverns of the salmon, Where a hundred islands cluster; And the islands there assembled Thus addressed the fire-devourer: ‘There is none within these waters, In this narrow Alue-lakelet, That will eat the fated Fire-fish, That will swallow thee in trouble, In thine agonies and torture From the Fire-child thou hast eaten.’

“Hearing this a trout forth darting, Swallowed quick as light the whiting, Quickly ate the fire-devourer. Time had gone but little distance, When the trout became affrighted, Fear befel the whiting-eater; Burning pain and writhing torment Seized the eater of the Fire-fish. Swam the trout in all directions, Called, and moaned, and swam, and circled, Swam one day, and then a second, Swam the third from morn till even; Swam she to the salmon-island, Swam she to the whiting-grottoes, Where a thousand islands cluster, And the islands there assembled Thus addressed the tortured lake-trout: ‘There is none within this river, In these narrow Alue-waters, That will eat the wicked Fire-fish, That will swallow thee in trouble, In thine agonies and tortures, From the Fire-fish thou hast eaten.’

Hearing this the gray-pike darted, Swallowed quick as light the lake-trout, Quickly ate the tortured Fire-fish.

“Time had gone but little distance, When the gray-pike grew affrighted, Fear befel the lake-trout-eater; Burning pain and writhing torment Seized the reckless trout-devourer; Swam the pike in all directions, Called, and moaned, and swam, and circled, Swam one day, and then a second, Swam the third from morn till even, To the cave of ocean-swallows, To the sand-hills of the sea-gull, Where a hundred islands cluster; And the islands there assembled Thus addressed the fire-devourer: ‘There is none within this lakelet, In these narrow Alue-waters, That will eat the fated Fire-fish, That will swallow thee in trouble, In thine agonies and tortures, From the Fire-fish thou hast eaten.’”

Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, With the aid of Ilmarinen, Weaves with skill a mighty fish-net From the juniper and sea-grass; Dyes the net with alder-water, Ties it well with thongs of willow. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Called the maidens to the fish-net, And the sisters came as bidden. With the netting rowed they onward, Rowed they to the hundred islands, To the grottoes of the salmon, To the caverns of the whiting, To the reeds of sable color, Where the gray-pike rests and watches. On they hasten to the fishing, Drag the net in all directions, Drag it lengthwise, sidewise, crosswise, And diagonally zigzag; But they did not catch the Fire-fish.

Then the brothers went a-fishing, Dragged the net in all directions, Backwards, forwards, lengthwise, sidewise, Through the homes of ocean-dwellers, Through the grottoes of the salmon, Through the dwellings of the whiting, Through the reed-beds of the lake-trout, Where the gray-pike lies in ambush; But the fated Fire-fish came not, Came not from the lake’s abysses, Came not from the Alue-waters.

Little fish could not be captured In the large nets of the masters; Murmured then the deep-sea-dwellers, Spake the salmon to the lake-trout, And the lake-trout to the whiting, And the whiting to the gray-pike: “Have the heroes of Wainola Died, or have they all departed From these fertile shores and waters? Where then are the ancient weavers, Weavers of the nets of flax-thread, Those that frighten us with fish-poles, Drag us from our homes unwilling?”

Hearing this wise Wainamoinen Answered thus the deep-sea-dwellers: “Neither have Wainola’s heroes Died, nor have they all departed From these fertile shores and waters, Two are born where one has perished; Longer poles and finer fish-nets Have the sons of Kalevala!”

RUNE XLVIII. CAPTURE OF THE FIRE-FISH.

Wainamoinen, the enchanter, The eternal wisdom-singer, Long reflected, well considered, How to weave the net of flax-yarn, Weave the fish-net of the fathers. Spake the minstrel of Wainola: “Who will plow the field and fallow, Sow the flax, and spin the flax-threads, That I may prepare the fish-net, Wherewith I may catch the Fire-pike, May secure the thing of evil?”

Soon they found a fertile island, Found the fallow soil befitting, On the border of the heather, And between two stately oak-trees, They prepared the soil for sowing. Searching everywhere for flax-seed, Found it in Tuoni’s kingdom, In the keeping of an insect. Then they found a pile of ashes, Where the fire had burned a vessel; In the ashes sowed the seedlings Near the Alue-lake and border, In the rich and loamy fallow. There the seed took root and flourished, Quickly grew to great proportions, In a single night in summer. Thus the flax was sowed at evening, Placed within the earth by moonlight; Quick it grew, and quickly ripened, Quick Wainola’s heroes pulled it, Quick they broke it on the hackles, Hastened with it to the waters, Dipped it in the lake and washed it; Quickly brought it home and dried it, Quickly broke, and combed, and smoothed it, Brushed it well at early morning, Laid it into laps for spinning. Quick the maidens twirl the spindles, Spin the flaxen threads for weaving, In a single night in summer. Quick the sisters wind and reel it, Make it ready for the needle. Brothers weave it into fish-nets, And the fathers twist the cordage, While the mothers knit the meshes, Rapidly the mesh-stick circles; Soon the fish-net is completed, In a single night in summer. As the magic net is finished, And in length a hundred fathoms, On the rim three hundred fathoms, Rounded stones are fastened to it, Joined thereto are seven float-boards.

Now the young men take the fish-net, And the old men cheer them onward, Wish them good-luck at their fishing. Long they row and drag the flax-seine, Here and there the net is lowered; Now they drag it lengthwise, sidewise, Drag it through the slimy reed-beds; But they do not catch the Fire-pike, Only smelts, and luckless red-fish, Little fish of little value. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: “O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Let us go ourselves a-fishing, Let us catch the fish of evil!”

To the fishing went the brothers, Magic heroes of the Northland, Pulled the fish-net through the waters, Toward an island in the deep-sea; Then they turn and drag the fish-net Toward a meadow jutting seaward; Now they drag it toward Wainola, Draw it lengthwise, sidewise, crosswise, Catching fish of every species, Salmon, trout, and pike, and whiting, Do not catch the evil Fire-fish.

Then the master, Wainamoinen, Made additions to its borders, Made it many fathoms wider, And a hundred fathoms longer, Then these words the hero uttered: “Famous blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Let us go again a-fishing, Row again the magic fish-net, Drag it well through all the waters, That we may obtain the Fire-pike!”

Thereupon the Northland heroes Go a second time a-fishing, Drag their nets across the rivers, Lakelets, seas, and bays, and inlets, Catching fish of many species, But the Fire-fish is not taken.

Wainamoinen, ancient singer, Long reflecting, spake these measures: “Dear Wellamo, water-hostess, Ancient mother with the reed-breast, Come, exchange thy water-raiment, Change thy coat of reeds and rushes For the garments I shall give thee, Light sea-foam, thine inner vesture, And thine outer, moss and sea-grass, Fashioned by the wind’s fair daughters, Woven by the flood’s sweet maidens; I will give thee linen vestments Spun from flax of softest fiber, Woven by the Moon’s white virgins, Fashioned by the Sun’s bright daughters, Fitting raiment for Wellamo!

“Ahto, king of all the waters, Ruler of a thousand grottoes, Take a pole of seven fathoms, Search with this the deepest waters, Rummage well the lowest bottoms; Stir up all the reeds and sea-weeds, Hither drive a school of gray-pike, Drive them to our magic fish-net, From the haunts in pike abounding, From the caverns, and the trout-holes, From the whirlpools of the deep-sea, From the bottomless abysses, Where the sunshine never enters, Where the moonlight never visits, And the sands are never troubled.”

Rose a pigmy from the waters, From the floods a little hero, Riding on a rolling billow, And the pigmy spake these measures: “Dost thou wish a worthy helper, One to use the pole and frighten Pike and salmon to thy fish-nets?”

Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Answered thus the lake-born hero: “Yea, we need a worthy helper, One to hold the pole, and frighten Pike and salmon to our fish-nets.”

Thereupon the water-pigmy Cut a linden from the border, Spake these words to Wainamoinen: “Shall I scare with all my powers, With the forces of my being, As thou needest shall I scare them?” Spake the minstrel, Wainamoinen: “If thou scarest as is needed, Thou wilt scare with all thy forces, With the strength of thy dominions.”

Then began the pigmy-hero, To affright the deep-sea-dwellers; Drove the fish in countless numbers To the net of the magicians.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Drew his net along the waters, Drew it with his ropes of flax-thread, Spake these words of magic import: “Come ye fish of Northland waters To the regions of my fish-net, As my hundred meshes lower.”