Wainamoinen pulled upon the reins with all his might; his steed stopped short upon a hillside. Then he called loudly to the maiden on the rainbow.
THE MAGICIAN AND THE MAID OF BEAUTY
High in the sky he saw a rainbow and on it the Maid of Beauty.
“Come hither, come hither, most beautiful one,” he said. “Come down and sit in this sledge by my side.”
Faster and faster flew the magic shuttle, and the buzzing sounded louder; but the maiden had heard the Minstrel’s call. She turned her face towards him and spoke disdainfully.
“Who are you?” she asked. “And why should I sit in your sledge?”
“I am Wainamoinen, chief of singers, master of wizards,” answered the hero. “I am now on my way to my sweet home country, the Land of Heroes. I know you would love that land, and I would rejoice to take you thither with me. You shall be the queen of my house. You shall bake my honey cakes, fill my cups with barley-water, sing at my table. All my people will honor you.”
The Maid of Beauty looked down from her rainbow seat and laughed.
“You are a foolish old man,” she said, “to think that I care for you or for all that you promise. Let me tell you a story.”
“Certainly,” said the Minstrel.
“Well, yesterday I was walking in the meadows of the West. I was picking flowers and making this wreath which you see on my head. Suddenly I heard a thrush singing sweetly to his mate and nestlings. I stopped and listened to the little songster, and this is what I heard him sing:
“Summer days are warm and bright;
A maiden’s heart is always light.
Winter days are bitter cold;
Beware, beware of the suitor bold—
Beware the more if he is old.”
“That was a very silly bird,” said Wainamoinen, “and I wonder that his mate listened to such foolish chatter.”
“But his song was very pretty,” laughed the maiden.
“I too can sing,” said Wainamoinen. “I am the sweet singer of Hero Land. I am a great wizard. I am a hero. Come with me to my dear home land and be my queen.”
The Maid of Beauty looked down from her rainbow throne, and the mountains echoed with her laughter.
“If you are indeed a wizard,” she said, “show me some of your magic arts. Can you split a hair with a knife which has no edge? Can you snare a bird’s egg with a thread too small to be seen?”
“Nothing is easier to one skilled in magic,” answered the hero. And thereupon he picked up a golden hair which the maiden had let fall, and with a blunted knife he split it into halves and quarters. Then from a bird’s nest on the side of the cliff he drew up an egg with a snare too fine for eyes to see.
“Now I have done what you wished,” he said. “Come and sit in my birchwood sledge. Swiftly will we speed to Hero Land, and great honor shall be yours, for you shall be a minstrel’s queen.”
“Not yet, not yet, O matchless hero,” she answered, still laughing. “Let me see some more of your wonderful magic. Split this cliff of sandstone with your bare fingers. Then cut a whipstock from the ice in the gorge below you and leave no splinter.”
“Nothing is easier to one skilled in magic,” answered the hero. Then he climbed the tall cliff and split the sandstone with his fingers; and next he leaped upon the river of ice beneath him and cut therefrom a slender whipstock, losing not the smallest fragment.
“You have done well,” said the Maid of Beauty, and she smiled from her rainbow throne. “But I will give you another task. Here is my spindle and here is my shuttle. See, I break them into splinters and I throw the fragments at your feet. If you wish me to go home with you, you must pick up these fragments and build a boat from them. Then you must launch the boat, using neither arm nor foot to set it floating. Is your magic equal to that?”
Wainamoinen stroked his gray beard, for he was puzzled. “Your task is very hard,” he said, “and I am the only person under the sun who can perform it. But perform it I will, and you shall see what a master of magic I am.”
Then he picked up the fragments of the spindle, he took the splinters of the shuttle in his hands, and began to build the fairy boat. But such a task could not be done in a moment. It required time. One whole day he swung his hammer; two whole days he plied his hatchet; three days and more he worked to join the many pieces together.
At length the boat was almost finished. Proudly the Minstrel looked upon it. He hewed it on this side, he shaped it on that, he smoothed it fore and aft; and the Maid of Beauty looked on and smiled. Suddenly the hero’s sharp-edged hatchet of iron flew from his grasp. It broke the fairy boat in pieces, undoing the work of many days. It struck the Minstrel’s knee, cutting a red gash that was both wide and deep.
A stream of blood gushed forth; it flowed like a crimson torrent down the mountain side; it stained the snow in the forest and the brown grass in the meadows. Great pain fell upon the Minstrel, and yet he was fearless and undaunted. He quickly gathered lichens and mosses from the tree trunks and the rocks, and these he bound upon the wound to stanch the bleeding.
“O cruel hatchet,” he cried, “why were you so disobedient, so ungrateful? You may cut the pine tree and the willow; you may cut the birch tree and the cedar; but turn not your edge against your master.”
He looked upward. The rainbow had vanished and the Maid of Beauty had fled. Then, too late, he remembered Dame Louhi’s caution: “Keep your eyes upon your pathway. If you should gaze towards sky or mountain top, sad misfortune will befall you.”
His wound was very painful, so painful that he groaned with anguish. He felt that he must find help, and find it quickly. He looked about for the reindeer which the Mistress had lent him and which had wandered into the woods while he was working magic. When he had found the beast he harnessed it to the sledge again. Then he climbed in carefully, painfully, and sat down on the soft furs. He cracked his whip, he shouted, and the long-legged racer flew swiftly over meadows and forests, over mountains and lowlands.
III. THE GRAYBEARD AND HIS SON
All night the Minstrel rode wildly towards the South Country, never looking behind him, never pausing to rest. The day was breaking when he reached the end of the mighty forest. There, on the slope of a barren mountain, the road divided into three paths, and at the end of each path he saw a small house with smoke rising from the chimney. And now his pain increased, and the blood began to pour anew from his deep wound.
Weak and weary, he turned boldly into the lowest pathway and drove his steed up to the little homestead.
“Hail, ho!” he cried; and a piping voice inside answered, “Hail, ho!”
The door was open, and the Minstrel saw a little child sitting on the hearth beside the blazing fire.
“Hail, ho!” he cried again; and the child laughed and said, “Welcome, stranger!”
Wainamoinen sat upright in his sledge; his wound pained him; he was in much distress.
“Is there any one in this house that can heal the wounds of Iron?” he asked.
“No, no,” answered the child. “All gone but me. Drive away, big man! Drive away to some other house.”
The Minstrel pulled the reins and turned his sledge about. He cracked his whip, and the steed leaped forward. Soon he came into the middle pathway, and madly he drove to the second little cottage. He drove right up under the window and looked in. There he saw an old woman resting on a couch, while another woman was spinning by the fire. They were telling pleasant tales of their neighbors and of goblins and ghosts and unnameable things.
“Hail, ho!” cried the Minstrel, not too loudly.
The women jumped up in alarm; but when they saw his pale and weary face they answered, “Welcome, stranger! Alight, and rest thyself by our fireside.”
Wainamoinen sat still in his sledge. The blood was pouring in torrents from his wound.
“Tell me,” he said, “is there any one in this house that can stop the flow of blood, that can heal the wounds of Iron?”
> “Ah, no!” answered the elder of the two, and her three teeth gnashed together. “Naught do we know about blood or iron. Drive away to some other house. Speed thee, rash man!”
Again the Minstrel pulled the reins and turned the sledge about in the narrow pathway. Again he cracked his whip, and the steed rushed onward. With furious speed he drove into the upper pathway, and paused not until he reached the highest cottage. There he drew up before the doorway and called as before, but very feebly:
“Hail, ho! Hail, ho!”
“Welcome, stranger!” was the answer from within. Then an old Graybeard opened the door and repeated, “Welcome, stranger!”
“Welcome, stranger!” echoed the Graybeard’s son, peeping over his father’s shoulder. “Alight and rest yourself and your steed.”
“First tell me,” said the Minstrel feebly, “tell me if you can stop this flow of blood and heal this wound of Iron.”
“Three magic words may stop the flood, three magic drops may heal the wound,” answered the Graybeard.
And the young man added, “Come in and let us see what can be done.”
The Minstrel climbed out of his sledge slowly, painfully. He staggered into the house. He lay down upon the couch by the fireside. The wound was bleeding sorely.
“Ah, save us!” cried the Graybeard. “What hero is this? Bring something to catch the flowing blood.”
His son ran quickly and fetched a golden goblet; but it was far too small to hold the gushing blood. He ran for other vessels. Seven pails he brought, then eight, and all were filled to overflowing. The Graybeard shook his head; he lifted his eyes; he clinched his fists. Then he spoke harshly to the crimson flood:
“Hear me, O thou blood-stream! Cease thy flowing. Fill no more pails. Flow not upon the floor. Stay in the veins of this hero and give him strength. Stay in his heart and give him courage. Hear me, O thou blood-stream!”
Forthwith the red stream grew smaller; but still the drops trickled from the wound. All the strength of the Minstrel was gone.
The Graybeard looked upward, he turned his face towards heaven. He spoke in tones that were soft and pleading:
“O thou great Creator, thou lover of heroes! Come down and help us. Stop this rushing red river. Heal this gaping wound. Restore to this hero the strength that is rightfully his.”
Then he grasped the Minstrel’s knee just above the place where the wicked axe had struck it. He pressed the sides of the wound together firmly, gently. The bleeding ceased; and now not even the smallest drop escaped. The Graybeard bound soft bands of linen around the limb, he laid the Minstrel upon his own rude bed, he covered him with warm robes and bade him rest quietly.
“The flow of blood is stanched,” he said; “we must now heal Iron’s bitter bite, we must close up the gaping, ugly wound.”
Then turning to his son, he said, “Go now to our smithy on the mountain. Take with you a supply of healing herbs, as I have taught you. Bake them, boil them, mix them, brew them into a magic ointment that will heal all manner of wounds. When you have finished the mixture and tested it, bring it hither to me.”
“That I will do, father,” answered the young man; and with a basket on his arm and a glad song rising from his lips, he hastened away.
Half-way up the mountain side he came to a gnarly old oak.
“Friend oak, so good and strong,” he said, “have you any honey on your branches?”
“Look and see,” answered the oak. “Yesterday I had such plenty that the bees came to carry it away.”
The young man gathered many handfuls of slender twigs from the tree, and saw that on each twig was a tiny drop of dew. Then he wandered hither and thither among the rocks, seeking all kinds of healing herbs and putting them in his basket. When, at length, the basket was filled, he went on, whistling, to the little smithy on the mountain top.
Soon a fire was roaring in the furnace. A pot was filled with the herbs and twigs and set to boiling on the coals. The pungent odor of the mixture pervaded the air; every corner of the smithy was lit up with the glare of the flames; the smoke rolled in clouds from the smoke hole in the roof.
For three sunny days and three lonely nights the youth stood over the furnace and stirred the magic mixture. He threw fuel upon the flames, he poured fresh spring water into the seething pot. And all the while he sang weird songs and muttered strange charms such as his father had taught him. Then for nine nights he caught the moonbeams and mingled them with the mixture; and for nine days he entrapped the sunlight and added it to the magic ointment.
On the tenth day he looked into the pot and saw that all was of a rich golden color, bright and sparkling, with pretty rainbows mingled here and there in many a curious pattern.
“It is done,” he said. “I will test its power.”
He lifted the pot from the fire and allowed the mixture to cool, still singing his songs of magic. Then he went out to find something that had been wounded and might be healed.
Half-way down the mountain side there was a giant pine tree which the lightning had split from crown to roots. Its two halves gaped wide apart; its torn and broken branches hung dangling in the wind.
“Ah! here is a case to test,” said the young man. Then, with the greatest care, he took a small portion of the ointment upon his finger; he smeared it gently upon the trunk and branches of the wounded pine; he sang softly a little song of magic:
“Make it whole and make it strong,
Heal it all its length along;
Join part to part, restore its heart,
And make it straight as hunter’s dart.
Thus your magic power show,
And let all men your virtue know.”
As he spoke the last words he clapped his hands together and shouted; and lo! the parts of the pine tree came suddenly into their right places, and it stood there as whole and as beautiful as it had been before the lighting smote it.
“Good!” cried the young man. “The ointment is as it should be. None could be better.”
Then, with the pot balanced carefully on his shoulder, he started homeward. Every now and then, as he went down the slope, he paused to try the healing mixture on splintered rocks and broken bowlders; and he smiled as he saw the rough stones knit themselves together and the gaping fissures close up and disappear.
When at length he approached his father’s cottage he heard loud groans within—groans of some one suffering deadly pain. He listened and knew that they came from the wounded Minstrel; he knew that now there was great need of his magic ointment.
The Graybeard met him at the door. “What news, my son?”
“Good news, my father,” he answered. “Never was there better salve than this. I could fuse the hills together with it if I had the mind to try.”
The father took the pot and carried it into the house. He dipped his finger gently into the ointment; he touched it to the tip of his tongue.
“The mixture seems perfect,” he said. “Now we shall see wonders.”
The Minstrel was lying upon the bed and groaning at every breath. True, the bleeding had ceased, but the fever of Iron was upon him. He knew not where he was. He had forgotten his family, his home, and his sweet country. The madness of Iron had clouded his mind.
The Graybeard smeared a little of the ointment on the Minstrel’s wounded knee; he stroked the poor man’s back, his hands, his head. He waved his palms slowly to and fro before his eyes. And all the while he softly muttered a little song of wisdom and power.
The groans of the wounded man waxed louder and louder. He turned this way and that, seeking ease; but at each moment the pain grew greater, and he writhed in anguish. Then the Graybeard raised his voice and angrily commanded the pain to depart.
“Hear me, pitiless pain!” he cried. “Go away from this house! Depart! Vanish! Leave this worthy stranger and betake yourself to your own place. Hide yourself in the Hill of Tortures. There, if you choose, you may fill the stones with anguish; you may rend the rocks with torment. B
ut now let this hero rest in peace. Depart! Depart! Depart!”
As he uttered the last word the pain vanished. The Minstrel’s mind grew clear; he felt his strength returning; he laughed right joyfully and rose from his bed. The wound was healed, the ugly gash had disappeared, every trace of pain had vanished from his body.
“I never felt so well in my life!” he shouted as he danced about the room. Then remembering himself, he threw his arms around the Graybeard’s neck and thanked him for his exceeding kindness.
“No thanks are due to me,” said the old man, leading him to a seat by the fireside. “I have done nothing myself; Jumala did it all. Give praises to Jumala, the great Creator, from whom all good things come.”
Thereupon the Minstrel raised his hands towards heaven, and cried, “To thee, O Jumala, the gracious, I humbly offer thanks. To thee I owe my life, my strength, my all—accept my gratitude.”
“Jumala only is good,” said the Graybeard. “He only is merciful and kind. But what shall we say of Iron—of Iron, the spiteful, the treacherous, the wicked? Tell me, my friend, why should Iron bear a grudge against you? Why should he seek to destroy your life?”
Wainamoinen, first of minstrels, answered, “Iron has no grudge against me. He wounded me, it is true, but not purposely. Had it not been for a wicked hornet, Iron would never have harmed me—would never have harmed any one. Blame not Iron. Blame the hornet that made him what he is.”
“Pray tell me how that can be,” said the Graybeard.
Then, sitting by the pleasant fireside, the Minstrel answered him by telling a story—a story as old as the race of man on earth.
Nordic Hero Tales From the Kalevala Page 2
