“O Prince of Smiths,” she said in tones more sweet than the warble of birds, “I welcome you to our pleasant land of Pohyola.”
Not even when the storm winds seized him had Ilmarinen felt so helpless and utterly overcome. He could scarcely say a word in answer; he could hardly lift his eyes; his hands hung as though palsied at his side; his feet were rooted to the floor. Then, ere he could recover from his confusion, he saw the Mistress herself advancing—the grim and toothless Mistress of the Frozen Land. She spoke, and her voice was cracked and harsh and grating.
“O master of smiths,” she said, “this is my daughter, the fairest of all maidens. Now say, will you not forge the Sampo? Will you not hang its weights, adjust its levers? Will you not hammer its lid of many colors, even as your brother, the Minstrel, assured me you would?
“Yes, yes, yes!” stammered the poor Smith, scarcely knowing what he said. “I will do anything, everything that lies in my power. But I have never seen a Sampo, and I know not what it is. Tell me what it is like; tell me of its various uses.”
“The Sampo,” answered the Maid of Beauty—and her voice was like the ripple of wavelets on the shore of the summer sea—“the Sampo is the mill of fortune—the magic grinder that will grind whatever its owner most desires: money, houses, ships, silver, flour, salt—everything!”
“Silver, flour, salt—everything!” echoed the Smith.
“Yes. Do you think you have the skill to forge it?”
“Well, I have done greater things than that,” he answered boastingly. “Long ago, when the world was young, I found Iron, ruddy Iron, hiding in the bogs, skulking in the woods, basking in the sunlight of the hills. I caught him and subdued him; I taught him to serve me; I gave him to the world to be a joy forever.”
“We have often heard of your skill, and your praise is in all men’s mouths,” said the eager Mistress. “But the Sampo can be forged only by a great master of magic. Your friend, the Minstrel, although he was able to do many very wonderful things, would not undertake a task so difficult.”
“Truly, I have performed harder tasks,” answered the boaster. “Why, it was I that forged the blue sky that bends over the earth in summer. I hammered it out of a single piece of metal. I fashioned it into a dome-shaped lid to shut down over the earth and air. I painted it pale blue and azure and murky brown. Nothing is too great for my magic. Give me but one hint regarding its shape and nature, and I will make the Sampo—yes, a hundred Sampos—for you.”
Toothless though she was, the wise old Mistress smiled—she smiled fearfully, cunningly, as one pleased and plotting.
“I cannot describe its shape,” she answered, “for it is still uncreated and therefore formless; but its composition is quite simple and its ingredients are of the commonest kind. If by your power in magic you can mix these ingredients properly, the mill is made—it will do its work. But talk not of a hundred Sampos; the world can never hold but one.”
“And I promise that with my magic skill I will put that one together,” said the Smith; “but what can you tell me about its ingredients? Tell me all you know about its composition.”
“I have a recipe which has come down through the ages,” said the woman, “a recipe for making the Sampo; but no magician has ever yet been wise enough, strong enough to make use of it. Here it is, written in runes on a white whalebone:
“‘Take the tips of two swan feathers;
Add the milk of a young heifer;
Add a single grain of barley;
Mix and stir with wool of lambkin;
Heat the mixture, quickly, rightly;
In a magic caldron boil it;
On a magic anvil beat it;
Hammer its lid of many colors;
Furnish it with wheels and levers;
Set it up, and start it going.’”
Ilmarinen listened. “The directions are plain and easily followed,” he said. “To a smith who has shaped the mountains and hammered out the sky it will be an easy task, the pleasant pastime of a few fleeting days. But it must not be undertaken in the winter time. We must wait till the sky is clear and the sun shines warm on land and sea.”
“And will you then forge the much-desired Sampo?” inquired the Mistress.
“I promise you,” answered the Smith.
Thus the boasting Ilmarinen, having come suddenly, unexpectedly, unwillingly to the land of Pohyola, was conquered by the power of beauty. And thus he promised, not once alone, but thrice, promised solemnly on his honor, that he with his magic power would forge the wondrous mill of fortune and shape its lid of rainbow colors. And the cunning Mistress grimly smiled and joyfully gave him a home in her broad, low dwelling—she gave him food and lodging, the softest seat beside her hearth, the warmest bed beneath her rafters. And he, forgetful of his home and kinsmen, sat content in the glow of the blazing fire logs, and counted the days till the storm should pass, the weeks till the winter should end.
IX. THE CALDRON
All through the long and dreary winter, Ilmarinen waited idly by old Louhi’s hearth-side. “No great thing in magic can be done in stormy weather,” he said. “Summer and fair days of sunshine are the wizard’s time for action.”
The wise men of the North Land came often to see him. Herdsmen from the frozen meadows, savage fellows from the forest, fishermen from the icy inlets—these also came to hear the words of the wizard Smith and be taught by him. They came on snowshoes and in reindeer sledges, battling with the wintry storm winds and heeding not the cold. Singly and by twos and threes they came and squatted round Dame Louhi’s fireplace, rubbing their hands together, warming their shins, and staring into the face of the marvellous stranger. And Ilmarinen sat in their midst and told them many tales of wonder, chiefly tales of his own rare skill and cunning.
He told them how he had broken the mountains with his hammer, how he had conquered wild Iron and imprisoned him in his smithy, and how, from a single lump of metal, he had hammered out the sky and set it up as a lid to cover the land and the sea. “All these things,” said he, “were done by me—me, the prince of smiths, me, the skilfulest of men.”
Then all his listeners, wise men, herdsmen, fishermen, wild men, looked up at him with awe and admiration. They drew up closer to the fire, they threw fresh logs into the flames, they turned their faces towards him and asked a thousand curious questions.
“Who painted the sky and gave it its blue and friendly color?” asked the wise men.
“I painted it—I, the first of smiths.” answered Ilmarinen. “And when I swept my brush across from east to west, some drops of blue fell into the sea and colored it also.”
“What are the stars that glitter so brightly above us when the nights are clear?” asked the herdsmen.
“They are the sparks from my forge,” was the answer. “I caught them and fixed them securely in their places; I welded them into the vast sky-lid so they should never fall out nor fly away.”
“Where is the home of the Great Pike, the mightiest of all the creatures that swim in the water?” asked the fishermen.
“The Great Pike lurks in the hidden places of the deep sea,” said Ilmarinen; “for he knows that I have forged a hook of iron that will some day be the cause of his undoing.”
“Ah! ah! ah!” muttered the wild men. Their mouths were open and their eyes were staring at the rafters where hung long rows of smoked salmon, slabs of bacon, and dried herbs of magic power. “Ah! ah! ah! What shall we do when we are hungry and there are no nuts to be gathered, no roots to be digged, no small beasts to be captured, no food of any kind? Ah! ah! ah!”
“Forget to-day, think only of to-morrow—for then there will be plenty,” answered Ilmarinen. “Go back to your old haunts in the forest, and to-morrow I will send you so many nuts and roots and small beasts that you shall grow fat with the eating of them.”
Thus, all through the wintry weather, Ilmarinen dispensed wisdom to the inquiring men who desired it, and there was no question which he could not answer
, no want which he could not satisfy. And at length, when every mind was filled with knowledge, and every stomach with food from Dame Louhi’s bountiful stores, the visitors departed. Singly, or by twos and threes, in sledges, on snowshoes, on foot, they returned to their respective haunts and homes. “We have seen him, and there is nothing more to be desired,” they said.
And now the snow was melting, the grass was green on the hillsides, the reeds were springing up in the marshes, and the birds were twittering under the eaves.
Forthwith, brave Ilmarinen sallied out to find a smithy. Ten men, willing and strong, followed him, prepared to do any sort of labor, to undergo any sort of privation. Long did he seek, and far and wide did he travel, and many were the vain inquiries which he made; but nowhere in all the Frozen Land could he discover forge or chimney, bellows or tongs, anvil or hammer. In that dismal, snowy country men had never needed iron; they had no tools save tools of fish-bone; they had no weapons save sticks and stones and fists and feet. What wonder, then, that they had no smithy?
Some men would have given up in despair, but not so Ilmarinen. “Women may lose their courage,” he said; “fools may give up a task because it is hard; but heroes persevere, wizards and smiths conquer.”
So, still followed by his serving-men, he set out to find a fit place in which to build a smithy. For nine days he sought—yes, for ten long summer days he wandered over the brown meadows and among the gloomy hills of Pohyola. At length, deep in the silent forest he found a great stone all streaked and striped in colors of the rainbow.
“This is the place,” he said, never doubting; and he gave orders to build his smithy there.
The first day’s task was to build the furnace and the forge with yawning mouth and towering chimney. On the second day he framed the bellows and covered it with stout reindeer hide. On the third he set up his anvil, a block of hardest granite for ten men to roll.
Then he made his tools. For a hammer he took a smooth stone from the brook; for tongs he cut a green sapling and bent it in the middle, forcing the two ends together. Thus his smithy was completed; but how was he to forge the magic Sampo? With what was he to form its iridescent lid?
“Only weaklings say, ‘I cannot,’” said he. “Only want-wits say, ‘It is too difficult.’ Heroes never give up. Nothing is impossible to a true smith.”
Then from a secret pocket he drew the things most needful for his forging. He counted them over, giving to each a magic number—two tips of white swan feathers, a bottle of milk from a young red heifer, a grain of barley grown in a land beyond the sea, and the fleece of a lambkin not one day old. These he mixed in a magic caldron, throwing upon them many bits of precious metals, with strange wild herbs and rank poisons and sweet honey dew. And all the while, he kept muttering harshly the spells and charms which none but smiths and skilful wizards understand.
At length the mixture was completed. Ilmarinen set the caldron firmly in the furnace, he pushed it far into the yawning cavern. Then he kindled the fire, he heaped on fuel, he closed the furnace door and bade the serving-men set the bellows to blowing.
Tirelessly the ten men toiled, taking turns, five by five, at the mighty lever. Like the fierce North Wind sweeping over the hills and rushing through the piney forest, the heaving bellows roared. The flames leaped up and filled the furnace and the forge. The black smoke poured from the chimney and rose in cloudlike, inky masses to the sky. Ilmarinen heaped on more fuel, he opened the draughts of the furnace, he danced like a madman in the light of the flames, he shouted strange words of magic meaning. Thus, for three long summer days and three brief summer nights, the fire glowed and the furnace roared and the men toiled and watched unceasingly. And round about the feet of the workmen lichens and leafy plants grew up, and in the crannies of the rocks wild flowers bloomed, nourished by the warmth from the magic forge.
On the fourth day, the wizard Smith bade the workmen pause while he stooped down and looked into the caldron far within the fire-filled furnace. He wished to see whether anything had begun to shape itself from the magic mixture, whether anything had been brought forth by the mighty heat.
As he looked, lo! a crossbow rose from out the caldron—a crossbow, perfect in form and carved with figures fantastical and beautiful. On each side it was inlaid with precious gold, and the tips were balls of silver. The shaft was made of copper, and the whole bow was wondrously strong.
“This is a beautiful thing,” said Ilmarinen, “but it is not the Sampo.”
Forthwith the crossbow leaped from the caldron; it flew out of the furnace; it stood humbly bowing before the wizard Smith.
“Hail, my master!” it said. “Here I am, ready to serve you as you command. My task is to kill, and I love it, I love it! Send me forth quickly, and let me begin. On every work-day I’ll kill at least one. On every holiday I’ll kill more—sometimes two, and sometimes very many. Oh, yes, I will kill, I will kill!”
“What will you kill?” asked Ilmarinen.
“In war, men; in peace, singing birds and timid deer. Oh, I can kill, I can kill!”
And having said this, the crossbow began to shoot arrows recklessly about to the great peril of the ten serving-men. This made Ilmarinen angry. “You are bad!” he cried. “You love only evil. I have no use for you!” and he seized the bow and threw it back into the boiling caldron. Then he bade the workmen blow the bellows as before; and he heaped on more fuel and more fuel, singing meanwhile a wild, weird song which made the flames leap out from the very top of the chimney.
All day, all night, the bellows roared; all day again, and again all night, the furnace glowed, white-hot, and furious. Then, just at sunrise, the Smith called to the bellows-men, “Halt!” He stooped down and gazed steadfastly, curiously, into the magic caldron. As the flames subsided and the furnace began to grow cool, behold a ship rose from the mixture—a ship complete with pointed beak and oars and sails, all ready to be launched upon the sea. Its hull was painted blue and yellow, its ribs were golden, its prow was of copper, and its sails were of white linen whereon were depicted most wonderful figures of dragons and savage beasts; and on its deck and within its hold were all manner of weapons of war—axes and spears, bows and arrows, sharp daggers and gleaming swords.
“Here I am, my master!” said the ship. “I am ready for your service, if you please. You see that I am well fitted for war, well fitted to plunder and rob the seaports of other lands. Send me out, that I may help you slay your enemies and make your name a terror throughout the world.”
The wizard Smith drew the ship toward him. Beautiful and well-laden though it was, he was by no means pleased with it. “I like you not!” he cried. “You are a destroyer and not a builder. You love evil, and I will have no part nor parcel of you,” and he broke the ship into a thousand pieces, and threw the fragments back into the caldron. Then he bade the serving-men blow the bellows with all their might, while he heaped fresh fuel upon the flames and sang wild songs of wizardry and enchantment.
On the fourth morning Ilmarinen looked again into the caldron. “Surely something good has been formed by this time,” he said.
From the caldron a mist was slowly rising, hot, pungent, fog-like; within it, the magic mixture could be heard bubbling, seething, hissing. The Smith looked long ere he could see what was forming. Then suddenly the mist cleared away and a beautiful young heifer sprang out into the sunlight. Her color was golden, her neck and legs were like the wild deer’s, her horns were ivory, her eyes were wondrous large, and on her forehead was a disc of steely sunshine.
The Smith was delighted, his heart was filled with admiration. “Beautiful, beautiful creature!” he cried. “Surely, she will be of use to mankind.”
Scarcely had he spoken when the heifer rushed out of the smithy, pausing not a moment to salute her master. She ran swiftly into the forest, bellowing, horning, fighting, spurning everything that came in her way.
“Ah, me!” sighed the Smith, “she, too, has an evil nature. Alas, that one so wick
edly inclined should be blessed with so beautiful a form!”
Then he bade the serving-men bring her back to the smithy; and when, with infinite labor, they had done this, he cut her in pieces and threw her back into the caldron. And now the bellows was set to blowing again, and it roared like a tempest in a forest of pines; the smoke rolled darkly from the chimney; and the fire glowed hotter than before around the seething caldron. And all that day, and through the midsummer night, the master and his men toiled unceasingly.
At sunrise on the fifth day, Ilmarinen looked again into the caldron. As he stooped and gazed, a plough rose suddenly from the magic mixture. Like a thing of life it glided softly through the furnace door, bowed low before the wizard Smith, and waited to receive his judgment. It had been shaped and put together with great skill, and every line was a line of beauty. The frame was of copper, the share was of gold, the handles were tipped with silver.
“Here I am, my master,” it said. “Send me forth to do your bidding.”
“What good thing can you do?” asked Ilmarinen.
“I can turn things over, tear things up,” answered the plough. “Nothing in the fields can stand against me. I will overturn the sod, I will uproot all growing things whether good or bad. I will go into gardens, meadows, cornfields, and stir the soil; and woe to the plant that comes in my way, for I will destroy it.”
“You are beautiful and you are useful,” said the Smith; “but you are rude and unkind. You do not know how to discriminate between the evil and the good. You give pain, you cause death, and therefore I do not love you.”
He waited not for the plough’s answer, but struck it with his hammer and broke it into a thousand fragments; then he threw the fragments back into the magic caldron and closed the door of the furnace.
Long and thoughtfully he sat, silent but not despairing. His elbows rested upon his knees, his head was bowed upon his hands. And he repeated to himself his favorite saying: “None but cowards say, ‘I cannot,’ none but weaklings say ‘Impossible,’ none but women weep for failure.”
Nordic Hero Tales From the Kalevala Page 5
