“I will do everything as you have bidden me,” answered the serving-man, and he led the steed gently from the courtyard.
“Now, my boys,” said the Mistress, “you little lads of Pohyola! Conduct the bridegroom to the house and show him the doorway. Take off his hat gently, gently. Remove his gloves also. Let us see if the door is wide enough for him to pass through; let us see if it is high enough to admit so great a hero.”
Without delay the waiting-lads took their appointed places, four at the right hand and four at the left, six in front of him and six behind, and thus they marched lightly and orderly into the dwelling.
“Now let all give thanks to Jumala, the gracious,” said the Mistress, and her unlovely face grew pleasanter for the moment. “Give thanks to Jumala, for the hero has passed through the door in safety, he has entered the house of the bride.”
And the bridegroom responded, “Give thanks to Jumala, and may his blessing rest upon this house and all that abide beneath its roof.”
The table was ready, the feast was spread, the guests were waiting. The lads, with much ado, led the bridegroom to his place—the highest seat at the end of the room. He sat down by the side of the blushing bride, the Maid of Beauty, while all the guests clapped their hands and shouted for joy.
Then, as one accustomed to entertaining a multitude, the wise old Mistress feasted her guests in the noblest fashion. Busy, very busy, were the little waiting-maidens, serving food to all the people. Of roast beef and savory sausages there was great plenty. Broiled salmon, pork, the meat of lambkins were served to each guest’s liking. The whitest of bread and the yellowest of butter, cream cakes, nuts, and apples—who could ask for more than these? And there was the ale, the foaming white ale which the Mistress herself had brewed—it was handed round in great tankards so that each of the heroes present might drink his fill. When it came to the Minstrel, old Wainamoinen, he rose and sang a new song:
“O ale, sweet ale!
Let no one fail
To sing of thee
And merry be.
“O hero, strong!
List to my song,
Be glad, be gay
On your wedding day.”
Then, changing his theme and the subject of his song he tuned his voice to a higher key.
“What would our Creator do
If to-day he sang to you?
He would sing the sea to honey,
Sing the stones to precious money,
Sing the sand to foaming ale,
Sing the rocks to rain and hail,
And the mountains sing to lakes,
And the hilltops sing to cakes.
“As a minstrel and magician,
He would bless this land’s condition;
He would fill the fields with cattle,
Make our treasure boxes rattle;
He would fill the mines with metal,
Fill each pot and fill each kettle;
He would fill the lanes with flowers,
Bless each day, bless all the hours.
“As a minstrel and a singer
He would with this household linger,
Give the bride a ring of gold,
A dress of silk, and wealth untold;
And to the bridegroom, he would give
More skill than to all smiths that live.
Let us therefore crave his blessing,
All our prayers to him addressing.”
Thus did the people feast, and thus did the mighty Minstrel sing on Ilmarinen’s happy wedding day. All day, all the long night, the guests sat at the table, eating and making merry and listening to the songs and pleasant speeches that were made in honor of the bride, the bridegroom, and the noble hostess.
Much good advice was given to her who had lately been the Maid of Beauty but was now the Bride of Beauty: how she should keep her husband’s house in order; how she should obey and serve him; how she should love and cherish her mother-in-law and all the members of her family. Much sage counsel also did the hero, Ilmarinen, receive: how he should always be very gentle to the dove that he had captured; how he should not forget to praise her industry in the kitchen, at the loom, in the hay field; how he should never upbraid her in hissing tones, or beat her with a slave whip; but how he should stand like a wall before her to protect and defend when others were unkind.
XXVII. THE HOME COMING
Long were the speeches, lengthy were the songs, and many were the stories to which the people listened and the patient bride and bridegroom hearkened. Then, as the day was breaking, all was ended. The guests rose and made ready to depart. The last good-byes were spoken, the last words of counsel were delivered.
The hero’s steed was led from the stable, it was harnessed to the magic sledge while the cuckoos called loudly and the bluebirds sang sweetly as before.
“Farewell, farewell, to all my friends and kindred,” then murmured the Bride of Beauty. “I must now go far, far away from the home I love so dearly. I must leave my mother’s dwelling, leave the farmyard, fields, and meadows where as a maiden I was happy. Farewell, dear house; farewell, my mountain-ash tree; farewell, roads and pathways; farewell, sweet hills and forests. Who now will answer the cuckoos when they call? Who now will welcome the bluebirds in the springtime? Who will milk my pet reindeer? Who will care for my lambs? Farewell, farewell to all! Farewell, farewell!”
Then Ilmarinen, noble hero, lifted her into the sledge; he tucked the robes of fur about her; he wrapped her feet in soft, warm blankets. The serving-man handed him the reins and the whip. One word to the steed, and they were away; the low-roofed dwelling, the village, the friends at Pohyola, all were quickly left behind. And the happy triumphant Ilmarinen, shouted back his farewells.
“Good-bye, good-bye, to all the people! Good-bye to the seashore and the creeks and inlets! Good-bye to the house with smoke-browned rafters! Good-bye to the grasses in the meadows, to the lonely marshes, to the willow bushes, and the lone pine woods where my smithy stands! Good-bye to all! Good-bye, good-bye!”
Onward, with gliding feet, the swift steed flew. The magic sledge scarcely touched the ground, its birchwood runners seemed to skim through the air, so rapid was its motion. Across the broad meadows, over the hills, through dark ravines, along the sandy shore the hero pursued his course, never pausing, never doubting. The whip-lash whistled in the air, the copper rings on the horse’s harness made merry music.
All day, all night, yes, through a second day and then a third, the joyful journey continued. With one hand the hero guided the horse, with one arm he supported his bride. The North Wind gently drove him along, the South Wind beckoned him forward. At length, just as the sun was setting, he saw his own fair dwelling nestling among the trees of Wainola. The smoke was rising from the roof-hole, Dame Lokka was preparing the evening meal, the good sister, Anniki, was watching at the door.
“Welcome, welcome, bridegroom and brother! Long have we watched for you, long have we waited!” shouted the glad maid of the morning.
“O Ilmarinen, my son, my joy!” cried the mother and matron. “Welcome home with thy birdling, thy fair one!”
Then quickly all the village people came running to greet their neighbor Ilmarinen and his beautiful young bride. They led the noble pair into the house, the men and women singing joyously, the children dancing before them. A feast was soon provided—meats the tenderest and most delicious, loaves of the whitest flour, yellow cakes both light and sweet, lumps of fresh butter just from the churn, broiled salmon smoking hot. All these they brought in great abundance, heaped up on Dame Lokka’s pretty dishes. And the villagers shouted:
“Welcome, Bride of Beauty, to this Land of Heroes! Welcome to this lovely village! Hail to the hero, our friend and neighbor! Hail to all within this dwelling! Blessed be this homecoming. Blessed be the bridal pair, and may their lives be long and their love lasting!”
Thus did Ilmarinen win his bride and thus did he bring her in triumph to his home in Wainola.
XXVIII.
THE SLAVE BOY
Happy, happy Ilmarinen! With her who had been the Maid of Beauty as queen of his household, naught but good fortune was his. Wherever he went, whatever he did, he was sure to prosper. His smithy was full of rare and beautiful things, the work of his own skilful hands. His barns were full of grain, barley, and wheat, hay and soft straw for his horses. His farmyard was full of lowing cattle, broad-horned milk cows, fat beeves, and sleek-coated yearlings. And his house was full of joy, the abode of peace, the home of plenty.
Now among the servants of the hero was a young slave whose name was Kullervo. A worthless fellow he was, ill-favored, ill-natured, selfish, and unkind. When any work was given him to do he was sure to spoil it; he could not be trusted, he seemed to be unfit for any duty. Ilmarinen had bought him for a small price: two old cracked kettles, three broken hooks, four dull-edged scythes, and five toothless rakes.
“It is a good price for him, more than he is worth,” said all his neighbors, for they knew that the slave would serve him ill. “Never will he earn the food that is given him, never will his master have any joy from his labor.”
Ilmarinen smiled and said nothing. He gave the boy an axe and bade him cut an armload of kindlings for the fire; but the worthless fellow began chopping the beams of the house. He sent him into the garden to pull up weeds; but the worthless fellow destroyed the useful plants and flowers and left the weeds untouched. He sent him to pick berries in the marshes; but the worthless fellow picked only the green fruit and trampled upon the ripe.
“The new slave is good for nothing,” said Dame Lokka, Ilmarinen’s busy mother.
“No, no!” answered his wife, the mistress of his household. “Every man has his place in the world, and surely there is something for this poor fellow to do.”
And so, one day when Ilmarinen was far away, she said to the mother, “I have a mind to send Kullervo out with the cattle. Surely he can drive them to the hill pastures and the marshes, he can watch them while they graze, he can keep them from wandering in the woods and thickets.”
“Do as you like,” answered Dame Lokka. “A herdsman’s task requires neither skill nor wearying labor, and perhaps the slave will find his proper place among the cattle in the quiet pastures.”
Forthwith the wife and mistress called to the old cook, the kitchen wench, and said, “The new slave, Kullervo, is to go with the cattle to-day. Make haste and put up a luncheon for him—something that will stay his hunger in the middle of the day, for he will be far from home and the noon sun is hot in the lonely hill pastures.”
“Yes, my mistress,” answered the cook, “I will fill a basket for him with food good enough and wholesome enough for any such slave as he. I will bake a fresh, hot cake for him and have it ready when he starts with the herd.”
So to her task she went, chuckling and growling, for she hated Kullervo and not without reason. First, she rolled out the dough and then she baked the cake. The upper half was of wheaten flour, the lower half was of coarse oatmeal, and in the centre was a round black sandstone cunningly concealed.
“He will enjoy that when he comes to it,” laughed the wicked wench, holding her sides and grinning with mirth.
When the cake was baked very hard and dry she took it from the oven and rolled it in butter, laying a slice of raw bacon around it. The she put it in a small basket and covered it with green oak leaves.
“He must needs have strong teeth to eat it,” she muttered, “but it is good enough for him.”
Soon Kullervo came to get his luncheon. The cattle were waiting to be driven to the pasture, the milk cows were lowing impatiently, the yearlings were browsing beside the hedges.
“Here’s your luncheon, you worthless fellow,” said the old cook. “It is fresh and hot, and far too good for such as you; keep the green leaves over it till you’re ready to eat, for the flies are many and very bad to-day.”
The slave took the basket. Although ill-favored, his face was not wholly bad, for his father had been a freeman and a hero. His coat was of coarsest cloth, much patched; his trousers were of reindeer skin; his stockings were of blue-dyed wool; his shoes were heavy and serviceable. No beard was yet on his chin or sun-browned cheeks; his eyes were blue with shades of savagery lurking in their depths; his uncombed hair was yellow, long, and frowzy.
With the basket on his arm he opened the farmyard gate and shouted to the cattle. The broad-horned oxen crowded themselves out into the road and walked briskly but sedately down the well-worn pathway towards their accustomed pasture, the mild-eyed milk cows followed, and the calves and yearlings hurried impatiently to the front.
The wife and mistress, she who had been the Maid of Beauty, was sitting in her chamber counting the days that must pass before her husband’s return. She heard the tinkling of the bells and the hoarse discordant mooing of the beasts. She heard the shouts of the slave boy and the trampling of the younger cattle. She rose quickly and hurried to the door, waving her hand to Kullervo and calling to him in shrill, commanding tones:
“Have a care that you do your work well to-day, young man. Drive the milkers to the high meadows where the grass is green and sweet. Drive the oxen and the yearlings to the woodlands; let them browse among the bushes and lie down in shady places. See that you guard them all to keep them safe from wily wolves and lurking bears. Watch them well, and when the day is almost done, bring them home. Woe be to you if you leave one of them behind. Bring them home and drive the milkers into the paddock; then call loudly, and I will come down with the milkmaids to milk them. Do you hear, Kullervo?”
The slave boy growled a surly answer, and went slouching behind the herd, shouting to the laggers and casting stones at the browsing oxen.
He drove the milk cows to the meadow pastures where the grass was tall and green, but the oxen and the younger cattle he allowed to wander as they would in the open fields or the marshy thickets. Then, at length, when all were peacefully feeding, he sat down upon a grassy hummock and looked around him, sad, lonely, vindictive. The autumn sun beamed hot upon his head, and the fresh sea breeze fanned his face and played in his yellow hair. The grasshoppers chirped at his feet and the crows scolded him harshly from the treetops. Kullervo looked and listened, but he saw nothing beautiful, he heard nothing musical. His heart was filled with dismal thoughts, and he loudly bewailed his wretched fate.
“Ah, me! ah, me! Wheresoever I go I am still a miserable slave and hard tasks are set for me to do. While others are happy and free I am forced to trudge unwillingly among briars and thorns, over hills and through marshes, watching the tails of hateful cattle. O Jumala, giver of good! Let the sun shine gently upon me, a wretched slave boy; but make it scorch and blister my master and my master’s household. Turn their boasting into grief and their success into dire misfortune. So hear me, O Jumala, friend of the friendless!”
The noon hour came, the sun began its downward course. In the farmhouse the Smith’s mother, Dame Lokka, was sitting in sweet content. On her right sat Anniki, the maid of the morning, and on her left was Ilmarinen’s wife and mistress whom he had won in the far-off North Land. Joy beamed in every face and pulsed in every heart.
The table was spread and the mid-day meal was served—white bread fresh from the bake-oven, choice butter and yellow cream from the dairy, tid-bits of beef and smoked salmon. How good was everything!
“Praise be to Jumala for all these blessings!” said Dame Lokka, fervently.
“Praise be to Jumala!” echoed both the daughters.
Meanwhile the slave, Kullervo, was still sitting on his lonely hummock, keeping watch over the cattle and nursing his evil thoughts. The crows among the pines cawed loudly; the grasshoppers at his feet chirped mockingly.
THE SLAVE BOY
Then, at length, when all were peacefully feeding, he sat down upon a grassy hummock and looked around him, sad, lonely, vindictive.
“Wake up, sad slave boy! The day is past the noon,” croaked an old crow.
And a thrush in the t
hicket of bushes sang, “O orphan boy, the luncheon hour has come! Take the fine cake from the basket where the old cook so kindly placed it. Eat it. Feast upon it and forget your sorrow.”
Kullervo was hungry, for his breakfast had been light. He picked the oak leaves from the basket and took the round, buttered cake in his hands. It was heavy, and he eyed it closely. He turned it over and examined the under side.
“It looks good, it smells sweet,” he said. “But the handsomest of people are sometimes rotten at heart, and the handsomest of cakes are sometimes unfit to be eaten.”
He took his hunting knife from the sheath that hung at his belt. It was but half a knife, the edge nicked deeply, the point broken off. But its temper was good, for it had been forged by a master smith in the days when men did honest work.
Kullervo cut through the upper crust of the cake, he cut through the wheaten layer at the top; but when the knife struck the stone in the centre it broke short off at the hilt and only the handle remained in his grasp. The slave looked at it, and as the blade fell to the ground he burst out weeping.
“Oh, sorrow upon sorrow!” he moaned. “This knife was my only friend. I had no one to love but this iron, so true, so ready to help. It was once my father’s knife, and well it served him in the chase and in the fight. And now it is broken by this cake of stone which Ilmarinen’s women have given me for food.”
Nordic Hero Tales From the Kalevala Page 15
