He picked up the broken blade and tried to fit it in the handle. It was vain; both blade and handle were useless. With a cry of despair he flung them far from him; with a cry of wrath he threw the stone-filled cake still farther, and it fell with a thud among the bushes. Then up flew a pair of ravens, one lighting upon a blasted pine and one taking shelter in a grove of oaks.
“Caw! caw!” cried the one in the pine. “What can ail the wretched slave boy?”
“He is angry,” answered the other. “His mistress has treated him badly. She has given him a stone for bread.”
“It is thus that the rich feed the poor,” said the one in the pine. “But what will the slave do about it?”
“If he is wise he will pay them well for their cruel jest,” cawed the one in the oak. “He will seek revenge, he will have it. Caw! caw! caw!”
Kullervo leaped up and stood upon the hummock. He stretched out his arms and shook his clenched fists in the face of the sky.
“Hear me, Jumala!” he cried. “O Jumala, friend of the friendless, help me. I will have revenge. I will pay those women well for the sorrow they have made me feel. The slave will whip the master, and the master shall serve the slave.”
All the savagery that had been lurking in his blue eyes burst forth, as lightning bursts from the drifting clouds. He ran to the woody thicket and broke off a long branch of hemlock to serve him as a whip. Slashing it this way and that, he rushed hither and thither collecting his herd. With great ado he drove the lazy milkers far into the savage woods. He gathered the yearlings together and, after much shouting and cursing, chased them into the tangled thickets where the wild beasts had their lairs.
Out of the shady places wolves leaped up, howling, snarling, snapping their teeth. The bears were roused from their lurking holes and came forth growling, their tongues lolling out. The gentle milk cows, the timid yearlings, even the stolid oxen, were overcome with fear. They ran together in groups, trembling and helpless. Instantly the wild beasts leaped upon them with bared claws and gnashing teeth. If any escaped the wolves, they were seized by the bears; if any fled from the bears, they were devoured by the wolves. The whole herd perished.
From a safe seat in the crotch of a pine the slave boy looked on and watched the slaughter; and he laughed a wild, discordant, triumphant laugh. Then, clapping his hands together and knocking his knees against the trunk of the tree, he began to sing. He sang a wild, strange song of enchantment—a song he had learned from a witch woman in the land of mists and shadows. And as he sang, behold, a wonderful thing occurred: all the wolves so lately feasting were changed into sleek, fat yearlings, and all the bears so lately gorging themselves became fine milk cows with mild, soft eyes and pendent udders.
The slave boy descended from the tree, still singing, still shouting, still working the magic spell. The beasts with one accord looked up to him as their master. One after another, they marched slowly and orderly out of the marshes and out of the woods, the false milk cows going foremost calmly chewing their cuds, and the false yearlings gambolling behind. The sun was now well down towards the western hills, and the evening milking time was nigh at hand.
Homeward, over the hills and along the well-known pathways, the slave boy drove his herd. With noiseless steps he ran among the beasts, breathing words of magic, words of cunning in their ears.
“Spare not the mistress when she comes out to milk you,” he whispered to one.
“Seize the maidens when they come with pails to milk you,” he said to others.
“Seek the old cook in the kitchen and remind her of her cake,” he muttered to still another.
“Be bold, be fierce, be very hungry,” he counselled them all.
The sun was still above the hills when he drove the herd into the farmyard. He put the milkers inside the paddock, the yearlings following after. Then he closed the gate without locking it and climbed up on the fence. From his belt he unloosed his herdsman’s whistle, a whistle carved from an ox’s horn; he put it to his lips and blew it loudly, shrilly. It was the signal by which the mistress and her milkmaids would know that the cows had been brought home and were ready for the milking.
Five times—yes, six—Kullervo blew a long, piercing blast which might have been heard half-way across the sea. Then, as the last echoes died, he leaped nimbly to the ground and ran out of the farmyard. Half crouching, he slunk away behind hedges and bushes until his ungainly form was lost to sight among the evening shadows. Never more would his feet cross the threshold of Ilmarinen’s dwelling.
XXIX. A DREADFUL VENGEANCE
Beside the door of Ilmarinen’s dwelling the women of the household were assembled. Dame Lokka, best and busiest of matrons, was planning the evening meal. Sister Anniki, maid of the morning, was assorting the week’s washing and toying with the ribbons in her hair. And she who had been the Maid of Beauty—she who was now the wife and helpmate of the master Smith—was busy at the churn. Suddenly the sound of the slave boy’s whistle—the herdsman’s whistle—aroused and startled them. The sound filled the air with its shrill but welcome music, and was echoed sharply from the hills and the forest beyond. Again it was heard, and again and again, each time more distinct, more persistent, less musical.
“Praise Jumala!” cried the wife and helpmate. “There is the herdsman’s horn. The cows are at home and it is milking time.”
“The slave boy has tended the cows well, I hope,” said Dame Lokka. “If he has not lost any of them he shall have a good supper to-night.”
“But why does he blow so loudly?” said Anniki, holding her head. “The sound is deafening. My ears are surely split and my head will burst from the unearthly noise.”
“Never mind, sister,” said the wife and helpmate, gently, soothingly. “That was the last blast and we shall not hear another. Does your head ache? You shall have the first cup of milk that is taken from Brown Bossy to-night. I myself will milk her, and I will give it to you, warm and frothing and fit for a queen. Surely that will heal your ear-drums, surely that will ease your throbbing head.”
Then she called cheerily to her milkmaids: “Come, girls, the cows are in the paddock and it is milking time! Fetch the new pails and fetch also my milking stool. Let us get at our task before the daylight fades.”
The milkmaids came—three young serving-girls, rosy-faced, red-lipped, and ruddy with health. Methinks I see them even now, tripping lightly from the doorway, each with a sweet-smelling cedar-wood pail, and the foremost with a three-legged stool for the mistress.
Along the garden walk, between rows of blue and yellow flowers, they pass joyously. In their blue gowns and white aprons, their long braided hair falling far down their backs—how handsome they are! The wife and helpmate goes before, queenly as when men called her the Maid of Beauty. Anniki, the sister, comes after, thirsty and impatient for the cup of fresh and frothing milk. They walk across the farmyard; they open the great gate into the paddock; they enter and look around them.
“Ha! how sleek the milkers are to-night!” says the wife and helpmate. “Their hides shine as though they had been rubbed down with lynx-skin brushes and smoothed with lamb’s wool dipped in oil.”
“And how full they are!” says Anniki, the sister. “They have eaten so much they can hardly breathe. Surely the slave boy knows where to find the best pastures for the herd.”
“Yes, and see how large their udders are!” says one of the milkmaids. “Methinks our pails are too small to contain such quantities of milk. The whole milk-house will be flooded.”
“But look!” suddenly cries the second milkmaid. “What ails the yearlings? They stare at us so and their eyes glow like balls of fire.”
“Oh, I am afraid! I am afraid!” whispers the third milkmaid, shrinking back into the shadows.
The brave mistress laughs at her fears. “It is only the light of the setting sun shining in their eyes,” she says. “Surely no harm can come from these gentle creatures.”
But sister Anniki shivers with col
d and draws nearer, her cheeks pale and her limbs trembling.
“Bring hither my stool,” says the wife and helpmate, “and give me the new pail of polished cedar. Here is Brown Bossy, patiently waiting to give a cup of milk to Anniki. I will milk her first, and do each of you girls choose a cow. The yearlings will not disturb you.”
She places her stool by the side of the great brown beast; she takes the new milk-pail in her hands; she sits down; she bends forward to begin the milking.
Suddenly a great shout, a whoop, a scream is heard far down the road. It is not the shouting of a lone traveller; it is not the whooping of a home-coming ploughboy; it is not the scream- ing of a frightened woman. The milkmaids hear it and are overcome with terror. Sister Anniki turns to flee through the open gateway.
But the wife and mistress stamps her foot with anger. “How silly!” she cries. “It is only the cry of an owl or the call of a lone wolf in the darkening woods. Get to your milking!”
Her own hand trembles as she reaches for the teat. Quickly the dreadful sound is repeated, deafening the ears, freezing the blood of both mistress and maidens. It is the savage whoop of the slave Kullervo, bidding the beasts perform the dreadful business which he alone has planned. Instantly the broad-horned, mild-eyed creature which has played the part of Brown Bossy becomes a huge bear, grim and terrible; instantly all the milkers are turned to growling beasts; instantly the bright-eyed yearlings resume their proper forms and become fierce wolves snapping and snarling and eager for blood. Oh, the savage uproar! Oh, the terror, brief but indescribable!
The milkmaids with their white aprons and braided hair vanish like snow-flakes in a turbulent flood of waters. The wife and helpmate, she who erstwhile was the Maid of Beauty, is swept away in the storm, is swallowed up, and naught but a bloodstained lock of hair remains to tell of her fate. And Anniki, maid of the morning, flees shrieking through the gateway, is seized by cruel jaws, is devoured—no magic skill of hers availing to avert her doom.
Ah, me! that it should be my task to tell of this strange tragedy so brief but terrible! No minstrel’s song can depict that scene so fraught with woe, so horrible to contemplate.
The maddened, hungry wolves ran out of the paddock, out of the farmyard; the hideous bears rushed after them. They ran hither and thither devouring every living thing. Like a destroying flood they invaded the farmhouse, breaking down the doors, overturning the tables and benches, filling every room with their horrid presence. In the kitchen they found the old cook, the wench who had caused this unheard-of disaster. She was praying to Jumala, but Jumala did not save her. In her own chamber Dame Lokka, the best loved of matrons, fell before the pitiless tide. Not one of the household escaped the jaws of the furious beasts. Women and men, children, birds and fowls, dogs and horses, all perished. Even the gardens and the fields were overrun and trampled into worthlessness. The once prosperous home of Ilmarinen became in a single night an uninhabited waste.
Ah! if only the master, Ilmarinen, had been there! But what could even he have done in that storm so fierce, so irresistible, so overwhelming?
XXX. THE GOLDEN MAIDEN
Far away in northern inlets Ilmarinen and his friend the Minstrel were catching salmon for the winter’s store. The days were growing shorter and the nights were getting cold. Ice was beginning to form in the sheltered creeks and coves and frost lay white on the shaded slopes of the hills.
Fishes were scarce and shy and the fishermen were disheartened. For five days—yes, for six toilsome days—they had sailed hither and thither, casting first on the landward side and then on the seaward, and still the boat’s hold was far from being filled.
“I wish I were at home,” sighed the master Smith.
“There is no place so sweet as one’s own fireside,” responded the Minstrel.
“I long to see the faces of those whom I love,” said the Smith. “I am impatient to hear their voices.”
“Sweeter than the chirping of song-birds—yes, sweeter than the warbling of meadow larks—is the merry prattling of one’s own home folk,” returned the Minstrel.
They drew in the net. Not a salmon did it contain. Naught but seaweed did they get.
“Oh, I am sick of this business,” complained Ilmarinen. “I am sick of fishing, sick of sailing on these barren waters, sick of life itself.”
“Take heart, brother, take heart,” answered the Minstrel cheerily. “To-morrow we shall have better luck; we shall make a great catch, and soon we shall sail back to Wainola with a full cargo and great plenty of salmon.”
But on the morrow their bad luck continued. Their net was broken, they lost their best whalebone hook, their boat was grounded in the shallows, and half the day was wasted.
Suddenly from the shore they heard some ravens calling among the storm-beaten pines. They listened to the voices of the ill-omened birds.
“See those fishermen,” said one. “See how they toil in these empty waters.”
“Caw! caw! caw!” answered its mate. “They are foolish. They know not what is going on at home.”
“If they were wiser they would spread sail and hasten back to Wainola,” croaked a third.
“Hasten back to Wainola!” echoed the cold, gray cliffs and the ragged rocks on the shore.
“Back to Wainola!” came a voice from the waveless waters.
“To Wainola!” shouted Ilmarinen, as he seized the ropes and hurriedly hoisted the sail.
“Wainola! Wainola!” sang the ancient Minstrel as he wielded the long rudder and deftly turned the vessel before the wind.
All night, all day, the willing little ship speeded southward, cutting through the waves with lightning swiftness, throwing the foam to the right and the left, leaving a track of boiling waters behind it. And the word that was oftenest on the lips of Smith and Minstrel was “Home! home! home!”
Three days they sailed, and then—ah, then! Who shall depict that home-coming? Who shall describe the dismay, the grief, the heart-breaking of the hero, Ilmarinen?
As the boat neared the shore he shouted a great sky-shaking shout as was his custom when arriving home from a long voyage. But no answering cry of welcome came to his ears. He saw no faces of loved ones waiting at the landing-place to greet him. Quickly, he leaped ashore. He paused not a moment, but hastened along the silent pathways towards the grove that sheltered his roomy farmhouse. But ere he reached it his eyes detected many a sign of the fearful scenes that had been enacted there. The hedges had been torn down, the flower-beds had been trampled and destroyed, the bordering fields were laid waste. The farmhouse itself had been ransacked from kitchen to attic chamber, and not one article of ornament or use had been left untouched or unbroken.
Frantically the hero ran from one spot to another loudly calling to his mother, to his sister, the maid of the morning, to his wife, the best beloved, the beautiful. But no voice answered him save the echoes of his own words. The floor of the farmhouse was reddened with blood; on every side were the marks of cruel teeth, the imprint of sharp and pitiless claws. In the farmyard, he found the milking stool and the pails, all battered and scarred and broken; and there, too, he found a long lock of blood-covered hair which he knew too well had once belonged to the Maid of Beauty, the mistress of his household and his life. Then despair took hold of him and hope was dead. He looked no farther, but sat down upon the ground and gave expression to his overwhelming grief.
Thus, all day and for many days, Ilmarinen mourned and wept. Through sleepless nights he bewailed his great misfortune, and through all the hated mornings he lamented the loss of his wife, his mother, his sister, his loved household. In his smithy the fire no longer burned, the anvil no longer echoed his song. His hammer was idle and his forge was cold. The beauty of life had departed and he longed to die—to meet the shades of his loved ones in the land of Tuonela.
For two, four—yes, six—long and dreary months he mourned, and his strength waned and he grew weak from sorrow. He ate little, slept little, talked not at all,
mingled never with his friends and neighbors. Often, in the still hours of midnight, he fancied that he heard the voice of his dear one calling him by name. Often in fitful dreams he reached his hand out in the darkness thinking to touch hers, but grasping nothing, seizing only empty air.
At length, in his madness, he said to himself: “With gold and magic and smithing skill I will shape a body like hers—beautiful beyond compare—and then perhaps she will return from Tuonela and dwell therein as she did in her former body of flesh and blood.”
And so, from the rocks by the seaside he gathered flakes of gold, scales of gold, nuggets of gold, until he had filled a basket almost as large as himself. Then from the forest he cut and brought together many logs of willow and white maple and mountain ash, and of these he made charcoal for his smithy. With much care he prepared his furnace, and in the midst of it he set a magic caldron, large and round and deep. He heaped the wood around it, he threw on coal, he kindled the fire; and all the while he sang runes and songs of wizardry and power which no lesser man would have dared to recite.
Then he called loudly to his slaves and working men: “Now, my faithful ones, start the bellows to blowing. Make it roar like a storm at sea, like a whirlwind in a mountain valley. Blow, blow, and cease not until I command you.”
The men obeyed. With their bare hands they laid hold of the long lever, they put their naked shoulders against it and worked steadily with might and main. And Ilmarinen stood by his magic caldron, throwing into it great handfuls of gold, smaller handfuls of silver, cakes of fine sugar from the red mountain-maple, honey and honeycomb, daisies, buttercups, wild flowers of every hue, and a hundred strange and potent articles the names of which I have not the courage to pronounce.
For a brief hour the workmen toiled and paused not. Then one said, “I am tired,” and slunk away in the darkness; and the second said, “I am faint with the heat,” and let his hands fall from the bellows; and the third said, “The work is too hard for one man alone to perform,” and he, too, abandoned his post. The bellows ceased blowing, the fire was fast dying down.
Nordic Hero Tales From the Kalevala Page 16
