1,99 €
Niedrigster Preis in 30 Tagen: 1,99 €
Niedrigster Preis in 30 Tagen: 1,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
In "The Sampo: A Wonder Tale of the Old North," James Baldwin intricately weaves a narrative that merges the mystical elements of Finnish folklore with the deeper themes of identity and belonging. Drawing upon the rich, allegorical tradition of wonder tales, Baldwin employs a lyrical and poetic style, imbuing the tale with emotional resonance and philosophical depth. Set against the backdrop of the Old North, the story delves into the human condition, questioning the nature of fortune and the pursuit of happiness while engaging with the cultural heritage of the Finnish landscape. James Baldwin, an acclaimed American novelist and essayist, is celebrated for his profound insights into race, sexuality, and societal norms. While Baldwin'Äôs enduring works largely center on the African-American experience, his exploration of universal themes resonates throughout his oeuvre, suggesting a deep-rooted curiosity about various cultures and their narratives. His keen understanding of marginalized voices likely influenced his approach to this wonder tale, as he reflects on his own experiences of exile and belonging in the human tapestry. I highly recommend "The Sampo" to both scholars and general readers who appreciate the confluence of folklore and existential inquiry. Baldwin's masterful storytelling invites readers to ponder their own journeys through the lens of myth, offering a timely reflection on the quest for meaning in an often-chaotic world.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
The Sampo: A Wonder Tale of the Old North
Table of Contents
THE SAMPO
CHAPTER I
MISTRESS AND MINSTREL
“You must rise early in the morning,” said Dame Louhi, the Wise Woman of the North. She stood at the door of her chamber and looked back into the low-raftered hall where her daughter was spinning. Her face was wrinkled and grim, her thin lips were puckered over her toothless mouth, her gray-green eyes sparkled beneath her shaggy eyebrows.
She paused and listened. No answer came from her busy daughter. The day was almost ended. Already the swallows were asleep under the eaves, the reindeer were lying down in their paddock, all the underlings of Dame Louhi’s household had retired to rest. So near was her dwelling to the sea that she could hear the waves lapping on the beach and the ice-floes crunching and grinding and pounding against the shore. But other sounds there were none. [2]
The Mistress, Dame Louhi, grew impatient. She stamped her foot angrily, and loudly repeated her command: “You must rise early in the morning, my daughter.”
This time the maiden heard her. She ceased twirling her spindle, and sweetly answered, “Yes, mother, for there is a great deal to be done to-morrow.”
The Mistress was satisfied; and as she turned to enter her chamber you should have seen how unlike the mother was the fair daughter whom men called the Maid of Beauty. Nature had given to the maiden all the loveliness that had been denied to the dame. And she was not only surpassingly beautiful, but she was wise and skilful and very industrious. The housekeeping in the roomy dwelling beside the sea would have been shabbily attended to had it not been for her daily care; and the sun would have shone but seldom in the Frozen Land1 had not the Maid of Beauty encouraged it with her smiles.
So, on the morrow, long before any one else had risen, she was up and bustling hither and thither, attending to this thing and that and [3]putting the house in order. She went out to the sheepfold and sheared six fat lambs. She spun their six white fleeces into snowy yarn, and of the yarn she wove enough cloth for six warm garments.
Then she went into the kitchen and rekindled the fire upon the hearth. She swept the floor and dusted the long benches. She scrubbed the birchwood tables till they were as white and glistening as the frost-covered meadows. She made the rooms neat and tidy and set the breakfast things to cooking. By this time the day was dawning; the sky in the east was becoming flecked with yellow and red; the cock was crowing, wild ducks were quacking by the shore, sparrows were chirping under the eaves.
The maiden paused and listened—listened long and intently. She heard the joyful sounds of the morning; she heard the cold waves lapping and splashing upon the shore. She looked out of the door and saw the first rays of the sun dancing and glancing upon the uneasy surface of the sea. Away from the shore, she saw the broad meadows lying lonely and still under the lonely sky and beyond them the dark line [4]which marked the beginning of the forest and the rugged land of mountains.
Suddenly, as she looked and listened, she heard a wailing which was not the wailing of the sea. She held her breath and listened again. She heard a cry which was not the cry of a sea-bird.
“Oh, mother,” she called, “what is that strange sound? The wild geese never call so hoarsely; the waves never make such moaning. Listen, mother! What can it be?”
Wise old Louhi, grim and toothless, rose quickly and hastened to the door, chattering and mumbling and grumbling. She paused and listened, but the sound seemed very faint. She ran down to the landing-place before the house, and there she listened again. Soon the sound came to her ears, louder and more distinct, and yet hard to make out. Once, twice, thrice she heard the call; and then she knew what it meant.
“It is a man’s voice,” she said. “Some hero has been shipwrecked near our shore. He is in distress; he calls for help.”
She leaped nimbly into her boat. She pushed it from the shore and rowed with speed out of the little inlet and around the rocky point which jutted far into the sea. The cries grew [5]louder, the calls were more frequent as she urged her boat forward over the sullen, icy-cold waves.
Soon she saw the shipwrecked man. He was not fighting the waves as she had supposed, but was clinging to the branches of a tree that had been uprooted and carried to sea. Ah, the sad plight of the poor man! He seemed wounded and helpless; his face was gaunt and pale; his eyes were filled with sadness and salt-water; he was shivering with cold and deep despair.
Shouting words of cheer, the Mistress hurried to him. She lifted him from the place of danger and seated him in her boat. Then with steady arms and mighty strokes she rowed homeward, nor did she pause until the boat’s keel grated on the beach before her door.
She carried the stranger into the house; she placed him by the warm fire; she bathed his limbs, his face, his head in tepid water and wrapped him up in soft skins of the reindeer. For three long days—yes, for four summer days—she tended him as though he were her son, and no questions did she ask. Then, to her great joy, he sat up and soon grew well and strong.
“Now, friend and fellow of the sea,” said the [6]gray woman, “tell me your name. Tell me why and how you have come to our lovely land and to Pohyola, the sweetest of homes.”
The stranger, who also was old and gray, answered, “My name is Wainamoinen, and all the world knows me; for I am the first of minstrels, the prince of wizards, the man whom other men delight to honor. Luckless was the hour when I embarked on a ship to go fishing; still more luckless was it when a storm overturned the vessel. Nine days did the sea toss me—yes, ten days did the waves buffet me—ere I was cast upon these shores.”
“I welcome you, Wainamoinen!” cried the grim Mistress. “Welcome, welcome to this northern land! Your name is well known to me, and long have I honored it. Men call you the sweet singer of Hero Land, and they say that no other songs cheer the dreary hours of winter as yours do. You shall stay here in Pohyola and sing to me and my people. My house shall be your home and this delightful land shall be your country.”
The gray-bearded Minstrel shook his head and sighed. He looked out and saw the lonely meadows and the snowy mountains and the [7]cold gray sea. Then his eyes filled with tears and he wept.
“O singer of Hero Land, why are you so sad?” asked the woman. “Have I not been kind to you? Why, then, do you weep and gaze towards the sea?”
“I weep for my own dear country; I am sick for my home,” answered the Minstrel. “I do not wish to remain in this Frozen Land. I am lonely and heart-broken.”
“Cheer up, cheer up!” said Dame Louhi, trying to look pleasant. “Beautiful Pohyola shall be your country. This comfortable house shall be your home. My fireside shall be your fireside, and my friends shall be your friends.”
But the Minstrel still wept.
“Stay here and be our honored guest,” continued the Mistress. “You shall sleep in the warmest corner, you shall sit at the head of our table. Good food we will give you—choice bacon, fresh salmon from the sea, white cakes of barley, hot from the oven. Stay with us and cheer us with your sweet songs.”
“Nay, nay!” moaned the sad Minstrel. “How can I sing in a strange land? My own country is the fairest; my own home is the dearest; my [8]own table is the sweetest. All that I can ever do in this Frozen Land is to sigh and weep; and I shall sigh and weep till my eyes are out and my voice is gone forever.”
“You are foolish,” then said the unlovely Mistress. “Pohyola is the fairest place in all the world, and you must learn to love it.”
The Minstrel still shook his head and sighed. All his thoughts were with his home land.
The summer passed swiftly, but to Wainamoinen the days were full of loneliness. He wandered over the silent meadows, he went out with the fishermen to catch salmon in the sea, he visited one place and another in the vast Frozen Land, vainly trying to forget his grief. And not once did he open his lips in song, for there was no music in his heart; and how shall a minstrel sing if his heart is empty?
At length Dame Louhi relented.
“How much will you give me if I send you back to your own country?” she asked. “Come, let us make a bargain.”
“How much will I give?” answered he. “I have nothing here that is my own, but I promise to send you many rich treasures. I will send you gold, I will send you silver.” [9]
“But you claim to be a mighty wizard,” said Dame Louhi. “Show us some of your work in magic.”
“Never was there a greater magician than I,” returned the Minstrel boastfully. “You have but to name some wonderful act and forthwith I will perform it. But first, I must have your promise to send me home. My heart is so full of the thought.”
“Very well, then,” answered the gray woman. “If you will make the magic Sampo for me, I promise to send you home at once. It must be the real, the wonderful Sampo; I will have nothing else.”
“The Sampo! What is that?”
“Do you ask me what is the Sampo? Minstrels from the earliest times have sung of its power, and all the wizards of the North have tried their spells, hoping to make something equally precious and potent. And do you, a minstrel and a wizard, ask what it is?”
The Minstrel was cunning, and he answered: “In my own country we call it by another name. If you will describe it I will tell you what that name is and also some strange things which no other minstrel knows.” [10]
The Mistress was off her guard. “The Sampo,” she said, “is the mill of fortune which wise men, since the beginning of things, have sought to invent. It is the magic mill which grinds out all sorts of treasures and gives wealth and power to its possessor. One has only to whisper his wishes to it and they will all come true.”2
“Ah!” answered the Minstrel. “In our country we call it the Stone of the Wise Men.”
“That is a good name. And now, if I promise to send you safe home, will you try your magic power and forge me such a mill? Have you the skill to fit it with wheels and levers? Can you hammer into shape a becoming lid for it—a lid of rainbow colors?”
Wainamoinen sat silent for a long time, shaking his head and thinking. Then he said:
“It is a thing so strange and so difficult that I must have time to consider my strength. In three days you shall have my answer.”
He went out alone, and for many tedious hours he walked up and down by the seashore pondering upon the subject. He repeated all the magic runes that he remembered, he recited [11]spells to the winds and the waves and the gray-blue sky, he recalled all the words of power that he had learned from the sages of old. Then, at length, on the third day, he went back to the house where Dame Louhi was still sitting by her fireside.
“I cannot make the Sampo for you,” he said. “My magic is not strong enough; my skill is not of the kind that forges mills of fortune. But I have a friend who can do wonderful things. It was he who shaped the sky that bends above our country; and, surely, to forge the Sampo is no more difficult than that.”
“Ah, that is the man whom I am looking for,” cried the woman eagerly. “What is his name? Will you send him to me?”
“His name is Ilmarinen, and he is dear to me as a brother,” answered the Minstrel. “He is the prince of all smiths, and there is nothing in magic or in smithing that he cannot do. If you will permit me to return to my dear home land, to the Land of Heroes, I will send him to you without delay.”
“But suppose he doesn’t wish to come?”
“Then I will send him against his will. My magic is strong enough to command him.” [12]
“Can I trust you? Do you promise?”
“You have my word, and I will perform,” answered the Minstrel. “Never yet have I failed to do that which I have agreed to do.”
“You shall go home, then, quickly,” said the gray woman. “You may promise the skilful smith a rare reward if he will forge the Sampo for me. I will even give him, if he so desire, my daughter for his wife—this I promise.”
Forthwith she hurried to the paddock. She chose the fleetest reindeer and harnessed it to her birchwood sledge. She brought warm furs for the Minstrel to wrap around him. She put the whip and the long reins in his hands.
“Now fare you well, and speed you to your home land!” she said. “Drive swiftly while the sun shines, but remember to keep your eyes upon your pathway, and do not look upward. If you should gaze towards the mountain top or the sky, sad misfortune will befall you. Fare you well, first of minstrels! Send me the wizard, the prince of smiths, and fail not, lest my curses follow you and blight your life.”
The Minstrel cracked his whip joyfully, the reindeer sprang forward, the journey homeward was begun. Merrily did the birchwood runners [13]whistle as they glided over the half-frozen earth. With a glad heart did Wainamoinen speed across the brown meadows and into the silent forest; his face beamed like the sunlight, his eyes glowed like twin stars, and a song was ready to burst from his lips. [14]
1 See Note B, at the end of this volume.↑
2 See Note C, at the end of this volume.↑
CHAPTER II
THE MAID OF BEAUTY
Swiftly as a shooting star did the reindeer rush through the forest ways. In his sledge, the Minstrel sat upright and deftly handled the whip and the reins. His eyes were upon the road before him, and all his thoughts were about his home land and his own pleasant fireside so far, far away.
Now he was among the snowy mountains; and now his sledge was skimming along untravelled paths in the deep and shadowy valleys. Suddenly his thoughts were disturbed by a strange sound in the air above him. Was it the song of a bird? Was it the sighing of the wind? Was it the humming of wild bees? Or was it the sound of some distant waterfall?
He listened. Could it be the buzzing of a weaver’s shuttle shooting through some loom on the craggy heights above him? It certainly sounded so; and yet it was so loud, so musical. Forgotten, then, was Dame Louhi’s latest caution. [15]Quickly the Minstrel checked his reindeer steed; quickly, and in wonder, he lifted his eyes and looked aloft. High in the sky he saw a rainbow, and on it sat the Maid of Beauty, busily weaving with a golden shuttle. Swiftly, to and fro, she drove the shuttle, and the fabric which she wove was wondrously fine. Threads of silver, threads of gold, threads of every brilliant color were mingled in that web of magic. But fairer than that fairy fabric, fairer than all else in that radiant vision was the maiden’s radiant face.
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.
“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 [16]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 MAGICIAN AND THE MAID OF BEAUTY
High in the sky he saw a rainbow, and on it the Maid of Beauty.
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.”
[17]
“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. [18]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 [19]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. [20]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. [21]
CHAPTER 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!” [22]
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 unnamable 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 [23]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. [24]
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 flood. 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 [25]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 [26]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 [27]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 [28]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 lightning 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 [29]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 [30]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. But 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 [31]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. [32]
CHAPTER IV
THE WICKED HORNET
This is the tale1 which Wainamoinen, old and truthful, told to the listening Graybeard while the fire blazed and crackled on the hearth between them. It is a tale which he himself had learned from the minstrels of a former age.
The first of all mothers was Air, and she had three daughters. Of these three maidens there is much to be said. They were as lovely as the rainbow after a storm; they were as fair as the full moon shining above the mountains. They walked with noiseless feet among the clouds and showered gifts upon the earth. They sent the refreshing rain, the silent dew, and the nipping frost, each in its season. They gave life to the fields, and strength to the mountains, and grandeur to the sea. And because of their bounty the earth was glad and the stars twinkled for joy. [33]
“What more can we do to make the land fit for men to dwell in?” asked the eldest of the sisters.
And the youngest said, “Let us send down iron—iron of which tools may be made, iron of which sharp weapons may be shaped. For without tools man will not be able to plough, to reap, or to build; and without weapons he cannot defend himself against the savage beasts of the forest.”
So, when the sun was about going down, the sisters went forth in trailing robes of purple and crimson and gold; and in their hands they bore mighty vessels of foaming milk. The eldest sprinkled red milk in the brooks and marshes and along the banks of the rivers. The middle one scattered white milk on the wooded hills and the stony mountains. The youngest showered blue milk in the valleys and by the gray seashore. And on the morrow, where the red milk had been sprinkled, red and brittle ore of iron flecked the ground; where the white milk had been scattered, powdery ore of a yellow hue abounded; and where the blue milk had been showered, flaky masses of crude iron, tough and dark, lay hidden beneath the soil. [34]
Thus came Iron into the world—Iron, the youngest of three brothers. Next older than he was Fire, a raging, dangerous fellow when free, but loving and faithful when held in bonds. Older still was Water, terrible in strength but, when not aroused, as gentle as a mother’s caress.
Years upon years went by, and at length one day Iron set out to visit his brothers. He found Water at home in the deep sea, and by him he was welcomed kindly enough. But when he climbed a mountain to see his second brother he had quite another reception. Fire was in a raging mood. The terrible fellow leaped and roared, and stretched out his long red fingers as though he would devour his visitor.
Iron was so terrified that he turned and fled down the steep slopes, never stopping nor pausing to look behind. He ran on, hiding in clefts and chasms, creeping under rocks, and lurking in the dry beds of mountain torrents. When, by and by, he reached the level plain, he glanced backward. The hills and the whole mountain top were aflame.
Wild with terror, he hurried on, hiding himself in the woods and under the roots of trees, [35]and resting at last in reedy marshes where swans build their nests and wild geese rear their young.
For ages and ages—nobody knows how many—Iron lay hidden in bogs and forests and lonely caverns. Fear of his raging brother made him lurk in lonely places, made him cover up his face. Lazy bears went ambling through the rocky places; wolves rushed madly over the oozy marshlands; and timid deer ran and leaped among the trees. In time the hiding-places of Iron were uncovered. Where the paws of bears had plodded often, where the feet of wolves had pattered, where the sharp hoofs of deer had trodden, there the timid metal, red, gray, yellow, black, peeped shyly out.
At length, into that same land there came a skilful Smith. He carried a hammer of stone in one hand and tongs of bronze in the other; and a song of peace was upon his lips. On a green hillock, where the south wind blew, he built him a smithy, and in it he placed the tools of his craft. His anvil was a block of gray granite; his forge was carefully builded of sand and clay; his bellows was made of the skins of mountain goats sewn together.
The Smith heaped live coals in his forge and blew with his bellows until the flames leaped [36]up, roaring and sparkling, and the smoke rose in dense clouds over the roof of the smithy. “This forge will do its work well,” he said. Then he checked the bellows and smothered the flames and raked ashes upon the fire until the red coals slumbered unseen at the mouth of the forge.
Out into the forest the Smith wandered. Closely he scanned the hillsides and the boggy thickets and the paths among the trees. And there, where the bears had trailed and the wolves had rushed and the deer had left their footprints, he found ruddy Iron, dusky Iron, yellow ore of Iron peeping, trembling, hiding. The heart of the Smith was glad. His eyes danced merrily, and he sang a song of magic to the timid metal:
“Iron, Iron, hearken while I call you!
Let no false and foolish fears appall you,
Come from out the crevices that hide you,
Leave the worthless stones that are beside you,
Leave the earth that lies around, above you,
And come with me, for I do dearly love you.”
Iron moved not, but timidly answered, “I dare not leave my hiding-places; for Fire, my brother, waits to devour me. He is strong and fierce. He has no pity.” [37]
The Smith shook his head and made reply, still singing:
