Nordic Hero Tales From the Kalevala Page 12

  “O brother, tried and true!” he answered, “I know the thoughts of your heart, I know your great ambition. Let us agree each to woo this maiden honorably as a man and a hero would woo her. Let her freely choose one of us, or let her a second time refuse us both. Do you agree to this, my elder brother?”

  “Truly, I do,” said the Minstrel heartily. “I promise—yes, I swear to you that I will do naught that is dishonorable or unfair. If the maiden shall prefer you, I will not be envious; for your good luck will be my good fortune, and my success will be your triumph.”

  “I thank you, Wainamoinen!” shouted the Smith, waving his hand.

  “I thank you, Ilmarinen!” returned the Minstrel, bowing to his friend.

  Then with speed each resumed his journey, one travelling by sea, the other by land. Swiftly the gray racer flew along the shore; fleetly the boat of magic skimmed over the wrinkled waters. The hills and forests rang with the clattering hoofs of Ilmarinen’s wizard steed. The white waves danced and trembled in the wake of Wainamoinen’s gold-beaked vessel. The cuckoos twittered, the bluebirds sang merrily, and the birchwood runners of the enchanted sledge whizzed over the sand and then glided through the new-fallen snow. The South Wind breathed on the sails of blue and red, and the West Wind whispered joy in the nostrils of the fleeting gray racer.

  “Good luck to my steed, good luck to my sledge, good luck to me!” shouted the hero Smith. “O Jumala, kind protector, helper, guide! Be my safeguard in this journey, lead me rightly on my way!”

  And the Minstrel, standing at the prow of his fairy vessel, shouted words of magic to the winds and waves, while he too prayed for guidance and help. “O Jumala, just and true, think not hard of me if I have gone astray! Pardon me if I have been false to my friend. Give me fair winds and a gentle sea, and guide me safely to my journey’s end. Good luck to me, good luck to my boat, good luck to everybody!”

  Thus the two heroes journeyed onward, the one by land, the other by sea.

  XXI. THE BARKING DOGS

  Springtime had dawned in the Frozen Land. The sun was riding high in the sky, and the air was balmy with the breath of the south. The snow had melted on the meadows, and the ice had floated out of the inlets. The sea was no longer gray and shivering, but pale blue and motionless. The wild geese honked noisily in the marshy lakes and sought their nesting places by the creeks. Swallows twittered under the eaves and cuckoos called to each other among the budding bushes.

  On her couch beside the door Dame Louhi, the Wise Woman of the North, sat reclining. Very ugly she was, toothless and grim, wrinkled with age and altogether unlovely. The Maid of Beauty was busy at her housework, sweeping, spinning, baking, weaving. The doors were open and warm breezes from southern seas breathed through the low-raftered hall, playing with the deerskin curtains and with the maiden’s silken hair.

  Suddenly an uproar was heard, a sound feeble at first but every moment growing louder. It was not an unusual sound, but it was unusually disturbing, unusually persistent and annoying.

  “What is that, my daughter?” inquired Dame Louhi, sitting up and listening.

  “Oh, it is naught but the dogs barking,” answered the maiden. “They are over at the fishermen’s huts by the shore. Perhaps they see some beggar or wild man coming down the path from the forest.”

  The noise increased, it was spreading. It sounded as though a score of watchdogs were barking in concert.

  The Wise Woman was disturbed and growing nervous. “Daughter,” she said, “I never heard such barking. Surely something strange is happening. Go out to the gate, look down the road, and see what is the matter.”

  The Maid of Beauty heeded not, but kept right on with her household duties.

  “Mother,” she said, “I am too busy to bother with barking dogs. The bread must be baked, and this pile of wool must be spun, and from its yarn six new blankets must be woven this very day. I have no time to stand gaping at the gate, listening to the noise of barking curs.”

  The uproar increased. The ancient house-dog, infirm and toothless as his mistress, rose from his place in the ashes; he dragged himself to the door and set up a mournful howling.

  “O my daughter, what indeed can be the matter?” cried the Wise Woman.

  “I know not,” answered the maiden.

  In his hut beside the reindeer paddock the keeper of the herds was sitting. He was old and fat and lazy, and the noise of the dogs awakened him from pleasant reveries.

  “Wife, wife!” he cried. “Do you hear that barking? Go quickly to the door and see what is the matter!”

  But the aged woman kept on with her knitting. “I am too busy to run to the door every time a dog barks,” she said. “I must earn something to feed our children, to clothe them, to keep them neat. I have no time to listen to the prattle of dogs.”

  Still the clamor grew and grew. The black watchdog in the courtyard of Louhi’s dwelling joined his voice to the general uproar. He pulled at his chain and howled most dismally.

  By the smouldering fire in his own small hut the head serving-man was sitting; his eldest son was working beside the door. “My son,” said the older man, “do you hear the black watchdog? Surely some stranger is coming this way. Run out to the road and see what manner of man he is.”

  The youth kept on with his work. “I am too busy to listen to watchdogs,” he said. “My axe is dull and I must grind it. The wood must be brought for the kitchen fire; and who will split it if I go running after dogs? Let old Growler howl; I have no time to bother with dogs.”

  Louder and still louder waxed the tumult. All the puppies, all the house-curs, all the sledgedogs, all the watchdogs were barking, baying, yelping, howling.

  The head serving-man was greatly disturbed, and yet he liked not to rise from his seat, for he was old and his limbs were stiff.

  “In my lifetime I have heard much barking,” he said, “but never such barking as this. Perhaps the dogs have scented a bear escaped from an ice-floe; perhaps they see a band of robbers coming up from the shore. Kuli, my little daughter, listen to me!”

  “What is it, papa?” answered the child, sitting still on the floor.

  “Run out to the turf pile, Kuli,” said her father, “climb up on the very top of it and look around. See what the dogs are barking at, and then run back quickly and tell your tired father.”

  “O papa, I am too busy,” answered Kuli. “I want to play with my dolly; I want to put her to sleep. I have no time to run after dogs.”

  The head serving-man was perplexed, he was uneasy and half-way angry.

  “Everybody is busy to-day,” he said. “Nobody has the time to do anything. Nobody cares for the dogs and nobody cares for me. But I must find out what all the noise is about.”

  He rose from his seat, grumbling because of the pains in his joints. He drew on his boots, he pulled his fur cap over his head. Then he went stamping out of the door and across the broad yard. The black watchdog was still tugging at his chain, still howling dolorously. The old serving-man took notice of his actions.

  The brute first pointed his nose towards the sea, then he looked far away at the meadows and the misty, mysterious hills. The serving-man did likewise. He looked seaward, then landward—but naught did he behold save, on this side, the blue water and the sloping shore and the fishermen’s huts, and, on that side, the brown marsh lands and the long, winding, indistinct roadway that led nowhere and came from everywhere.

  “How now, old Growler?” he said angrily. “Why is all this clamor? Why is all this tumult? Hush your barking, I bid you.”

  But the beast still tugged at his chain, and all the smaller dogs joined him in a chorus of howling. Then the serving-man looked again and with greater care. On the broad face of the sea he discerned a strange speck, white, yellow, and scarlet, gliding swiftly landward, glistening bright on the blue and silent water. On the winding meadow pathway he saw another speck, scarlet, yellow, and blue, moving fleetly towards Pohyola, smoothly gliding like a flying bird.<
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  “Oh, surely the dogs are right!” said the astonished man. “Here is cause enough for barking; plenty of cause for yelping and snarling. One stranger comes by sea, another comes by land, and the poor beasts have scented them both while yet they are far away.”

  A third time he looked this way, then that. He put his half-closed right hand to his eye and looked through it as men sometimes in these later days look through a spy-glass. Now he could see quite clearly; soon he could discern what manner of wayfarers those were that had caused the doggish clamor.

  The speck upon the meadows was a sledge of many colors drawn by a fleet and tireless racer. The speck upon the waters was a fairy ship, its prow all golden, its hull bright scarlet, its sails blue and red.

  “How strange!” said the faithful man. “Be it war or be it peace, I must hasten and warn the Mistress.”

  He found the Wise Woman at her door, gazing sharply at the sky, the sea, the earth, to learn for herself the reason for the unusual uproar. To her he told his story quickly, briefly, adding also a word of warning. The face of the woman grew grayer, grimmer as she listened, and in her eyes was a look of puzzled apprehension.

  She called loudly, shrilly to the Maid of Beauty, now busy with her weaving, busy with the wool and the blankets.

  “Daughter, daughter, do you hear?”

  “Truly, mother, I hear the dogs,” answered the maiden. “Let them bark if it pleases them.”

  “They bark because they have scented some strangers coming. A ship is approaching by sea, and a wonderful sledge is bringing some hero hither by land.”

  “Oh, how fine!” said the maiden.

  “But who can these strangers be? How shall we receive them? Shall we welcome them as friends or flee from them as foes?”

  “I know not,” said the daughter. “I know not why such strangers should come to Pohyola.”

  “Try the rowan branch!” croaked a voice from the dark corner beyond the hearth. It was the voice of old Sakko, the dwarf, the last daughter of the race of earth men. No guest came oftener than she to Dame Louhi’s dwelling, no other was more welcome to the Wise Woman’s table and fireside. “Try the rowan branch,” she repeated. “The rowan branch is the sure omen that never fails. If drops of red sap ooze from it, then look for foes and trouble. If only clear water bubbles, hissing, from its tiny pores, then be sure that friends are coming bringing rich gifts and joyful tidings. Try the rowan branch.”

  “Yes, let us try the rowan branch,” said the Mistress, anxious, uneasy, trembling with alarm.

  Quickly the Maid of Beauty ran to the woodpile beside the door. With much care she chose a stick of rowan, straight, smooth-barked, and full of sap. She carried it to the hearth and laid it on the coals; then all stood round to watch it.

  The brown bark crackled with the heat, it shriveled and began to burn. The smoke curled lightly upward, the coals grew redder, the heat of the fire increased.

  “O thou magic branch of rowan, tell us truly, tell us quickly, who those are who come so swiftly—friends or foes who come so swiftly!” chanted Sakko, the dwarfish wise one.

  “O noble branch of rowan, bring only friends. Let naught but clearest water ooze from thy pores so tiny,” muttered the Mistress of Pohyola.

  “O thou pretty branch of rowan, bring good luck, bring fortune only, bring peace to all who dwell here—bring joy to our home and home land,” softly murmured the Maid of Beauty.

  The smoke grew blacker, it curled round the branch of rowan, the green wood was growing hot amid the heaped-up coals. Then there came a whistling, sizzling sound, and the sap began to trickle slowly from the tiny pores. The dwarf Sakko deftly seized the heated branch and held it aloft that all might see the oozing drops.

  “They are not red!” cried the Mistress, Dame Louhi.

  “They are not clear water!” said the Maid of Beauty.

  “I see only common sap,” said the head serving-man.

  “Nay, nay!” muttered Sakko, the dwarf woman. “They are neither crystal nor crimson, but sweetest honey. And what do the honey-drops tell? They tell us that these strangers are better than friends, that they are suitors and have come hither as wooers.”

  “Look again and tell me whom they will woo,” said Dame Louhi.

  Sakko lifted the branch again and turned it this way and that, carefully examining the sizzling sap. She listened to the shrill little sound that came from it.

  “Three women are in this house,” she said, “and one of them is she whom the strangers seek. Is it the Mistress? Her youth has fled. Is it poor Sakko, the earth woman? Never has she known a lover. Is it the Maid of Beauty, the rainbow maiden? All the world adores her.”

  She twirled the rowan branch once, twice, thrice in the air above her head, and then cast it upon the hearth, scattering the ashes to right and left and sending a cloud of cinders upward through the smoke hole.

  “The strangers will soon be at your door,” she croaked. “Be ready to welcome them.”

  “Truly, my daughter,” said Dame Louhi, “it becomes us to give these heroes joy after their perilous journey.”

  “Yes, mother,” answered the Maid of Beauty.

  XXII. THE OLD MAN’S WOOING

  Arrayed in becoming garments, the Maid of Beauty stood beside her mother. Together they went out from their weather-worn dwelling. They walked across the courtyard to the dry ground beyond, and to the heap of stones beside the seashore. The young grass was upspringing beneath their feet. The sunlight was beaming around them. The swallows were flitting above them. The lonely sea was before them, the lonelier meadows were behind.

  The Mistress looked out over the water, and then she bade her daughter look. Not far from the land they saw the strange boat gliding. Its gilded prow was gleaming in the sunlight; its sails were flapping loosely on the slender mast; and who was the sun-browned hero that stood on the deck guiding the vessel with an oar of copper?

  “I do believe it is that old, old Minstrel from the Land of Heroes,” said the Mistress in tones of surprise. “You surely remember him, my daughter—how he came to us from the sea, how he sat at our fireside, how he ate from our table!”

  “Yes, mother, I remember,” answered the Maid of Beauty. “And he grew homesick, he pined for his own fireside, he longed to return to his kinsfolk and friends, and notwithstanding our kindness he sang not one song during all his stay with us.”

  “Just so,” rejoined the aged one; “and you surely remember the noble reindeer and the swift sledge that I lent him, so that he might return to his home land?”

  “Certainly, mother, there are some things that I can never forget.”

  “Well, my child,” said the mother, “this is surely the same great hero, the famous Wainamoinen, the first of all minstrels. He is rich, and no doubt his ship is filled with treasures. If he has really come to woo you, treat him kindly, listen to his words of honey, and answer ‘Yes’ to every question; for never will you have a nobler suitor.”

  “But, mother, I like him not,” answered the Maid of Beauty.

  Then she turned away from the sea, weary of looking at the approaching vessel. Her eyes wandered to the bleak, brown meadows, and she gazed wistfully towards the pathway which led from the distant hills. There she beheld the other visitor, speeding forward, drawing nearer, and now in plain view from the spot where she was standing.

  Young and proud and strong seemed this landward comer. He was sitting in a sledge of scarlet and driving a steed of rare swiftness. Six cuckoos were sitting on the dashboard, all loudly calling; and beside them were seven bluebirds twittering blithely as birds are wont to twitter in the joyous springtime.

  “See, mother, here comes the other stranger!” said the Maid of Beauty.

  “Nay, nay, he is no stranger,” answered Dame Louhi, speaking hoarsely. “He is the poor young Smith who forged the Sampo for me, and his name is Ilmarinen. He brings no gifts, he has no treasures, for his only wealth is his little smithy. What business has he in Pohyola?”


  “Perhaps he comes to claim his wages that are due him,” modestly answered the dutiful daughter.

  Then with haste the two returned into their dwelling; they closed the door behind them; the mother sat down in her seat beside the fire, and the daughter resumed her weaving.

  “My child,” said the Mistress, “our visitors are close at hand, they will soon be at our door. When they come in and seat themselves beside the hearth-stones, you must come forward and greet them. Bring in one hand a bowl of honey, and in the other a pitcher brimming full of reindeer’s milk. Give these to the one whom you choose to follow. Give them to the rich and mighty Minstrel. He will understand you and will reward you with gold and jewels and fine garments and other costly presents.”

  “But he is old and I like him not,” answered the daughter. “I care nothing for riches nor for a man of too great wisdom. I will give the milk and honey to the younger man, to Ilmarinen, if in truth he has come to woo me. He is poor, but he is handsome and strong. Once before at your bidding I refused to go with him, but now——”

  “Foolish girl and disobedient!” cried the mother, the red blood of anger rushing to her face. “Why will you choose to go with that penniless fellow—to bake his barley-cakes, to wash his grimy clothes, to wipe the sweat from his sooty face, to sweep his kitchen floor, to keep his tumble-down hut in order?”

  “It is my fancy,” quietly answered the Maid of Beauty.

  Meanwhile all of the people of Pohyola, men and women, boys and girls, and even the barking dogs, had run down to the waterside to watch the coming of the little ship. Skilfully, with his oar of copper, the Minstrel guided it straight towards the place of landing. Gently, smoothly, like a mother swan swimming among her cygnets in some sheltered cove, the vessel glided into the quiet inlet. The rope that dangled from the prow was seized by helping hands on shore and thrown over the mooring post. The ship trembled as it was drawn in, it stopped, it rested in deep water close by the shelving bank.

  Without loss of time the Minstrel leaped ashore. He made his way quickly to Dame Louhi’s well-remembered dwelling; he opened the door and entered; he stood beneath the smoky rafters and received the greetings of the grim and toothless Mistress.