 Rune 47 of the Kalevala. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lundruth, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 47. Low his steel sun, moon and fire. Vayna Menon, ancient minstrel, touched again his magic hamstrings, sang in miracles of concord, filled the north with joy and gladness. Melodies arose to heaven, song arose to Luna's chambers, echoed through the sun's bright windows, and the moon has left her station. Drops and settles in the birch tree, and the sun comes from his castle, settles in the fir tree branches. Comes to share the common pleasure, comes to listen to the singing, to the harp of Vayna Menon. Low he hostess of Pohjola, Northland's old and toothless wizard, makes the sun and moon her captives. In her arms she takes fair Luna, from her cradle in the birch tree, holds the sun down from his station, from the fir tree's bending branches, carries them to upper Northland, to the docks on Sarjola. Hides the moon no more to glimmer in a rock of many colors, hides the sun to shine no longer in the iron-bended mountain. There upon these words she utters, Moon of gold and sun of silver, hide your faces in the caverns of Pohjola's dismal mountain. Shine no more to gladden Northland, till I come to give ye freedom, drawn by courses nine in number, sable courses of one mother. When the golden moon had vanished, and the silver sun had hidden, in the iron-bended caverns, low he stole the fire from Northland, from the regions of Vayna-la, left the mansions cold and cheerless, and the caverns full of darkness. Night was king and rained unbroken, darkness ruled in Ilmarine, darkness in the home of Ukko. Hard to live without the moonlight, hard is still without the sunshine. Ukko's life is dark and dismal, when the sun and moon desert him. Ukko, first of all creators, lived in wonder at the darkness. Long reflected, well-considered, why this miracle in heaven, what this accident in nature, to the moon upon her journey. Why the sun no more is shining, why has disappeared the moonlight? One great Ukko walked the heavens to the border of the cloudlets, in his purple-colored vestments, in his silver-tinsled sandals, seeking for the golden moonlight, looking for the silver sunshine. Lightning Ukko struck in darkness, from the edges of his fire-sword, shot the flames in all directions, from his blade of golden color, into heaven's upper spaces, into ether-starry pastures. When a little fire had kindled Ukko hidden in the cloud-space, in a box of gold and silver, in a case adorned with silver, gave it to the ether-maidens, called a virgin-dent rocket, that it might become a new moon, that a second sun might follow. On the long cloud rocked the virgin, on the blue edge of the ether, rocked the fire of the creator in her copper-colored cradle, with her ribbon-silver studded. Lowly bent the bends of silver, loud the golden cradle echoes, and the clouds of northland thunder, low descends the dome of heaven, at the rocking of the lightning, rocking of the fire of Ukko. Thus the flame was gently cradled by the virgin of the ether. Long the fair and fateful maiden, stroked the fire-child with her fingers, tended it with care and pleasure, till, in an unguarded moment, it escaped the ether virgin, slipped the hands of her that nursed it. Quick the heavens are burst asunder, quick the vault of Ukko opens, downward drops the wayward fire-child, downward quick the red-ball rushes, shoots across the arc of heaven, hisses through the startle cloudlets, flashes through the treble-welking, through nine-starry vaults of ether. Then the ancient Vajna-möinen, spake, and these the words he uttered, Blacksmith brother Ilmarinen, let us haste and look together, what the kind of fire that falleth, what the form of light that shineeth, from the upper world of heaven, from the lower earth and ocean. As the second moon risen, can it be a ball of sunlight? Thereupon the heroes wandered, onward journeyed and reflected, how to gain the spot illumined, how to find the sacred fire-child. Came a river rushing by them, broad and stately as an ocean. Straightway ancient Vajna-möinen there began to build a vessel, build a boat to cross the river. With the aid of Ilmarinen from the oak he cut the rollocks, from the pine the oars he fashioned, from the aspen shapes the rudder. When the vessel they had finished, quick they rolled it to the current, hard they rode and ever forward, on the Neva stream and waters, at the head of Neva river. Ilmatar, the ether daughter, foremost daughter of creation, came to meet them on their journey, thus addressed the coming strangers. Who are ye of Northland heroes rowing on the Neva waters? Vajna-möinen gave this answer. This the blacksmith Ilmarinen, I the ancient Vajna-möinen. Tell us now thy name and station, with a going, when still commenced, where thy tribe folk live and linger. Speak the daughter then of Ether, I the oldest of the women, am the first of Ether's daughters, am the first of ancient madras. Seven times have I been wedded to the heroes of creation, with a do your strangest journey. Answer thus, O Vajna-möinen. Fire has left vainless hearthstones, light has disappeared from Northland, have been sitting long in darkness, cold and darkness our companions. Now we journey to discover what the fire that fell from heaven, falling from the clouds, relining, to the deeps of earth and ocean. Ilmatar returned this answer. Hard the flame is to discover, hard indeed to find the fire-child. Has committed many mischiefs, nothing good has he accomplished. Quick the fire-ball fell from Ether, from the red rims of the cloudlets, from the plains of the creator, through the ever-moving heavens, through the purple Ether spaces, through the blackened flues of Turi, to Palvoinen's room uncovered. When the fire had reached the chambers of Palvoinen, son of evil, he began his wicked workings, he engaged in lawless actions, raged against the blushing maidens, fired the youth to evil conduct, singed the beards of men and heroes. When the mother nursed her baby in the cold and cheerless cradle, Ether flew the wicked fire-child, there to perpetrate some mischief. In the cradle burned the infant, by the infant burned the mother, that the babe might visit Mana in the kingdom of Dvoni. Said the child was born for dying, only destined for destruction, through the torches of the fire-child. Greater knowledge had the mother, did not join it to Mana-la. Knew the word to check the red flame, how to banish the intruder, through the eyelet of a needle, through the death-hole of the hatches. Then the ancient Veinamöinen questioned Ilmatar as follows. Wither did the fire-child wander, wither did the red flame hasten, from the border fields of Turi, to the woods or to the waters. Straightway Ilmatar does answers. When the fire had fled from Turi, from the castles of Palvoinen, through the eyelet of the needle, through the death-hole of the hatchet, first it burned the fields and forest, burned the lowlands and the heather. Then it sought the mighty waters, sought the alue sea and river. And the waters hastens puttered in their anger at the fire-child, fiery red the boiling alue. Three times in the nights of summer, nine times in the nights of autumn, boiled the waters to the three tops, roll and tumble to the mountain, through the red-bowl's force and fury. Hurls the pike upon the pastures to the mountain-cliffs the salmon, where the ocean dwellers wander, long reflect and well consider how to seal the angry waters. Whip the salmon for his grotto, mourn the whiting for his cavern, and the lake trout for his dwelling, quick the crook-necked salmon darted, tried to catch the fire intruder, but the red-bowl quick escaped him. Dotted then the daring whiting, swallowed quick the wicked fire-child, swallowed quick the flame of evil. Quiet grow the alue waters, slowly settled to their shorelines, to their long accustomed places in the long and dismal evening. Time had gone but little distance when the whiting grew frighted. Fair befell the fire-dewower. Burning pain and writhing torture ceased the eater of the fire-child. Swam the fish in all directions, called and moaned and swam and circle. Swam one day and then a second, swam the third from mourn to even. Swam she to the whiting island, to the caverns of the salmon, where a hundred islands cluster, and the islands there assembled, thus addressed the fire-dewowerer. There is none within these waters, in the narrow alue lakelet, that will eat the fated fire-fish, that will swallow thee in trouble, in thine agonies entortured, from the fire-child though hast eaten. Hearing this atroed forth-barting, swallowed quick as light the whiting, quickly ate the fire-dewowerer. Time had gone but little distance when the trout became frighted. Fair befell the whiting-eater. Burning pain and writhing torment ceased the eater of the fire-fish. Swam the trout in all directions, called and moaned and swam and circle. Swam one day and then a second, swam the third from mourn to even. Swam she to the salmon island, swam she to the whiting grottoes, where a thousand islands cluster, and the islands there assembled, thus addressed the tortured lake trout. There is none within this river, in these narrow alue waters, that will eat the wicked fire-fish, that will swallow thee in trouble, in thine agonies entortured, from the fire-fish though hast eaten. Hearing this, the grey-pike darted, swallowed quick as light the lake-trout, quickly ate the tortured fire-fish. Time had gone but little distance when the grey-pike grew frighted. Fair befell the lake-trout-eater. Burning pain and writhing torment ceased the reckless trout-dewowerer. Swam the pike in all directions, called and moaned and swam and circle. Swam one day and then a second, swam the third from mourn to even. To the cave of ocean swallows, to the sand-hills of the seagulls, where a hundred islands cluster, and the islands there assembled, thus addressed the fire-dewowerer. There is none within this lake-less, in these narrow alue waters, that will eat the fated fire-fish, that will swallow thee in trouble, in thine agonies entortures, from the fire-fish though hast eaten. Vayna-möinen, wise and ancient, with the aid of Ilmarinen, weaves with skill a mighty fishnet, from the juniper and sea-grass. Dice the net with all the waters, ties it well with thongs of Willow. Straightway ancient Vayna-möinen called the maidens to the fishnet, and the sisters came as bedden. With the netting rode they onward, rode they to the hundred islands, to the grottoes of the salmon, to the caverns of the whiting, to the reeds of sable-color, where the grey-pike rests and watches. On they hasten to the fishing, dragged the net in all directions, dragged it lengthwise, sidewise, crosswise, and diagonally zigzag, but they did not catch the fire-fish. Then the brothers went fishing, dragged the net in all directions, backwards, forwards, lengthwise, sidewise, through the homes of ocean dwellers, through the grottoes of the salmon, through the dwellings of the whiting, through the reed-beds of the lake trout, where the grey-pike lies in ambush. But the fated fire-fish came not, came not from the lake's abysses, came not from the aloe-waters. Little fish could not be captured in the large nets of the masters. Mermaid then the deep-sea dwellers spake the salmon to the lake trout and the lake trout to the whiting, and the whiting to the grey-pike. Have the heroes of Vainola died, or have they all departed from these fertile shores and waters? Where, then, are the ancient weavers, weavers of the nets of flex-thread, those that frighten us with fish-pills, drag us from our homes unwilling? Hearing this wise bananamonon answered thus the deep-sea dwellers. Neither have Vainola's heroes died, nor have they all departed from these fertile shores and waters. Two are born where one has perished. Longer poles and finer fish-nets have the sons of Kalevala. End of Rune 47, recording by Jonna. Rune 48 of the Kalevala. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lönnrod, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 48. Capture of the Firefish. Vainamoinen, the Enchanter, the Eternal Wisdom Singer, long reflected, well considered, how to weave the nets of flex-yarn, weave the fish-net of the fathers, spake the minstrel of Vainola, who will plow the field and fellow, sow the flex and spin the flex-threads, that I may prepare the fish-net, wherewith I may catch the fire-pike, may secure the thing of evil. Soon they found a fertile island, found the fellow's soil befitting, on the border of the heather, and between two stately oak-trees. They prepared the soil for sowing, searching everywhere for flex-seed, founded in Turney's kingdom, in the keeping of an insect. Then they found a pile of ashes, where the fire had burned the vessel. In the ashes sowed the seedlings, near the alreal lake and border, in the ridge and loamy fellow. There the seed took root and flourished, quickly grew to great proportions, in a single night in summer. Thus the flex was sowed at evening, placed within the earth by moonlight, quick it grew and quickly ripened, quick Vainola's heroes pulled it, quick they broke it on the hackles, hastened with it to the waters, dipped it in the lake and washed it. Quickly brought it home and dried it, quickly broke and combed and smoothed it, brushed it well at early morning, laid it into laps for spinning. Quick the maidens twirled spindles, spin the flex and threads for weaving. In a single night in summer, quick the sisters whined and reeled it, make it ready for the needle. Brothers weaved it into fishnets, and the fathers twist the cordage, while the mothers knit the meshes. Rapidly the mesh sticks circles, soon the fishnet is completed, in a single night in summer. As the magic net is finished, and in length a hundred fathoms, on the rim three hundred fathoms. Rounded stones are fastened to it, joined there too as seven float boards. Now the young men take the fishnet, and the old men cheer them onward, wish them good luck at their fishing. Long they row and drag the flex-sane, here and there the net is lowered, now they drag it lengthwise, sidewise, drag it through the slimy reed-beds, but they do not catch the fire-pike, only smells and luckless red-fish, little fish of little value. Spake the ancient bynamoinen. O thou blacksmith, ilmarinen, let us go ourselves a fishing, let us catch the fish of evil. To the fishing went the brothers, magic heroes of the Northland, pulled the fishnet through the waters, toward an island in the deep sea, then they turn and drag the fishnet, toward a meadow jutting seaward. Now they drag it toward winola, droid lengthwise, sidewise, crosswise, catching fish of every species, salmon, trout and pike and whiting, do not catch the evil fire-fish. Then the master winamoinen made additions to its borders, made it many fathoms wider and a hundred fathoms longer. Then these words the hero uttered. Famous blacksmith, ilmarinen, let us go again a fishing, row again the magic fishnet, drag it well through all the waters, that we may obtain the fire-pike. There upon the Northland heroes go a second time a fishing, drag their nets across the rivers, lakelets, seas and bays and inlets, like fish of many species, but the fire-fish is not taken. Winamoinen, ancient singer, long reflecting, spake these measures. Dear Velamo, water-hostess, ancient mother with the reed-breast, come, exchange thy water-raiment, change thy coat of reeds and rushes, for the garments I shall give thee. Light sea-foam, thine inner vesture, and thine outer, moss and sea-grass, fashioned by the winds' fair daughters, woven by the flood-sweet maidens, I will give thee linen vestments, spun from flecks of softest fiber, woven by the moon's white virgins, fashioned by the sun's bright daughters, fitting raiment for Velamo. Ato, king of all the waters, ruler of a thousand grottoes, take a pole of seven fathoms, search with this the deepest waters, rummage well the lowest bottoms, stir up all the reeds and sea-weeds, hither drive a school of gray pike, drive them to our magic fishnet, from the haunts in pike abounding, from the caverns and the trout-holes, from the whirlpools of the deep sea, from the bottomless abysses, where the sunshine never enters, where the moonlight never visits, and the sands are never troubled. Rose a pygmy from the waters, from the floods a little hero, riding on a rolling billow, and the pygmies spake these measures. Does thou wish a worthy helper, want to use the pole and frighten pike and salmon to thy fishnets? Weinamoinen, old and faithful, answered thus the lake-born hero. Yeah, we need a worthy helper, want to hold the pole and frighten pike and salmon to our fishnets. Thereupon the water-pigmy, cut a linden from the border, spake these words to Weinamoinen. Shall I scare with all my powers, with the forces of my being, as thou needest shall I scare them? Spake the minstrel Weinamoinen. If thou scarest as is needed, thou wilt scare with all thy forces, with the strength of thy dominions. Then began the pygmy-hero to affright the deep-sea dwellers, drove the fish in countless numbers to the net of the magicians. Weinamoinen, ancient minstrel, drew his net along the waters, drew it with his robes of flex-fled. Spake these words of magic import. Come ye, fish of Northland waters, to the regions of my fishnet, as my hundred mesh is slower. Then the net was drawn and fastened, many were the grey pike taken, by the master and magician. Weinamoinen happy-hearted hastened to a neighboring island, to a blue-point in the waters, near a red-bridge on the headland, landed there his draft of fishes, cast a pike upon the seashore, and the fire-pike was among them, cast the others to the waters. Spake the ancient Weinamoinen. May I touch thee with my fingers, using not my gloves of iron, using not my bluestone mittens. This the sun-child hears and answers. I should like to carve the fire-fish, I should like this pike to handle, if I had the knife of good luck. Quicker knife-falls from the heavens, from the clouds a magic fish-knife, silver-edged and golden-headed, to the girdle of the sun-child. Quick he grasps the copper-hander, quick the hero carves the fire-pike, finds therein the tortured lake-trout, carves the lake-trout thus discovered. Finds therein the faded-whiting, carves the whiting, finds the blue-ball in the third-cave of his body. He, the blue-ball-quick unwinding, finds within a ball of scarlet. Carefully removes the cover, finds the ball of fire within it, finds the flame from heaven-fallen, from the heights of the seventh-heaven, through nine regions of the ether. Weinarmoynen long reflected how to get the magic fire-ball to Weinola's fireless hearth-stones, to his cold and cheerless dwellings. Quick he snatched the fire of heaven from the fingers of the sun-child. Weinarmoynen speared its hinges, burns the brow of Ilmarinen, burns the fingers of the blacksmith. Rolling forth it hastens westward, hastens to the Alwe shorelines, burns the juniper and alder, burns the arid heath and meadow, rises to the lofty linden, burns the firs upon the mountains, hastens onward, onward, onward, burns the islands of the Northland, burns the saava fields and forests, burns the drylands of Karyala. Straightway, ancient Weinarmoynen, hastens through the fields and fennelins, tracks the ranger to the Glenwood, finds the fire-child in an elm-tree, sleeping in a bed of fungus. Thereupon Weisweinarmoynen wakes the child and speaks these measures. Wicked fire that God created, flame of Ukko from the heavens, thou hast gone in vain to sea-caves, to the lakes without a reason. Better go thou to my village, to the hearth-stones of my people, hide thyself within my chimneys, in mine ashes, sleep and linger. By daytime I will use thee, to devour the blocks of birchwood, in the evening I will hide thee, underneath the golden circle. Then he took the willing panu, took the willing fire of Ukko, bladed in a box of tinder, in the punk-wood of a birch-tree, in a vessel forged from copper, carried it with care and pleasure to the fog-point in the waters, to the island-forest covered. Thus returned the fire to Northland, to the chambers of Weinola, to the hearths of Kalevala. Ilmarinen, famous blacksmith, hastened to the deep-sea's margin. Set upon the rock of torture, feeling pain the flame had given, laved his wounds with briny water, thus to still the fire-child's fury, thus to end his persecutions. Long reflecting, Ilmarinen thus addressed the flame of Ukko. Evil panu from the heavens, wicked son of God from aether, tell me what has made thee angry, made thee burn my weary members, burn my beard and face and fingers, made me suffer death-land tortures. Spake again, young Ilmarinen. How can I wild panu conquer? How shall I control his conduct, make him end his evil doings? Come, thou daughter from Poyola, come, white virgin of the whore-frost, come on shoes of ice from Lepland, icicles upon thy garments. In one hand the cup of white-frost, in the other hand an ice-spoon. Sprinkle snow upon my members, where the fire-child has been resting. Let the whore-frost fall and settle. Should this prayer be unavailing, come, thou son of Sarula, come, thou child of frost from Poyola, come, thou long-man from the ice-plains, of the hide of stately pine-trees, slender as the chunks of lindens, on thy hands the gloves of whore-frost, cap of ice upon thy forehead, on thy waist a white-frost girdle. Bring the ice-dust from Poyola, from the cold and sunless village, rain is crystallized in Northland, ice in Poya is abundant, lakes of ice and ice-bound rivers, frozen smooth the sea of ether. Bounce the hair in frosted fur-robe, climbs the bear in icy raiment, ambles over the snowy mountains, swans of frost descend the rivers, ducks of ice in countless numbers, swim upon thy freezing waters, near the cataract and whirlpool. Bring me frost upon thy snow-sledge, snow and ice in great abundance, from the summit of the wild-top, from the borders of the mountains. With dine-ice and snow and whore-frost cover well my injured members, where wild Panu has been resting, where the child of fire has lingered. Should this call be ineffective, Uko, God of love and mercy, first and last of the creators, from the east send forth a snow-cloud, from the west dispatch a second, join their edges well together, let there be no vacant places, let these clouds bring snow and whore-frost, lay the healing balm of Uko on my burning tortured tissues, where wild Panu has been resting. Thus the blacksmith Ilmarinen stills the pains by fire engendered, stills the agonies and tortures, brought him by the child of evil, brought him by the wicked Panu. CAPTURE OF THE FIREFISH Veinamoinen, the enchanter, the eternal wisdom-singer, long-reflected, well-considered, how to weave the nets of flex-yarn, weave the fish-net of the fathers, spake the minstrel of Veinola, who will plow the field and fellow, sow the flecks and spin the flecks' threads, that I may prepare the fish-net, wherewith I may catch the fire-pike, may secure the thing of evil. Soon they found a fertile island, found the fellow's soil befitting, on the border of the heather, and between two stately oak-trees. They prepared the soil for sowing, searching everywhere for flex-seed, founded in Turney's kingdom, in the keeping of an insect. Then they found a pile of ashes, where the fire had burned the vessel, in the ashes sowed the seedlings, near the al-relagan border, in the ridge and loamy fellow. There the seed took root and flourished, quickly grew to great proportions, in a single night in summer. Thus the flex was sowed at evening, placed within the earth by moonlight, quick it grew and quickly ripened, quick Veinola's heroes pulled it, quick they broke it on the hackles, hastened with it to the waters, dipped it in the lake and washed it, quickly brought it home and dried it, quickly broke and combed and smoothed it, brushed it well at early morning, laid it into laps for spinning. Quick the maidens twirled the spindles, spin the flex and threads for weaving. In a single night in summer, quick the sisters wind and reel it, make it ready for the needle. Brothers weave it into fishnets, and the fathers twist the cordage, while the mothers knit the meshes. Rapidly the mesh sticks circles, soon the fishnet is completed, in a single night in summer. As the magic net is finished and in length a hundred fathoms, on the rim three hundred fathoms. Rounded stones are fastened to it, joined there too as seven float boards. Now the young men take the fishnet, and the old men shear them onward. Wish them good luck at their fishing. Long they row and drag the flex-sane, here and there the net is lowered. Now they drag it length-wise, side-wise, drag it through the slimy reed-beds. But they do not catch the fire-pike, only smelts and luckless red-fish, little fish of little value. Spake the ancient bina moinen. O thou blacksmith, ill-marinen, let us go ourselves afishing, let us catch the fish of evil. To the fishing went the brothers, magic heroes of the Northland, pulled the fishnet through the waters, toward an island in the deep sea. Then they turn and drag the fishnet, toward a meadow jutting seaward. Now they drag it toward weinola, droid length-wise, side-wise, cross-wise. Catching fish of every species, salmon, trout and pike and whiting, do not catch the evil fire-fish. Then the master weinamoinen made additions to its borders, made it many fathoms wider and a hundred fathoms longer. Then these words the hero uttered. Famous blacksmith, ill-marinen, let us go again afishing, row again the magic fishnet, drag it well through all the waters, that we may obtain the fire-pike. Thereupon the Northland heroes go a second time afishing, drag their nets across the rivers, lakelets, seas and bays and inlets. Catching fish of many species, but the fire-fish is not taken. Weinamoinen, ancient singer, long-reflecting, spake these measures. Dear Velamo, water-hostess, ancient mother with the reed-brest, come, exchange thy water-raiment, change thy coat of reeds and rushes, for the garments I shall give thee. Light sea-foam, thine inner vesture, and thine outer, moss and sea-grass, fashioned by the winds-fair daughters, woven by the flood-sweet maidens, I will give thee linen vestments, spun from flecks of softest fiber, woven by the moon's white virgins, fashioned by the sun's bright daughters, fitting raiment for Velamo. Arto, king of all the waters, ruler of a thousand grottoes, take a pole of seven fathoms, search with this the deepest waters, rummage well the lowest bottoms, stir up all the reeds and sea-weeds, hither drive a school of gray-pike, drive them to our magic fishnet, from the haunts in pike abounding, from the caverns and the trout-holes, from the whirl-pools of the deep sea, from the bottomless abysses, where the sunshine never enters, where the moonlight never visits, and the sands are never troubled. Rose a pygmy from the waters, from the floods a little hero, riding on a rolling billow, and the pygmies bake these measures. Does thou wish a worthy helper, one to use the pole and frighten pike and salmon to thy fishnets? Weinamoinen, old and faithful, answered thus the lake-born hero. Yeah, we need a worthy helper, one to hold the pole and frighten pike and salmon to our fishnets. Thereupon the water-pigmy, cut a linden from the border, spake these words to Weinamoinen. Shall I scare with all my powers, with the forces of my being, as thou needest shall I scare them? spake the minstrel Weinamoinen. If thou scarest, as is needed, thou wilt scare with all thy forces, with the strength of thy dominions. Then began the pygmy-hero to affright the deep-sea dwellers, drove the fish in countless numbers to the net of the magicians. Weinamoinen, ancient minstrel, drew his net along the waters, drew it with his robes of flex-fled, spake these words of magic import. Come ye, fish of Northland waters, to the regions of my fishnet, as my hundred mesh is lower. Then the net was drawn and fastened, many were the grey pike taken, by the master and magician. Weinamoinen happy-hearted hastened to a neighboring island, to a blue-point in the waters, near a red-bridge on the headland, landed there his draft of fishes, cast a pike upon the sea-shore, and the fire-pike was among them, cast the others to the waters. Spake the ancient Weinamoinen, may I touch thee with my fingers, using not my gloves of iron, using not my bluestone mittens. This the sun-child hears and answers. I should like to carve the fire-fish, I should like this pike to handle, if I had the knife of good luck. Quick a knife falls from the heavens, from the clouds a magic fish-knife, silver-edged and golden-headed, to the girdle of the sun-child. Quick he grasps the copper-handle, quick the hero carves the fire-pike, finds therein the tortured lake-trout, carves the lake-trout thus discovered, finds therein the faded-whiting, carves the whiting, finds the blue-ball, in the third-cave of his body. He, the blue-ball-quick unwinding, finds within a ball of scarlet, carefully removes the cover, finds the ball of fire within it, finds the flame from heaven-fallen, from the heights of the seventh-heaven, through nine regions of the ether. Weinarmoynen long-reflected how to get the magic fire-ball to Weinola's fireless hearth-stones, to his cold and chillest dwellings. Quick he snatched the fire of heaven from the fingers of the sun-child. Weinarmoynen speared its hinges, burns the brow of Ilmarinen, burns the fingers of the blacksmith. Rolling forth it hastens westward, hastens to the Alwe shorelines, burns the juniper and alder, burns the arid heath and meadow, rises to the lofty linden, burns the firs upon the mountains, hastens onward, onward, onward, burns the islands of the Northland, burns the sava-fields and forests, burns the drylands of Kariala. Straightway, ancient Weinarmoynen, hastens through the fields and fennelands, tracks the ranger to the Glenwood, finds the fire-child in an elm-tree, sleeping in a bed of fungus. Thereupon Weisweinarmoynen wakes the child and speaks these measures. Wicked fire that God created, flame of Ukko from the heavens, thou hast gone in vain to sea-caves, to the lakes without a reason. Better go thou to my village, to the hear-stones of my people, hide thyself within my chimneys, in mine ashes, sleep and linger. In the daytime I will use thee, to devour the blocks of birchwood, in the evening I will hide thee, underneath the golden circle. Then he took the willing panu, took the willing fire of Ukko, bladed in a box of tinder, in the punkwood of a birch-tree, in a vessel forged from copper, carried it with care and pleasure to the fog-point in the waters, to the island-forest covered. Thus returned the fire to Northland, to the chambers of Weinola, to the harse of Kalevala. Ilmarinen, famous blacksmith, hastened to the deep-sea's margin. Set upon the rock of torture, feeling pain the flame had given, left his wounds with briny water, thus to still the fire-child's fury, thus to end his persecutions. Long reflecting, Ilmarinen thus addressed the flame of Ukko. Evil panu from the heavens, wicked son of God from aether, tell me what has made thee angry, made thee burn my weary members, burn my beard and face and fingers, made me suffer death-land tortures. Spake again, young Ilmarinen. How can I wild panu conquer? How shall I control his conduct, make him end his evil doings? Come, thou daughter from Pojola, come, white virgin of the whore-frost, come on shoes of ice from Lepland, icicles upon thy garments. In one hand a cup of white-frost, in the other hand an ice-spoon. Sprinkle snow upon my members, where the fire-child has been resting. Let the whore-frost fall and settle. Should this prayer be unavailing, come, thou son of Sarula, come, thou child of frost from Poja, come, thou longman from the ice-plains, of the height of stately pine-trees, slender as the chunks of lindens. On thy hands the gloves of whore-frost, cap of ice upon thy forehead, on thy waist a white-frost girdle. Bring the ice-dust from Pojola, from the cold and sunless village. Rain is crystallized in Northland, ice in Poja is abundant. Blakes of ice and ice-bound rivers, frozen smooth the sea of ether. Bounce the hair in frosted fur-robe, climbs the bear in icy raiment, ambles over the snowy mountains, swands of frost descend the rivers. Ducks of ice in countless numbers, swim upon thy freezing waters, near the cataract and whirlpool. Bring me frost upon thy snow-sledge, snow and ice in great abundance, from the summit of the wild-top, from the borders of the mountains. With dine-ice and snow and whore-frost cover well my injured members, where wild Panu has been resting, where the child of fire has lingered. Should this call be ineffective, Uko, God of love and mercy, first and last of the creators, from the east send forth a snow-cloud, from the west dispatch a second. Join their edges well together, let there be no vacant places. Let these clouds bring snow and whore-frost, lay the healing balm of Uko, on my burning tortured tissues, where wild Panu has been resting. Thus the blacksmith Ilmarinen stills the pains by fire engendered, stills the agonies and tortures, brought him by the child of evil, brought him by the wicked Panu. Rune 50. Mariatta, Vynamoinen's departure. Mariatta, child of beauty, grew to Maidenhood in Northland, in the cabin of her father, in the chambers of her mother, golden ringlet silver girdles worn against the keys paternal, glittering upon her bosom. War away the father's threshold with the long robes of her garments, wore away the painted rafters with her beauteous silken ribbons, wore away the gilded pillars with the touching of her fingers, wore away the birchen flooring with the tramping of her furshoes. Mariatta, child of beauty, magic maid of little stature, guarded well her sacred virtue, her sincerity and honor, fed upon the dainty whiting on the inner bark of birchwood, on the tender flesh of lamkins. When she hastened in the evening to her milking in the hurdle, spake an innocence as follows, Never will the snow-white virgin milk the kind of one unworthy. When she journeyed over snow fields on the seat beside her father, spake in purity as follows, Not behind a steed unworthy will I ever ride the snow sleigh. Mariatta, child of beauty, lived a virgin with her mother, as a maiden highly honored, lived in innocence and beauty. Daily drove her flocks to pasture, walking with the gentle lamkins. When the lamkins climbed the mountains, when they gambled on the hill-top, stepped the virgin to the meadow, skipping through a grove of lindens at the calling of the cuckoo to the songster's golden measures. Mariatta, child of beauty, looked about, intently listened, sat upon the berry meadow, sat awhile and meditated, on a hillock by the forest, and soliloquized as follows, Call to me, thou golden cuckoo, sing thou sacred bird of Northland, sing thou silver-breasted songster, speak thou strawberry of Estland, tell how long must I unmarried as a shepherdess neglected, wander o'er these hills and mountains through these flowery fens and fallows. Tell me, cuckoo of the woodlands, sing to me how many summers I must live without a husband as a shepherdess neglected. Mariatta, child of beauty, lived a shepherd maid for ages as a virgin with her mother. Wretched are the lives of shepherds, lives of maidens still more wretched, guarding flocks upon the mountains, serpents creep and bog and stumble on the greens where dart the lizards, but it was no serpent singing nor a sacred lizard calling, it was but the mountain berry calling to the lonely maiden. Come, O virgin, come and pluck me, come and take me to thy bosom, take me tinsel-breasted virgin, take me maiden copper-belted, ere the slimy snail devours me, ere the blackworm feeds upon me, hundreds pass my way unmindful, thousands come within my hearing, berry maidens swarm about me, come and countless numbers, none of these has come to gather, come to pluck this ruddy berry. Mariatta, child of beauty, listened to the gentle pleading, ran to pick the berry calling, with her fair and dainty fingers, solid smiling near the meadow, like a cranberry in feature, like a strawberry in flavour, but be virgin Mariatta, could not pluck the woodland stranger, there upon she cut a charm stick downward pressed upon the berry, above her shoes of ermine, then above her copper girdle, darted upward to her bosom, leaped upon the maiden's shoulders, on her dimpled chin it rested, on her lips it perched a moment, hastened to her tongue expectant, to and fro it rocked and lingered, thence it hastened on its journey, settled in the maiden's bosom. Mariatta, child of beauty, thus became a bride in pregnant, wedded to the mountain berry, lingered in her room at morning, hastened to her couch at evening, thus the watchful mother wonders, what has happened to our Mary, to our virgin Mariatta, that she throws aside her girdle, shyly slips through hall and chamber, lingers in her room at morning, hastens to her couch at evening, sits at midday in the darkness, on the floor a babe was playing, and the young child thus made answer, this has happened to our Mary, to our virgin Mariatta, this misfortune to the maiden, played too long among the lamkins, tasted of the mountain berry, long the virgin watched and waited, anxiously the days she counted, waited for the dawn of trouble, finally she asked her mother, these the words of Mariatta, faithful mother, fond and tender, mother whom I love and cherish, make for me a place befitting, where my troubles may be lessened, and my heavy burdens lightened, this the answer of the mother, woe to thee thou hisi maiden, bride unworthy, wedded only to dishonor, Mariatta, child of beauty, thus replied in truthful measures, I am not a maid apice, I am not a bride unworthy, am not wedded to dishonor, as a shepherdess I wandered, with the lamkins to the Glenwood, wandered to the berry mountain, where the strawberry had ripened, quickest thought I plucked the berry, on my tongue I gently laid it, to and fro it rocked and lingered, settled in my heaving bosom, the trouble only cause of my dishonor. As the mother was relentless, asked the maiden of her father, this the virgin mother's pleading, O my father, full of pity, source of both my good and evil, build for me a place befitting, where my troubles may be lessened, and my heavy burdens lightened, this the answer of the father, of the father unforgiving, go thou evil child of hisi, go thou child of sin and sorrow, wedded only to dishonor, to the stone cave of the growler, there to lessen all thy troubles, there to cast thy heavy burdens. Mariatta, child of beauty, thus made answer to her father, I am not a child of hisi, I am not a bride unworthy, am not wedded to dishonor, I shall bear a noble hero, I shall bear a son immortal, who will rule among the mighty, rule the ancient Vainamoin. Thereupon the virgin mother, wandered hither, wandered thither, for a worthy birthplace, for her unborn son and hero, finally these words she uttered, Pilty thou my youngest maiden, trustiest of all my servants, seek a place within the village, ask it of the brook of Sarah, for the troubled Mariatta, child of sorrow and misfortune. Thereupon the little maiden, Pilty spake these words and answer, whom shall I entreat for succor, who will lend me his assistance? These the words of Mariatta, where the reedbrew pours her waters. Thereupon the servant, Pilty, ever hopeful, ever willing, hastened to obey her mistress, needing not her exhortation, hastened like the rapid river, like the flying smoke of battle, to the cabin of Ruotus. When she walked the hilltops tottered, when she ran the mountains trembled, shore reeds danced upon the pasture, sandstones skipped about the heather, as the maiden Pilty hastened to the dwelling of Ruotus. That Ruotus eating, drinking, in his simple coat of linen, with his elbows on the table, spake the wizard in amazement. Why hast thou a maid of evil come to see me in my cavern, what the message thou art bringing? Thereupon the servant Pilty gave this answer to the wizard, seek I for a spot befitting, seek I for a worthy birthplace, for an unborn child and hero, seek it near the Sarah streamlet, where the reedbrew pours her waters. And Ruotus walking with her arms akimbo, thus address the maiden Pilty. Who is she that asks assistants who the maiden thus dishonored, what her name and who her kindred? I have come for Mariatta for the worthy virgin mother, spake the wife of old Ruotus evil-minded, cruel-hearted. Occupied are all our chambers, all our bathrooms near the reedbrook, in the mount of fire our couches is a stable in the forest, for the flaming horse of Hissi, in the stable is a manger, fitting birthplace for the hero, from the wife of cold misfortune, worthy couch for Mariatta. Thereupon the servant Pilty hastened to her anxious mistress, spake these measures much regretting. There is not a place befitting on the silver brook of Sarah, spake the wife of old Ruotus. Occupied are all the chambers, all the bathrooms near the reedbrook, in the mount of fire our couches is a stable in the forest, in the stable is a manger, fitting birthplace for the hero, from the wife of cold misfortune, worthy couch for Mariatta. Thereupon the hapless maiden Mariatta, virgin mother, fell to bitter tears and murmurs, spake these words in depths of sorrow. I, alas, must go and outcast, wander as a wretched hireling, like a servant in dishonour, hastened to the burning mountain, to the stable in the forest, make my bed within a manger of seed of hissy. Quick the hapless virgin mother, outcast from her father's dwelling, gathered up her flowing raiment, grasped up room of birch and branches, hastened forth in pain and sorrow, to the stable in the woodlands, on the heights of Tapio's mountains, spake these words in supplication. Come, I pray thee, my creator, only friend in times of trouble, come to me and bring protection to thy child the virgin mother, to the maiden Mariatta come to me, Bendignit Uko, come thou only hope and refuge, lest thy guiltless child should perish, die the death of thee unworthy. When the virgin Mariatta had arrived within the stable of the flaming horse of hissy, she addressed the steed as follows, breathe, o sympathizing firehorse, breathe on me, the virgin mother, let thy heated breath give moisture, let thy pleasant warmth surround me, like the vapor of the morning, let this pure and helpless maiden be a manger. Thereupon the horse in pity breathed the moisture in his nostril, on the body of the virgin, wrapped her in a cloud of vapor, gave her warmth and needed comforts, gave his aid to the afflicted to the virgin Mariatta. There the babe was born and cradled, cradled in a woodland manger, of the virgin Mariatta, pure as pearly do's of mourning, holy as the stars in heaven, there the mother rocks her infant, in his swaddling clothes she wraps him, in the robes of linen. Carefully the babe she nurtures, well she guards her much beloved, guards her golden child of beauty, her beloved gem of silver. But alas the child has vanished, vanished while the mother slumbered, Mariatta, lone and wretched, fell to weeping, broken hearted, hastened off to seek her infant everywhere the mother sought him, sought her golden child of beauty, her beloved gem of silver, sought him underneath the millstone, sought him underneath the willow basket, touched the trees, the grass she parted, long she sought her golden infant, sought him on the fir tree mountain, in the veil and hill and heather, looks within the clumps of flowers, well examines, every thicket lifts the juniper and willow lifts the branches of the altar. Low a star has come to meet her, and the star she thus besieges. O thou guiding star of Northland, star of hope by God created, dost thou know and wilt thou tell me where my darling child has wandered, where my holy babe lies hidden? Thus the star of Northland answers. If I knew I would not tell thee, tis thy child that me created, set me here to watch at evening, in the cold to shine forever, here to twinkle in the darkness. Comes the golden moon to meet her, and the moon she thus besieges. Golden moon by Uko fashioned, hope and joy of Kalevala, dost thou know and wilt thou tell me where my darling child has wandered, where my holy babe lies hidden? The golden moon in answer. If I knew I would not tell thee, tis thy child that me created, here to wander in the darkness, all alone at eve to wander, on my cold and cheerless journey, sleeping only in the daylight, shining for the good of others. Thereupon the virgin mother falls again to bitter weeping, hastens on through fen and forest, seeking for her babe departed. Comes the silver sun to meet her, and the sun she thus addresses. Of course of light and life of Northland, dost thou know and wilt thou tell me where my darling child has wandered, where my holy babe lies hidden? Wisely does the sun make answer, well I know thy babe's dominions, where thy holy child is sleeping, where Vynola's light lies hidden. Tis thy child that me created, made me king of earth and ether, made the moon and stars attend me, set me here to shine at midday, makes me shine in silver raiment, lets me sleep and rest at evening, there thy holy babe lies sleeping, hidden to his belt and waters, hidden in the reeds and rushes. Mariatta, child of beauty, virgin mother of the Northland, straightway seeks her babe in Swampland, finds him in the reeds and rushes, takes the young child on her bosom to the dwelling of her father. There the infant grew in beauty, gathered strength and light and wisdom, all of Suomi saw and wondered. No one knew what name to give him, when the mother named him Flower, and named him Son of Sorrow. When the virgin Mariatta sought the priesthood to baptize him, came an old man Verokhanas with a cup of holy water, bringing to the babe his blessing and the greybeard's bake as follows. I shall not baptize a wizard, shall not bless a black magician with the drops of holy water, let the young child be examined, let us know that he is worthy lest he prove the son of witchcraft. Thereupon, Verokhanas called a wisdom-singer to inspect the infant wonder, to report him good or evil. Vayna moin an old and faithful, carefully the child examined, gave this answer to his people. Since the child is but an outcast, born and cradled in a manger, since the berry is his father, let him lie upon the heather, let him sleep among the rushes, let him live upon the mountains, take the young child to the marshes, dash his head against the birch tree. Then the child of Mariatta, two weeks old, made answer. O thou ancient Vayna moin an son of folly, an injustice senseless hero of the Northland, falsely hast thou rendered judgment. In thy years for greater follies, greater sins and misdemeanors, thou wert not unjustly punished in thy former years of trouble. When thou gavest thine own brother for thy selfish life a ransom, thus to save thee from destruction, then thou wert not sent to Swampland to be murdered for thy follies. For when the beauteous I know perished in the deep and boundless blue sea to escape thy persecutions, then that wert not evil-treated, wert not banished by thy people. There upon Odvido Canas of the wilderness the ruler, touched the child with holy water, gave the wonder-babe his blessing, gave him rights of royal airship, free to live and grow a hero to become a mighty ruler, king and master of Karyala. As the years passed, the remaining powers, empty-handed, heavy-hearted, sang his farewell song to Northland to the people of Vynola. Sang himself a boat of copper, beautiful his bark of magic, at the helm sat the magician, sat the ancient wisdom-singer. Westward, westward sailed the hero over the blue-back of the waters, singing as he left Vynola this his plaintive song and echo. Sons may rise and set in Suomi, rise and set for generations, when the North will learn my teachings, and recall my wisdom sayings, hungry for the true religion. Then will Suomi need my coming, watch for me at dawn of morning, that I may bring back the sampo, bring anew the harp of joyance, bring again the golden moonlight, bring again the silver sunshine, peace and plenty to the Northland. Thus the ancient Vynamoin in his copper-banded vessel left his tribe in Kalevala, sailing o'er the rolling billows, sailing through the azar vapors, sailing through the dusk of evening, sailing to the fiery sunset, to the higher-landed regions, to the lower verge of heaven, quickly gained the far horizon, gained the purple-colored harbor. There his bark he firmly anchored, rested in his boat of copper, but he left his harp of magic, left his songs in wisdom sayings to the lasting joy of Suomi. End of Rune 50 Recording by Kyle Robb Epilogue of the Kalevala This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala Compiled by Elias Lunruth Translated by John Martin Crawford Epilogue Now I end my measured singing, bid my weary tongue keep silence, leave my songs to other singers. Horses have their times of resting after many hours of labor, even sickles will grow weary when they have been long at reaping. Waters seek a quiet haven after running long in rivers. Fire subsides and sinks in slumber at the dawning of the morning, therefore I should end my singing as my song is growing weary for the pleasure of the evening, for the joy of mourn arising. Often I have heard it chanted, often heard the words repeated. Worthy cataracts and rivers never empty all their waters. Thus the wise, and worthy singer sings not all his garnered wisdom. Better leave unsung some sayings than to sing them out of season. Thus beginning and thus ending do I roll up all my legends, roll them in a ball for safety, in my memory arrange them in their narrow place of resting, lest the songs escape unheeded while the lock is still unopened, while the teeth remain unparted and the weary tongue is silent. Why should I sing other legends chant them in the glen and forest, sing them on the hill and heather? Cold and still my golden mother lies beneath the meadow sleeping, hears my ancient songs no longer, cannot listen to my singing, only will the forest listen sacred birches sighing pine trees, junipers endowed with kindness, alder trees that love to bear me, with the aspens and the willows. When my loving mother left me young was I and low of stature, like the cuckoo of the forest, like the thrush upon the heather, like the lark I learned to twitter, learned to sing my simple measures guided by a second mother, stern and cold without affection, drove me helpless from my chamber to the wind side of her dwelling, to the north side of her cottage where the chilling winds in mercy carried off the unprotected. As a lark I learned to wander, wander as a lonely songbird through the forests and the fennlands quietly over hills, walk in pain about the marshes, learn the songs of winds and waters, learn the music of the ocean and the echoes of the woodlands. Many men that live to murmur, many women live to censure, many speak with evil motives, many they with wretched voices curse me for my wretched singing, blame my tongue for speaking wisdom, call my ancient songs unworthy, blame the songs and curse the singer. Be not thus my worthy people, blame me not for singing badly, unpretending as a minstrel. I have never had the teaching, never lived with ancient heroes, never learned the tongues of strangers, never claimed to know much wisdom. Others have had language masters, nature was my only teacher, woods and waters my instructors, homeless, friendless, lone and needy, save in childhood with my mother, when beneath her painted rafters where she twirled the flying spindle by the workbench of my brother, by the window of my sister, in the cabin of my father, in my early days of childhood. Be this as it may, my people, this may point the way to others, to the singer's better gifted for the good of future ages, for the coming generations, for the rising folk of Suomi. End of Epilogue Recording by Kyle Robb End of The Kalevala Compiled by Elias Loonroot Translated by John Martin Crawford