 Rune 40 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 Lundrut, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 40, Birth of the Harp. Veinemoynen ancient minstrel onward steered his goodly vessel. Veinemoynen ancient minstrel onward steered his goodly vessel, from the isle of Lemenkainen, from the borders of the village, steered his warship through the waters, sang it o'er the ocean billows, joyful steered it to Poyola. On the banks were maiden standing, and the daughters spake these measures. List the music on the waters, what this wonderful rejoicing, what this singing on the billows. Far more beautiful this singing, this rejoicing on the waters, than our ears have heard in Northland. Veinemoynen the magician steered his wonder vessel onward, steered one day along the seashore, steered the next through shallow waters, steered the third day through the rivers. Then the reckless Lemenkainen suddenly some words remembered, he had heard along the fire stream, near the cataract and whirlpool, and these words the hero uttered, Cease o cataract thy roaring, cease o waterfall thy foaming, maidens of the foam and currents, sitting on the rocks in water. On the stone blocks in the river, take the foam and white capped billows, in your arms and still their anger, that our ships may pass in safety. Aged dame beneath the eddy, thou that livest in the seafoam, swimming rise above the waters, lift thy head above the whirlpool, gather well the foam and billows, in thy arms and still their fury, that our ship may pass in safety. Ye o rocks beneath the current, underneath the angry waters, lower well your heads of danger, sink below our magic vessel, that our ship may pass in safety. Should this prayer prove inefficient, chemo hero, son of Kammo, bore an outlet with thine auger, cut a channel for this vessel through the rocks beneath the waters, that our ship may pass in safety. Should all this prove unavailing, hostess of the running water, change to moss these rocky ledges, change this vessel to an airbag, that between these rocks and billows, it may float and pass in safety. Virgin of the sacred whirlpool, thou whose home is in the river, spin from flax of strongest fiber, spin a thread of crimson color, draw it gently through the water, that the thread our ship may follow and our vessel pass in safety. Goddess of the helm, thou daughter, of the ocean winds and seafoam, take thy helm endowed with mercy, guide our vessel through these dangers, hasten through these floods enchanted, passing by the house of envy, by the gates of the enchanters, that our ship may pass in safety. Should this prayer prove inefficient, uco ruler of creation, guide our vessel with thy fire sword, guide it with thy blade of lightning, through the dangers of these rapids, through the cataract in whirlpool, that our ship may pass in safety. Thereupon Old Vaynamoyne and steered his boat through winds and waters, through the rocky chinks and channels, through the surges wildly tossing and the vessel passed in safety, through the dangers of the current, through the sacred stream and whirlpool as it gains the open waters, gains at length the broad lake's bosom, suddenly its motion ceases on some object firmly anchored. Thereupon young Ilmarinen and the aid of Lemmkainen, plunges in the lake the rudder, struggles with the aid of magic, but he cannot move the vessel, cannot free it from its moorings. Vaynamoyne, old and truthful, thus addresses his companion. O thou hero Lemmkainen, stoop and look beneath this warship, see on what the boat is anchored, see on what our craft is banging, in the broad expanse of water, in the broad lake's deepest soundings, if upon some rock or tree snag, or upon some other hindrance. Thereupon wild Lemmkainen looked beneath the magic vessel, peering through the crystal waters, spake in these the words he uttered. Does not rest upon a sandbar, nor upon a rock or tree snag, but upon the back and shoulders of the mighty pike of Northland, on the fin bones of the monster. Vaynamoyne and old and trusty spake these words to Lemmkainen. Many things we find in water, rocks and trees and fish and sea duck, are we on the pike's broad shoulders, on the fin bones of the monster. Pierce the waters with thy broadsword, cut the monster into pieces. Thereupon wild Lemmkainen, reckless wizard, filled with courage, pulls his broadsword from his girdle, from its sheath, the bone divider, strikes with might of magic hero, headlong falls into the water. And the blacksmith Ilmarinen lifts the wizard from the river, speaks these words to dripping ati. Accidents will come to mortals, accidents will come to heroes, by the hundreds, by the thousands, even to the gods above us. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen drew his broadsword from his girdle, from its sheath his blade of honor, tried to slay the pike of Northland with the weapon of his forging, but he broke his sword in pieces, did not harm the water monster. Vainamoinen, old and trusty, thus addresses his companions. Poor apologies for heroes, when occasion calls for victors, when we need some great magician, need a hero filled with valor, then the arm that comes is feeble, and the mind insane, or witless strength and reason gone to others. Straightway ancient Vainamoinen, miracle of strength and wisdom, draws his fire sword from his girdle, wields the mighty blade of magic, strikes the pike beneath the vessel, and impales the mighty monster. Raises him above the surface, in the air the pike he circles, cuts the monster into pieces, to the water falls the pigtail, to the ship, the head and body, easily the ship moves onward. Vainamoinen, old and faithful, to the shore, directs his vessel, on the strand the boat he anchors, looks in every nook and corner, for the fragments of the monster, gathers well the parts together, speaks these words to those about him. Let the oldest of the heroes slice for me the pike of Northland, slice the fish to fitting morsels, answered all the men and heroes, and the maidens spake assenting. Worthier the catcher's fingers, Vainamoinen's hands are sacred, thereupon the wise magician drew a fishknife from his girdle, sliced the pike to fitting morsels, spake again to those about him. Let the youngest of the maidens cook for me the pike of Northland, set for me a goodly dinner. All the maidens quick responded, all the virgins vied in cooking, neither could outdo the other, thus the pike was rendered toothsome. Feasted all the old magicians, feasted all the younger heroes, feasted all the men and maidens, on the rocks were left the fishbones, only relics of their feasting. Vainamoinen, ancient minstrel, looked upon the pile of fragments, on the fishbones looked and pondered, spake these words in meditation. Wondrous things might be constructed from the relies of this monster, were they in the blacksmith's furnace, in the hands of the magician, in the hands of Ilmarinen, spake the blacksmith of Vainola. Nothing fine can be constructed from the bones and teeth of fishes, by the skillful forger artist, by the hands of the magician. These the words of Vainamoinen, something wondrous might be builded from these jaws and teeth and fishbones, might a magic harp be fashioned, could an artist be discovered, that could shape them to my wishes. But he found no fishbone artist that could shape the harp of joyance, from the relies of their feasting, from the jawbones of the monster, to the will of the magician. Thereupon, wise Vainamoinen set himself at work designing, quick became a fishbone artist, made a harp of wondrous beauty, lasting joy and pride of Suomi, whence the harp's enchanting arches, from the jawbones of the monster, whence the necessary harp pins, from the pike teeth firmly fastened, whence the sweetly singing harp strings, from the tale of Lempostallion. Thus was born the harp of magic, from the mighty pike of Northland, from the relies of the feasting, of the heroes of Vainola. All the young men came to view it, all the aged with their children, mothers with their beauteous daughters, maidens with their golden tresses, all the people of the islands came to view the harp of joyance, pride and beauty of the Northland. Vainamoinen ancient minstrel let the aged try the harp strings, gave it to the young magicians, to the dames and to their daughters, to the maidens silver-tinsled, to the singers of Vainola. When the young men touched the harp strings, then arose the notes of discord, when the aged play upon it, dissonance their only music. Spake the wizard Lemenkainen, oh ye witless worthless children, oh ye senseless useless maidens, oh ye wisdom lacking heroes, cannot play this harp of magic, cannot touch the notes of Concord. Give to me this thing of beauty, hither bring the harp of fishbones, let me try my skillful fingers. Lemenkainen touched the harp strings, carefully the strings adjusted, turned the harp in all directions, fingered all the strings in sequence, played the instrument of wonder, but it did not speak in Concord, did not sing the notes of joyance. Spake the ancient Vainamoinen, there is none among these maidens, none among these youthful heroes, none among the old magicians that can play the harp of magic, touch the notes of joy and pleasure. Let's take the harp to Poya, there to find a skillful player that can touch the strings in Concord. Then they sailed to Sariola, to Poyola, took the wonder, there to find the harp a master. All the heroes of Poyola, all the boys and all the maidens, ancient dames and bearded minstrels, vainly touched the harp of beauty, Lohi, hostess of the Northland, took the harp strings in her fingers, all the youth of Sariola, youth of every tribe and station, vainly touched the harp of fishbone. Could not find the notes of joyance, dissonance, their only pleasure, shriek the harp strings like the whirlwinds, all the tones were harsh and frightful. In the corner slept the blind man, lay a gray beard on the oven, rousing from his couch of slumber, murmured thus within his corner. Seaset, once this wretched playing, make an end of all this discord, it benumbs mine ears for hearing, racks my brain, dispoils my senses, robs me of the sweets of sleeping. If the harp of Suomi's people, true delight cannot engender, cannot bring the notes of pleasure, cannot sing to sleep the aged, cast the thing into the waters, sink it in the deeps of ocean, take it back to Kalevala, to the home of him that made it, to the hands of its creator. Thereupon the harp made answer to the blind man, saying these measures, shall not fall upon the waters, shall not sink within the ocean, I will play for my creator, sing in melody and concord, in the fingers of my master. Carefully the harp was carried to the artist that had made it, to the hands of its creator, to the feet of Vainamoinen. End of Rune 40 41 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 Lonrat, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 41 Vainamoinen's harp songs Vainamoinen, ancient menstrual, the eternal wisdom singer, leaves his hands to snowy whiteness, sits upon the rock of joints, on the stone of song he settles, on the mount of silver clearness, on the summit golden-colored, takes the harp by him created, in his hands the harp of fishbone, with his knee the arch supporting, takes the harp strings in his fingers, speaks these words to those assembled. Here they come, ye Northland people, come and listen to my playing, to the harps and trancing measures, to my songs of joy and gladness. Then the singer of Vainola took the harp of his creation, quick adjusting, sweetly tuning, depth applied his skillful fingers to the strings that he had fashioned. Now was gladness rolled on gladness, and the harmony of pleasure echoed from the hills and mountains, added singing to his playing, out of joy did joy come welling, now resounded marvellous music, All of Northland stopped and listened, every creature in the forest, all the beasts that haunt the woodlands, on their nimble feet came bounding, came to listen to his playing, came to hear his songs of joyance. Leap the squirrels from the branches, merrily from birch to aspen, climb the ermines on the fences, or the plains the elk-deer bounded, and the lynxes purred with pleasure. Wolves awoke in far-off swamplands, bounded o'er the marsh and heather, and the bear his den deserted, left his lair within the pine-wood, settled by a fence to listen, leaned against the listening gate-posts, but the gate-posts yield beneath him. Now he climbs the per tree branches that he may enjoy and wonder, climbs and listens to the music of the harp of Vyna Moinan, Tapiolla's wisest senior, Metzala's most noble landlord, Under Tapiolla the people young and aged men and maidens, flew like red deer up the mountains, there to listen to the playing to the harp of Vyna Moinan. Tapiolla's wisest mistress, hostess of the glen and forest, robed herself in blue and scarlet, bound her limbs with silken ribbons, sacked upon the woodland summit, on the branches of a birch tree, there to listen to the playing to the high-born heroes harping to the songs of Vyna Moinan. All the birds that fly in mid-air, fell like snowflakes from the heavens, flew to hear the minstrels playing, hear the harp of Vyna Moinan. Eagles in their lofty eerie, heard the songs of the Enchanter, Swift they leapt the unfledged young ones, flew and perched around the minstrel. From the heights the hawks descended, from the clouds down swooped the falcon, ducks arose from inland waters, swans came gliding from the marshes, tiny finches green and golden, flew in flocks that darkened sunlight, came in myriads to listen, perched upon the head and shoulders of the charming Vyna Moinan, sweetly singing to the playing of the ancient bard and minstrel. And the daughters of the welkin, nature's well-beloved daughters, listened all in rapt attention. Some were seated on the rainbow, some upon the crimson cladlets, some upon the dome of heaven. In their hands the moon's fair daughters, held their weaving cones of silver. In their hands the sun's sweet maidens, grasped the handles of their disturbs, weaving with their golden shuttles, spinning from their silver spindles, on the red rims of the cladlets, on the bow of many colors. As they hear the minstrel playing, hear the harp of Vyna Moinan, quickly drop their cones of silver, drop the spindles from their fingers, and the golden threads are broken, broken are the threads of silver. All the fish in swarmy waters, heard the songs of the magician, came on flying fins to listen, to the harp of Vyna Moinan, came the trout with graceful motions, water-dogs with awkward movements, from the water-cliffs the salmon, from the sea-caves came the whiting, from the deeper-caves the bill-fish, came the pike from beds of seaforn, little fish with eyes of scarlet, leaning on the reeds and rushes with their heads above the surface. Came to bear the harp of giants, hear the songs of the enchanter, after king of all the waters, ancient king with beard of seagrass, raised his head above the billows in a boat of water lilies, glided to the coast in silence, listen to the wondrous singing, to the harp of Vyna Moinan. These the words the sea-king uttered, never have I heard such playing, never heard such strains of music, never since the sea was fashioned, as the songs of this enchanter, this sweet singer, Vyna Moinan. Sat Co's daughter from the blue-deep sisters of the wave-washed ledges, on the coloured strands were sitting, smoothing out their sea-green tresses with the combs of molten silver, with their silver-handled brushes, brushes forged with golden bristles. When they hear the magic playing, hear the harp of Vyna Moinan, fall their brushes on the billows, fall their combs with silver-handles to the bottom of the waters, unadorn their heads remaining, and uncombed their sea-green tresses. Came the hostess of the waters, ancient hostess robed in flowers, rising from her deep-sea castle, swimming to the shore in wonder, listen to the minstrel's playing, to the harp of Vyna Moinan. As the magic tones re-echoed, as the singer's song out circled, sank the hostess into slumber, on the rocks of many colours, on her watery couch of joyants, deep to the sleep that settled o'er her. Vyna Moinan, ancient minstrel, played one day, and then a second, played the third from mourn to even. There was neither man nor hero, neither ancient dame nor maiden, not in Metzala a daughter, whom he did not touch to weeping, wept the young and wept the aged, wept the mothers, wept the daughters, wept the warriors and heroes at the music of his playing, at the songs of the magician. Vyna Moinan's tears came flowing, welling from the master's eyelids, pearly teardrops coursing downward, larger than the wattle berries, finer than the pearls of ocean, smoother than the eggs of mo'hands, brighter than the eyes of swallows. From his eyes the teardrop started, floated down his borrowed visage, falling from his beard in streamlets, trickled on his heaving bosom, streaming o'er his golden girdle, coursing to his garment's border, then beneath his shoes of ermine flowing on and flowing ever, part to earth for her possession, part to water for her portion. As the teardrops fall and mingle, form their streamlets from the eyelids of the minstrel Vyna Moinan to the blue-mere sandy margin, to the deeps of crystal waters lost among the reeds and rushes, spake at last the ancient minstrel, is there one in all this concourse, one in all this vast assembly, that can gather up my teardrops from the deep, volucid waters? Thus the younger heroes answered, answered thus the bearded seniors, there is none in all this concourse, none in all this vast assembly, that can gather up my teardrops from the deep, volucid waters? Spake again, Vy's Vyna Moinan, he that gathers up my teardrops from the deeps of crystal waters shall receive a beauteous plumage. Came a raven flying, croaking, and the minstrel thus addressed him, bring go raven, bring my teardrops from the crystal lakes abysses, I will give thee beauteous plumage recompense for golden service. But the raven failed his master, came a duck upon the waters, and the hero thus addressed him, bring go water bird my teardrops, often thou dost dive the deep sea, sink thy bill upon the bottom of the waters thou dost travel, dive again my tears to gather, I will give thee beauteous plumage recompense for golden service. There upon the duck departed hither-thither swam and circled, dive beneath the foam and billow, gathered Vyna Moinan's teardrops from the blue sea's pebbly bottom, from the deep, volucid waters, brought them to the great magician, beautifully formed and colored, glistening in the silver sunshine, glimmering in the golden moonlight. Many colored as the rainbow, fitting ornaments for heroes, jewels for the maids of beauty, this the origin of sea pearls, and the blue ducks, beauteous plumage. End of Rune 41 Vyna Moinan, old and truthful, with the blacksmith Ilma Rennan, with the reckless son of Lempo, handsome hero Kalkamele, On the sea's smooth plain departed, on the far-extending waters, to the village cold and dreary, to the never-pleasant Northland, where the heroes fall and perish, Ilma Rennan led the rowers, on one side the magic worship, and the reckless lemon-kinan led the rowers, on the other. Vyna Moinan, old and trusted, laid his hand upon the rudder, steered his vessel of the waters through the foam and angry billows, to Pejola's place of landing, to the cylinders of copper, where the warships lie at anchor. When they had arrived at Poja, when their journey they had ended, on the land they rolled their vessel, on the copper-banded rollers. Straightway journeyed to the village, hastened to the halls and hamlets, of the dismal Sarriola, Luhi hostess of the Northland, thus addressed the stranger heroes, magic heroes of Vanola, what the tidings ye are bringing, to the people of my village. Vyna Moinan, ancient minstrel, gave this answer to the hostess. All the hosts of Cala Vala are inquiring for the Sempo, asking for the lid in colours. Hither have these heroes journeyed, to divide the priceless treasure, thus the hostess spake in answer. No one would divide a partridge, nor a squirrel, with three heroes. Wonderful the magic Sempo, plenty does it bring to Northland, and the coloured lid re-echoes, from the copper-bearing mountains, from the stone-berg of Pejola, to the joy of its possessors. Vyna Moinan, ancient minstrel, thus addressed the ancient Luhi. If thou wilt not share the Sempo, give to us an equal portion, we will take it to Vanola, with its lid of many colours, take by force the hope of Poja. Thereupon the Northland hostess angry grew, and sighed for vengeance, called her people into council, called the hosts of Sarriola, heroes with their trusted broadswords, to destroy old Vyna Moinan, with his people of the Northland. Vyna Moinan, wise and ancient, hastened to his harp of fishbone, and began his magic playing. All of Poja stopped and listened, every warrior was silenced, by the notes of the magician. Peaceful-minded grew the soldiers all the maidens danced with pleasure, while the heroes fell to weeping, and the young men looked in wonder. Vyna Moinan plays unceasing, plays the maidens into slumber, plays to sleep the young and aged. All of Northland sleeps and listens, wise and wondrous Vyna Moinan, the eternal bard and singer. Searches in his pouch of leather, draws there from his slumber arrows, locks the eyelids of the sleepers of the heroes of Pejola, sings and charms to deeper slumber all the warriors of the Northland. Then the heroes of Vanola hastened to obtain the sample, to procure the lid in colours from the copper-bearing mountains, from behind nine locks of copper in the stoneberg of Pejola. Vyna Moinan, ancient minstrel, then began his wondrous sicking, sang in gentle tones of magic at the entrance to the mountain, at the border of the stronghold, trembled all the rocky portals, and the iron-banded pillars fell and crumbled at his singing. Ilma Ridden, magic blacksmith, well anointed all the hinges, all the bars and locks anointed, and the bolts flew back by magic. All the gates unlocked in silence, open for the great magician. Spake the minstrel, Vyna Moinan, O thou daring lemon-kinan, friend of mine in times of trouble, enter thou within the mountain, bring away the wondrous sample, bring away the lid in colours. Quick the reckless lemon-kinan, handsome hero, Kakumeli, ever ready for a venture, hastens to the mountain caverns, there to find the famous sample, there to get the lid in colours, strides along with conscious footsteps. Thus himself he vainly praises. Great am I, and full of glory, wonder hero, son of Ukko, I will bring away the sample, turn about the lid in colours, turn it on its magic hinges. Lemon-kinan finds the wonder, finds the sample in the mountain, labours long with strength heroic, tugs with might and mane to turn it, motionless remains the treasure, deeper sinks the lid in colours, for the roots have grown about it, grown nine fathoms deep in sand-earth. Lived a mighty ox in Northland, powerful in bone and sinew, beautiful in form and colour, horns the length of seven fathoms, mouth and eyes of wondrous beauty, lemon-kinan, reckless hero, harnesses the ox in pasture, takes the master plough of Poja, ploughs the roots about the sample, ploughs around the lid in colours, and the sacred sample loosens, falls the coloured lid in silence, straightway ancient Vayne Moynan, brings the blacksmith Ilmarinan, brings the daring lemon-kinan, lastly brings the magic sample from the stone-berg of Pejola, from the copper-bearing mountain, hides it in his waiting vessel in the warship of Vaynola. Vayne Moynan called his people, called his crew of men and maidens, called together all his heroes, rolled his vessel to the water, into billowy depths and dangers, spake the blacksmith Ilmarinan. Wither shall we take the sample? Wither take the lid in colours, from the stone-berg of Pejola, from this evil spot of Northland. Vayne Moynan, wise and faithful, gave this answer to the question, Wither shall we take the sample? Wither take the lid in colours, to the fog-point on the waters, to the island-forest covered, there the treasure may be hidden, may remain in peace for ages free from trouble, free from danger, where the sword will not molest it. Then the minstrel, Vayne Moynan, joyful, left the Pogia borders. Homeward sailed and happy-hearted, spake these measures on departing, turn, O man of war, from Pogia, turn thy back upon the strangers, turn thou to my distant country, rock, o winds, my magic vessel. Homeward drive my ship, O billows, lend the rowers your assistance, give the oarsmen easy labour, on this vast expanse of waters, give me of thine oars, O acto, lend thine aid, O king of sea-waves, guide us with thy helm in safety, lay thy hand upon the rudder, and direct our warship homeward, let the hooks of metal rattle, or the surging of the billows, on the white-cap waves commotion. Then the master, Vayne Moynan, guided home his willing vessel, and the blacksmith, Ilmarinan, with the lively lemon-kinan, led the mighty host of rowers, and the warship glided homeward, or the sea's unruffled surface, or the mighty waste of waters. Spake the reckless lemon-kinan, once before I rode these billows, there were vians for the heroes, there was singing for the maidens, but today I hear no singing, hear no songs upon the vessel, hear no music on the waters. Vayne Moynan, wise and ancient, answered thus while lemon-kinan, let none sing upon the blue sea, on the waters no rejoicing, singing would prolong our journey, songs disturb the host of rowers. Soon will die the silver sunlight, darkness soon will overtake us, on this evil waste of waters, on this blue sea-smoothened level. These the words of lemon-kinan, time will fly on equal pinions, whether we have songs or silence, soon will disappear the daylight, and the night as quickly follow, whether we be sad or joyous. Vayne Moynan, the magician, or the blue-backs of the billows, steered one day, and then a second, steered the third, from more until even. When the wizard, lemon-kinan, once again addressed the master, why wilt thou, O famous spinstrel, sing no longer for thy people, since the sample thou hast captured, captured too, the lid in colours? These the words of Vayne Moynan, tis not well to sing too early. Time enough for songs of joints, when we see our homeland mansions, when our journeyings have ended. Spake the reckless lemon-kinan, at the helm, if I were sitting, I would sing at morn and evening, though my voice has little sweetness, since thy songs are not forthcoming, listen to my wondrous singing. Thereupon wild lemon-kinan, handsome hero Kakumeli, raised his voice above the waters, or the sea his song resounded, but his measures were discordant, and his notes were harsh and frightful, saying the wizard lemon-kinan, Then screeched the reckless Kakumeli till the mighty worship trembled, far and wide was heard his singing, heard his songs upon the waters, heard within the seventh village, heard beyond the seven oceans, sat a crane within the rushes. On a hillock clothed in verda, and the crane his toes was counting, certainly he heard the singing of the wizard lemon-kinan. Then, with horrid voice and screeching, flew the crane across the broad sea. To the lakes of Sarriola. O'er Pajola's hills and hamlets, screeching, screaming over Northland, till the people of the darkness were awakened from their slumbers. Louhi hastens to her hurdles, hastens to her droves of cattle, hastens also to her garners, counts her herds, inspects her storehouse. Undisturbed she finds her treasures, quick she journeys to the entrance, to the copper-bearing mountain, speaks these words as she approaches, Woe is me, my life had faded, woe to Louhi, broken hearted, hear the tracks of the destroyers, all my locks and bolts are broken, by the hands of cruel strangers, broken are my iron hinges, open stand the mountain portals, leading to the Northland treasure, has Pajola lost her Sampo? Then she hastened to the chambers, where the Sampo had been grinding, but she found the chambers empty, Lid and Sampo gone to others, from the Stoneburg of Pajola. From behind nine locks of copper, in the copper-bearing mountain, Louhi, hostess of the Northland, angry grew and cried for vengeance, as she found her fame departing, found her strength thus disappearing, thus addressed the Seafog Virgin. Daughter of the morning vapours, sift thy fogs from distant cloud-lands, sift the thick air from the heavens, sift the vapours from the aether on the blue-back of the broad sea, on the far-extending waters that the ancient Vayner Moynen, friend of ocean-wave and billow, may not baffle his pursuers. Should this prayer prove unavailing, it could torso sun of old age, raise thy head above the billows, and destroy Vaynolla's heroes, sink them to thy deep-sea castles, there devour them at thy pleasure, bring thou back the golden Sampo to the people of Pajola. Should these words be ineffective, uco-mightiest of rulers, golden king beyond the welkin, sitting on a throne of silver, fill thy skies with heavy storm-clouds, call thy fleetest winds about thee, send them o'er the seven broad seas, there to find the fleeing vessel, that the ancient Vayner Moynen may not baffle his pursuers. Quick the virgin of the vapours, breed the fog upon the waters, made it settle on the warship of the heroes of the Northland, held the minstrel Vayner Moynen anchored in the fog and darkness, bound him one day then a second, then a third till dawn of morning in the middle of the blue sea, since he could not flee in safety from the wroth of his pursuers, when the third night had departed resting in the sea and helpless, Vayner Moynen spake as follows. Not a man of strength and courage, not the weakest of the heroes, who upon the sea will suffer, sink and perish in the vapours, perish in the fog and darkness. With his sword he smoked the billows, from his magic blade flowed honey, quick the vapour breaks and rises, leaves the waters clear for rowing, far extend the sky and waters, large the ring of the horizon, and the troubled sea enlarges, time had journeyed little distance, scarce a moment had passed over, when they heard a mighty roaring, heard a roaring and a rushing, near the border of the vessel, where the foam was shooting skyward, o'er the boat of Vayner Moynen, straightway youthful Ilmarinen, sank in gravest apprehension, from his cheeks the blood departed, pulled his cap down o'er his forehead, shook and trembled with emotion. Vayner Moynen, ancient minstrel, cast his eyes upon the waters, near the broad rim of his warship, there perceives an ocean wonder, with his head above the sea foam. Vayner Moynen, brave and mighty, sees as quick the water monster, lifts him by his ears and questions. Ikuturso, son of old age, why art rising from the blue sea, wherefore dost thou leave thy castle, show thyself to mighty heroes, to the heroes of Vaynola? Ikuturso, son of old age, ocean monster, manifested neither pleasure nor displeasure, was not in the least affrighted, did not give the hero answer, whereupon the ancient minstrel asked the second time the monster urgently inquired a third time Ikuturso, son of old age, why art rising from the waters, wherefore dost thou leave the blue sea? Ikuturso gave this answer, for this cause I left my castle underneath the rolling billows, came I here with the intention to destroy the Kalev heroes, and return the magic sample, to the people of Pejola. If thou wilt restore my freedom, spare my life from pain and sorrow, I will quick retrace my journey, never more to show my visage to the people of Vaynola, never while the moonlight glimmers on the hills of Kalevala. Then the singer, Vayna Moynen, freed the monster Ikuturso, sent him to his deep sea castles, spake these words to him departing, Ikuturso, son of old age, never more arise from ocean, never more let Northland heroes see thy face above the waters. Never more has Ikuturso risen to the ocean level, never since have Northland sailors seen the head of this sea monster. Vayna Moynen, old and truthful, onward rode his goodly vessel, journeyed but a little distance, scarce a moment had passed over, when the king of all creators, mighty Uku of the heavens, made the winds blow full of power, made the storms arise in fury, made them rage upon the waters. From the west the winds came roaring, from the northeast came in anger, winds came howling from the southwest, came the winds from all directions, in their fury rolling roaring, tearing branches from the lindens, hurling needles from the pine trees, blowing flowers from the heather, grasses blowing from the meadow, tearing up the very bottom of the deep and boundless blue sea, roared the winds and lashed the waters, till the waves were white with fury, tossed the warship high in ether, tossed away the harp of fishbone, magic harp of Vayna Moynen, to the joy of King Valamo, to the pleasure of his people, to the happiness of Akto, Akto rising from his caverns, on the floods beheld his people carry off the harp of magic to their home below the billows. Vayna Moynen, ancient minstrel, heavy-hearted, spake these measures, I have lost what I created, I have lost the harp of joyance, now my strength has gone to others, all my pleasure too departed, all my hope and comfort vanished, nevermore the harp of fishbone will enchant the host to sue me. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen, sorrow-laden, spake as follows, woe is me my life hard-fated, would that I had never journeyed on these waters filled with dangers, on the rolling waste before me, in this warship false and feeble winds and storms have I encountered, wretched days of toil and trouble I have witnessed in the Northland, never have I met such dangers, on the land nor on the ocean, never in my hero-lifetime. Then the ancient Vayna Moynen, spake and these the words he uttered, Weep no more, my goodly comrades. In my bark let no one murmur, weeping cannot mend disaster, tears can never still misfortune, mourning cannot save from evil. See, command thy warring forces, bid thy children cease their fury, acto still thy surging billows, sink Vilamo to thy slumber, that our boat may move in safety, rising storm winds to your kingdoms, lift your heads above the waters, to the regions of your kindred, to your people and dominions. Cut the trees within the forest, bend the lindens of the valley, let our vessel sail in safety. Bend the reckless lemon-kinen, handsome wizard, kakumeli. Spake these words in supplication. Come, O eagle-turgielander, bring three feathers from thy pinions. Three, O raven, three, O eagle, to protect this bark from evil. All the heroes of Vaynola call their forces to the rescue and repair the sinking vessel by the aid of muster magic. Vayna Moynen saved his warship, saved his people from destruction, well repaired his ship to battle with the roughest seas of Northland. Steers his mighty boat in safety through the perils of the whirlpool, through the watery deeps and dangers. End of Rune 42, recording by Timothy Ferguson, Gold Coast, Australia. Rune 43 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 Lawnrut, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 43. The Sampo Lost in the Sea. Luhi, hostess of Peugeotla, called her many tribes together, gave the archers bows and arrows, gave the brave men spears and broadswords, fitted out her mightiest warship in the vessel placed her army with their swords a hundred heroes, with their bows a thousand archers, quick erected masts and sailyards, on the masts her sails of linen, hanging like the clouds of heaven, like the white clouds in the aether, sailed across the seas of Peugeot. To retake the wondrous Sampo from the heroes of Vanola, Vayne Moynen, old and faithful, sailed across the deep blue waters, spake these words to Lemon Kynan, O thou daring son of Lempo, best of all my friends and heroes, mount the highest of the top masts, look before you into aether, look behind you at the heavens, well examine the horizon, whether clear or filled with trouble. Climb the daring Lemon Kynan, ever ready for a venture, to the highest of the mast heads, looked he eastward, also westward, looked he northward, also southward, then addressed wise Vayne Moynen, clear the sky appears before me, but behind a dark horizon, in the north the cloud is rising, and a longer cloud at northwest, Vayne Moynen thus made answer, art thou speaking truth or fiction, I am fearful that the warships of Peugeotla are pursuing, look again with keener vision, there upon, while Lemon Kynan looked again and spake as follows, in the distance seems a forest, in the south appears an island, aspen groves with falcons laden, orders laden with the woodgrouse, spake the ancient Vayne Moynen, surely thou art speaking falsehood, tis no forest in the distance, neither aspen birch nor alders laden with the grouse or falcon. I am fearful that Peugeotla follows with her magic armies, look again with keener vision, then the daring Lemon Kynan looked the third time from the top mast, spake in these the words he uttered from the north a boat pursues us, driven by a hundred rowers, carrying a thousand heroes, knew at last old Vayne Moynen, knew the truth of his inquiry, thus addressed his fleeing people, roo o blacksmith Ilmarinen, roo o mighty Lemon Kynan, roo all ye my noble oarsmen, that our boat may skim the waters, may escape from our pursuers, roo the blacksmith Ilmarinen, roo the mighty Lemon Kynan, with them roo the other heroes, heavily grown the helm of birchwood, loudly rattled all the rollox. All the vessel shook and trembled like a cataract it thundered, as it ploughed the waste of waters, tossing sea foam to the heavens, strongly rode Vaynolla's forces, strongly were their arms united, but the distance did not widen, tweaked the boat and their pursuers, quick the hero Vayne Moynen, saw Miss Fortune hanging over, saw destruction in the distance, heavy-hearted, long-reflecting, trouble-laden, spake as follows. Only is there one salvation, no one miracle for safety, then he grasped his box of tinder, from the box he took of Flintstone, of the tinder took some fragments, cast the fragments on the waters, spake these words of master-magic. Let from these arise a mountain, from the bottom of the deep sea, let a rock arise in water, that the worship of Bejola, with her thousand men and heroes, may be wrecked upon the summit, by the aid of surging billows. Instantly a reef arises, in the sea springs up a mountain, eastward westward through the waters, came the worship of the Northland, through the floods the boat came steering, sailed against the mountain ledges, fastened on the rocks in water, wrecked upon the mount of magic, in the deep sea fell the top masts, fell the sails upon the billows. Carried by the winds and waters, o'er the waves of toil and trouble, Luhi, hostess of Bejola, tries to free her sinking vessel, tries to rescue from destruction, but she cannot raise the warship. Firmly fixed upon the mountain, shattered are the ribs and rudder, ruined is the ship of Pogia, then the hostess of the Northland, much disheartened Spakers follows, where the force in earth or heaven, that will help us all in trouble. Quick she changes form and feature, makes herself another body, takes five sharpened sides of iron, also takes five goodly sickles, shapes them into eagle talons, takes the body of the vessel, makes the framework of an eagle, takes the vessel's ribs and flooring, makes them into wings and breastplate, for the tail she shapes the rudder. In the wings she plants a thousand, seniors with their bows and arrows, sets a thousand magic heroes, in the body armed with broadsaws, in the tail a hundred archers, with their deadly spears and crossbows, thus the bird is hero-feathered. Quick she spreads her mighty pinions, rises as a monster eagle, flies on high and soars in circles, with one wing she sweeps the heavens, while the other sweeps the waters, spake the hero's ocean mother, O thou ancient Vayna Moynan, turn thy vision to the northeast, cast thine eyes upon the sunrise, look behind thy fleeing vessel, see the eagle of misfortune. Vayna Moynan turned as bitten, turned his vision to the northeast, cast his eyes upon the sunrise, there beheld the Northland hostess, wicked witch of Sarriola, flying as a monster eagle, sweeping on his mighty warship, flies and perches on the top mast, on the saliard's firmly settles, nearly overturns the vessel, of the heroes of Vaynaulah, underneath the weight of Envy. Then the hero Ilma Moynan turned to Ukko as his refuge, thus entreated his creator, Ukko, thou O God in heaven, thou creator full of mercy, guardest from impending danger, that thy children may not perish, may not meet with fell destruction, hither bring thy magic fire-cloak, that thy people thus protect may resist Pejola's forces, well may fight against the hostess of the dismal Sarriola, may not fall before her weapons, may not in the deep sea perish. Then the ancient Vayna Moynan thus addressed the ancient Luhi, O thou hostess of Pejola, wilt thou now divide the Sampo, on the fog-point in the water, on the island forest covered? Thus the Northland hostess answered, I will not divide the Sampo, not with thee thou evil wizard, not with wicked Vayna Moynan, quick the mighty eagle Luhi, swoops upon the lid in colours, grasps the Sampo in her talons, but the daring lemon-kinan straightway draws his blade of battle, draws his broadsword from his girdle, cleaves the talons of the eagle, wanto only is uninjured, speaks these magic words of conquest, down ye spears and down ye broadswords, down ye thousand witless heroes, down ye feathered hosts of Luhi, spake the hostess of Pejola, calling screeching from the saliards, O thou faithless lemon-kinan, wicked wizard, Kakumeli, to deceive thy trusting mother, thou didst give to her thy promise not to go to war for ages, not to war for sixty summers, though desire for gold impels thee, though thou wishest gold and silver. Vayna Moynan, ancient hero, the eternal wisdom-singer, thinking he had met destruction, snatched the rudder from the waters, with it smote the monster eagle. Smote the eagle's iron talons, smote her countless feathered heroes, from her breast her hosts descended, spearmen fell upon the billows, from the wings descend a thousand, from the tail a hundred archers, swoops again the bird of Poja, to the bottom of the vessel, like the hawk from Birch or Aspen, like the falcon from the Linden, grasps the sampo with one talon, drags the treasure to the waters, drops the magic lid in colours, from the redrim of the warship to the bottom of the deep sea, where the sampo breaks in pieces, scatters through the aloo waters, in the mighty deeps for ages to increase the oceans' treasures, treasures for the host of Akto. Nevermore will there be wanting riches for the Akto nation, never while the moonlight brightens, on the waters of the Northland, many fragments of the sampo floated on the purple waters, on the waters deep and boundless, rocked by winds and waves of swami, carried by the rolling billows, to the seasides of Vainola. Vainamoinen ancient minstrel saw the fragments of the treasure floating on the billows' landward, fragments of the lid in colours, much rejoicing spake as follows, thence will come the sprouting seed-grain, the beginning of good fortune, the unending of resources, from the plowing and the sowing from the glimmer of the moonlight, from the splendour of the sunshine, on the fertile plains of swami, on the meads of Calavala. Luhi hostess of Pajola thus addressed Old Vainamoinen, know I other mighty measures, know I means that are efficient, and against thy golden moonlight, and the splendour of thy sunshine, and thy plowing, and thy reaping, in the rocks or sink the moon-beams, hide the sun within the mountain. Let the frost destroy thy sowings, freeze the crops on all thy cornfields, iron hail I'll send from heaven, on the richness of thine acres, on the barley of thy planting, I will drive the bear from forests, send the otso from the thickets, that he may destroy the cattle, may annihilate thy sheepfolds, may destroy thy seeds at pasture, I will send thee nine diseases each more fatal than the other, that will sicken all thy people, make thy children sink and perish, never more to visit Northland, never while the moonlight glimmers, on the plains of Calavala. Thus the ancient bard made answer, not a laplander can banish Vainamoinen and his people, never can a tourge-lander drive my tribes from Calavala. God alone has power to banish, God controls the fate of nations, never trusts the arms of evil, never gives his strength to others. As I trust in my creator, call upon Benin and Uko, he will guard my crops from danger, drive the frost-fiend from my cornfields, drive great otso to his caverns, wicked Luhi of Pajola, thou canst banish evil-doers, in the rocks canst hide the wicked, in thy mountains lock the guilty, thou canst never hide the moonlight, never bide the silver sunshine, in the caverns of thy kingdom, freeze the crops of thine own planting, freeze the barley of thy sowing, send thine iron hail from heaven to destroy the lapland cornfields, to annihilate thy people, to destroy the hosts of Pogia, send great otso from the heather, send the sharp-tooth from the forest, to the fields of Saraiola, and the herds and flocks of Luhi. Thus the wicked hostess answered, All my power has departed, all my strength has gone to others, all my hope is in the deep sea, in the waters lies my Sampo. Then the hostess of Pajola, home-departed, weeping, wailing, to the land of cold and darkness, only took some worthless fragments of the Sampo to her people, carried she the lid to Pogia, in the blue sea left the handle, hence the poverty of Northland, and the famines of Pajola. Vayne Moinen, ancient minstrel, hastened to the broad sea's margin, stepped upon the shore in joyance, found their fragments of the Sampo, fragments of the lead in colours, on the borders of the waters, on the curving sands and seasides, gathered well the Sampo relics from the waters near the fog-point, on the island forest covered, spake the ancient Vayne Moinen, spake these words in supplication, grant-o-Uko our Creator, grant to us Thy needful children peace and happiness and plenty, that our lives may be successful, that our days may end in honour, on the veils and hills of Swami, on the prairies of Vaynola, in the homes of Calavala, Uko wise and good Creator, Uko God of love and mercy, shelter and protect Thy people from the evil-minded heroes, from the wiles of wicked women, that our country's plagues may leave us, that the faithful tribes may prosper, be our friend and strong protector, be the helper of Thy children, in the night a roof above them, in the day a shield around them, that the sunshine may not vanish, that the moonlight may not lessen, that the killing frosts may leave them, and destructive hail pass over, build a metal wall around us, from the valleys to the heavens, build of stone a mighty fortress, on the borders of Vaynola, where Thy people live and labour, as their dwelling place forever, sure protection to Thy people, where the wicked may not enter, nor the thieves break through in pilfer, never while the moonlight glistens, and the sun brings golden blessings, to the plains of Calavala. Vaynamoin an ancient minstrel, long reflecting, saying these measures, it is now the time befitting to awaken joy and gladness, time for me to touch the harp strings, time to sing the songs, primeval, in these spacious halls and mansions, in these homes of Calavala. But alas my harp lies hidden, sunk upon the deep seas' bottom, to the salmon's hiding-places, to the dwellings of the Whiting, to the people of Valamo, where the Northland Pike assemble, nevermore will I regain it, acto never will return it, joy and music gone forever. O thou blacksmith Ilmarenan, forge for me a rake of iron, thickly set the teeth of copper, many fathoms long the handle, make a rake to search the waters, search the broad sea to the bottom, rake the weeds and reeds together, rake them to the curving seashore, that I may regain my treasure, may regain my harp of fishbow, from the Whiting's place of resting, from the caverns of the salmon, from the castles of Valamo. Thereupon young Ilmarenan, the eternal metal-worker, forges well a rake of iron, teeth in length a hundred fathoms, and a thousand long the handle, thickly sets the teeth of copper, straightway ancient Vaynamoinan, takes the rake of magic metals, travels but a little distance, to the cylinders of Oakwood, to the copper-banded rollers. Where he finds two ships awaiting, one was new the other, ancient Vaynamoinan, old and faithful, thus address the new-made vessel. Go thou boat of master magic, hasten to the willing waters, speed away upon the blue sea, and without the hand to move thee, let my will impel thee seaward. Quick the boat rolled to the billows, on the cylinders of Oakwood, quick descended to the waters, willingly obeyed his master, Vaynamoinan the magician, then began to rake the sea-beds, raked up all the water-flowers, bits of broken reeds and rushes. Deep sea-shells and coloured pebbles, did not find his harper fish-bone, lost forever to Vaynola. Thereupon the ancient minstrel left the waters homeward hastened, cap pulled down upon his forehead, sang this song with sorrow laden, Nevermore shall I awaken, with my harp-strings joy and gladness, Nevermore will Vaynamoinan charm the people of the Northland, with the harp of his creation, Nevermore my songs will echo, o'er the hills of Calavala. Thereupon the ancient singer went lamenting through the forest, wandered through the sighing pine-woods, heard the wailing of a birch-tree, heard a juniper complaining, drawing nearer waits and listens, thus the birch-tree he addresses, Wherefore, brother, art thou weeping, merry birch enrobed in silver, silver-leaved and silver-tassled, art thou shedding tears of sorrow, since thou art not led to battle, not enforced to war with wizards? Wisely does the birch make answer, this the language of the many, others speak as thou unjustly, that I only live in pleasure, that my silver leaves and tassles only whisper my rejoicings, that I have no cares, no sorrows, that I have no ours unhappy, knowing neither pain nor trouble, I am weeping for my smallness, am lamenting for my weakness, have no sympathy, no pity, stand he emotionless for ages, stand alone in fenn and forest, in these woodlands vast and joyless, others hope for coming summers, for the beauties of the springtime I, alas, a helpless birch-tree, dread the changing of the seasons, I must give my bark to others, lose my leaves and silken tassles, men come the swarmy children, peel my bark and drink my lifeblood, wicked shepherds in the summer, come and steal my belt of silver, of my bark make berry baskets, dishes make and cups for drinking, often times the Northland maidens cut my tender limbs for birch brooms, bind my twigs and silver tassles into brooms to sweep their cabins, often have the Northland heroes chopped me into chips for burning, three times in the summer season, in the pleasant days of springtime, foresters have ground their axes on my silver trunk and branches, robbed me of my life for ages, this my springtime joy and pleasure, this my happiness in summer and my winter days no better, when I think of former troubles, sorrow settles on my visage, and my face grows white with anguish, often do the winds of winter and the whorefrost bring me sadness, blast my tender leaves and tassles, bear my foliage to others, rob me of my silver rain-ment, leave me naked on the mountain, lone and helpless, and disheartened. Spake the good old vain amoinan, weep no longer sacred birch tree, mourn no more my friend and brother, thou shalt have a better fortune, I will turn thy grief to giants, make thee laugh and sing with gladness. Then the ancient vain amoinan, made a harp from sacred birch wood, fashioned in the days of summer, beautiful the harp of magic by the master's hand created. On the fog-point in the big sea, on the island forest covered, fashioned from the birch the archings, and the framework from the aspen, these the words of the magician. All the archings are completed, and the frame is fitly finished, whence the hooks and pins for tuning that the harp may sing in concord. Near the wayside grew an oak tree, skyward grew with equal branches, on each twig an acorn growing, golden balls upon each acorn, on each ball a singing cuckoo, as each cuckoo's core resounded, five the notes of song that issued, from the songstress's throat of giants, from each throat came liquid music, gold and silver for the master, flowing to the hills and hillocks, to the silvery veils and mountains, thence he took the merry harp-pins, that the harp might play in concord. Spake again, wise vain amoinan, I the pins have well completed, still the harp is yet unfinished, now I need five strings for playing, where shall I procure the harp-strings? Then the ancient bard and minstrel journeyed through the fenn and forest on a hillock sat a maiden, sat a virgin of the valley, and the maiden was not weeping, joyful was the silvan daughter, singing with the woodland songstress, that the even tide might hasten in the hope that her beloved would the sooner sit beside her. Vain amoinan, old and trusted, hasten tripping to the virgin, asked her for her golden ringlets. These the words of the magician, Give me maiden of thy tresses, give to me thy golden ringlets, I will weave them into harp-strings, to the joy of vain amoinan, to the pleasure of his people. Thereupon the forest maiden gave the singer of her tresses, gave him of her golden ringlets, and of these he made the harp-strings. Sources of eternal pleasure to the people of vainola. Thus the sacred harp is finished, and the minstrel, vain amoinan, sits upon the rock of joyance, takes the harp within his fingers, turns the arch-up-looking skyward, with his knee the arch supporting, sets the strings in tuneful order, runs his fingers o'er the harp-strings, and the notes of pleasure follow, straightway ancient vain amoinan, the eternal wisdom-singer plays upon his harp of birchwood. Far away is heard the music, wide the harp of joy re-echoes, mountains dance and valleys listen, flinty rocks are torn asunder, stones are hurled upon the waters, pebbles swim upon the big sea, pines and lindons laugh with pleasure, all does skip about the heather, and the aspen sways in concord, all the daughters of vainola straightway leave their shining needles, hasten forward like the current, speed along like rapid rivers, that they may enjoy and wonder, laugh the younger men and maidens, happy-hearted are the matrons, flying swift to hear the playing, to enjoy the common pleasure, hear the harp of vain amoinan, aged men and bearded seniors, grey-head mothers with their daughters, stop in wonderment and listen, creeps the babe in full enjoyment as he hears the magic singing, hears the harp of vain amoinan, all the Northland stops in wonder, speaks in unison these measures. Never have we heard such playing, never heard such strains of music, never since the earth was fashioned, as the songs of this magician, this sweet singer vain amoinan. Far and wide the sweet tones echo, ring throughout the seven hamlets, o'er the seven islands echo, every creature of the Northland hastens forth to look and listen, listen to the songs of gladness. To the harp of vain amoinan, all the beasts that haunt the woodlands fall upon their knees and wonder at the playing of the minstrel, at his miracles of concord, all the songsters of the forests perch upon the trembling branches, singing to the wondrous playing of the harp of vain amoinan, all the dwellers of the waters leave their beds and eaves and grottoes, swim against the shore and listen to the playing of the minstrel, to the harp of vain amoinan, all the little things in nature rise from earth and fall from ether, come and listen to the music, to the notes of the enchanter, to the songs of the magician, to the harp of vain amoinan. Plays the singer of the Northland, plays in miracles of sweetness, plays one day and then a second, plays the third from more until even, plays within the halls and cabins in the dwellings of his people, till the floors and ceilings echo, till resound the roofs of pine wood, till the windows speak and tremble, till the portals echo joyants, and the hearthstones sing in pleasure as he journeys through the forest, as he wanders through the woodlands, pine and sob-tree bid him welcome, birch and willow bender basins, beech and aspen bough submission, and the linden waves her branches, to the measure of his playing, to the notes of the magician, as the minstrel plays and wanders, sings upon the mead and heather. Glen and hill his songs re-echo, fends and flowers laugh in pleasure, and the shrubs attune their voices to the music of the harp strings, to the songs of vain amoinan. End of Rune 44. Recording by Timothy Ferguson, Gold Coast, Australia. Rune 45. 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 Ilias Lönhard, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 45. Birth of the nine diseases. Lohi, hostess of the Northland, heard the word in Sarayola, heard the news with ears of envy, that Vainola lives and prospers, that osmoin and sweath increases, through the ruins of the sample, ruins of the linden colors. Thereupon her wrath she kindled, well considered, long reflected, how she might prepare destruction for the people of Vainola, for the tribes of Kalevala. With this prayer she turns to Uko, thus entreats the god of thunder. Uko, thou who art in heaven, help me slay Vainola's people, with thine iron hail of justice, with thine arrows tipped with lightning, or from sickness let them perish, let them die the death deserving, let the men die in the forest, and the women in the hurdles. The blind daughter of Tuoni, old and wicked witch Loviatar, worst of all the deathland women, ugliest of manas children, source of all the host of evils, all the ills and plagues of Northland, black in heart and soul and visage, evil genius of Lapala, made her couch along the wayside, on the fields of sin and sorrow. Turned her back upon the east wind, to the source of stormy weather, to the chilling winds of mourning. When the winds arose at evening, heavy laden grew Loviatar, through the east winds impregnation, on the sand plains vast and barren. Long she bore her weight of trouble, many moons she suffered anguish, till at last she leaves the desert, makes her couch within the forest, on a rock upon the mountain. Labors long to leave her burden by the mountain springs and fountains, by the crystal waters flowing, by the sacred stream and whirlpool, by the cataract and fire stream, but her burden does not lighten. Blind Loviatar, old and ugly, knew not where to look for succour, how to lose her weight of sorrow, where to lay her evil children. Spake the highest from the heavens, these the words of mighty Ukko, is a triangle in swamp field, near the border of the ocean, in the never-pleasant Northland, in the dismaled Sariola. This ago, and lay thy burden, in Poyola, leave thine offspring. There the Laplandas await thee, there will bid thy children welcome. There upon the blind Loviatar, blackest daughter of Tuoni, manas old and ugly maiden, hastened on her journey northward, to the chambers of Poyola, to the ancient halls of Lowy, there to lay her heavy burdens, there to leave her evil offspring. Lowy, hostess of the Northland, old and toothless witch of Poyola, takes Loviatar to her mansion. Silently she leads the stranger to the bathrooms of her chamber, pours the foaming beer of Bali, lubricates the bolts and hinges, that their movements may be secret, speaks these measures to Loviatar. Faithful daughter of creation, thou most beautiful of women, first and last of ancient mothers, hasten on thy feet to ocean, to the ocean center hasten, take the seafoam from the waters, take the honey of the mermaids, and anoint thy sacred members, that thy labours may be lightened. Should all this be unavailing, Uko, thou who art in heaven, hasten hither, thou art needed, come thou to thy child in trouble, help the helpless and afflict it. Take thy golden colored scepter, charm away opposing forces, strike the pillars of the stronghold, open all resisting portals, that the great and small may wander, from their ancient hiding places, through the courts and halls of freedom. Finally the blind Loviatar, wicked witch of Tuonella, was delivered of her burden, later offspring in the cradle, underneath the golden covers. Thus at last were born nine children, in an evening of the summer, from Loviatar, blind and ancient, ugly daughter of Tuoni. Faithfully the virgin mother, guards her children in affection, as an artist loves and nurses, what his skillful hands have fashioned. Thus Loviatar, named her offspring, colleague, plurisy, and fever, ulcer, plague, and dread consumption, gout, sterility, and cancer. And the worst of these nine children, blind Loviatar, quickly banished, drove away as an enchanter, to bewitch the lowland people, to engender strife and envy. Lohe, hostess of Pojola, banished all the other children, to the fog-point in the ocean, to the island-forest covered, banished all the fatal creatures, gave these wicked sons of evil, to the people of Vainola, to the youth of Kalevala, for the Calius stripes destruction. Quick Vainola's maiden-sicken, young and aged, man and heroes, with the worst of all diseases, with diseases new and nameless, sick and dying is Vainola. Thereupon old Vainamoinen, wise and wonderful enchanter, hastens to his people's rescue, hastens to a war with Manna, to a conflict with Tuoni, to destroy the evil children of the evil-made Loviatar. Vainamoinen heats the bathrooms, heats the blocks of healing sandstone, with the magic wood of Northland, gathered by the sacred river. Water brings in covered buckets, from the cataract and whirlpool, brooms he brings and wrapped with urmine, well the bath the healer cleanses, softens well the brooms of birchwood, then a honey-heat he wakens, fills the rooms with healing vapours, from the virtue of the pebbles, glowing in the heat of magic. Thus he speaks in supplication. Come, O Uko, to my rescue, guard of mercy, lend thy presence, give these vapour-baths new virtues, grant to them the powers of healing, and restore my dying people, drive away these fell diseases, banish them to the unworthy, let the holy sparks and kindle, keep this heat in healing limits, that it may not harm thy children, may not injure thee afflicted. When I pour the sacred waters on the heated blocks of sandstone, may the water turn to honey, laden with the balm of healing. Let the stream of magic virtues ceaseless flow to all my children, from this bath enrolled in seamos, that the guiltless may not suffer, that my tribe folk may not perish, till the master gives permission, until Uko sends his minions, sends diseases of his choosing, to destroy my trusting people. Let the hostess of Poryola, wicked witch that sent these troubles, suffer from annoying conscience, suffer for her evil doings. Should the master of Vainola, lose his magic skill and weaken, should he prove of little service, to deliver from misfortune, to deliver from these evils, then may Uko be our healer, be our strength and wise physician. Omnipresent God of mercy, thou will livest in the heavens, hasten hither, thou art needed, hasten to thine ailing children, to observe their cruel tortures, to dispel these fell diseases, drive destruction from our borders. Bring with thee thy mighty fire-sword, bring to me thy blade of lightning, that I may subdue these evils, that these monsters I may banish, send these pains and ills and tortures, to the empire of Torni, to the kingdom of the east winds, to the islands of the wicked, to the caverns of the demons, to the rocks within the mountains, to the hidden beds of iron, that the rocks may fall and sicken, and the beds of iron perish. Rocks and metals do not murmur at the hands of the invader. Torture, daughter of Torni, sitting on the mound of anguish, at the junction of three rivers, turning rocks of pain and torture, turn away these fell diseases, through the virtues of the bluestone, lead them to the water channels, sink them in the deeps of ocean, where the winds can never find them, where the sunlight never enters. Should this prayer prove unavailing, O health virgin, made of beauty, come and heal my dying people, still their agonies and anguish, give them consciousness and comfort, give them healthful rest and slumber, these diseases take and banish, take them in thy copper vessel, to thy eaves within the mountains, to the summit of the pain rock, hurl them to thy boiling cauldrons. In the mountain is a touchstone, lucky stone of ancient story, with a hole bore through the center. Through this pour these pains and tortures, wretched feelings, thoughts of evil, human ailments, days unlucky, tribulations and misfortunes, that they may not rise at evening, may not see the light of mourning. Ending thus, O dweinamoinen, the eternal wise enchanter, rubbed his sufferers with balsams, rubbed the tissues red and painful, with the balm of healing flowers. Balsams made of herbs enchanted, sprinkled all with healing vapors, spake these words in supplication. Ukodau who art in heaven, God of justice and of mercy, send us from the east the rain cloud, send the dark cloud from the northwest, from the north that fall a third one, send us mingled rain and honey, balsam from the great physician, to remove this plague of Northland. What I know of healing measures only comes from my Creator, lend me, therefore, of thy wisdom, that I may relieve my people, save them from the fell destroyer, if my hands should fall in virtue, let the hands of Ukko follow, God alone can save from trouble. Come to us with thine enchantment, speak the magic words of healing, that my people may not perish, give to all alleviation from their sicknesses and sorrows, in the morning, in the evening, let their wasting ailments vanish, drive the death child from Vainola, never more to visit Northland, never in the course of ages, never while the moonlight glimmers over the lakes of Kalevala. Vainamoin and the enchanter, the eternal wisdom singer, thus expelled the nine diseases, evil children of Loviatar, healed the tribes of Kalevala, saved his people from destruction. End of Rune 45 Recording by Sonja Rune 46 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 Lunrutt, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 46 Otso the Honey Eater Came the tidings to Pejola to the village of the Northland that Vainola had recovered from her troubles and misfortunes. From her sicknesses and sorrows, Lou he hostess of the Northland, toothless steam of Sarriola, envy laden spake these measures. Know I other means of trouble, I have many more resources, I will drive the bear before me, from the heather and the mountain, drive him from the fair, to the north, to the mountain, drive him from the fenn and forest, drive great Utso from the Glenwood, on the cattle of Vainola, on the flocks of Kalevala. Thereupon the Northland hostess drove the hungry bear of Poja from his caverns to the meadows, to Vainola's plains and pastures, vain a moinen ancient minstrel, to his brother spake as follows. O thou blacksmith Ilmarinen, forge a spear from magic metals, forge a lancet triple-pointed, forge the handle out of copper, that I may destroy great Utso, slay the mighty bear of Northland, that he may not eat my horses, nor destroy my herds of cattle, nor the flocks upon my pastures. Thereupon the skillful blacksmith forged a spear from magic metals, forged a lancet triple-pointed, not the longest nor the shortest, forged the spear in wondrous beauty, on one side a bear was sitting, sat a wolf upon the other, on the blade an elk lay sleeping, on the shaft a colt was running, near the hilt a roebuck bounding. Snows had fallen from the heavens, made the flocks as white as ermine, or the hair in days of winter, and the minstrel sang these measures. My desire impels me onward to the met-sola dominions, to the homes of forest maidens, to the courts of the white virgins I will hasten to the forest, labour with the woodland forces. Ruler of the Tapeo forests, make of me a conquering hero, help me clear these boundless woodlands. O miliki forest hostess, Tapio's wife, thou fair T'Levo, call thy dogs and well and chain them, set in readiness thy hunters, let them wait within their kennels. Otso thou, O forest apple, bear of honey pours and fur robes, learn that vain a moin and follows, that the singer comes to meet thee, hide thy claws within thy mittens, let thy teeth remain in darkness, that they may not harm the minstrel, may be powerless in battle. Mighty Otso much beloved, honey eater of the mountains, settle on the rocks in slumber, on the turf and in the mountains, let thy teeth remain in darkness, settle on the rocks in slumber, on the turf and in thy caverns, let the aspen wave above thee, let the merry birch tree rustle o'er thy head for thy protection, rest in peace thou much loved Otso, turn about within thy thickets, like the partridge at her brooding, in the springtime like the wild goose. When the ancient vain a moin and heard his dog bark in the forest, heard his hunters call and echo, he addressed the words that follow. Thought it was the cuckoo calling, thought the pretty bird was singing, it was not the sacred cuckoo, not the liquid notes of songsters, twas my dog that called and murmured, twas the echo of my hunter, at the cavern doors of Otso, on the border of the woodlands. Vayne a moin and old and trusty, finds the mighty bear in waiting, lifts enjoy the golden covers, well inspects his shining fur robes, lifts his golden fur robes, lifts his golden fur robes, lifts his shining fur robes, lifts his honey pours in wonder, then addresses his creator. Be thou praised, O mighty Uko, as thou givest me great Otso, givest me the forest apple, thanks be paid to the unending. To the bear he spake these measures. Otso thou my well beloved, honey eater of the woodlands, let not anger swell thy bosom. I have not the force to slay thee, willingly thy life, thou givest, as a sacrifice to Northland. Thou hast from the tree descended, glided from the aspen branches, slippery the trunks in autumn, in the fog-day smooth the branches, golden friend of fen and forest, in thy fur robes rich and beautious, pride of woodlands, famous light-foot, leave thy cold and chillest dwelling, leave thy home within the alders, leave thy couch among the willows, have thy life, leave thy couch among the willows, hasten in thy purple stockings, hasten from thy walks restricted, come among the haunts of heroes, join thy friend in Kalavala, we shall never treat the evil. Thou shalt dwell in peace and plenty, thou shalt feed on milk and honey, honey is the food of strangers, haste away from this thy covert, from the couch of the unworthy, to a couch beneath the rafters of Vainola's ancient dwellings, haste the onward o'er the snow-plane, as a leaflet in the autumn, skipped beneath these birchen branches, as a squirrel in the summer, as a cuckoo in the springtime. Vainamoinen, the magician, the eternal wisdom-singer, over the snow-fields hastened homeward, singing o'er the hills and mountains. With his guest, the ancient Otso, with his friend, the famous light-foot, with the honeypaw of Northland, far away was heard the singing. Heard the playing of the hunter, heard the songs of Vainamoinen, all the people heard and wondered, men and maidens, young and aged, from their cabins, spakers follows. Hear the echoes from the woodlands, hear the bugle from the forest, hear the flute-notes of the songsters, hear the pipes of forest maidens. Vainamoinen, old and trusty, soon appears within the courtyard, rush the people from their cabins and the heroes ask these questions. Has a mine of gold been opened? Has there found a vein of silver, precious jewels in thy pathway? Does the forest yield her treasures? Give to thee the honey-eater? Does the hostess of the woodlands give to thee the links and adder, since thou comest home rejoicing, playing, singing on thy snowshoes?" Vainamoinen, ancient and censored to his people. For his songs I caught the adder, caught the serpent for his wisdom, therefore do I come rejoicing, singing, playing on my snowshoes. Not the mountain, links, nor serpent, comes, however, to our dwellings. The illustrious is coming, pride and beauty of the forest, till the master comes among us. Covered with his friendly fur robe, welcome Otso, welcome Lightfoot, welcome loved one from the Glenwood. If the mountain guest is welcome, open wide the gates of entry. If the bear is thought unworthy, bar the doors against the stranger. This the answer of the tribe folk? We salute thee, mighty Otso, honey-poor we bid thee welcome. Welcome to our courts and cabins. Welcome Lightfoot to our tables, decorated for thy coming. We have wished for thee for ages, making since the days of childhood, for the notes of Tapio's bugle, for the singing of the wood nymphs, for the coming of dear Otso, for the forest gold and silver, waiting for the year of plenty, longing for it as for summer. As the shoe waits for the snow fields, as the sledge for beaten highways, as the maiden for her suitor, and the wife her husband's coming, sat at evening by the windows. At the gates have sat at morning, sat for ages at the portals. Near the granaries in the winter vanished, till the snow fields warmed, and till the sails unfurled in joyance, till the earth grew green and blossomed, thinking all the while as follows. Where is our beloved Otso? Who delays our forest treasure? Has he gone to distant Estland, to the upper glens of Swammy? Spake the ancient vainer moinen. Wither shall I lead the stranger. Wither take the golden lightfoot. Shall I lead him to the garner? To the house of straw conduct him? This the answer of his tribefolk. To the dining hall lead Otso, greatest hero of the Northland. Famous lightfoot, forest, apple, pride, and glory of the woodlands. Have no fear before these maidens. Fear not curly-headed virgins. Clad in silver-tinsled maidens hastened to their chambers when dear Otso joins their number. When the hero comes among them. This the prayer of vainer moinen. Grant O'Uko peace and plenty underneath these painted rafters in this ornamented dwelling thanks be paid to gracious O'ko. Spake again the ancient minstrel. Wither shall we lead dear Otso. Wither take the furclad stranger. This the answer of his people. Hither let the furrobed lightfoot be saluted on his coming. Let the honeypaw be welcomed. To the hearthstone of the penthouse. Welcome to the boiling cauldrons. That we may admire his furrobe. May behold his cloak with joints. Have no care thou much-loved Otso. Let not anger swell thy bosom. As thy coat we view with pleasure. We thy fur shall never injure. Shall not make it into garments to protect unworthy people. Thereupon wise vainer moinen pulled the sacred robe from Otso, spread it in the open courtyard, cut the members into fragments, laid them in the heating cauldrons, in the copper-bottom vessels, o' the fire the crane was hanging. On the crane were hooks of copper, on the hooks the broiling vessels filled with barestake for the feasting, seasoned with the salt of dhuina, from the Saxon land imported, from the distant dhuina waters, from the salzi bought in shallops. Ready is the feast of Otso. From the fire a swung the kettles, on the crane of polished iron, in the centres of the tables, is the bare displayed in dishes, golden dishes decorated, of the fir tree and the linden were the tables newly fashioned. Drinking cups were forged from copper, knives of gold and spoons of silver filled the vessels to their borders with the choicest bits of light-foot, fragments of the forest-apple, spake the ancient vein of moinen, ancient one with bosom golden, potent voice in tapioe's council, metzola's most lovely hostess, hostess of the glen and forest, hero's son of tapioe-ola, stalwart youth in cap of scarlet, tapioe's most beautiful virgin, fair to loevo of the woodlands, metzola with all her people, come and welcome to the feasting, to the marriage-feast of Otso, all sufficient the provisions, food to eat and drink abundant, plenty for the hosts assembled, plenty more to give the village. This the question of the people, tell us of the birth of Otso. Was she born within a manger? Was she nurtured in the bathroom? Was his origin ignoble? This is Vayne Moinen's answer. Otso was not born a beggar, was not born among the rushes, was not cradled in a manger, honeypaw was born in aether, in the regions of the moon-land. On the shoulders of Atava, with the daughters of creation, through the aether walked a maiden, on the red rims of the cloudlets, on the border of the heavens, in her stockings purple-tinted, in her golden coloured sandals, in her hand she held a wool-box, with a hair-box on her shoulder, through the wool of the earth, in her shoulder, through the wool upon the ocean, and the hair upon the river. These are rocked by winds and waters, water currents, bear them onward, bear them to the sandy seashore, land them near the woods of honey, on an island, forest-covered, fair Maliki, woodland hostess, Tapio's most cunning daughter took the fragments from the seaside, took the white-wool from the waters, sewed the hair and wool together, laid the bundles, in her basket, basket-made from bark of birchwood, bound with cords the magic bundle, with the chains of gold she bound it, to the pine-trees, Topmost Branches, then she rocked the thing of magic, rocked to life the tender baby, mid the blossoms of the pine-tree, on the fur-top set with needles, thus the young bear well was nurtured, thus was sacred, otso-cradled, on the honey-tree of Northland, in the middle of the forest, in the middle of the forest, sacred otso grew and flourished, quickly grew with graceful movements, short of feet with crooked ankles, wide of mouth and broad forehead, short his nose, his fur-robed velvet, but his claws were not well-fashioned, neither were his teeth implanted. Fair Maliki, forest hostess, spake these words in meditation, clause I should be pleased to give him, and with these words I should be pleased to give him, and with these words I should be pleased to give him, and with these words I should be pleased to give him, and with these words I should be pleased to give him, and with teeth endow the wonder, would he not abuse the favour, swore the bear a promise sacred, on his knees before Maliki, hostess of the Glen and Forest, and before Abnishon Ukko, first and last of all creators, that he would not harm the worthy, never do a deed of evil, then Maliki, woodland hostess, wisest maid of Tapiola, sought for teeth and claws to give him, from the mouth of the forest, and from the mouth of the forest, and from the teeth and claws to give him, from the stoutest mountain ashes, from the juniper and oak tree, from the dry knots of the older, teeth and claws of these were worthless, would not render goodly service, grew a fir tree on the mountain, grew a stately pine in Northland, and the fir had silver branches, bearing golden cones abundant, these the sylvan maiden gathered, teeth and claws of these she fashioned, in the jaws and feet of Utsu, set them for the best of uses, set them for the best of uses. Then she freed her new-made creature, let the light-foot walk and wander, let him lumber through the marshes, let him amble through the forest, roll upon the plains and pastures, taught him how to walk a hero, how to move with graceful motion, how to live in ease and pleasure, how to rest in full contentment, in the moors and in the marshes on the boilers of the woodlands, how unshored to walk in summer stockingless to run in autumn, how to rest at sleep in winter, in the clumps of all the bushes underneath the sheltering fir tree, underneath the pine's protection, wrapped securely in his fir robes with the juniper and willow. This the origin of Utso honey-eater of the Northlands, whence the sacred booty cometh, thus again the people questioned. Why became the woods so gracious? Why so generous and friendly? Why is Tapio so humid, that he gave his dearest treasure, gave to thee his forest apple, honey-eater of his kingdom? Was he startled with thine arrows, frightened with the spear and broadsword? Vayna Moynan, the magician, gave this answer to the question. Filled with kindness was the forest, glen and woodland, full of greetings, Tapio showing greatest favour, fair Maliki forest hostess, met Solars bewitching daughter, butchers woodland maid, Telovo. Gladly led me on my journey, smoothed my pathway through the glenwood, marked the trees upon the mountains, pointing me to Utso's caverns, to the great bear's golden island. When my journeyings had ended, when the bear had been discovered, had no need to launch my javelins, did not need to aim the arrow, Utso tumbled in his vaulting, lost his balance in his cradle, in the fir tree, where he slumbered, tore his breast upon the branches, freely gave his life to others. Mighty Utso, my beloved, thou my golden friend and hero, take thy fur cap from thy forehead, lay aside thy teeth for ever, hide thy fingers in the darkness, close thy mouth and still thine anger, while thy sacred skull is breaking. Now I take the eyes of Utso, lest he lose his sense of seeing, lest their former powers shall weaken, though I take not all his members, not alone must these be taken. Now I take the ears of Utso, lest he lose the sense of hearing, lest their former powers shall weaken, though I take not all his members, not alone must these be taken. Now I take the nose of Utso, lest lest he lose the sense of smelling, lest its former powers shall weaken. Though I take not all his members, not alone must this be taken. Now I take the tongue of Utsō, lest he lose the sense of tasting, lest its former powers shall weaken, though I take not all his members, not alone must this be taken. Now I take the brain of Utsō, lest he lose the means of thinking, lest his consciousness shall fail him, lest his former instincts weaken. Though I take not all his members, not alone must this be taken. I will reckon him a hero. That will count the teeth of Lightfoot. That will loosen Utsō's fingers from the settings firmly fastened. None he finds with strength sufficient to perform the task demanded. Therefore ancient Vayne Moinen counts the teeth of sacred Utsō, loosens all the claws of Lightfoot, with his fingers strong as copper, slips them from their firm foundations, speaking to the bear these measures. Utsō thou my honey-eater, thou my furball of the woodlands, onward, onward must thou journey, from my low and lonely dwelling, to the courtrooms of the village, go my treasure through the pathway, near the herds of swine and cattle, to the hilltops forest covered, to the high and rising mountains, to the spruce trees filled with needles, to the branches of the pine tree, there remain my forest apple. Linger there in lasting slumber, where the silver bells are ringing, to the pleasure of the shepherd. Thus beginning and thus ending Vayne Moinen, old and truthful, hastened from his emptied tables, and the children thus addressed him. Whither hast thou led thy booty, where hast left thy forest apple, sacred Utsō of the woodlands? Hast thou left him on the iceberg, buried him upon the snow field? Hast thou sunk him in the quicksand, laid him low beneath the heather? Vayne Moinen spake in answer. Have not left him on the iceberg? Have not buried him in snow fields? There the dogs would soon devour him, birds of prey would feast upon him. Have not hidden him in swamp land? Have not buried him in heather? There the worms would live upon him, insects feed upon his body. Vither I have taken Utsō. To the summit of the gold hill, to the copper-bearing mountain. Layed him in his silken cradle, in the summit of a pine tree, where the winds and sacred branches rock him to his lasting slumber, to the pleasure of the hunter, to the joy of man and hero, to the east his lips are pointing, while his eyes are northward looking, but dear Utsō looks not upward, for the fierceness of the storm winds would destroy his sense of vision. Vayne Moinen, ancient minstrel, touched again his harp of joyance, sang again his songs enchanting, to the pleasure of the evening, to the joy of mourner rising, spake the singer of Vayne Ola. Light for me a torch of pine wood, for the darkness is appearing, that my playing may be joyous, and my wisdom songs find welcome. Then the ancient sage and singer, wise and worthy Vayne Moinen, sweetly sang and played and chanted, through the long and dreary evening, ending thus his incantation. Grant O'Uko, my creator, that the people of Vayne Ola may enjoy another banquet in the company of Lightfoot. Grant that we may long remember Kela Vala's feast with Otsō. Grant O'Uko, my creator, that the signs may guide our footsteps, that the notches in the pine tree may direct my faithful people to the bare dens of the woodlands. That great tapio, sacred bugle, may resound through glen and forest. That the wooden imps call may echo, may be heard in field and hamlet, to the joy of all that listen. Let great tapio's horn for ages ring throughout the fen and forest, through the hills and dales of Northland, all the meadows and the mountains, to awaken song and gladness in the forests of Vayne Ola, on the snowy plains of Swami, on the meads of Kela Vala, for the coming generations. End of Rune 46, Recording by Timothy Ferguson, Gold Coast, Australia