Rune 4. of the Kalevala This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lunruth Translated by John Martin Crawford Rune 4. the fate of I know When the night had passed the maiden, sister fair of Yokohainen, hastened early to the forest, Bertchen shoots for brooms to gather, Bertchen tassels, bound a bundle for her father, bound a birch broom for her mother, silken tassels for her sister. Straightway then she hastened homeward, by a footpath left the forest. As she neared the woodland border, lo the ancient Veinamoinen, quickly spying out the maiden, as she left the Bertchen woodland, trimly dressed in costly raiment, and the minstrel thus addressed her. I know beauty of the Northland, where not lovely made for others, only where for me, sweet maiden, golden cross upon thy bosom, shining pearls upon thy shoulders, bind for me thine Auburn tresses, where for me thy golden bradelets. Thus the maiden quickly answered, not for thee and not for others hang I from my neck the crosslet, deck my hair with silken ribbons, need no more than many trinkets brought to me by ship or shalop. Sooner where the simplest raiment feed upon the barley breadcrust, well forever with my mother, in the cabin with my father. Then she threw the gold cross from her, tore the jewels from her fingers, quickly loosed her shining necklace. Quick untied her silken ribbons, cast them all away indignant into forest ferns and flowers. There upon the maiden I know, hastened to her mother's cottage.  Cause enough for weeping father, good the reasons for my mourning, this the reason for my weeping, this the cause of all my sorrow. From my breast I tore the crosslet, from my belt the clasp of copper, from my waist the belt of silver, golden was my pretty crosslet. Near the doorway sat her brother, carving out a birch and oxbow. Why art weeping lovely I know, I know my devoted sister. Cause enough for weeping brother, good the reasons for my mourning, therefore come I as thou seest, rings no longer on my fingers, on my neck no pretty necklace. Golden were the rings thou gaveest, and the necklace pearls and silver. On the threshold sat her sister, weaving her a golden girdle. Why art weeping, beautyous I know, I know my beloved sister.  Near the doorway of the dairy, skimming cream sat I know's mother. Why art weeping lovely I know, I know my devoted daughter. Thus the sobbing maiden answered, loving mother all for giving, cause enough for this my weeping, good the reasons for my sorrow, therefore do I weep, dear mother. I have been within the forest, brooms to bind and shoots to gather, there to pluck some birch and tassels, bound a bundle for my father, bound a second for my mother, bound a third one for my brother, for my sister, silk and tassels. Straightway then I hastened homeward, by a footpath left the forest, as I reached the woodland border, spake Osmoinen from the cornfield, spake the ancient vein of Moinen. Where not beauty is made for others, only where for me, sweet maiden, on thy breast a golden crosslet, shining pearls upon thy shoulders, bind for me thine Auburn tresses, weave for me thy silver braidlets. Then I threw the gold cross from me, tore the jewels from my fingers, quickly loosed my shining necklace, quick untied my silk and ribbons, cast them all away indignant into forest ferns and flowers. Then I thus addressed the singer, not for thee and not for others, hang I from my neck the crosslet, deck my hair with silk and ribbons, need no more thy many trinkets brought to me by ship and shallop. Sooner where the simplest raiment feed upon the barley crustbread, dwell forever with my mother in the cabin with my father.  When you eat thou my sweet butter, it will make thee strong and ruddy. Eat another year fresh bacon, it will make thee tall and queenly. Eat a third year only dainties, it will make thee fair and lovely. Now make haste to yonder hilltop, to the storehouse on the mountain. Open there the large compartment, thou will find it filled with boxes, chests and cases, chunks and boxes. Open thou the box the largest. Lift away the gaudy cover, thou will find six golden girdles, seven rainbow tinted dresses woven by the moon's fair daughters fashioned by the sun's sweet virgins. In my young years once I wandered as a maiden on the mountains in the happy days of childhood hunting berries in the copies. There by chance I heard the daughters of the moon as they were weaving, there I also heard the daughters of the sun as they were spinning on the red rims of the cloudlets over the blue edge of the forest on the border of the pine wood on the high and distant mountain. I approached them drawing nearer, stole myself within their hearing, then began I to entreat them, thus besought them gently pleading. Give thy silver moon's fair daughters to a poor but worthy maiden, give thy gold o sun's sweet virgins to this maiden young and needy. There upon the moon's fair daughters gave me silver from their coffers and the sun's sweet shining virgins gave me gold from their abundance, gold to deck my throbbing temples, from my hair the shining silver. Then I hasten joyful homeward, richly laden with my treasures, happy to my mother's cottage, wore them one day, then a second, then a third day also wore them, took the gold then from my temples, from my hair I took the silver, careful laid them in their boxes, many seasons have they lain there, have not seen them since my childhood. Deck thy brow with silk and ribbon, trim with gold thy throbbing temples and thy neck with pearly necklace, hang the gold cross on thy bosom, robe thyself in pure white linen, spun from flax of finest fiber. Wear with all the richest short frock, fasten it with golden girdle, on thy feet put silk and stockings with the shoes of finest leather. Deck thy hair with golden bradelets, bind it well with threads of silver, trim with rings thy fairy fingers and thy hands with dainty ruffles. Come be decked then to thy chamber, thus return to this thy household, to the greeting of thy kindred, to the joy of all that know thee, flush thy cheeks as ruddy berries, coming as thy father's sunbeam, walking beautiful and queenly, far more beautiful than moonlight. Thus she spake to weeping I know, thus the mother to her daughter, but the maiden little bearing does not heed her mother's wishes, straightway hastens to the courtyard, there to weep in bitter sorrow, all alone to weep in anguish. Waiting long the wailing I know, thus at last soliloquizes. Unto what can I now liken happy homes and joys of fortune, like the waters in the rivers, like the waves in yonder lakelet, like the crystal waters flowing. Unto what the biting sorrow of the child of cold misfortune, like the spirit of the sea duck, like the icicle in winter, water in the well and prisoned. Often roamed my mind in childhood when a maiden free and merry, happily through, fend and follow, gambled on the meads with lambkins, lingered with the ferns and flowers, knowing neither pain nor trouble.  Better had it been for I know had she never seen the sunlight, or if born had died an infant, had not lived to be a maiden in these days of sin and sorrow, underneath a star so luckless. Better had it been for I know had she died upon the eighth day, after seven nights had vanished, needed then but little linen, needed but a little coffin, and a grave of smallest measure. Mother would have mourned a little, father too perhaps a trifle, sister would have wept the day through, brother might have shed a teardrop. Thus had ended all the mourning. Thus poor I know wept and murmured, wept one day and then a second, wept a third from mourn till evening, when again her mother asked her, why this weeping ferris-daughter, darling daughter, why this grieving? Thus the tearful maiden answered, therefore do I weep and sorrow wretched maiden all my life long, since poor I know thou has given, since thy daughter thou has promised to the aged Vaynomoynen. Comfort to his years declining, prop to stay him when he totters, in the storm a roof above him, in his home a cloak around him, better far if thou has sent me, far below the salty surges, to become the wighting sister and the friend of Perch and Salmon. Better far to ride the billows, swim the sea foam as a mermaid and the friend of nimble fishes than to be an old man's solace, prop to stay him when he totters, hand to aid him when he trembles, arm to guide him when he falters, strength to give him when he weakens. Better be the wighting sister and the friend of Perch and Salmon, than an old man's slave and darling. Ending thus she left her mother, straightway hastened to the mountain, to the storehouse on the summit. Open there the box the largest. From the box six lids she lifted, found therein six golden girdles, silk and dresses seven in number, choosing such as pleased her fancy.  Now she leaves her many treasures, leaves the storehouse on the mountain, filled with gold and silver trinkets, wanders over fields and meadow, over stone fields, waste and barren, wanders on through fenn and forest, through the forest vast and cheerless, wanders hither, wanders thither, singing careless as she wanders, this her mournful song and echo. Woe is me, my life heart faded, woe to I know brokenhearted, torture racks my heart and temples, yet the string would not be deeper, nor the pain and anguish greater, if beneath this weight of sorrow in my saddened hearts dejected. I should yield my life forever, now unhappy I should perish. Low the time has come for I know, from this cruel world to hasten, to the kingdom of Tuoni, to the realm of thee departed, to the isle of thee hereafter. Weep no more for me, O Father, Mother dear, withhold thy censure. Lovely sister, dry thine eyelids, do not mourn me, dearest brother, when I sink beneath the seafoam, make my home in salmon grottoes, make my bed in crystal waters, water ferns my couch and pillow. All day long, poor I know, wandered all the next day, sad and weary, sowed the third from mourn till evening, till the cruel night enwrapped her, as she reached the sandy margin, reached the cold and dismal seashore, sat upon the rock of sorrow, sat alone in cold and darkness, listened only to the music of the winds enrolling billows, singing all the dirge of I know. All that night the weary maiden wept and wandered on the border, through the sand and seawashed pebbles. As the day dawns looking round her, she beholds three water maidens, on a headland jutting seaward, water maiden's foreign number, sitting on the wavelash ledges, swimming now upon the billows, now upon the rocks reposing. Quick the weeping maiden I know hastens there to join the mermaid's fairy maidens of the waters. Weeping I know, now disrobing, lays aside with care her garments, hangs her silk robes on the alders, drops her gold cross on the seashore, on the aspen hangs her ribbons, on the rocks her silken stockings, on the grass her shoes of deerskin, in the sand her shining necklace with her rings and other jewels. Out at sea, a goodly distance stood a rock of rainbow colors, glittering in silver sunlight. Toward its springs the hapless maiden, thither swims the lovely I know, up the standing stone has clamored, wishing there to rest a moment, rest upon the rock of beauty. When upon a sudden swaying two and fro, among the billows, with a crash and roar of waters, falls the stone of many colors, falls upon the very bottom of the deep and boundless blue sea. With the stone of rainbow colors falls the weeping maiden I know, clinging to its craggy edges, sinking far below the surface to the bottom of the blue sea. Thus the weeping maiden vanished. Thus poor I know sank and perished, singing as the stone descended, chanting thus as she departed. Once to swim I sought the seaside there to sport among the billows, with the stone of many colors sank poor I know to the bottom of the deep and boundless blue sea, like a pretty songbird perished. Never come a fishing father to the borders of these waters, never during all thy lifetime as thou lovest daughter I know. Mother dear I sought the seaside there to sport among the billows, with the stone of many colors sank poor I know to the bottom of the deep and boundless blue sea, like a pretty songbird perished. Never mix thy bread dear mother, with the blue seas foam and waters, never during all thy lifetime as thou lovest daughter I know. Brother dear I sought the seaside there to sport among the billows, with the stone of many colors sank poor I know to the bottom of the deep and boundless blue sea, like a pretty songbird perished. Never bring thy prancing moor horse, never bring thy royal racer, never bring thy steeds to water, to the borders of the blue sea, never during all thy lifetime as thou lovest sister I know. Sister dear I sought the seaside there to sport among the billows, with the stone of many colors sank poor I know to the bottom of the deep and boundless blue sea, like a pretty songbird perished. Never come to love thine eyelids in this rolling wave and sea foam, never during all thy lifetime as thou lovest sister I know. All the waters in the blue sea shall be blood of I know's body, all the fish that swim these waters shall be I know's flesh forever, all the willows on the seaside shall be I know's ribs hereafter, all the seagrass on the margin will have grown from I know's tresses. Thus at last the maiden vanished, thus the lovely I know perished. Who will tell the cruel story who will bear the evil tidings to the cottage of her mother once the home of lovely I know. Will the bear repeat the story tell the tidings to her mother? Nay, the bear must not be herald, he would slay the herds of cattle. Who then tell the cruel story who will bear the evil tidings to the cottage of her father once the home of lovely I know? Shall the wolf repeat the story tell the sad news to her father? Nay, the wolf must not be herald he would eat the gentle lamkins. Who then tell the cruel story who will bear the evil tidings to the cottage of her sister? Will the fox repeat the story tell the tidings to her sister? Nay, the fox must not be herald, he would eat the ducks and chickens. Who then tell the cruel story, who will bear the evil tidings to the cottage of her brother, once the home of lovely I know? Shall the hare repeat the story, bear the sad news to her brother? Yea, the hare shall be the herald, tell to all the cruel story. Thus the harmless hare makes answer, I will bear the evil tidings to the former home of I know, tell the story to her kindred. Swiftly flew the long-eared herald, like the winds he hastened onward, gallop swift as flight of eagles. Nekarai he bounded forward till he gained the wished forecottage, once the home of lovely I know. Silent was the home invacant, so he hastened to the bathhouse, found therein a group of maidens working each upon a birch broom, sat the hare upon the threshold, and the maidens thus addressed him. Hi there long legs, o'er will roast thee, hi there big-eyed, o'er will stew thee, roast thee for our lady's breakfast, stew thee for our master's dinner, make of thee a meal for I know, and her brother, Yokohainen. Better therefore thou should a scallop to thy burrow in the mountains, then be roasted for our dinners. Then the haughty hare made answer, chanting thus the fate of I know. Think ye not, I journey hither, to be roasted in the skillet, to be stewed in yonder kettle, let fel empo fill thy tables. I have come with evil tidings, come to tell the cruel story of the flight and death of I know, sister dear of Yokohainen. With the stone of many colors sank poor I know to the bottom of the deep and boundless waters, like a pretty songbird perished. Hung her ribbons on the aspen, left her gold cross on the seashore, silken robes upon the alders, on the rocks her silken stockings, on the grass her shoes of deerskin. In the sand her shining necklace, in the sand her rings and jewels, in the waves the lovely I know, sleeping on the very bottom of the deep and boundless blue sea, in the caverns of the salmon, there to be the whitening sister, and the friend of nimble fishes. Sadly weeps the ancient mother, from her blue eyes spit her teardrops, as in sad and wailing measures broken hearted, thus she answers. Listen, all ye mothers listen, learn from me a tale of wisdom. Never urge unwilling daughters from the dwellings of their fathers, to the bridegrooms that they love not, not as I in human mother, drove away my lovely I know, fairest daughter of the Northland.  As the teardrops fall in mingle, form they streamlets three in number, and their source the mother's eyelids, streamlets formed from pearly teardrops, flowing on like little rivers, and each streamlet, larger growing, soon becomes a rushing torrent, in each rushing, roaring torrent, there a cataract is foaming, foaming in the silver sunlight, from the cataract's commotion rise three pillars, rocks and grandeur, from each rock upon the summit, grow three hillocks, cloth and verger, from each hillock speckled birches, three in number, struggle skyward, on the summit of each birch tree, sits a golden cuckoo calling, and the three sing all in concord. Love, oh love, the first one calleth, sings the second, sooter, sooter, and the third one calls and echoes, consolation, consolation. He that love, oh love, is calling, calls three moons and calls unceasing, for the love rejecting maiden sleeping in the deep sea castles. He that sooter, sooter, singeth, sings six moons and sings unceasing, for the sooter that for ever sings and soothes without a hearing. He that sadly sings and echoes, consolation, consolation sings unceasing all his lifelong, for the broken hearted mother that must mourn and weep for ever. When the lone and wretched mother heard the sacred cuckoo singing, speck she thus and sorely weeping. When I hear the cuckoo calling, then my heart is filled with sorrow, tears unlock my heavy eyelids, flow a down my furrowed visage, tears as large as silver sea pearls, older grow my wearied elbows, weaker ply my aged fingers, wearly in all its members, does my body shake and palsy when I hear the cuckoo singing, hear the sacred cuckoo calling. End of Rune 4. Recording by Kyle Robb. Rune 5 of The Kalevala. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Loonroot. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 5. Venomoynen's Lamentation. Far and wide the tidings traveled, far away men heard the story of the flight and death of I know, sister dear of Yolka Hynan, fairest daughter of creation. Venomoynen brave and truthful, straightway fell to bitter weeping, wept at morning, wept at evening, sleepless, wept the dreary night long, that his I know had departed, that the maiden thus had vanished. Thus had sunk upon the bottom of the blue sea deep and boundless. Filled with grief the ancient singer Venomoynen of the Northland, heavy-hearted, sorely weeping, hastened to the restless waters, this the suitor's prayer and question. Tell Untamo, tell me dreamer, tell me indolence, thy visions, where the water gods may linger, where may rest Velamo's maidens. Then Untamo thus made answer lazily, he told his dreamings. Over there the mermaid dwellings, yonder live Velamo's maidens. On the headland robed in verger, on the forest-covered island, in the deep, pollucid waters, on the purple-colored seashore, yonder is the home of seamades. There the maidens of Velamo live there in their seaside chambers, rest within their water caverns, on the rocks of rainbow colors, on the juttings of the sea cliffs. Straightway hastens Venomoynen to a boat house on the seashore, looks with care upon the fish hooks and the lines he well considers. Lines and hooks and poles and fishnets, places in a boat of copper. Then begins he swiftly rowing to the forest-covered island, to the point enrobed in verger, to the purple-colored headland, where the sea nymphs live and linger. Hardly does he reach the island ere the minstrel starts to angle. Far away he throws his fish hook, trolls it quickly through the waters, turning on a copper swivel. Dangling from a silver fish line, golden is the hook he uses. Now he tries his silken fishnet, angles long and angles longer, angles one day than a second. In the morning, in the evening, angles at the hour of noontide. Many days and nights he angles, till at last, one sunny morning, strikes a fish of magic powers, plays like salmon on his fish line, lashing waves across the waters, till at length the fish exhausted falls a victim to the angler, safely landed in the bottom of the hero's boat of copper. Ve in a morning proudly viewing, speaks these words in wander guessing. This, the fairest of all sea fish, never have I seen its equal, smoother surely than the salmon, brighter spotted than the trout is, grayer than the pike of Somi, has less fins than any female, not the fins of any male fish, not the stripes of seaborn maidens, not the belt of any mermaid, not the ears of any songbird, somewhat like our Northland salmon from the blue seas deepest caverns. In his belt the ancient hero wore a knife and sheathed in silver, from its case he drew the fish knife, thus to carve the fish in pieces, dressed the nameless fish for roasting, make of it a dainty breakfast, make of it a meal at noonday, make for him a toothsome supper, make the later meal at evening. Straightway as the fish he touches, touches with his knife of silver, quick it leaps upon the waters, dives beneath the sea's smooth surface, from the boat with copper bottom, from the skiff of Ve in a morning. In the waves at goodly distance, quickly from the sea it rises, on the sixth and seventh billows, lifts its head above the waters, out of reach of fishing tackle, then addresses Ve in a morning, chiding thus the ancient hero. Ve in a morning ancient minstrel, do not think that I came hither to be fished for as a salmon, only to be chopped in pieces, dressed and eaten like a whiting, make for thee a dainty breakfast, make for thee a meal at midday, make for thee a toothsome supper, make the fourth meal of the Northland. Spake the ancient Ve in a morning, wherefore didst thou then come hither, if it be not for my dinner? Then the nameless fish made answer, hither have I come, O minstrel, in thine arms to rest and linger, and thyself to love and cherish, at thy side a life companion, and thy wife to be for ever. Deck thy couch with snowy linen, smooth thy head upon the pillow, sweep thy room and make them cheery. Keep thy dwelling place in order, build a fire for thee when needed, bake for thee the honey biscuit, fill thy cup with barley water, do for thee whatever pleases. I am not a scaly sea fish, not a trout of Northland rivers, not a whiting from the waters, not a salmon of the North Seas. I, a young and merry maiden, friend and sister of the fishes, Yoko Haenen's youngest sister, I the one that thou dost fish for, I am I know whom thou lovest. Once thou wert the wise-tongued hero, now the foolish vein of moinen, scant of insight, scant of judgment, didst not know enough to keep me, cruel-hearted, bloody-handed, tried to kill me with thy fishknife, so to roast me for thy dinner. I, a mermaid of Velamo, once the fair and lovely I know, sister dear of Yoko Haenen, spake the ancient vein of moinen, filled with sorrow, much regretting. Since thou art Yoko Haenen's sister, beautyous I know of Poyola, come to me again, I pray thee. Thus the mermaid wisely answered, nevermore will I know spirit, fly to thee and be ill-treated. Quickly dive the watermaiden, from the surface of the billow, to the many-colored pebbles, to the rainbow-tinted grottoes, where the mermaids live and linger. Veenamoinen not discouraged, thought afresh and well-reflected, how to live and work and win her, drew with care his silken fishnet, to and fro through foam and billow, through the bays and winding channels, drew it through the placid waters, drew it through the salmon dwellings, through the homes of water-maidens, through the waters of Veinola, through the blue-back of the ocean, through the lakes of distant Lapland, through the rivers of Yoko-la, through the seas of Kalevala, hoping thus to find his I know. Many were the fish be-landed, every form of fish like creatures, but he did not catch the sea-maid, not Velamo's watermaiden, fairest daughter of the Northland. Finally the ancient minstrel, mind-depressed and heart-discouraged, spake these words immersed in sorrow. Fool am I and grate my folly, having neither wit nor judgment, surely once I had some knowledge, had some insight into wisdom, had at least a bit of instinct, but my virtues all have left me in these mournful days of evil, vanished with my youth and vigor, insight gone and sense departed, all my prudence gone to others. I know whom I love and cherish, all these years have sought to honor, I know now Velamo's maiden, promised friend of mine when needed, promised bride of mine forever, once I had within my power, caught her in Velamo's grottoes, led her to my boat of copper, with my fish-line made of silver, but alas I could not keep her, did not know that I had caught her till too late to woo and win her, let her slip between my fingers to the home of water maidens, to the kingdom of Velamo. Ve in a morning then departed, empty-handed, heavy-hearted, straightway hastened to his country, to his home in Kalevala, spake these words upon his journey. What has happened to the cuckoo, once the cuckoo bringing gladness, in the morning, in the evening, often bringing joy at noontide. What has stilled the cuckoo singing, what has changed the cuckoo's calling, sorrow must have stilled his singing, and compassion changed his calling, as I hear him sing no longer for my pleasure in the morning, for my happiness at evening. Never shall I learn the secret how to live and how to prosper, how upon the earth to rest me, how upon the seas to wander. Only were my ancient mother living on the face of Northland, surely she would well advise me what my thought and what my action, that this cup of grief might pass me, that this sorrow might escape me, and this darkened cloud pass over. In the deep awoke his mother, from her tomb she spake as follows. Only sleeping was thy mother, now awakes to give the answer, what thy thought and what thine action, that this cup of grief may pass thee, that this sorrow may escape thee, and this darkened cloud pass over. Hide thee straightway to the Northland, visit thou the Suomi daughters, thou wilt find them wise and lovely, far more beautiful than I know, far more worthy of a husband, not such silly chatterboxes, as the fickle Lapland maidens. Take for thee a life companion from the honest homes of Suomi, one of Northland's honest daughters. She will charm thee with her sweetness, make thee happy through her goodness, form perfection manners easy, every step in movement graceful, full of wit and good behavior, honor to thy home and kindred. End of Rune 5. Recording by Kyle Robb. Rune 6 of The Kalevala. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lunruth. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 6. Venomoynen's hapless journey.  Takes his lightfoot royal racer, then adjusts the golden bridle, lays upon his back and saddle, silver buckled copper stirrup, seats himself upon his coarser, and begins his journey northward. Plunges onward, onward, onward, galloping along the highway, in his saddle gaily fashioned, on his dappled steed of magic, plunging through Vynola's meadows over the plains of Kalevala. Fast and far he galloped onward, galloped far beyond Vynola, bounded o'er the waste of waters, till he reached the blue seas margin, wedding not the hooves in running. But the evil Yokohainen nursed a grudge within his bosom, in his heart the worm of envy, envy of this Venomoynen, of this wonderful enchanter. He prepares a cruel crossbow, made of steel and other metals, paints the bow in many colors, molds the top piece out of copper, trims his bow with snowy silver, gold he uses too in trimming. Then he hunts for strongest sinews, finds them in the stag of Hisi, inner weaves the flax of Lempo. Ready is the cruel crossbow, string and shaft and ends are finished, beautiful the bow and mighty, surely cost it not a trifle. On the back a painted coarser, on each end a cult of beauty, near the curve a maiden sleeping, near the notch a hair is bounding, wonderful the bow thus fashioned. Cut some arrows for his quiver, covers them with finest feathers, from the oak the shafts be fashioned, makes the tips of keenest metal. As the rods and points are finished, then he feathers well his arrows, from the plumage of the swallow, from the wingquills of the sparrow, hardens well his feathered arrows, and in parts to each new virtues, steeps them in the blood of serpents in the virus of the adder. Ready now are all his arrows, ready strung his cruel crossbow, waiting for wise Venomoynen. Yokohainen, Lapland's minstrel, waits a long time, is not weary, hopes to spy the ancient singer. Spies at day dawn, spies at evening, spies he ceaselessly at noontide, lies in wait for the magician, waits and watches as in envy. Sits he at the open window, stands behind the hedge and watches, in the footpath waits and listens, spies along the balks of meadows. On his back he hangs his quiver, in his quiver feathered arrows, dipped in virus of the viper, on his arm the mighty crossbow, waits and watches and unwearied, listens from the boathouse window, lingers at the end of fogpoint, by the river flowing seaward, near the holy stream and whirlpool, near the sacred river's firefall. Finally the Lapland minstrel Yokohainen of Poyola, at the breaking of the day dawn, at the early hour of morning, fixed his gaze upon the northeast, turned his eyes upon the sunrise, saw a black cloud on the ocean, something blue upon the waters, and soliloquized as follows. Are those clouds on the horizon or perchance the dawn of morning? Neither clouds on the horizon nor the dawning of the morning. It is ancient Venomoynin, the renowned and wise enchanter, riding on his way to Northland, on his steed the royal racer, magic coarser of Vynola. Quickly now, young Yokohainen, Lapland's vain and evil minstrel, filled with envy, grasps his crossbow, makes his bow and arrows ready for the death of Venomoynin. Quick his aged mother asked him, spake these words to Yokohainen, for whose slaughter is thy crossbow, for whose heart thy poisoned arrows. Yokohainen thus made answer, I have made thy mighty crossbow, fashioned bow and poisoned arrows, for the death of Venomoynin. Thus to slay the friend of waters, I must shoot the old magician, the eternal bard and hero, through the heart and through the liver, through the head and through the shoulders, with this bow and feathered arrows, thus destroy my rival minstrel. Then the aged mother answered, thus reproving, thus forbidding. Do not slay good Venomoynin, ancient hero of the Northland, from a noble tribe descended, he my sister's son, my nephew.  Better on the earth the gladness, better hear the magic music, then within the nether regions, in the kingdom of Tuoni, in the realm of the departed, in the land of the hereafter. Then the youthful Yokohainen thought a while and well considered, ere he made a final answer. With one hand he raised the crossbow, but the other seemed to weaken, as he drew the cruel bowstring. Finally these words he uttered, as his bosom swelled with envy. Let all joy forever vanish, let earth's pleasures quickly perish, disappear earth's sweetest music, happiness depart forever. Shoot, I will, this rival minstrel, little heeding what the end is. Quickly now he bends his firebow, on his left knee rests the weapon, with his right foot firmly planted, thus he strings his bow of envy, takes three arrows from his quiver, choosing well the best among them, carefully adjusts the bowstring, sets with care the feathered arrow to the flaxen string he lays it, holds the crossbow to his shoulder, aiming well along the margin at the heart of Vayne Amoynen, waiting till he gallops nearer in the shadow of a thicket, speaks these words while he is waiting, be thou flaxen string elastic, swiftly fly thou feathered ashwood, swiftly speed thou deadly missile, quick as light thou poisoned arrow, to the heart of Vayne Amoynen. If my hand too low should hold thee, may the gods direct thee higher. If too high my eye should aim thee, may the gods direct thee lower. Steady now he pulls the trigger, like the lightning flies the arrow over the head of Vayne Amoynen, to the upper sky it darteth, and the highest clouds it pierces, scatters all the flock of lamb clouds on its rapid journey skyward. Not discouraged, quick selecting, quick adjusting Yoko-Hainen, quickly aiming shoots a second, speeds the arrow, swift as lightning, much too low he aimed the missile, into earth the arrow plunges, pierces to the lower region, splits into the old sand mountain. Nothing daunted Yoko-Hainen, quick adjusting shoots a third one, swift as light it speeds its journey, strikes the steed of Vayne Amoynen, strikes the light foot ocean swimmer, strikes him near his golden girdle, through the shoulder of the racer. There upon wise Vayne Amoynen headlong fell upon the waters, plunge beneath the rolling billows, from the saddle of the coarser, from his dappled steed of magic. Then arose a mighty storm wind, roaring wildly on the waters, bore away old Vayne Amoynen, far from land upon the billows, on the high and rolling billows, on the broad seas great expanses. Boasted then young Yoko-Hainen, thinking Vayne-O dead and buried, these the boastful words he uttered. Nevermore, old Vayne Amoynen, nevermore in all thy lifetime, while the golden moonlight glistens, nevermore will fix thy vision, on the meadows of Vayne-Ola, on the plains of Kalevala. Full six years must swim the oceans, tread the waves of seven summers, eight years ride the foamy billows, in the broad expanse of water, six long autumns as a fir tree, seven winters as a pebble, eight long summers as an aspen. Thereupon the Lapland minstrel hastened to his room, delighting when his mother thus addressed him. Has thou slain good Vayne Amoynen slain the sun of Kalevala? Yoko-Hainen thus made answer, I have slain old Vayne Amoynen slain the sun of Kalevala, that he now may plow the ocean, that he now may sweep the waters, on the billows, rock and slumber. In the salt sea plunged he headlong, in the deep sanctum magician, sideways turned he to the seashore, on his back to rock forever. Thus the boundless sea to travel, thus to ride the rolling billows. This the answer of the mother. Woe to earth for this thine action, gone forever joy and singing, vanished is the wit of ages. Thou hast slain good Vayne Amoynen, slain the ancient wisdom singer, slain the pride of Suwantala, slain the hero of Vayne-Ola, slain the joy of Kalevala. End of Roon 6. Recording by Kyle Robb. Roon 7 of the Kalevala. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lunruth. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Roon 7 Vayne Amoynen's Rescue Vayne Amoynen, old and truthful, swam through all the deep sea waters, floating like a branch of aspen, like a withered twig of willow. Swam six days in summer weather, swam six nights in golden moonlight, still before him rose the billows, and behind him sky and ocean. Two days more he swam undaunted, two long nights he struggled onward. On the evening of the eighth day, Vayne Amoynen grew disheartened, felt a very great discomfort, for his feet had lost their toenails and his fingers dead and dying. Vayne Amoynen, ancient minstrel, sad and weary, spake as follows. Woe is me, my old life faded, Woe is me, misfortune's offspring. Fool was I when fortune favored, too forsaken my home in kindred, for a maiden fair and lovely, here beneath the starry heavens, in this cruel waste of waters, days and nights to swim and wander, here to struggle with the storm winds to be tossed by heaving billows, in this broad seas great expanses, in this ocean vast and boundless. Cold my life and sad and dreary, painful too for me to linger evermore within these waters, thus to struggle for existence. Cannot know how I can prosper, how to find me food and shelter, in these cold and lifeless waters, in these days of dire misfortune. Build I in the winds my dwelling, it will find no sure foundation. Build my home upon the billows, surely would the waves destroy it. Comes a bird from far Poyola, from the Occident and Eagle, is not classed among the largest nor belongs he to the smallest. One wing touches on the waters, while the other sweeps the heavens. Over the waves he wings his body, strikes his beak upon the sea-cliffs. Flies about then safely perches, looks before him, looks behind him. There beholds, brave Vayne Amoynen, on the blueback of the ocean, and the eagle thus accosts him. Wherefore art thou ancient hero, swimming in the deep sea billows? Thus the water minstrel answered, I am ancient Vayne Amoynen, friend and fellow of the waters. I, the famous wisdom singer, went to Wu a Northland maiden, maiden from the dismal dark land, quickly galloped on my journey, riding on the plain of ocean. I arrived one morning early at the breaking of the Dadeon, at the bay of Luotola, near Yokola's foaming river, where the evil Yokohainen slew my steed with bow and arrow, tried to slay me with his weapons. On the waters fell I headlong, plunge beneath the salt sea's surface, from the saddle of the coarser, from my dappled steed of magic. Then arose a mighty stormwind, from the east and west a whirlwind, washed me seaward on the surges, seaward, seaward, further, further, where for many days I wandered, swam and rocked upon the billows, where as many nights I struggled in the dashing waves and sea foam, with the angry winds and waters. Wu is me, my life hard-faded, cannot solve this heavy problem, how to live nor how to perish, in this cruel salt sea water. Build I in the winds my dwelling, it will find no sure foundation. Build my home upon the waters, surely will the waves destroy it. Must I swim the sea forever, must I live or must I perish? What will happen if I perish, if I sink below the billows, perish here from cold and hunger? Thus the bird of Ether answered, Be not in the least as heartened, place thyself between my shoulders, on my back be firmly seated, I will lift thee from the waters, bear thee with my pinions upward, bear thee where so error thou willest. Well do I the day remember where thou didst the eagle service, when thou didst the birds of favor. Thou didst leave the birch tree standing, when were clear the osmo forests, from the lands of Kalevala, as a home for weary songbirds, as a resting place for eagles. Then arises Veinamoinan lifts his head above the waters, boldly rises from the sea waves, lifts his body from the billows, seats himself upon the eagle, on the eagle's feathered shoulders. Quick aloft the huge bird bears him, bears the ancient Veinamoinan, bears him on the path of Zephyrs, floating on the vernal breezes, to the distant shore of Northland, to the Dismosariola, where the eagle leaves his burden, flies away to join his fellows. Veinamoinan, lone and weary, straightway fell to bitter weeping, wept and moaned in heavy accents on the border of the blue sea, on a cheerless promontory with a hundred wounds tormented, made by cruel winds and waters with his hair and beard disheveled by the surging of the billows. Three long days he wept as heartened, wept as many nights in anguish, did not know what way to journey could not find a woodland footprint, that would point him to the highway, to his home in Kalevala, to his much loved home in Kindred. Northland's young and slender maiden, with complexion fair and lovely, with the sun had laid a wager, with the sun and moon a wager, which would rise before the other on the morning of the morrow. And the maiden rose in beauty, long before the sun had risen, long before the moon had wakened, from their beds beneath the ocean. Air the cock had crowed the daybreak, air the sun had broken slumber, she had sheared six gentle lamkins, gathered from them six white fleeces, hence to make the rolls for spinning, hence to form the threads for weaving, hence to make the softest raiment, air the morning dawn had broken, air the sleeping sun had risen. When this task the maid had ended, then she scrubbed the birchen table, sweeps the ground, floored of the stable with a broom of leaves and branches, from the birches of the Northland, scrapes the sweeping's well together, on a shovel made of copper carries them beyond the stable, from the doorway to the meadow, to the meadow's distant border, near the surges of the great sea, listens there and looks about her, hears a wailing from the waters, hears a weeping from the seashore, hears a hero voice lamenting. Thereupon she hastens homeward, hastens to her mother's dwelling, these the words the maiden utters. I have heard a wail from ocean, heard a weeping from the seacoast, on the shore someone lamenting. Luohi hostess of Poyola, ancient, toothless dame of Northland, hastens from her door and courtyard, through the meadow to the seashore, listens well for sounds of weeping, for the wail of one in sorrow, hears the voice of one in trouble, hears a hero cry of anguish. Thus the ancient Luohi answers, this is not the wail of children, these are not the tears of women. In this way weep bearded heroes, this the hero cry of anguish. Quick she pushed her boat to water, to the floods her goodly vessel, straightway rose with lightning swiftness, to the weeping Venomoynen, gives the hero consolation, comfort gives she to the minstrel, wailing in a grove of willows, in his piteous condition. Mid the alder trees and aspens on the border of the salt sea, visage trembling locks to shoveled, ears and eyes and lips of sadness. Luohi hostess of Poyola thus addresses Venomoynen, tell me what has been thy folly, that thou art in this condition? Old and truthful Venomoynen lifts aloft his head and answers. Well I know that it is folly that has brought me all this trouble, brought me to this land of strangers, to these regions unbefitting, happy was I with my kindred in my distant home and country, there my name was named in honor. Luohi hostess of Poyola thus replied to Venomoynen, I would gain the information should I be allowed to ask thee, who thou art of ancient heroes, who of all the host of heroes? This is Venomoynen's answer. Formerly my name was mentioned, often was I heard and honored as a minstrel and magician in the long and dreary winters, called the singer of the Northland in the valleys of Vynola on the plains of Kalevala. No one thought that such misfortune could befall wise Venomoynen. Luohi hostess of Poyola thus replied in cheering accents, Rise, O hero, from discomfort, from thy bed among the willows. Enter now upon the new way, come with me to yonder dwelling, there relate thy strange adventures, tell the tale of thy misfortunes. Now she takes the hapless hero lifts him from his bed of sorrow, in her boat she safely seats him and begins at once her rowing, rose with steady hand and mighty to her home upon the seashore, to the dwellings of Poyola. There she feeds the starving hero, rests the ancient Venomoynen, gives him warmth and food and shelter, and the hero soon recovers. Then the hostess of Poyola questioned thus the ancient singer, Wherefore did thou Venomoynen friend and fellow of the waters, weep in sad and bitter accents on the border of the ocean, mid the aspens and the willows? This is Venomoynen's answer, had good reason for my weeping, cause enough for all my sorrow, long indeed had I been swimming, had been buffeting the billows in the far outstretching waters. This the reason for my weeping I have lived in toil and torture, since I left my home and country, left my native land and kindred, came to this the land of strangers to these unfamiliar portals. All thy trees have thorns to wound me, all thy branches, spines to pierce me, even birches give me trouble, and the altars bring discomfort. My companions, winds and waters, only does the sun seem friendly in this cold and cruel country near these unfamiliar portals. Lo he thereupon made answer, weep no longer Venomoynen, grieve no more thou friend of waters, good for thee that thou should slinger at our friendly homes and firesides.  Answers thus, old Venomoynen, grateful for the invitation. Never do I court strange tables, though the food be rare and toothsome. One's own country is the dearest, one's own table is the sweetest, one's own home the most attractive.  Better dwell in one's own country there to drink its healthful waters from the simple cups of birchwood than in foreign lands to wander there to drink the rarest liquors from the golden bowls of strangers. Lo he hostess of Poyola thus reply to the magician, What reward will thou award me should I take thee where thou willest to thy native land in Kindred, to thy much-loved home and fireside, to the meadows of Vanola, to the plains of Kalevala. These the words of Venomoynen. What would be reward sufficient should thou take me to my people, to my home and distant country, to the borders of the Northland, there to hear the cuckoo singing, hear the sacred cuckoo calling. Shall I give thee golden treasures, fill thy cups with finest silver? This is Luohi's simple answer. O thou ancient Venomoynen, only true and wise magician, never will I ask for riches, never ask for gold nor silver. Gold is for the children's flowers, silver for the stallion's jewels. Canst thou forge for me the sampo, hammer me the lid in colors from the tips of white swan feathers, from the milk of greatest virtue, from a single grain of barley, from the finest wool of lambkins? I will give thee to my daughter, will reward thee through the maiden, take thee to that much-loved homeland, to the borders of Vanola, there to hear the cuckoo singing, hear the sacred cuckoo calling. Venomoynen much regretting gave this answer to her question. Cannot forge for thee the sampo, cannot make the lid in colors. Take me to my distant country, I will send thee ill-myrennen. He will forge for thee the sampo, hammer thee the lid in colors. He may win thy lovely maiden, worthy smith is ill-myrennen. In this art is first and master, he the one that forged the heavens. Forge the air a hollow cover, nowhere see we hammer traces, nowhere find a single tongs mark. Thus replied the hostess Luohi, him alone I'll give my daughter, promise him my child in marriage. Who for me will forge the sampo, hammer me the lid in colors, from the tips of white swan feathers, from the milk of greatest virtue, from a single grain of barley, from the finest wool of lambkins? Thereupon the hostess Luohi, harnessed quick a dappled coarser, hitched him to her sledge of birchwood, placed within it, Venomoynen, placed the hero on the crossbench, made him ready for his journey. Then addressed the ancient minstrel, these the words that Luohi uttered, Do not raise thine eyes to heaven, look not upward on thy journey, while thy steed is fresh and frisky, while the day star lights thy pathway, ere the evening star has risen. If thine eyes be lifted upward, while the day star lights thy pathway, dire misfortune will befall thee, some sad fate will overtake thee. Then the ancient Venomoynen fleetly drove upon his journey, merrily he hastened homeward, hastened homeward, happy-hearted, from the ever-darksome Northland, from the dismal Sariola. End of Rune 7. Recording by Kyle Robb. Rune 8 of the Kalevala. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lunrut, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 8, Maiden of the Rainbow. Poyola's fair and winsome daughter, glory of the land and water, sat upon the bow of heaven, on its highest arch resplendent, in a gown of richest fiber, in a gold and silver air-gown, weaving webs of golden texture, interlacing threads of silver, weaving with a golden shuttle, with a weaving comb of silver, merrily flies the golden shuttle, from the Maiden's nimble fingers, briskly swings the lathe, and weaving swiftly flies the comb of silver, from the sky-born Maiden's fingers, weaving webs of wondrous beauty. Came the ancient Venomoynen, driving down the highway homeward, from the ever-sunless Northland, from the dismal Sariola. Few the furlongs had he driven, driven but a little distance, when he heard the sky-loom buzzing, as the Maiden plied the shuttle. Quick the thoughtless Venomoynen lifts his eyes aloft in wonder, looks upon the vault of heaven, there beholds the bow of beauty, on the bow the Maiden sitting, beautyous Maiden of the rainbow, glory of the earth and ocean, weaving there a golden fabric, working with the rustling silver. Venomoynen, ancient minstrel, quickly checks his fleet-foot racer, looks upon the charming Maiden, then addresses her as follows. Come, fair Maiden, to my snowslay, by my side I wish thee seated. Thus the maid of beauty answers. Tell me what thou wishest of me, should I join thee in the snowslay? Speaks the ancient Venomoynen, answers thus the maid of beauty.  Thus the maid of beauty answered from her throne amid the heavens. Yesterday at hour of twilight went I to the flowery meadows, there to rock upon the common, where the sun retires to slumber. There I heard a songbird singing, heard the thrush, simple measures, singing sweetly thoughts of maidens and the minds of anxious mothers. Then I asked the pretty songster, asked the thrush, the simple question. Sing to me, thou pretty songbird, sing that I may understand thee, sing to me in truthful accents, how to live in greatest pleasure, and in happiness the sweetest as a maiden with her father, or as wife beside her husband. Thus the songbird gave me answer, sang the thrush this information. Bright and warm are days of summer, warmer still is maiden freedom. Cold is iron in the winter, thus the lives of married women. Maidens living with their mothers are like ripened, ruddy berries. Married women far too many, are like dogs and chained in kennel. Rarely do they ask for favors, not to wives are favors given. Vayne moin and old and truthful answers thus the maid of beauty. Foolish is the thrush, thus singing, nonsense is the songbird's twitter. Like two babes are maidens treated, wives are queens and highly honored. Come, sweet maiden, to my snow slay, I am not despised as hero, not the meanest of magicians. Come with me, and I will take thee, wife and queen in Kalevala. Thus the maid of beauty answered, Would consider thee a hero, mighty hero, I would call thee, when a golden hair thou splittest, using knives that have no edges. When thou snarest me a bird's egg, with a snare that I can see not. Vayne moin and skilled and ancient, split a golden hair exactly, using knives that had no edges, and he snare'd an egg as nicely, with a snare the maiden saw not. Come, sweet maiden, to my snow slay, I have done what thou desired. Thus the maiden wisely answered, Never enter I thy snow slay, till thou peelest me the sandstone, till thou cuttest me a whipstick, from the ice, and make no splinters, losing not the smallest fragment. Vayne moin and true magician, nothing daunted, not discouraged, deftly peeled the rounded sandstone, deftly cut from ice a whipstick, cutting not the finest splinter, losing not the smallest fragment. Then again he called the maiden to a seat within his snow slay. But the maid of beauty answered, answered thus the great magician. I will go with that one only, that will make me ship or shallow, from the splinters of my spindle, from the fragments of my disc staff, in the waters launched the vessel, set the little ship afloating, using not the knee to push it, using not the arm to move it, using not the hand to touch it, using not the foot to turn it, using nothing to propel it. Spake the skillful Vayne moin, and these the words the hero uttered. There is no one in the Northland, no one under vault of heaven, who like me can build a vessel, from the fragments of the disc staff, from the splinters of the spindle. Then he took the disc staff fragments, took the splinters of the spindle, hastened off the boat to fashion, hastened to an iron mountain, there to join the many fragments. Full of zeal he plies the hammer, swings the hammer and the hatchet. Nothing daunted builds the vessel, works one day and then a second, works with steady hand the third day, on the evening of the third day, evil heecy grasps the hatchet, lempo takes the crooked handle, turns aside the axe in falling, strikes the rocks and breaks to pieces, from the rocks rebound the fragments, pierce the flesh of the magician, cut the knee of Vayne moinin. Lempo guides the sharpened hatchet, and the veins fell heecy severs, quickly gushes forth the bloodstream, and the stream is crimson colored. Vayne moinin, old and truthful, the renowned and wise enchanter, thus out speaks in measured accents. O thou keen and cruel hatchet, O thou axe of sharpened metal, thou shalt cut the trees to fragments, cut the pine tree and the willow, cut the alder and the birch tree, cut the juniper and aspen, shudst not cut my knee to pieces, shudst not tear my veins asunder. Then the ancient Vayne moinin thus begins his incantations, thus begins his magic singing of the origin of evil. Every word in perfect order makes no effort to remember, sings the origin of iron, that a bolt he well may fashion, thus prepare a look for surety, for the wounds the axe has given, that the hatchet has torn open. But the stream flows like a brooklet, rushing like a madden torrent, stains the herbs upon the meadows, scarcely is a bit a verger, that the bloodstream does not cover, as it flows and rushes onward from the knee of the magician, from the veins of Vayne moinin. Now the wise and ancient minstrel gathers lichens from the sandstone, picks them from the trunks of birches, gathers moss within the marshes, pulls the grasses from the meadows, thus to stop the crimson streamlet, thus to close the wounds laid open, but his work is unsuccessful, and the crimson stream flows onward. Vayne moinin ancient minstrel, feeling pain and fearing langer, falls to weeping heavy-hearted. Quickly now, his steed he hitches, hitches to the sleigh of birchwood, climbs with pain upon the crossbench, strikes his steed and quick succession snaps his whip above the racer, and the steed flies onward swiftly, like the winds he sweeps the highway, till he nears a northland village where the way is triple-parted. Vayne moinin, old and truthful, takes the lowest of the highways, quickly nears a spacious cottage, quickly asks before the doorway. Is there anyone here dwelling that can know the pain I suffer, that can heal this wound of hatchet, that can check this crimson streamlet? Sat a boy within a corner on a bench beside a baby, and he answered, thus the hero. There is no one in this dwelling that can know the pain thou feelest, that can heal the wounds of hatchet, that can check the crimson streamlet. Someone lives in yonder cottage that perchance can do the service. Vayne moinin, ancient minstrel, whips his coarser to a gallop, dashes on along the highway, only drives a little distance on the middle of the highways to a cabin on the roadside, asks one standing on the threshold, questions all through open windows, these the words the hero uses. Is there no one in this cabin that can know the pain I suffer, that can heal this wound of hatchet, that can check this crimson streamlet? On the floor a witch was lying, near the fireplace lay the bell dame, thus she spake to Vayne moinin, through her rattling teeth she answered. There is no one in this cabin that can know the pain thou feelest, that can heal the wounds of hatchet, that can check the crimson streamlet. Someone lives in yonder cottage that perchance can do the service. Vayne moinin, nothing daunted, whips his racer to a gallop, dashes on along the highway, only drives a little distance on the upper of the highways, gallops to a humble cottage, asks one standing near the penthouse, sitting on the penthouse door sill. Is there no one in this cottage that can know the pain I suffer, that can heal this wound of hatchet, that can check this crimson streamlet? Near the fireplace sat an old man, on the hearthstone sat the graybeard, thus he answered Vayne moinin. Greater things have been accomplished, much more wondrous things affected, through but three words of the master, through the telling of the causes. Streams and oceans have been tempered, river cataracts been lessened, bays been made of promontories, islands raised from deep-sea bottoms. End of Roon 8 Recording by Kyle Robb Roon 9 of The Kalevala This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lunerut Translated by John Martin Crawford Roon 9 Origin of Iron Vayne moinin, thus encouraged, quickly rises in his snow slay, asking no one for assistance, straightway hastens to the cottage, takes a seat within the dwelling, come to maids with silver pitchers, bringing also golden goblets, dip they up a very little, but the very smallest measure of the blood of the magician, from the wounds of Vayne moinin. From the fireplace calls the old man, thus the greybeard, asks the minstrel. Tell me who thou art of heroes, who of all the great magicians, lo, thy blood fills seven sea-boats, eight of largest birchen vessels, flowing from some hero's veinlets, from the wounds of some magician. Other matters I would ask thee, sing the cause of this thy trouble, sing to me the source of metals, sing the origin of iron, how at first it was created. Then the ancient Vayne moinin made this answer to the greybeard. Know I well the source of metals, know the origin of iron, I can tell how steel is fashioned. Of the mother's air is oldest, water is the oldest brother, and the fire is second brother, and the youngest brother iron. Ukko is the first creator. Ukko maker of the heavens cut apart the air and water, air was born the metal iron. Ukko maker of the heavens firmly rubbed his hands together, firmly pressed them on his kneecap. Then arose three lovely maidens, three most beautiful of daughters. These were mothers of the iron and of steel of bright blue color. Trembling they walked the heavens, walked the clouds of silver linings, with their bosoms overflowing with the milk of future iron, flowing on and flowing ever from the bright rims of the cloudlets, to the earth the valleys filling, to the slumber calling waters. Ukko's eldest daughter sprinkled black milk over river channels, and the second daughter sprinkled white milk over hills and mountains, while the youngest daughter sprinkled red milk overseas in oceans. Where the black milk had been sprinkled grew the dark and ductile iron, where the white milk had been sprinkled grew the iron lighter colored, where the red milk had been sprinkled grew the red and brittle iron. After time had gone a distance iron hastened fire to visit his beloved elder brother, thus to know his brother better. Straightway fire began his roaring, labored to consume his brother, his beloved younger brother. Straightway iron sees his danger, saves himself by flitly fleeing, from the fiery flames advances, fleeing hither, fleeing thither, fleeing still and taking shelter. In the swamps and in the valleys, in the springs that loudly bubble, by the rivers winding seaward, on the broad backs of the marshes, where the swans their nests have builded, where the wild geese hatched their goslings. Thus is iron in the swamplands, stretching by the water courses, hidden well for many ages, hidden in the birch and forests. But he could not hide forever from the searchings of his brother. Here and there the fire has caught him, caught and brought him to his furnace, that the spears and swords and axes might be forged and duly hammered. In the swamps ran blackened waters, from the heath the bears came ambling, and the wolves ran through the marshes. Iron then made his appearance, where the feet of wolves had trodden, where the paws of bears had trampled. Then the blacksmith Illmarin and came to earth to work the metal. He was born upon the coal mount, skilled and nurtured in the coal fields. In one hand a copper hammer, in the other's tongs of iron, in the night was born the blacksmith. In the morn he built his smithy, sought with care a favored hillock, where the winds might fill his bellows, found a hillock in the swamplands, where the iron hid abundant. There he built his smelting furnace, there he laid his leathern bellows, hastened where the wolves have traveled, followed where the bears had trampled, found the iron's young formations in the wolf tracks of the marshes, in the footprints of the gray bear. Then the blacksmith Illmarin and thus addressed the sleeping iron. Thou most useful of the metals, thou art sleeping in the marshes, thou art hid in low conditions, where the wolf treads in the swamplands, where the bear sleeps in the thickets. Hast thou thought and well considered what would be thy future station? Should I place thee in the furnace, thus to make thee free and useful? Then was iron sorely frightened, much distressed and filled with horror, when of fire he heard the mention, mention of his fell destroyer. Then again speaks Illmarin and thus the smith addresses iron. Be not frightened, useful metal, surely fire will not consume thee, will not burn his youngest brother, will not harm his nearest kindred.  Air arose the star of evening, iron ore had left the marshes, from the water beds had risen, had been carried to the furnace, in the fire the smith had laid it, laid it in his smelting furnace. Illmarin and starts the bellows, gives three motions of the handle, and the iron flows and streamlets from the forge of the magician, soon becomes like baker's leaven, soft as dough for bread of barley. Then out screamed the metal iron, wondrous blacksmith, Illmarin and take, oh take me from thy furnace, from this fire and cruel torture. Illmarin and thus made answer, I will take thee from my furnace, thou art but a little frightened, thou shalt be a mighty power, thou shalt slay the best of heroes, thou shalt wound thy dearest brother. Straightway iron made this promise, vowed and swore in strongest accents, by the furnace, by the anvil, by the tongs, and by the hammer. These the words he vowed and uttered, Many trees that I shall injure, shall devour the hearts of mountains, shall not slay my nearest kindred, shall not kill the best of heroes, shall not wound my dearest brother. Better live in civil freedom, happier would be my lifetime, should I serve my fellow beings, serve as tools for their convenience, than as implements of warfare. Slay my friends and nearest kindred, wound the children of my mother. Now the master Illmarin and the renowned and skillful blacksmith, from the fire removes the iron, places it upon the anvil. Hammers well until it softens, hammers many fine utensils, hammers spears and swords and axes, hammers knives and forks and hatchets, hammers tools of all descriptions. Many things the blacksmith needed, many things he could not fashion, could not make the tongue of iron, could not hammer steel from iron, could not make the iron harden. Well considered Illmarin and deeply thought and long reflected. Then he gathered birch and ashes, steeped the ashes in the water, made a lie to harden iron, thus to form the steel most needful. With his tongue he tests the mixture, weighs it long and well considers, and the blacksmith speaks as follows. All this labor is for nothing, will not fashion steel from iron, will not make the soft or harden. Now a bee flies from the meadow, blue wing coming from the flowers, flies about, then safely settles near the furnace of the smithy. Thus the smith the bee addresses, these the words of Illmarin. Little bee thou tiny birdling, bring me honey on thy winglets, on thy tongue I pray thee, bring me sweetness from the fragrant meadows, from the little cups of flowers, from the tips of seven petals, that we thus may aid the water, to produce the steel from iron. Evil Hissy's bird, the hornet, heard these words of Illmarin, and looking from the cottage gable, flying to the bark of birch trees, while the iron bars were heating, while the steel was being tempered. Swiftly flew the stinging hornet, scattered all the Hissy horrors, brought the blessings of the serpent, brought the venom of the adder, brought the poison of the spider, brought the stings of all the insects, mixed them with the ore and water, while the steel was being tempered. Illmarin and skillful blacksmith, first of all the iron workers, thought the bee had surely brought him honey from the fragrant meadows, from the little cups of flowers, from the tips of seven petals, and he spake the words that follow. Welcome, welcome is thy coming, honeyed sweetness from the flowers, thou hast brought to aid the water, thus to form the steel from iron. Illmarin and ancient blacksmith, dipped the iron into water, water mixed with many poisons, thought it but the wild bee's honey, thus he formed the steel from iron. When he plunged it into water, water mixed with many poisons, when he placed it in the furnace, angry grew the hardened iron, broke the vow that he had taken, ate his words like dogs and devils, mercilessly cut his brother, madly raged against his kindred, caused the blood to flow in streamlets from the wounds of man and hero, this the origin of iron, and of steel of light blue color. From the hearth arose the greybeard, shook his heavy looks and answered, Now I know the source of iron, whence the steel and whence its evils, curses on the cruel iron, curses on the steel thou givest, curses on the tongue of evil, cursed be thy life forever. Once thou wert of little value, having neither form nor beauty, neither strength nor great importance, when in form of milk thou rested, when for ages thou wert hidden in the breasts of God's three daughters, hidden in their heaving bosoms, on the borders of the cloudlets, in the blue vault of the heavens. Thou wert once of little value, having neither form nor beauty, neither strength nor great importance, when like water thou wert resting, on the broad back of the marshes, in the steep declines of mountains, when thou wert but formless matter, only dust of rusty color. Surely thou wert void of greatness, having neither strength nor beauty, when the moose was trampling on thee, when the roebuck trod upon thee, when the tracks of wolves were in thee, and the bear paws scratched thy body. Surely thou hadst little value, when the skillful ill-marined and first of all the iron workers, brought thee from the blackened swamplands, took thee to his ancient smithy, placed thee in his fiery furnace. Truly thou hadst little vigor, little strength, and little danger, when thou in the fire wert hissing, rolling forth like seething water, from the furnace of the smithy, when thou gavest oath the strongest by the furnace, by the anvil, by the tongs, and by the hammer, by the dwelling of the blacksmith, by the fire within the furnace. Now forsooth thou hast grown mighty, thou canst rage and wildest fury, thou hast broken all thy pledges, all thy solemn vows hast broken, like the dogs thou shamest honor, shamest both thyself and kindred, tainted all with breath of evil. Tell who drove thee to this mischief, tell who taught thee all thy malice, tell who gave us thee thine evil. Did thy father or thy mother, did the eldest of thy brothers, did the youngest of thy sisters, did the worst of all the kindred, give to thee thine evil nature? Not thy father nor thy mother, not the eldest of thy brothers, not the youngest of thy sisters, not the worst of all thy kindred, but thyself has done this mischief, thou the cause of all our trouble. Come and view thine evil doings, and amend this flood of damage, ere I tell thy gray-haired mother, ere I tell thine aged father.  Crimson streamlets cease thy flowing, from the wounds of vain a moinin, blood of ages stop thy coursing, from the veins of the magicians. Stand like heaven's crystal pillars, stand like columns in the ocean, stand like birch trees in the forest, like the tall reeds in the marshes, like the high rocks of the sea coasts, stand by power of mighty magic. Should perforce thy will and pelty, flow thou on thine endless circuit, through the veins of vain a moinin, through the bones and through the muscles, through the lungs and heart and liver of the mighty sage and singer. Better be the food of heroes than to waste thy strength and virtue on the meadows and the woodlands, and be lost in dust and ashes. Flow forever in thy circle, thou must cease this crimson outflow. Stay no more the grass and flowers, stay no more these golden hilltops, pride and beauty of our heroes. In the veins of the magician, in the heart of vain a moinin, is thy rightful home and storehouse. Dither now withdraw thy forces, dither hasten swiftly flowing, flow no more as crimson currents, fill no longer crimson lakelets, must not rush like brooks and springtide nor meander like the rivers. Cease thy flow by word of magic, cease as did the falls of Tyria, as the rivers of Tuoni when the sky withheld her raindrops, when the sea gave up her waters in the famine of the seasons, in the years of fire and torture. If thou heedest not this order, I shall offer other measures, know I well of other forces, I shall call the heecy irons, in them I shall boil and roast thee, thus to check thy crimson flowing, thus to save the wounded hero. If these means be inefficient, should these measures prove unworthy, I shall call omniscient Ukko, mightiest of the Creator, stronger than all ancient heroes, wiser than the world magicians. He will check the crimson outflow, he will heal this wound of hatchet. Ukko, God of love and mercy, God and master of the heavens, come thou hither, thou art needed, come thou quickly I beseech thee, lend thy hand to aid thy children, touch this wound with healing fingers, stop this hero streaming lifeblood, bind this wound with tender leaflets, mingle with them healing flowers, thus to check this crimson current, thus to save this great magician, save the life of Vayne Amoynen. Thus at last the bloodstream ended, as the magic words were spoken. Then the graveyard, much rejoicing, sent his young son to the smithy, there to make a healing balsam, from the herbs of tender fiber, from the healing plants and flowers, from the stalks secreting honey, from the roots and leaves and blossoms. On the way he meets an oak tree, and the oak the sun addresses, hast thou honey in thy branches, does thy sap run full of sweetness? Thus the oak tree wisely answers, yea, but last night dripped the honey, down upon my spreading branches, and the clouds their fragrance sifted, sifted honey on my leaflets, from their home within the heavens. Then the sun takes oak wood splinters, takes the youngest oak tree branches, gathers many healing grasses, gathers many herbs and flowers, rarest herbs that grow in Northland, places them within the furnace in a kettle made of copper, lets them steep and boil together, bits of bark chipped from the oak tree, many herbs of healing virtues, steeps them one day, then a second, three long days of summer weather, days and nights in quick succession, then he tries his magic balsam, looks to see if it is ready, if his remedy is finished, but the balsam is unworthy. Then he added other grasses, herbs of every healing virtue, that were brought from distant nations, many hundred leagues from Northland, gathered by the wisest minstrels, dither brought by nine enchanters. Three days more he steeped the balsam, three nights more the fire betended nine the days and nights he watched it, then again he tried the ointment, viewed it carefully and tested, found at last that it was ready, found the magic balm was finished, nearby stood a branching birch tree. On the border of the meadow, wickedly it had been broken, broken down by evil he see. Quick he takes his balm of healing and anoints the broken branches, rubs the balsam in the fractures, thus addresses then the birch tree. With this balsam I anoint thee, with this salve thy wounds I cover, cover well thine injured places. Now the birch tree shall recover, grow more beautiful than ever. True the birch tree soon recovered, grew more beautiful than ever, grew more uniform its branches and its bowl more strongly stated. Thus it was betrothed the balsam, thus the magic salve he tested, touched with it the splintered sandstone, touched the broken blocks of granite, touched the fishers in the mountains and the broken parts united, all the fragments grew together. Then the young boy quick returning with the balsam he had finished to the graveyard gave the ointment and the boy these measures uttered. Here I bring the balm of healing, wonderful the salve I bring thee. It will join the broken granite, make the fragments grow together, heat the fishers in the mountains and restore the injured birch tree. With his tongue the old man tested, tested thus the magic balsam, found the remedy effective, found the balm had magic virtues. Then anointed he the minstrel, touched the wounds of Vayna Moynan, touched them with his magic balsam, with the balm of many virtues. Speaking words of ancient wisdom, these the words the graveyard uttered. Do not walk in thine own virtue, do not work in thine own power, walk in strength of thy Creator, do not speak in thine own wisdom, speak with tongue of mighty Uko. In my mouth, if there be sweetness, it has come from my Creator. If my hands are filled with beauty, all the beauty comes from Uko. When the wounds had been anointed, when the magic salve had touched them, straightway ancient Vayna Moynan suffered fearful pain and anguish, sank upon the floor in torment, turning one way then another, sought for rest and found it nowhere, till his pain the graveyard banished, banished by the aid of magic, drove away his killing torment. To the court of all our trouble, to the highest hill of torture, to the distant rocks and ledges, to the evil bearing mountains, to the realm of wicked heesey. Then he took some silken fabric, quick he tore the silk asunder, making equal strips for wrapping, tied the ends with silken ribbons, making thus a healing bandage. Then he wrapped with skillful fingers, Vayna Moynan's knee and ankle, wrapped the wounds of the magician, and this prayer the graveyard uttered. Uko's fabric is the bandage, Uko's science is the surgeon, these have served the wounded hero, wrapped the wounds of the magician. Look upon us, God of mercy, come and guard us, kind Creator, and protect us from all evil. Guide our feet, lest they may stumble, guard our lives from every danger, from the wicked wilds of heesey. Vayna Moynan, old and truthful, felt the mighty aid of magic, felt the help of gracious Uko, straightway stronger, grew in body, straightway were the wounds united, quick the fearful pain departed. Strong and hardy grew the hero, straightway walked in perfect freedom, turned his knee in all directions, knowing neither pain nor trouble. Then the ancient Vayna Moynan raised his eyes to high Yumala, looked with gratitude to heaven, looked on high in joy and gladness. Then addressed omniscient Uko, this the prayer the minstrel uttered.  Healed my wounds, instilled my anguish, banished all my pain and trouble, caused by iron and by heesey. O ye people of Vynola, people of this generation, and the folk of future ages, fashion not in emulation, river boat nor ocean shalap, boasting of its fine appearance, God alone can work completion, give to cause its perfect ending, never hand of man can find it, never can the hero give it. Uko is the only master. End of Rune 9. Recording by Kyle Robb. Rune 10 of the Kalevala. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Kalevala. Compiled by Elias Lunerut. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 10. Ilmarinin Forges the Sampo. Ve no moin in the magician takes his steed of copper color, hitches quick his fleetfoot coarser, puts his racer to the snow slay, straightway springs upon the cross seat, snaps his whip adorned with jewels, like the winds the steed flies onward, like a lightning flash, the racer makes the snow slay, creek and rattle, makes the highway quickly vanish, dashes on through fen and forest over hills and through the valleys, over marshes, over mountains, over fertile plains and meadows, journeys one day then a second, so a third from mourn till evening, till the third day evening brings him to the endless bridge of Osmo, to the Osmo fields and pastures, to the plains of Kalevala, when the hero spake as follows. May the wolves devour the dreamer, eat the laplander for dinner, may disease destroy the braggart, him who said that I should never see again my much-loved homeland, nevermore behold my kindred, never during all my lifetime, never while the sunshine brightens, never while the moon-like glimmers on the meadows of Vynola, on the plains of Kalevala. Then began Olvein Amoynin, ancient bard and famous singer, to renew his incantations. Sang aloft a wondrous pine tree, till it pierced the clouds in growing, with its golden top and branches, till it touched the very heavens, spread its branches in the ether, in the ever-shining sunlight. Now he sings again enchanting, sings the moon to shine forever in the fir trees emerald branches, in its top he sings the great bear. Then he quickly journeys homewards, hastens to his golden portals, head awry and visage wrinkled, crooked cap upon his forehead, since as ransom he had promised Ilmarin and magic artist, thus to save his life from torture on the distant fields of Northland in the Dismosaryola. When his stallion he had halted, on the Osmo field in Meadow, quickly rising in his snow slay, the magician heard one knocking, breaking coal within the smithy, beating with a heavy hammer. Vynamoin and famous minstrel, entering the smithy straightway, found the blacksmith Ilmarin and knocking with his copper hammer. Ilmarin and spake as follows, welcome brother Vynamoinan, old and worthy Vynamoinan, why so long hast thou been absent, where hast thou so long been hiding? Vynamoinan then made answer, these the words of the magician. Long indeed have I been living, many dreary days have wandered, many cheerless nights have lingered, floating on the cruel oceans, weeping in the fens and woodlands of the never-pleasant Northland in the Dismosaryola. With the Laplanders I've wandered, with the people filled with witchcraft. Promptly answers Ilmarin and these the words the blacksmith uses. O thou ancient Vynamoinan, famous and eternal singer, tell me of thy journey northward, of thy wanderings in Lapland, of thy dismal journey homeward. Spake the minstrel Vynamoinan.  In the Northland lives a virgin, in a village there a maiden, that will not accept a lover, that a hero's hand refuses, that a wizard's heart disdaineth. All of Northland sings her praises, sings her worth and magic beauty, fairest maiden of Poyola, daughter of the earth and ocean. From her temples beams the moonlight, from her breast the gleam of sunshine, from her forehead shines the rainbow, on her neck the seven starlets, and the great bear from her shoulder. Ilmarin and worthy brother, thou the only skillful blacksmith, go and see her wondrous beauty, see her gold and silver garments, see her robed in finest raiment, see her sitting on the rainbow, walking on the clouds of purple. Forge for her the magic sampo, forge the lid in many colors, thy reward shall be the virgin, thou shall win this bride of beauty. Go and bring the lovely maiden to thy home in Kalevala. Spake the brother Ilmarinan. O thou cunning Vynamoinan, thou has promised me already, to the ever darksome Northland, thy devoted head to ransom, thus to rescue thee from trouble. I shall never visit Northland, shall not go to see thy maiden, do not love the bride of beauty. Never while the moonlight glimmers, shall I go to Driri Poya, to the plains of Sariola, where the people eat each other, sink their heroes in the oceans, not for all the maids of Lapland. Spake the brother Vynamoinan. I can tell thee greater wonders, listen to my wonder story. I have seen the fir tree blossom, seen its flowers with emerald branches, on the Osmo fields and woodlands, in its top there shines the moonlight, and the bear lives in its branches. Ilmarinan thus made answer. I cannot believe thy story, cannot trust thy tale of wonder, till I see the blooming fir tree with its many emerald branches, with its bear and golden moonlight. This is Vynamoinan's answer. Wilt thou not believe my story, come with me and I will show thee, if my lips speak fact or fiction. Quick thy journey to discover haste to view the wondrous fir tree, Vynamoinan leads the journey, Ilmarinan closely follows. As they near the Osmo borders, Ilmarinan hastens forward, that he may behold the wonder, spies the bear within the fir top, sitting on its emerald branches, spies the gleam of golden moonlight. Spake the ancient Vynamoinan, these the words the singer uttered. Climb this tree, dear Ilmarinan, and bring down the golden moonbeams, bring the moon and bear down with thee from the fir tree's lofty branches. Ilmarinan, full consenting, straightway climbed the golden fir tree, high upon the bow of heaven, thence to bring the golden moonbeams, thence to bring the bear of heaven from the fir tree's topmost branches. There upon the blooming fir tree, spake these words to Ilmarinan.  Quick as thought old Vynamoinan sang again in magic accents, sang a stormwind in the heavens, sang the wild winds into fury, and the singer spake as follows. Take, O stormwind, take the forgemen, carry him within thy vessel, quickly hence and land the hero on the ever-darksome Northland, on the dismo Sariola. Now the stormwind quickly darkens, quickly piles the air together, makes of air a sailing vessel, takes the blacksmith Ilmarinan, fleetly from the fir tree branches, toward the never-pleasant Northland, toward the dismo Sariola. Through the air sailed Ilmarinan, and fast and far the hero traveled, sweeping onwards, sailing northward, riding in the track of stormwinds, over the moon beneath the sunshine, on the broad back of the great bear, till he neared Poyola's woodlands near the homes of Sariola, and the lighted undiscovered, was not noticed by the hunters, was not scented by the watchdogs. Low he hostess of Poyola, ancient toothless dame of Northland, standing in the open courtyard, thus addresses Ilmarinan, as she spies the hero stranger. Who art thou of ancient heroes, who of all the host of heroes, coming here upon the stormwind, over the sleigh path of the aether, scented not by Polya's watchdogs? This is Ilmarinan's answer. I have surely not come hither to be barked at by the watchdogs at these unfamiliar portals at the gates of Sariola. There upon the Northland hostess asks again the hero stranger. Hast thou ever been acquainted with the blacksmith of Vynola, with the hero Ilmarinan, with the skillful smith and artist? Long I've waited for his coming, long this one has been expected, on the borders of the Northland, here to forge for me the Sampo. Spake the hero Ilmarinan. Well indeed I am acquainted with the blacksmith Ilmarinan, I myself am Ilmarinan, I the skillful smith and artist. Luu he hostess of the Northland, toothless dame of Sariola, straightway rushes to her dwelling, these the words that Luuohi utters.  Bind thy head with silken ribbons, make thy cheeks look fresh and ruddy, and thy visage fair and winsome, since the artist Ilmarinan hither comes from Kalevala, here to forge for us the Sampo, hammer us the lid in colors. Now the daughter of the Northland, honored by the land and water, straightway takes her choicest raiment, takes her dresses rich in beauty, finest of her silken wardrobe, now adjusts her silken fillet. On her brow a band of copper, round her waist a golden girdle, round her neck a pearly necklace, shining gold upon her bosom, in her hair the threads of silver.  Luohi hostess of Poyola leads the hero Ilmarinan to her dwelling rooms in Northland, to her home in Sariola, seats him at her well-filled table, gives to him the finest vines, gives him every needed comfort, then addresses him as follows. O thou blacksmith Ilmarinan, master of the forge in Smithi, canst thou forge for me the sample, hammer me the lid and colors, from the tips of white swan feathers, from the milk of greatest virtue, from a single grain of barley, from the finest wool of lamkins? Thou shalt have my fairest order recompense for this thy service. These the words of Ilmarinan, I will forge for thee the sample, hammer thee the lid and colors, from the tips of white swan feathers, from the milk of greatest virtue, from a single grain of barley, from the finest wool of lamkins? Since I forged the arch of heaven, forged the air a concave cover, air the earth had a beginning. Thereupon the magic blacksmith went to forge the wondrous sample, went to find a blacksmith's workshop, went to find the tools to work with. But he found no place for forging, found no Smithi, found no bellows, found no chimney, found no anvil, found no tongs and found no hammer. Then the artist Ilmarinan spake these words soliloquizing. Only women grow discouraged, only naves leave work unfinished, not the devils nor the heroes nor the gods of greater knowledge. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinan sought a place to build a Smithi, sought a place to plant a bellows, on the borders of the Northland, on the poya hills and meadows. Searched one day and then a second, air the evening of the third day, came a rock within his vision, came a stone with rainbow colors. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinan set at work to build his Smithi, built a fire and raised a chimney, on the next day laid his bellows, on the third day built his furnace and began to forge the sample. The eternal magic artist, ancient blacksmith Ilmarinan, first of all the iron workers mixed together certain metals, put his mixture in the cauldron, laid it deep within the furnace, called the hirelings to the forging. Skillfully they worked the bellows, turned the fire and add the fuel, three most lovely days of summer, three short nights of bright mid-summer, till the rocks begin to blossom in the footprints of the workmen, from the magic heat and furnace. On the first day Ilmarinan downward bent and well examined, on the bottom of his furnace, thus to see what might be forming, from the magic fire and metals. From the fire arose a crossbow, with the brightness of the moonbeams, golden bow with tips of silver. On the shaft was shining copper, and the bow was strong and wondrous, but alas it was ill-natured. Asking for a hero daily, to the heads it asked on feast days. Ilmarinan skillful artist was not pleased with this creation, broke the bow in many pieces, threw them back within the furnace, kept the workmen at the bellows, tried to forge the magic sample. On the second day the blacksmith downward bent and well examined, on the bottom of the furnace, from the fire a skiff of metals, came a boat of purple color, all the ribs were colored golden, and the oars were forged from copper. Thus the skiff was full of beauty, but alas a thing of evil. Fourth it rushes into trouble, hastens into every quarrel, haste without a provocation into every evil combat. Ilmarinan metal artist is not pleased with this creation, breaks the skiff in many fragments, throws them back within the furnace, keeps the workmen at the bellows, thus to forge the magic sample. On the third day Ilmarinan, first of all the metal workers, downward bent and well examined, on the bottom of the furnace, there he saw a heifer rising, golden were the horns of Kimo, on her head the bear of heaven, on her brow a disc of sunshine, beautiful the cow of magic, but alas she is ill-tempered, rushes headlong through the forest, rushes through the swamps and meadows, wasting all her milk and running. Ilmarinan the magician is not pleased with this creation, cuts the magic cow in pieces, throws them in the fiery furnace, sets the workmen at the bellows, thus to forge the magic sample. On the fourth day Ilmarinan, downward bent and well examined, to the bottom of the furnace, there beheld a plow in beauty, rising from the fire of metals, golden was the point in plowshare, and the beam was forged from copper, and the handles molten silver, beautiful the plow and wondrous, but alas it is ill-mannered, plows up fields of corn and barley, furrows through the richest meadows. Ilmarinan metal artist is not pleased with this creation, quickly breaks the plow in pieces, throws them back within the furnace, lets the winds attend the bellows, lets the stormwinds fire the metals, fiercely via the winds of heaven, east wind rushing, west wind roaring, south wind crying, north wind howling, blow one day and then a second, blow the third from morn till evening, when the fire leaps through the windows, through the door the sparks fly upward. Clouds of smoke arise to heaven, with the clouds the black smoke mingles, as the stormwinds ply the bellows. On the third night Ilmarinan, bending low to view his metals, on the bottom of the furnace, sees the magic sampo rising, sees the lid in many colors. Quick the artist of Vynola forges with the tongs and anvil, knocking with the heavy hammer, forges skillfully the sampo. On one side the flower is grinding, on another salt is making, on a third is money forging, and the lid is many colored. Well the sampo grinds when finished, to and fro the lid is rocking, grinds when measure at the daybreak, grinds a measure fit for eating, grinds a second for the market, grinds a third one for the storehouse. Joyfully the dame of Northland, lo he hostess of Poyola, takes away the magic sampo, to the hills of Sariola, to the copper-bearing mountains, puts nine locks upon the wonder, makes three strong roots creep around it. In the earth they grow nine fathoms, one large root beneath the mountain, one beneath the sandy seabed, one beneath the mountain dwelling. Modestly pleads Ilmarinan for the maiden's willing answer, these the words of the magician. Wilt thou come with me, fair maiden, be my wife and queen forever? I have forged for thee the sampo, forged the lid in many colors. Northland's fair and lovely daughter answers thus the metal worker. Who will in the coming springtime, who will in the second summer, guide the cuckoo song and echo? Who will listen to his calling, who will sing with him in autumn? Should I go to distant regions, should this cheery maiden vanish from the fields of Sariola, from Poyola's fends and forests, where the cuckoo sings and echoes? Should I leave my father's dwelling, should my mother's berry vanish, should these mountains lose their cherry? Then the cuckoo too would vanish, all the birds would leave the forest, leave the summit of the mountain, leave my native fields and woodlands. Never shall I in my lifetime say farewell to maiden freedom, nor to summer cares and labors, lest the harvest be ungarner'd, lest the berries be ungathered, lest the songbirds leave the forest, lest the mermaids leave the waters, lest I sing with them no longer. Ilmerin and the magician, the eternal metal forger, cap-a-ri and head dejected, disappointed, heavy-hearted, empty-handed, well-considers, how to reach his distant country, reach his much-loved home in Kindred, gain the meadows of Vynola, from the never-pleasant Northland, from the darksome Sariola. Lo, he thus addressed the suitor, O thou blacksmith Ilmerin, and why art thou so heavy-hearted, why thy visage so dejected? Hast thou in thy mind to journey from the veils and hills of Poya, to the meadows of Vynola, to thy home in Kalevala? This is Ilmerinin's answer. Thither word my mind is tending to my homeland, let me journey, with my Kindred let me linger, be at rest and mine on country. Straightway lo, he, dame of Northland, gave the hero every comfort, gave him food and rarest vines, placed him in a boat of copper, in a copper-banded vessel, called the winds to his assistance, made the Northwind guide him homeward. Thus the skillful Ilmerinin travels toward his native country on the blueback of the waters, travels one day, then a second, till the third day evening brings him to Vynola's peaceful meadows, to his home in Kalevala. Straightway ancient Vena Moynin thus addresses Ilmerinin, O my brother, metal artist, thou eternal wonder-worker, didst thou forge the magic sampo, forge the lid in many colors? Spake the brother Ilmerinin, these the words the master uttered. Yea, I forged the magic sampo, forged the lid in many colors, to and fro the lid in rocking, grinds one measure at the daedon, grinds a measure fit for eating, grinds a second for the market, grinds a third one for the storehouse. Lo, he has the wondrous sampo, I have not the bride of beauty. End of Rune 10 Recording by Kyle Rob Rune 11 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 Landruth Translated by John Martin Crawford Rune 11 Lemon Guynin's Lament This the time to sing of Auti, son of Lempo, Gakomierli, also known as Lemon Guynin. Auti was the king of islands, grew amid the island dwellings at the site of his dear mother. On the borders of the ocean, on the points of promontories, Auti fed upon the salmon, fed upon the ocean whiting. Thus became a mighty hero, in his veins the blood of ages, red erect and form commanding, growth of mind and body perfect, but alas, he had his failings. Bad indeed his heart and morals, roaming in unworthy places, staying days and nights in sequences at the homes of merry maidens, at the dances of the virgins, with the maids of braided tresses. Up in Sarri lived a maiden, lived the fair and winsome coley. Lovely as a summer flower, from a kingly house descended, grew to perfect form and beauty, living in her father's cottage, home of many ancient heroes, beautiful was she and queenly, praised throughout the whole of Estland, from afar men came to woo her, to the birthplace of the virgin, to the household of her mother, for his son the day-star wooed her, but she will not go to sun-land, will not shine beside the day-star in his haste to bring the summer. For her son the bright moon wooed her, but she will not go to moon-land, by the bright moon will not glimmer, will not run through boundless ether. For his son the night-star wooed her, but she will not go to star-land, will not twinkle in the star-light, through the dreary nights and winter. Lovers come from distant Estland, others come from far off Ingerne, but they cannot win the maiden in the answer that she gives them. Vainly are your praises lavished, vainly is your silver offered. Wealth and praise are no temptation, never shall I go to Estland, never shall I go o'rowing on the waters of the Ingerne, shall not cross the sari waters, never eat the fish of Estland, never taste the Estland viands, Ingerland shall never see me, will not row upon her rivers, will not step within her borders, hunger there and fell starvation, wood is absent, fuel wanting, neither water, wheat, nor barley, even rye is not abundant. Lemon-guinen of the islands, warlike hero, Gakko Miele, undertakes to win the maiden, woo and win the sari flower, win a bride so highly honoured, win the maid with golden tresses, win the sari maid of beauty, but his mother gives him warning. Nay, replies his grey-haired mother, do not woo my son, beloved maiden of a higher station, she will never make thee happy, with her lineage of sari. Spake the hero Lemon-guinen, these the words of Gakko Miele, should I come from lowly station, though my tribe is not the highest, I shall woo to please my fancy, woo the maiden fair and lovely, choose a wife for worth and beauty. This the anxious mother's answered, Lemon-guinen, son, beloved, listen too, advice maternal, do not go to distant sari, to her tribes of many branches, all the maidens there will taunt thee, all the women will deride thee. Lemon-guinen, little hearing, answers thus his mother's pleading, I will still the snares of women, silence all the taunts of maidens, I will crush their haughty bosoms, smite the hands and cheeks of infants, surely this will check their insults, fitting end to derision. This the answer of the mother, woo is me, my son, beloved, woo is me, my life hard faded, should thou taunt the sari daughters, or insult the maids of virtue, shouldest thou laugh them to derision, there will rise a great contention, fierce the battle that will follow, all the hosts of sari suitors, armed in thousands will attack thee, and will slay thee for thy folly. Nothing listing Lemon-guinen, heeding not his mother's warning, led his war-horse from the stables, quickly hitched the fiery charger, fleetly drove upon his journey, to the distant sari village, there to woo the sari flower. There to win the bride of beauty, all the aged sari women, all the young and lovely maidens, laughed to scorn the coming stranger, driving careless through the alleys, wildly driving through the courtyard, now upsetting in the gateway, breaking shaft and hame and runner. Then the fearless Lemon-guinen, mouth awry and visage wrinkled, shook his sable locks and answered, never in my recollection have I heard or seen such treatment, never have I been derided, never suffered sneers of women, never suffered scorn of virgins, not in my immortal lifetime. Is there any place befitting, on the sari planes and pastures, where to join in songs and dances? Is there here a hall for pleasure, where the sari maidens linger, merry maids with braided tresses? There upon the sari maidens, answered from their promontory, room enough is there in sari, room upon the sari pastures, room for pleasure halls and dances, sing and dance upon our meadows, be a shepherd on the mountains, shepherd boys have room for dancing, indolent the sari children, but the colts are fat and frisky. Little-carrying Lemon-guinen entered service there as shepherd, in the daytime on the pastures, in the evening making merry, at the games of the lively maidens, at the dances with the virgins, with the maids with braided tresses. Thus it was that Lemon-guinen, thus the shepherd, cacomielly, quickly hushed the women's laughter, quickly quenched the taunts of maidens, quickly silenced their derision. All the dames and sari daughters soon were feasting Lemon-guinen. At his side they danced and lingered, only was there one among them, one among the sari virgins, harbored neither love nor woors, favoured neither gods nor heroes, this the lovely maiden Kiliqi, this the sari's fairest flower. Lemon-guinen, full of pleasure, handsome hero, cacomielly, rode a hundred boats and pieces, polled a thousand oars to fragments, while he wooed the maid of beauty, tried to win the fair Kiliqi. Finally the lovely maiden, fairest daughter of the Northland, thus addresses Lemon-guinen. Why does thou linger here, thou weak one? Why does thou murmur on these borders? Why come wooing at my fireside, wooing me in belt of copper? Have no time to waste upon thee, rather give this stone its polish, rather would I turn the pestle in the heavy sandstone mortar, rather sit beside my mother in the dwellings of my father. Never shall I heed thy wooing, neither whites nor whisks I care for. Sooner have a slender husband, since I have a slender body. Wish to have him fine a figure, since perchance I am well-shapen. Wish to have him tall and stately, since my form perchance is queenly. Never waste thy time in wooing. Saliri's maid and favoured flower. Time had gone but little distance. Scarcely had a month passed over, when upon a merry evening, where the maidens meet for dancing, in the glen beyond the meadow, on a level patch of verger, came too soon the maid Kiliqi. Sarri's pride, the maid of beauty, quickly followed Lemon-guinen, with his stallion proudly prancing, fleetus racer of the Northland. Fleetly drives beyond the meadow, where the maidens meet for dancing, snatches quick the maid Kiliqi, on the settle seats the maiden, quickly draws the Leathern cover, and adjusts the britchen cross-bar, whips his coarser to a gallop, with a rush and roar and rattle. Speeds he homeward like the storm-wind, speaks these words to those that listen. Never, never, anxious maidens must ye give the information, that I carried off Kiliqi to my distant home and kindred. If ye do not heed this order, ye shall badly fare as maidens. I shall sing to war your suitors, sing them under spear and broadsword. That for months and years and ages never ye will see their faces, never hear their merry voices, never will they tread these uplands, never will they join these dances, never will they drive these highways. Sad the wailing of Kiliqi, sad the weeping flower of Sarri. Listen to her tearful pleading. Give, O give me back my freedom, free me from the throes of Thraldom, let this maiden wander homeward, by some footpath let me wander, to my father who is grieving, to my mother who is weeping. Let me go, or I will curse thee. If thou wilt not give me freedom, wilt not let me wander homeward, where my loved ones wait my coming. I have seven stalwart brothers, seven sons of father's brother, seven sons of mother's sister, who pursue the tracks of red deer, hunt the hare upon the heather. They will follow thee and slay thee, thus I'll gain to my wished-for freedom. Lemon guinen, little heeding, would not grant the maiden's wishes, would not heed her plea for mercy, spake again the waiting version, pride and beauty of the Northland. Joyful was I with my kindred, joyful born and softly nurtured, merrily I spent my childhood, happy I in virgin freedom, in the dwelling of my father, by the bedside of my mother, with my lineage in sorry, but alas all joy has vanished, all my happiness departed, all my maiden beauty weaneth, since I met thine evil spirit, shameless hero of dishonour, cruel fighter of the islands, merciless in civil combat. Spake the hero Lemon Guinen, these the words of Kako Mielly, dearest maiden, fair Keliki, my sweet strawberry of Poya, still thine anguish cease thy weeping, be thou free from care and sorrow, never shall I do the evil, never will my hands maltreat thee, never will mine arms abuse thee, never will my tongue revile thee, never will my heart deceive me. Tell me why thou hast this anguish, why thou hast this bitter sorrow, why this sighing and lamenting, tell me why this wail of sadness. Banish all thy cares and sorrows, dry thy tears and still thine anguish. I have cattle, food and shelter, I have home and friends and kindred, kind upon the plains and uplands, in the marshes berries plenty, strawberries upon the mountain, I have kind that need no milking, handsome kind that need no feeding, beautiful if not well tended. Need not tie them up at evening, need not free them in the morning, need not hunt them, need not feed them, need not give them salt nor water. Thinkest thou my races lowly, dost thou think me born ignoble? Does my lineage aggrieve thee, was not born in lofty station, from a tribe of noble heroes, from a worthy race descended? But I have a sword of fervor and a spear yet filled with courage. Surely these are well descended, these were born from hero races, sharpened by the mighty Hesse, by the gods were forged and burnished.  Anxiously the sighing maiden thus addresses Lemon Kynan. O thou Ati, son of Lempo, will thou take this trusting virgin, as thy faithful life companion, take me under thy protection, be to me a faithful husband. Swear to me an oath of honour, that thou will not go to battle, when for gold thou hast a longing, when thou wishest gold and silver? This is Lemon Kynan's answer. I will swear an oath of honour, that I'll never go to battle, when for gold I feel a longing, when I wish for gold and silver, swear thou also on thine honour, thou wilt not go to the village, when desire for dance impels thee, wilt not visit village dances. Thus the two made oath together, registered their vows in heaven, vowed before omniscient gold. Nair to go to war vowed Ati, never to the dance glicky. Lemon Kynan, full of joyance, snapped his whip above his coarser, whipped his racer to a gallop, and these words the hero uttered. Fair you well, ye sorry meadows, roots of furs and stumps of birch trees, that I wandered through in summer, that I travelled o'er in winter, where off times and rainy seasons at the evening hour I lingered, when I sought to win the virgin, sought to win the maid of beauty, fairest of the sorry flowers. Fair you well, ye sorry woodlands, seas and oceans, lakes and rivers, veils and mountains, aisles and inlets, once the home of fair Kaeliki. Quickly the racer galloped homeward, galloped on along the highway, toward the meadows of Wainola, to the plains of Galevala. As they neared the Akti dwellings, thus Kaeliki spake in sorrow, cold and drear is thy cottage, seeming like a place deserted, who may own this dismal cabin, who the one so little honoured. Spake the hero Lemon Kynan, these the words that Akti muttered. Do not grieve about my cottage, have no care about my chambers, I shall build the other dwellings, I shall fashion them much better. Beams and posts and seals and rafters, fashioned from the sacred birchwood. Now they reach the home of Akti, Lemon Kynan's home and birthplace, enter they his mother's cottage, there they meet his aged mother, these the words the mother uses. Long indeed has been thou absent, long in foreign lands has wandered, long in sorrow thou hast lingered. This is Lemon Kynan's answer. All the host of sorry women, all the chaste and lovely maidens, all the maids with braided tresses, well have paid for their derision, for their scorn and for their laughter, that they basely heaped upon me. I have brought the best among them, in my sledge to this thy cottage. Well I wrapped her in my fur robes, kept her warm and wrapped in bearskin, brought her to my mother's dwelling as my faithful life-companion. Thus I paid the scornful maidens, paid them well for their derision. Cherished mother of my being, I have found the longsot jewel, I have won the maid of beauty, spread our couch with finest linen, for our heads the softest pillows, on our table rarest vines, so that I may dwell in pleasure, with my spouse the bride of honour, with the pride of distant sorry.  Son, beloved, praise thy maker, for the winning of this virgin, pride and joy of distant sorry, kind indeed is thy creator, wise the ever-knowing Uko, pure the snow upon the mountains, pure still thy bride of beauty, white the foam upon the ocean, whiter still her virgin spirit, graceful on the lakes the white swan, still more graceful thy companion, beautiful the stars in heaven, still more beautiful Kaleike. Larger make our humble cottage, wider build the doors and windows, fashion thou the ceilings higher, decorate the walls and beauty, now that thou a bride has taken, from a tribe of higher station, pyrrhus maiden of creation, from the meadowlands of Sarri, from the upper shores of Northland.