Rune 31 of the Cala Valla. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Cala Valla. Compiled by Elias Loneroth. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 31. Kula Vainan. Son of Evil. In the ancient times a mother hatched and raised some swans and chickens. Placed the chickens in the brushwood. Placed her swans upon the river. Came an eagle, hawk, and falcon. Scattered all her swans and chickens. One was carried to Cala Valla. And a second into Asterland. Left a third at home in Poya. And the one to Asterland taken soon became a thriving merchant. He that journeyed to Cala Valla flourished and was called Cala Valla. He that hid away in Poya. Took the name of Untamoinan. Flourished to his father's sorrow. To the heart pain of his mother. Untamoinan sets his fishnets in the waters of Cala Valla. Kula Vainan sees the fishnets. Takes the fish home in his basket. Then Untamo, evil-minded, angry-drew and sighed for vengeance. Clutched his fingers for the combat. Bared his mighty arms for battle. For the stealing of his salmon. For the robbing of his fishnets. Long they battled fierce the struggle. Neither one could prove the victor should one beat the other fiercely. He himself was fiercely beaten. Then arose a second treble. On the second and the third days. Cala Vainan sowed some barley near the barns of Untamoinan. Untamoinan sheep in hunger ate the crop of Kula Vainan. Kula Vainan's dog in malice tore Untamo's sheep in pieces. Then Untamo was sorely threatened to annihilate the people of his brother Cala Vainan. To exterminate his tribefolk. To destroy the young and aged. To outroot his race and kingdom. Conjures men with broadswords girded for the war he fashions heroes. Fashions youth with spears adjusted. Bearing axes on their shoulders. Conjures thus a mighty army. Hastens to begin a battle. Bring a war upon his brother. Cala Vainan's wife in beauty sat beside her chamber window. Looking out along the highway. Spaked these words in wonder-guessing. Do I see some smoke arising? Or perchance a heavy storm cloud. Near the border of the forest. Near the ending of the prairie. It was not some smoke arising. Nor indeed a heavy storm cloud. It was Untamoinan soldiers marching to the place of battle. Warriors of Untamoinan. Game equipped with spears and arrows. Killed the people of Cala Vau. Stood his tribe and all his kindred. Burned to ashes many dwellings. Leveled many coats and cabins. Only left Cala Vau's daughter with her unborn child survivors of the slaughter of Untamoin. And she led the hostile army to her father's halls and mansion, swept the rooms and made them cheery. Gave the heroes home attention. Time had gone but little distance. Ereboi was born in magic of the virgin Untamala, of a mother trouble laden. Him the mother named Cala Vau. Pearl of combat, said Untamo. Then they laid the child of wonder fatherless, the magic infant, in the cradle of attention to be rocked and fed and guarded. But he rocked himself at pleasure, rocked until his lock stood end-wise. Rocked one day, and then a second. Rocked the third from mourn to noontide. But before the third day ended, kicks the boy with might of magic. Forward, backwards, upwards, downwards. Kicks in miracles of power. Bursts with might, his swaddling garments. Creeping from beneath his blankets. Knocks his cradle into fragments. Tears to tatters all his raiment.  When three months the boy had thriven, he began to speak as follows. When my form is full of stature, when these arms grow strong and hardy, then will I avenge the murder of Cala Vau and his people. Untamala hears the saying, speaks these words to those about him. To my tribe he brings destruction in him grows a new Cala Vau. Then the heroes well considered, and the women gave their counsel, how to kill the magic infant, that their tribe may live in safety. It appeared the boy would prosper, finally they all consenting. He was placed within a basket, and with willows firmly fastened, taken to the reeds and rushes, lowered to the deepest waters, in his basket there to perish. When three nights had circled over messengers of Untamala went to see if he had perished in his basket in the waters. But the prodigy was living had not perished in the rushes. He had left his willow basket sat in triumph on a billow, in his hand a rod of copper, on the rod a golden fish-line, fishing for the silver whiting, measuring the deeps beneath him. In the sea was little water, scarcely would it build three measures. Untamala then reflected, this the language of the wizard. Wither shall we take this wonder, lay this prodigy of evil, that destruction may artake him, where the boy will sink and perish. Then his messengers he ordered to collect dried poles of brushwood, birch trees with their hundred branches, pine trees full of pitch and resin, ordered that a pyre be builded, that the boy might be cremated, that colubo thus might perish.  Piled the brushwood to the treetop, set the boy upon the summit, set on fire the pile of brushwood burned one day and then a second, burned the third from morn till evening, when Untamo sent his heralds to inspect the pyre and wizard, there to learn if young colubo had been burned to dust and ashes. There they saw the young boy sitting on a pyramid of embers, in his hand a rod of copper, raking coals of pyre of atom, to increase their heat and power, not a hair was burned nor injured, not a ringlet singed nor shriveled. Then Untamo, evil humour thus addressed his trusted heralds, whither shall the boy be taken, to what place this thing of evil, that destruction may or take him, that the boy may sink and perish. Then they hung him to an oak tree, crucified him in the branches, that the wizard there might perish. When three days and nights had ended, Untamo and Spake as follows, it is time to send my heralds to inspect the mighty oak tree, there to learn if young colubo lives or dies among the branches. There upon he sent his servants, and the heralds brought this message. Young colubo has not perished, has not died among the branches of the oak tree, where we hung him. In the oak he maketh pictures, with a one between his fingers, pictures hung from all the branches, carved and painted by colubo, and the heralds, thick as acorns, with their swords and spears adjusted, fill the branches of the oak tree, every leaf becomes a soldier. Who can help the grave, Untamo, kill the boy that threatens evil, to Untamo's tribe and country, since he will not die by water, nor by fire, nor crucifixion. Finally it was decided that his body was immortal, could not suffer death nor torture. In despair grave Untamoinen thus addressed the boy colubo, wealth thou live a life becoming, always do my people honour, should I keep thee in my dwelling, shouldst thou render servants duty, then thou wilt receive thy wages, reaping whatsoever thou sowest, thou canst wear the golden girdle, or endure the tongue of censure. When the boy had grown a little, had increased in strength and stature, he was given occupation, he was made to tend an infant, made to rock the infant's cradle. These the words of Untamoinen often look upon the young child, feed him well and guard from danger, wash his linen in the river, give the infant good attention. Young colubo, wicked wizard, nurses one day, then a second, on the morning of the third day, gives the infant cruel treatment, blinds its eyes and breaks its fingers, and when evening shadows gather, kills the young child while it slumbers, throws its body to the waters, breaks and burns the infant's cradle. Untamoinen thus reflected, never will this fell colubo be a worthy nurse for children, cannot rock a babe in safety, do not know how I can use him, what employment I can give him. Then he told the young magician, he must fell the standing forest, and colubo gave this answer, only will I be a hero when I wield the magic hatchet. I am young and fair and mighty, far more beautiful than others, have the skill of six magicians. Thereupon he sought the blacksmith, this the order of colubo. Listen now, thou metal artist, forge for me an axe of copper, forge the mighty axe of heroes, wherewith I may fell the forest, fell the birch and oak and aspen. This behest the blacksmith honors, forges him an axe of copper, wonderful the blade he forges, coluboinen grinds his hatchet, grinds his blade from morn till evening, and the next day makes the handle. Then he hastens to the forest, to the upward sloping mountain, to the tallest of the birches, to the mightiest of oak trees. There he swings his axe of copper, swings his blade with might and magic, cuts with sharpened edge the aspen, with one blow he fells the oak tree, with a second blow the linden, many trees have quickly fallen by the hatchet of colubo. Then the wizards bake as bollows, this the proper work of lampeau, let that hissy fell the forest. In the birch he sank his hatchet, made an uproar in the woodlands, called aloud in tones of thunder, whistled to the distant mountains till they echoed to his calling, when colubo spake as bollows, may the forest in the circle where my voice rings fall and perish, in the earth be lost forever, may no tree remain unleveled, may no saplings grow in springtime, never while the moonlight glimmers, where colubo's voice has echoed, where the forest hears my calling, where the ground with seed is planted, and the grain shall sprout and plovish, may it never come to ripeness, for may the ear so calm be busted. When the strong man unto moinon went to look at early evening, how colubo was progressing in his labours in the forest, little was the work accomplished, was not worthy of a hero, unto moinon thus reflected, young colubo is not fitted for the work of clearing forests, waste the best of all the timber to my lands he brings destruction, I shall set him making fences. Then the youth began the building, of a fence for unto moinon, took the trunks of stately fir trees, trimmed them with his blade for fence boats, cut the tallest in the woodlands for the railing of his fences, made the smaller poles and crossbars from the longest of the lindons, made the fence without a pathway, made no wicket in his fences, and colubo spake these measures, healer does not rise as eagles, does not sail on wings through ether, cannot cross colubo's pickets, nor the fences he has builded. Unto moinon left his mansion to inspect the young boys' labours, view the fences of colubo saw the fence without a pathway, not a wicket in his fences, from the earth the fence extended to the highest clouds of heaven, these the words of Unto moinon, for this work he is not fitted, useless is the fence thus builded, is so high that none can cross it, and there is no passage through it, he shall thresh the rye and barley. Young colubo quick preparing, made an oaken flail for threshing, threshed the rye to finest powder, threshed the barley into atoms, and the straw to worth the fragments. Unto moinon went at evening, went to see colubo's threshing, view the work of coluboinon, found the rye was ground to powder, grains of barley crushed to atoms, and the straw to worthless rubbish. Unto moinon then grew angry, spake these words in bitter accents, coluboinon as a workman, is a miserable failure, whatsoever work he touches is but ruined by his witchcraft, I shall carry him to Easterland, in Karyala I shall sell him to the blacksmith Ilmarinon, there to swing the heavy hammer. Unto moinon sells colubo, trades him off in Vah Karyala, to the blacksmith Ilmarinon, to the master of the metals, this the sum received in payment, seven worn and worthless sickles, three old cauldrons worse than useless, three old sides and hoes and axes, recompense indeed sufficient for a boy that will not labour for the good of his employer. End of Rune 31. Rune 32 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 Launrout, translated by John Martin Crawford, Rune 32. Kulavo as a shepherd. Kulavoinon, wizard serpent of the blacksmith Ilmarinon, purchased slave from Unto Moinon, magic son with sky blue stockings, with a head of golden ringlets in his shoes of martin leather, waiting little, asked the blacksmith, asked the host for work at morning. In the evening asked the hostess, these the words of Kulavoinon, give me work at early morning in the evening occupation, labour worthy of thy servant. Then the wife of Ilmarinon, once the maiden of the rainbow, thinking long and long debating how to give the youth employment, how the purchased slave could labour, finally a shepherd made him, made him keeper of her pastures, but the overscornful hostess, baked a biscuit for the herdsmen, baked a loaf of wondrous thickness, baked the lower half of oatmeal, and the upper half of barley, baked a flintstone in the centre, poured around it liquid butter, then she gave it to the shepherd, food to steal the shepherd's hunger. Thus she gave the youth instructions, do not eat the bread in hunger till the herd is in the woodlands. Then the wife of Ilmarinon sent the cattle to the pastures, thus addressing Kulavoinon, drive the cows to yonder-bowers, to the birch trees and the aspens, that they there may feed and fatten, fill themselves with milk and butter, in the open forest pastures, on the distant hills and mountains, in the glens among the birch trees, in the lowlands with the aspens, in the golden pine-tree forests, in the thicket silver laden. Guard them thou, O kind creator, shield them omnipresent, shelter them from every danger, and protect them from all evil, that they may not want nor wander, from the paths of peace and plenty, as at home that it's protect them in the shelters, and the hurdles guard them now beneath the heavens, shelter them in woodland pastures, that the herds may live and prosper, to the joy of Northon's hostess, and against the will of Lempo. If my herdsmen prove unworthy, if the shepherd bade seem evil, let the pastures be their shepherds, let the alders guard the cattle, make the birch tree their protector, let the willow drive them homeward, ere the hostess go to seek them, ere the milkmaids wait and worry, should the birch tree not protect them, nor the aspenland assistants, nor the linden be their keeper, nor the willow drive them homeward, wilt thou give them better herdsmen, let creation's butchers' daughters be their kindly shepherdesses. Thou hast many lovely maidens, many hundreds that obey thee, in the aethers' spacious circles, beauties' daughters of creation, summer daughter magic maiden, southern mother of the woodlands, pientry daughter, katajata, pilajata of the aspen, older maiden, tapioe's daughter, daughter of the glen miliki, and the mountain maid to lervo, of my herds be ye protectors, keep them from the evil-minded, keep them safe in days of summer, in the times of fragrant flowers, while the tender leaves are whispering, while the earth is vergeoladen, summer daughter charming maiden, southern mother of the woodlands, spread abroad thy robes of safety, spread thine apron o'er the forest, let it cover all my cattle, and protect the unprotected, that no evil winds may harm them, may not suffer from the storm-clouds, guard my flocks from every danger, keep them from the hands of wild beasts, from the swamps with sinking pathways, from the springs that bubble trouble, from the swiftly running waters, from the bottom of the whirlpool, that they may not find misfortune, may not wander to destruction, in the marshes sink and perish, though against God's best intentions, though against the will of Ukko, from a distance bring a bugle, bring a shepherd's horn from heaven, bring thy honey flew to Ukko, play the music of creation, blow the pipes of the magician, play the flowers on the highlands, charm the hills and dails and mount, charm the borders of the forest, fill the forest trees with honey, fill with spice the fountain borders, for my herds give food and shelter, feed them all on honeyed pastures, give them drink at honeyed fountains, feed them on thy golden grasses, on the leaves of silver saplings, from the springs of life and beauty, from the crystal waters flowing, from the waterfalls of Rocha, from the uplands grain and golden, from the glens enriched in silver, dig thou also golden fountains, on the foresides of the willow, that the cows may drink in sweetness, and their udders swell with honey, that their milk may flow in streamlets, let the milk be caught in vessels, let the cows give not be wasted, be not given to Manala, many are the sons of evil, that to Manah take their milkings, give their milk to evildoers, wasted into Ernie's empire, few there are, and they the worthy, that can get the milk from Manah, never did my ancient mother, ask for counsel in the village, never in the courts for wisdom, she obtained her milk from Manah, took the sour milk from the dealers, sweet milk from the greater distance, from the kingdom of Manala, from Tuoni's fields and pastures, brought it in the dusk of evening, through the byways in the darkness, that the wicked should not know it, that it should not find destruction, this the language of my mother, and these words I also echo, wither does the cows give wander, wither has the milk departed, has it gone to feed the strangers, banished to the distant village, gone to feed the hamlet lover, or perchance to feed the forest, disappeared within the woodlands, scattered are the hills and mountains, mingled with the lakes and rivers, it shall never go to Manah, never go to feed the stranger, never to the village lover, neither shall it feed the forest, nor be lost upon the mountains, neither sprinkled in the woodlands, nor be mingled with the waters, it is needed for our tables, worthy food for all our children, summer daughter made of beauty, southern daughter of creation, gifts Watiki tender father, to Watiki give pure water, to her mecky milk abundant, fresh provisions to Turiki, from Meriki let the milk flow, fresh milk from my cows in plenty, coming from the tips of grasses, from the tender herbs and leaflets, from the meadows rich in honey, from the mother of the forest, from the meadows sweetly dripping, from the berry-laden branches, from the heath of flower maidens, from the verter maiden-bowers, from the clouds of milk providers, from the virgin of the heavens, that the milk may flow abundant, from the cows that I have given, to the keeping of Kullervo, rise there virgin of the valley, from the springs arise in beauty, rise there maiden of the fountain, beautiful arise in ether, take the waters from the cloudlets, and my roaming herds besprinkle, that my cows may drink and flourish, may be ready for the coming, of the shepherdess of evening. O Maliki forest hostess, mother of the herds at pasture, send the tallest of thy servants, send the best of thine assistants, that my herds may well be guarded, through the pleasant days of summer, given us by our creator, buttious virgin of the woodlands, Tapio's most charming daughter, fair to Lervo forest maiden, softly clad in silken rain-ment, beautiful in golden ringlets, do thou give my herds protection, in the met solar dominions, on the hills of Tapiolla, shield them with thy hands of beauty, stroke them gently with thy fingers, give to them a golden luster, make them shine like fins of salmon, grow them robes as soft as ermine, when the evening star brings darkness, when appears the hour of twilight, send my lowing cattle homeward, milk within their vessels coursing, water on their backs in lakelets, when the sun has set in ocean, when the evening bird is singing, thus address my herds of cattle, ye that carry horns now hasten, to the sheds of Ilmarinan, ye enriched in milk go homeward, to the hostess now in waiting, home the better place for sleeping, forest beds are full of danger, when the evening comes in darkness, straightway journey to the milkmaids, building fires to light the pathway, on the turf enriched in honey, in the pasture's berry laden, thou O Tapio's son Niriki, forest sun enrobed in purple, cut the fir trees on the mountains, cut the pines with cones of beauty, lay them o'er the streams for bridges, cover well the sloths of quicksand, in the swamps and in the lowlands, that my herd may pass in safety, on their long and dismal journey, to the clouds of smoke may hasten, when the milkmaids wait their coming, if the cows heed not this order, do not hasten home at evening, then o' service berry maiden, cut a birch-rod from the Glenwood, from the Junipera whipstick, near to Tapio's spacious mansion, standing on the ashtray mountain, drive my wayward-lowing cattle, in two Metzola's wide milkyards, when the evening star is rising.  Dost thou hear the tones of cowbells, hear the calling of the bugles, ride thyself within the meadow, sink upon the turf in slumber, bury both thine ears in clover, crouch within some alder thicket, climb between the mossy ledges, visit thou some rocky cavern, flee away to other mountains, till thou canst not hear the cowbells, nor the calling of the herdsmen. Listen, O Otso of the woodlands, sacred bear with honeyed fingers, to approach the herd of cattle, thou thyself are not forbidden, but thy tongue and teeth and fingers must not touch my herd in summer, must not harm my harmless creatures, go around the scented meadows, amble through the milky pastures, from the tones of bells and shepherds, should the herd be on the mountain, go there quickly to the marshes, should my cattle browse the lowlands, sleep thou then within the thicket, should they feed upon the uplands, thou must hasten to the valley, should the herd graze at the bottom, thou must feed upon the summit, wander like the golden cuckoo, like the dove of silver brightness, like a little fish in ocean, ride thy claws within thy hair-foot, shut thy wicked teeth in darkness, that my herd may not be frightened, may not think themselves in danger, leave my cows in peace and plenty, let them journey home in order, through the veils and mountain byways, over plains and through the forest, harming not my harmless creatures. Call to mind our former pledges at the river of Tuoni, near the waterfall and whirlpool, in the ears of our Creator. Throist to Otso was it granted in the circuit of the summer to approach the land of cowbells, where the herdsman's voices echo. But to thee it was not granted, Otso never had permission to attempt a wicked action, to begin a work of evil. Should the blinding thing of malice come upon thee in thy romings?  Should thy hunger still impelled thee? Go thou to the berry-mountain, eat the fungus of the forest, feed thy hunger on the ant-hills, eat the red roots of the bear-tree. Metzela's rich cakes of honey, not the grass my herd would feed on, or if Metzela's rich honey should ferment before the eating, on the hills of golden color, on the mountains filled with silver, there is other food for hunger, other drink for thirsting, Otso, everlasting will the food be, and the drink be never wanting. Let us now agree in honor and conclude a lasting treaty that our lives may end in pleasure, may be merry in the summer, both enjoy the woods in common. Though our food must be distinctive, shouldst thou still desire to fight me, let our contests be in winter, let our wars be on the snow fields, swamps will thaw in days of summer, warm the water in the rivers, therefore shouldst thou break this treaty, shouldst thou come, where golden cattle roam these woodland hills and valleys, we will slay thee with our crossbows, should our aram and be absent, we have here some archer women, and among them is the hostess, that can use the fatal weapon, that can bring thee to destruction, thus will end the days of trouble, that thou bringest to our people, and against the will of Ukko, Ukko ruler in the heavens, lend an ear to my entreaty, metamorphose all my cattle, through the mighty force of magic, into stumps and stones convert them, if the enemy should wander, near my herd in days of summer. If I had been born an Otso, I would never stride and amble at the feet of aged women. Elsewhere there are hills and valleys, farther on are honey pastures, where the lazy bear may wander, where the indolent may linger, sneak away to yonder mountain, that they tend to flesh may lessen, in the blue-glend's deep recesses, in the bare dens of the forest. Thou canst move through fields of acorns, through the sand and ocean pebbles, there for thee is tractor pathway, through the woodlands on the sea coast, to the Northland's farthest limits, to the dismal plains of Lapland, there tis well for thee to lumber, there to live will be a pleasure. Shoeless there to walk in summer, stockingless in days of autumn, on the blue-back of the mountain, through the swamps and fertile lowlands, if thou canst not journey thither, canst not find the Lapland highway, hasten on a little distance, in the bear path leading Norwood, to the grove of Tuanella, to the honey plains of Kelmer, swamps there are in which to wander, he's in which to roam at pleasure. There are kios, there are kaios, and of beasts accountless number, with their fetters strong as iron, fattening within the forest. Be ye gracious groves and mountains full of grace ye darksome thickets, peace and plenty to my cattle, through the pleasant days of summer, the creator's warmest season. Nepanna, oh king of forests, thou the gray beard of the woodlands, watch thy dogs in fan and fallow, lay a sponge within one nostril, and an acorn in the other, that they may not scent my cattle, tie their eyes with silken fillets, that they may not see my hurdlings, may not see my cattle grazing. Should all this seem inefficient, drive away thy barking children, let them run to other forests, let them hunt in other marshes. From these verdant strips of meadow, from these far outstretching borders, hide thy dogs within thy caverns, firmly tie thy yelping children, tie them with thy golden fetters, with thy chains adorn with silver, that they may not do me damage, may not do a deed of mischief. Should all this prove inefficient, thou, oh Uko king of heaven, wise director full of mercy, hear the golden words I utter, hear a voice that breathes affection, from the alder make a muzzle, for each dog within the kennel. Should the alder prove to feeble, cast a band of purest copper, should the copper prove a failure, forge a band of ductile iron, should the iron snap asunder, in each nose a small ring farsen, made of molten golden silver, chain thy dogs in forest caverns, that my hurd may not be injured. Then the wife of Ilmarinen, life-companion of the blacksmith, opened all her yards and stables, led her herd across the meadow, placed them in the herdmen's keeping, in the care of Kullervoinen. End of Rune 32, recording by Timothy Ferguson, Gold Coast, Australia. Rune 33 of the Kalevala. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Kalevala, compiled by Ilias Lönnrod, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 33. Kullervo and the Cheat Cake Thereupon the lad Kullervo, laid his luncheon in his basket, drove the herd to mountain pastures, over the hills and through the marshes, to their grazing in the woodlands, speaking as he Kaleus wandered. Of the youth am I the poorest, hapless lad and full of trouble, evil luck to me be fallen. I, alas, must idly wander over the hills and through the valleys, as a watchdog for the cattle. Then he said upon the green-sword, in the sunny spot selected, singing chanting words as follow, Shine o' Shine, thou son of heaven, cast thy race, thou fire of Ukko, on the herdsmen of the blacksmith, on the head of Kullervoinen, on this poor and bloodless shepherd, not in ill marine and smithy, nor the dwellings of his people, good the table of the hostess, cuts the best of wheat and biscuit. Honey-cakes she cuts in slices, spreading each with golden butter. Only dry bread has the herdsmen, eats with pain the otten bread-crusts. Filled with chaff his arid biscuit, feeds upon the worst of straw-bread, pine-tree bark the bread he feeds on. Sipping water from the birch bark, drinking from the tips of grasses. Go, o son, and go, o barley, haste away thou light of Ukko, hide within the mountain pine-trees, go, o wheat, to yonder thickets, to the trees of purple berries, to the junipers and alders, safely lead the herdsmen homeward, to the biscuit golden buttered, to the honeyed cakes and vines. While the shepherd led was singing, Kullervoinen's song and echo, ill marine and swyfe was feasting, on the sweetest bread of Northland, on the toothsome cakes of barley, on the witches of provisions. Only lay the sight some cabbage for the herdsmen Kullervoinen, set apart some wasted fragments, leaving's of the dogs at dinner, for the shepherd home returning. From the woods a bird came flying, sang this song to Kullervoinen. This the time for forest dinners, for the fatherless companion, of the herds to eat his vines, eat the good things from his basket. Kullervoinen heard the song-star, looked upon the sun's long shadow, straightway spake the words that follow. Through the singing of the song-bird, it is time indeed for feasting, time to eat my basket-dinner. Thereupon young Kullervoinen called his herd to rest in safety, set upon a grassy hillock, took his basket from his shoulders, took there from the arid oat-loaf, turned it over in his fingers, carefully the loaf inspected, spake these words of ancient wisdom. Many loaves are fine to look on, on the outside seem delicious, on the inside chaff and ten-bark. Then the shepherd Kullervoinen drew his knife to cut his oat-loaf, cut the heart and arid biscuit, cuts against the stone imprisoned. Well embedded in the center, breaks his ancient knife in pieces. When the shepherd youth Kullervo, saw his magic knife had broken, weeping saw his bake as follows. This, the blade that I hold sacred, this the one thing that I honor, relic of my mother's people, on the stone within this oat-loaf, on this cheat-cake of the hostess, I, my precious knife, have broken. How shall I repay this insult, how avenge this woman's malice, what the wages for deception? From a tree the raven answered, O thou little silver-buckle, only son of old Kullervo, why art thou in evil humor, wherefore set in thy demeanor? Take a young shoot from the thicket, take a birch-rod from the valley, drive thy herd across the lowlands, through the quicksends of the marshes, to the wolves let one have wander, to the bear-dance lead the other, sing the forest-wolves together, sing the bears down from the mountains. Call the wolves thy little children, and the bears thy standard bearers. Drive them like a cowherd homeward, drive them home like spotted cattle, drive them to thy master's milk-yards, thus thou wilt repay the hostess for her malice and division. Thereupon the wizard answered, these the words of Kullervoinen. Wait, ye wait, thou bride of Heesy, do I mourn my mother's relic, mourn the keepsake thou hast broken, thou thyself shalt mourn as sorely when thy cows come home at evening. From the tree he cuts a birch-wound, from the juniper a whip-stick, drives the herd across the lowlands, through the quicksends of the marshes, to the wolves let one have wander, to the bear-dance leads the other, calls the wolves his little children, calls the bears his standard bearers, changes all his herd of cattle into wolves and bears by magic. In the west the sun is shining, telling that the night is coming. Quick the wizard Kullervoinen wanders over the pine-tree mountain, hastens to the forest-homeward, drives the wolves and bears before him, toward the milk-yards of the hostess, to the herd he speaks as follows, as they journey on together. Tear and kill the wicked hostess, tear her guilty flesh in pieces, when she comes to ew her cattle, when she stoops to do her milking. Then the wizard Kullervoinen from an ox-bone makes a bugle, makes it from two Nikki's cow-horn, makes a flute from Kyrios shinbone, plays a song upon his bugle, plays upon his flute of magic, thrice upon the homeland hill-tops, six times near the coming gateways. Ilmarinen's wife and hostess long had waited for the coming of her herd with Kullervoinen, waited for the milk at evening, waited for the new-made butter, heard the footsteps in the cow-path. On the heath she heard the bustle, spake these joyous words of welcome. Be thou praised, O gracious Uko, that my herd is home returning.  Kullervoinen drawing nearer to the hostess, spake as follows, found the bugle in the woodlands, and the flute among the rushes.  Ilmarinen's wife, the hostess, thus addressed an aged servant, go thou old one to the milking, have the care of all my cattle, do not ask for my assistance, since I have to need the biscuit. Kullervoinen spake as follows, always thus the worthy hostess, ever thus the wisdom mother, go herself and to the milking, tend the cows within the hurdles. Then the wife of Ilmarinen built a field-fire in the passage, went to milk her cows awaiting, looked upon her herd in wonder, spake these happy words of greeting. Beautiful my herd of cattle, glistening like the skins of lynxes, here as soft as fur of ermine, peaceful waiting for the milk-pale.  Kullervoinen, cruel wizard, thus repaid the wicked hostess, thus repaid her evil treatment. Quick the wife of Ilmarinen cried aloud in bitter anguish, thus addressed the youth Kullervo.  These the words of Kullervoinen. Have I evil done as shepherd, worse the conduct of the hostess, bake the stone inside my oat-cake? On the inside rock and ten-barc, on the stone my knife was broken, treasure of my mother's household, broken virtue of my people. Ilmarinen's wife made answer. Noble herdsman, Kullervoinen, change I pray thee, thine opinion, take away thine incantations, from the bears and wolves release me, save me from this spell of torture, I will give thee better raiment, give the best of milk and butter, set for thee the sweetest table. Thou shalt live with me in welcome, need not labour for thy keeping. If thou dost not free me quickly, dost not break this spell of magic, I shall sing in to the death-land, shall return to Tornela. This is Kullervoinen's answer. It is best that thou should perish, let destruction overtake thee, there is ample room in Mana, room for all the dead in Kalma, there the worthiest must slumber, there must rest the good and evil. Ilmarinen's wife made answer. Ukku, thou O God in heaven, spend the strongest of thy crossbows, test the weapon by thy wisdom, lay an arrow forged from copper on the crossbow of thy forging. Write thee aim thy flaming arrow, with thy magic hurl the missile, shoot this wizard through the vitals, pierce the heart of Kullervoinen with the lightning of the heavens, with thine arrows tipped with copper. Kullervoinen prays as follows.  Quick as lightning fell the hostess, quick the wife of Ilmarinen, fell and perished in the hurdles, on the ground before her cottage. Thus the death of Northland's hostess, cherished wife of Ilmarinen, once the maiden of the rainbow, wooed and watched for many summers, pride and joy of Kullervala. Rune 34 Kullervo finds his tribefolk.  Kullervoinen left the smithy, blowing on his magic bugle, joyful left the lands of Ilmar, blowing blithely on the heather, made the distant hills re-echo, made the swamps and mountains tremble, made the heather blossom's answer to the music of his cowhorn, in its wild reverberations, to the magic of his playing. Songs were heard within the smithy, and the blacksmith stopped and listened, hastened to the door and window, hastened to the open courtyard, if per chance he might discover what was playing on the heather, what was sounding through the forest. Quick he learned the cruel story, learned the cause of the rejoicing, saw the hostess dead before him, knew his beauteous wife had perished, saw the lifeless form extended in the courtyard of his dwelling. Thereupon the metal artist fell to bitter tears and wailings, wept through all the dreary night-time, deep to grief that settled over him, black as night his darkened future, could not stay his tears of sorrow. Kulavoyn and hastened onward, straying, roaming, hither, thither, wandered on through field and forest, over the heezy plains and woodlands, when the darkness settled over him, when the bird of night was flitting, set the fatherless at evening, the forsaken set and rested, on a hillock of the forest. Thus he murmured heavy-hearted, Why was I alas created, why was I so ill-begotten, since for months and years I wonder, lost among the aether-spaces? Others have their homes to dwell in, others hasten to their firesides, as the evening gathers round them. But my home is in the forest, and my bed upon the heather, and my bathroom is the rain-cloud. Never did thou, God of mercy, never in the course of ages, give an infant birth unwisely. Wherefore then was I created, fatherless to roam in aether, motherless and lone to wander. Thou, O Uko, art my father, thou hast given me form and feature, as the seagull on the ocean, as the duck upon the waters. Shines the sun upon the swallow, shines as bright upon the sparrow, gives the joybird song and gladness, does not shine on me unhappy. Never more will shine the sunlight, never will the moonlight glimmer, on this hapless sun and orphan. Do not know my hero, father, cannot tell who was my mother. On the shore, perhaps the gray duck, left me in the sand to perish. Young was I and small of stature, when my mother left me orphaned, dead my father and my mother, dead my honored tribe of heroes, shoes they left me that are icy, stockings filled with frosts of ages, let me on the freezing ice-plains fall to perish in the rushes. From the giddy heights of mountains let me tumble to destruction. O thou wise and good creator, why my birth and what my service, I shall never fall and perish on the ice-plains in the marshes, never be a bridge in swampland, not while I have arms of virtue that can serve my honored kindred. Then Kulavur thought to journey to the village of Untamo, to avenge his father's murder, to avenge his mother's tortures, and the troubles of his tribefolk. These the words of Kulavoinen. Wait ye, wait, thou Untamoinen, thou destroyer of my people, when I meet thee in the combat, I will slay thee and thy kindred, I will burn thy homes to ashes. Came a woman on the highway, dressed in blue, the aged mother, to Kulavur's bake as follows. With her goers, Kulavoinen, with her hastens, the wayward hero, Kulavoinen gave this answer. I have thought that I would journey to the far-off land of Strangers, to the village of Untamo, to avenge my father's murder, to avenge my mother's tortures, and the troubles of my tribefolk. Thus the grey-haired woman answered, Surely thou dost rest in error, for thy tribe has never perished, and thy mother still is living, with thy father in the Northland, living with the old Calervo.  Yonder lives thy ancient father, and thy loving mother with him, on the father's shore of Northland, on the longpoint of the fish-lake. Tell me, O thou woodland mother, how to journey to my people, how to find my honoured tribefolk. Easy is the way for Strangers, thou must journey through the forest, hasten to the river-border, travel one day, then a second, and the third from more until even, to the north-west, thou must journey. If a mountain comes to Meaty, go around the nearing mountain, westward bold thy weary journey, till thou comest to a river, on thy right hand flowing eastward, travel to the river-border, where three water-falls will greet thee. When thou comest to a headland, on the point thou see a cottage, where the fishermen assemble. In this cottage is thy father, with thy mother and her daughters, beautiful thy maiden sisters. Kulavoine and the magician, hasten's northward on his journey, walks one day, and then a second, walks the third from more until evening, to the north-west walks Kulavo, till a mountain comes to meet him, walks around the nearing mountain, westward westward holds his journey, till he sees the river coming. Hasten's to the river-border, walks along the streams and rapids, till three water-falls accost him, travels till he meets a headland, on the point he spies a cottage, where the fishermen assemble. Quick he journeys to the cabin, quick he passes through the portals of the cottage on the headland, where he finds his long-lost kindred. No one knows the youth, Kulavo, no one knows whence comes the stranger, where his home nor where he goes. These the words of young Kulavo. Does thou know me not my mother? Does thou know me not my father? I am hapless Kulavoine, whom the heroes of Untamo carry to their distant country, when my height was by the hand-breads.  Once I had two sons and heroes, had two good and beautiful daughters, two of these have long been absent, elder son and elder daughter. For the wars my son departed, while my daughter strayed and perished, if my son is home returning, yet my daughter still is absent. Kulavoine asked his mother, Whither did my sister wonder, what direction did she journey? This the answer of the mother. This the story of thy sister, went for berries to the woodlands, to the mountains went my daughter, where the lovely maiden vanished, where my pretty berry perished, died some death beyond my knowledge. Nameless is the death she suffered. Who is mourning for the daughter? No one mourns her as her mother, walks and wonders, mourns and searches, for her fairest child and daughter. Therefore did the mother wander, searching for thy lovely sister, like the bear she roamed the forest, rend the glenways like the other, searched one day and then a second, searched a third from mourn till even, till she reached the mountain summit, there she called and called her daughter, till the distant mountains answered, called to her who had departed. Where art thou my lovely maiden, come my daughter to thy mother? Thus I called and sought thy sister, this the answer of the mountains, thus the hills and valleys echoed. Call no more, thou weeping mother, weep no more for the departed, never more in all thy lifetime, never in the course of ages, will she join again her kindred at her brother's landing places in her father's humble dwelling. Julius Longrot, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune number 35.  Colovion and youthful wizard, in his blue and scarlet stockings, henceforth lingered with his parents, but he could not change his nature, could not gain a higher wisdom, could not win a better judgment.  Strove to make his labours worthy, first Colervo went to fishing, set his fishing nets in ocean, with his hands upon the rollocks, Colervoinan spakers follows. Shall I pull with all my forces, pull with strength of youthful heroes, or with weakness of the aged? From the stern arose a greybeard, and he answered, thus Colervo, Pull with all my youthful vigor, shouldst thou row with magic power, thou couldst not destroy this vessel, couldst not row this boat to fragments. There upon the youthful Colervo rode with all his youthful vigor, with the mighty force of magic rode the bindings from the vessel. Ribs of Juniper he shattered, rode the aspen oars to pieces. When the aged Sire Colervo saw the work of Colervoinan, he addressed his son as follows, thus not understand the rowing, thou hast burst the bands asunder, bands of Juniper and Willow, rode my aspen boat to pieces. To the fishnets strived the salmon, this perchance will suit thee better. There upon the sun Colervo, hastened to his work as bidden, throwed the salmon to the fishnets, spake in innocence as follows, shall I with my youthful vigor scare the salmon to the fishnets, or with little magic vigor shall I drive them to their capture, spake the master of the fishnets. That would be but work of women, shouldst thou use but little power in the frightening of the salmon. Colervoinan does as bidden, scares the salmon with the forces of his mighty arms and shoulders, with the strength of youth and magic, stirs the water thick with black earth, beats the scare net into pieces, into pulp he beats the salmon. When the aged Sire Colervo saw the work of Colervoinan, to his son these words he uttered, does not understand this labour, for this work thou art not suited, canst not scare the perch and salmon to the fishnets of thy father, thou hast ruined all my fishnets, tore my scare net into tatters, beaten into pulp the whiting, tore my net props into fragments, beaten into bits my wedges. Leave the fishing to another, see if thou canst pay the tribute, pay me yearly contribution, see if thou canst better travel, on the way show better judgement. Thereupon the son Colervo, haptious youth in purple vestments, in his magic shoes of deerskin, in his locks of golden colour, salivated forth to pay the taxes, pay the tribute for his people. When the youth had paid the tribute, paid the yearly contribution, he returned to join the snow slage, took his place upon the crossbench, snapped his whip above the coarser, and began his journey homeward. Raffledon along the highway, measured as he galloped onward, Weinermoinan's hills and valleys, and his fields in cultivation, came a golden maid to meet him, on her snowshoes came a virgin, o'er the hills of Weinermoinan, o'er his cultivated lowlands, quick the wizard's son Colervo, checked the motion of his racer, thus addressed the charming maiden, comes with maiden to my snow sledge, in my fur robes rest and linger, as she ran, the maiden answered, Let the deaf maid sit beside thee, rest and linger, in thy fur robes. Thereupon the youth Colervo snapped his whip above the coarser, feet as wind he gallops homeward, gashes down along the highway. With the roar of falling waters gallops onward, onward, onward, o'er the broad back of the ocean, o'er the icy plains of Blackland, comes a winsome maid to meet him, golden-haired and wearing snowshoes, on the far outstretching ice plains, quick the wizard checks his racer, charmingly across the maiden, chanting carefully these measures, Come, thou beauty, to my snow sledge, hither come and rest and linger, tauntingly the maiden answered, take to only to thy snow sledge, At thy side, let Marna-Lynan sit with thee and rest and linger. Quick the wizard, Colervoinan, struck his fiery, prancing racer, with the birch rip off his father. Like the lightning flew the fleet-foot, galloped on the highway homeward, o'er the hills the snow sledge bounded, and the coming mountains trembled. Colervoinan, wild magician, measures on his journey homeward, Northland's far extending borders, and the fertile plains of Poyer, comes a beautyous maid to meet him, with a tinpin on her bosom, on the heather of Poyola, o'er the Poyer hills and moorlands, quick the wizard's son, Colervo, holds the bridle of his coarser, charmingly in tones these measures, come, fair maiden, to my snow sledge, in these fur ropes and rest and linger, eat with me the golden apples, eat the hazelnut in joyance, drink with me the bier delicious, eat the dainties that I give thee. This the answer of the maiden, with the tinpin on her bosom, I have scorned, give thy snow sledge, scorn for thee thou wicked wizard, cold it is beneath thy fur ropes, and thy sledge is chill and cheerless.  Loose me from thy magic power, let me leave at once thy presence, lest I speak in wicked accents, lest I say the prayer of evil. Free me now as I command thee, or I'll tear thy sledge to pieces, throw these fur ropes to the Northwinds. Straightway wicked, Colervo, evil wizard and magician, opens all his treasure boxes, shows the maiden golden silver, shows her silken wraps of beauty, silken hose with golden borders, golden belts with silver buckles, jewellery that dims the vision, blunts the conscience of the Virgin. Silver leads one to destruction, golden tices from uprightness. Colervo and wicked wizard flatters lovingly the maiden, one hand on the reins of leather, one upon the maiden's shoulder. Thus they journey through the evening, past the night in merry-making, when the day-star led the morning, when the second day was dawning, then the maid addressed Colervo, questioned thus the wicked wizard, of what tribe art thou descended, of what race thy hero-father, tell thy lineage and kindred? This Colervo's truthful answer. I'm not from a mighty nation, not the greatest nor the smallest, but my lineage is worthy.  This the answer of the maiden. Came not from a race primeval, not the largest nor the smallest, but my lineage is worthy. I'm Colervo's wretched daughter, I'm his long-lost child of error, I'm a maid of contradictions, hapless daughter of misfortune. When a child I lived in plenty, in the dwellings of my mother, to the woods I went for berries, went for raspberries to our plans, gathered strawberries on mountains, gathered one day, then a second. But alas, upon the third day, could not find the pathway homeward, forestward the highways led me, all the footpaths to the woodlands. Long I sat in bitter weeping, wept one day, and then a second. Wept the third, from morn till even, then I climbed aloft the mountain. There I called in wailing accents, and the woodlands gave this answer. Thus the distant hills re-echoed, call no longer foolish virgin, all thy calls and tears are useless, there is none to give the answer, far away thy homin' people. On the third and on the fourth days, on the fifth and sixth and seventh, constantly I sought to perish, but in vain were all my efforts, could not die upon the mountains. If this wretched maid had perished, in the summer of the third year she had fed earth's vegetation, she had blossomed as a flower, knowing neither pain nor sorrow. Gersley had the maiden spoken, when she bounded from the snow sledge, rushed upon the rolling river to the cataracts commotion, to the fiery stream and whirlpool. Thus Colobo's lovely sister, hastened to her own destruction, to her death by fire and water, found her peace into an Ella. In the sacred stream of Manor, then the wicked Coloboiman, fell to weeping, sorely troubled, wailed and wept, and heavy-hearted, spake these words in bitter sorrow. For woe is me, my life hard-fated, I have slain my virgin sister, shamed the daughter of my mother, woe to thee my ancient father, woe to thee my grey-haired mother, wherefore was I born and nurtured, why this hapless child's existence, better fate to Coloboiman, had he never seen the daylight, or if born had never thrid them in these mournful days of evil, death has failed to do his duty, sickness sinned in passing by me, should have slain me in the cradle, when the seventh day had ended. Thereupon he slips the collar, of his prancing royal racer, mounts the silver-headed fleet foot, gallops like the lightning homeward, gallops only for a moment, when he haunts his foaming coarser at the cabin of his father, in the courtyard stood the mother, thus the wicked son addressed her. Faithful mother, fond and tender, had slain me when an infant, smote my life out in the chamber, in a winding sheet had thrown me to the cataract and whirlpool, in the fire had set my cradle, after seven nights had ended worthy would have been my service. Had the village maidens asked thee, where is now the little cradle? Wherefore is the bathroom empty? This had been a worthy answer. I have burned the wizard's cradle, cast the infant to the fire-dogs, in the bathroom corn is sprouting, from the barley malt is brewing. Thereupon the aged mother asks her wizard some these questions. What has happened to my hero? What new fate has overcome thee? Comes thou as from two only, from the castles of Manala? This polovo's frank confession. Infamous the tale I bring thee, my confession is dishonour. On the way I met a maiden, met the long-lost wayward daughter, did not recognise my sister. Fatal was the sin committed, when the taxes had been settled, when the tribute had been gathered, came a matchless maid to meet me, whom I witness led to sorrow, this my mother's long-lost daughter. When she saw in me her brother, quick she bounded from the snow-sledge, hasten to the roaring waters, to the cataracts commotion, to the fiery stream and whirlpool, hasten to her full destruction. Now alas, must I determine, now must find a spot befitting, where thy sinful son may perish. Help me, all forgiving mother, where to end my life of trouble? Let me stop the black wolf's howling, let me satisfy the hunger of the vicious bear of Northland.  This the answer of the mother. Do not go to stop the howling of the hungry wolf of Northland. Do not haste to still the black bear, growling in his forest cabin. Let not shark nor vicious sea dog be thy dwelling place hereafter. Spacious are the rooms of swarmy, limitless the saga-borders. Large enough to hide transgression, man's misdeeds to hide for ages, with his sins and evil actions. Six long years, man's sins lie hidden, in the borderland of Calmer. Even nine for magic heroes, till the years bring consolation, till they quiet all his mourning. Colomboin and wicked wizard answers thus his grieving mother. I can never hide from sorrow, cannot flee from my misconduct, till the jaws of death I hasten, till the open courts of Calmer, till the hunting grounds of Puerh, till the battlefields of heroes. Untamoin and still his living, unmolested roams the wicked, unevenge my father's grievance, unevenge my mother's tortures, unevenge the wrongs I suffer. End of Rune 35. Reading by Mark Thornton, Miranda, New Zealand. Rune 36 of the Calavala. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Calavala combined by Elias Longrot, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 36. Colomboin's victory and death. Colomboin and wicked wizard, in his purple coloured stockings, now prepares himself for battle, grinds a long time on his broadsword, sharpens well his trusty weapon, and his mother speaks as follows. Do not go, my son beloved, go not to the wars my hero, struggle not with hostile spearmen, who so goes to war for nothing, undertakes a fearful combat, undertakes a fatal issue. Those that war without a reason will be slaughtered for their folly. Easy prey to bows and arrows. Go thou with a goat to battle, shouldst thou go to fight the roebuck. Tis the goat that will be vanquished, and the roebuck will be slaughtered. With a fron about journey homeward, victor with but little honour, these the words of Colomboinan. Shallot journey through the marshes, shallot sink upon the heather, on the homeland of the raven, where the eagles scream at daybreak. When I yield my life forever, bravely will I fall in battle, fall upon the field of glory, beautiful to die in armour, and the clang and clash of armies, beautiful the strife for conquest. Thus to Colombo soon will hasten, to the kingdom of Tuoni, to the realm of Lideparted, undeformed by wasting sickness. Tis the answer of the mother. If thou dyest in the conflict, who will stay to guard thy father? Who will give thy sire protection? These the words of Colomboinan.  Who will then protect thy mother? Be her shield in times of danger. Let her die within the stable, or the cabin where she lingers. Who then well will defend thy brother? Give him aid in times of trouble.  Who will comfort then thy sister? Who will aid her in affliction? Let her sink beneath the waters, perish in the crystal fountain, where the brook flows on in beauty, like a silver serpent winding through the valley to the ocean, there upon the wild Colombo, hastens from his home to battle. Tis father speaks departing. Fare thou well, my aged father, wilt thou weep for me thy hero? When thou hearest I have perished, fallen from thy tribe forever, perished on the field of glory? Thus the father speaks in answer. I shall never mourn the downfall of my evil son Colerbo, shall not weep when thou hast perished.  That will do me better service. That will think and act in wisdom, Colomboinan gives this answer. Neither shall I mourn thy downfall, shall not weep when thou hast perished. I shall make a second father, make the head from loam and sandstone, make the eyes from swampland berries, make the beard from withered sea grass, make the feet from roots of willow, make the form from birchwood fungus, there upon the youth Colerbo to his brother speaks as follows. Fare thou well, beloved brother, wilt thou weep for me departed? Shouldst thou hear that I have perished, fallen on the field of battle? Tis the answer of the brother. I shall never mourn the downfall of my brother Colerboinan, shall not weep when thou hast perished. I shall find a second brother, find one worthyer and wiser. This is Colerboinan's answer. Neither shall I mourn thy downfall, shall not weep when thou hast perished. I shall form a second brother, make the head from dust and ashes, make the eyes from pearls of ocean, make the beard from withered birdia, make the form from pulp of birchwood, to his sister speaks Colerbo. Fare thou well, beloved sister, surely thou wilt mourn my downfall, weep for me when I have perished. When thou hearest I have fallen in the heat and din of battle, fallen from thy race forever, but the sister makes this answer. Never shall I mourn thy downfall, shall not weep when thou hast perished. I shall seek a second brother, seek a brother purer, better, one that will not shame his sister Colerboinan thus makes answer. Neither shall I mourn thee fallen, shall not weep when thou hast perished. I shall form a second sister, make the head from white and marble, make the eyes from golden moonbeams, make the tresses from the rainbow, make the ears from ocean flowers, and her form from gold and silver. Fare thou well, beloved mother, mother beautiful and faithful, will thou weep when I have perished, fallen on the field of glory, fallen from thy race forever, thus the mother speaks in answer. Cance not fathom love maternal, cance not smother her affection, bitterly I'll mourn thy downfall, I would weep if thou shalt perish, should thou leave my race forever. I would weep in court or cabin, sprinkle all these fields with teardrops, weep great rivers to the ocean, weep to melt the snows of Northland, make the hillocks green with weeping, weep at morning, weep at evening, weep three years in bitter sorrow, are the death of Colerboinan, thereupon the wicked wisdom went rejoicing to the combat, in guide to war he hasten. Are the fields and fends and fallows, shouting loudly on the heather, singing o'er the hills and mountains, rushing through the glenis and forests, blowing war upon his bugle? I'm a god but little distance, when a messenger appearing, spake these words to Colerboinan. Love, thine aged sire has perished, fallen from thy race forever, hasten homen, do him honour, may him in the lack of calmer. Colerboinan made this answer, has my aged father perished, there is Homer's sable stallion, that will take him to his slumber, lay him in the lack of calmer. Then Colerbo journeyed onward, calling war upon his bugle, till a messenger appearing, brought this word to Colerboinan. Love, thy brother too has perished, dead he lies within the forest. Manalynan's trumpet called him, home return, and do him honour, lay him in the lack of calmer. Colerboinan thus replying, as my hero brother perished, there is Homer's sable stallion, that will take him to his slumber, lay him in the lack of calmer. Young Colerbo journeyed onward, over bale, and over mountain, playing on his reed of battle, till a messenger appearing, brought the warrior these tidings. Love, thy sister too has perished, perished in the crystal fountain, where the waters flow in beauty, like a silver serpent winding, through the valley to the ocean. Home return, and do her honour, lay her in the lack of calmer. These are the words of Colerboinan. As my bugious sister perished, fallen from my race forever, there is Homer's sable filly, that will take her to her resting, lay her in the lack of calmer. Still Colerbo journeyed onward, through the fence he went rejoicing, sounding war upon his bugle, till a messenger appearing, brought to him these words of sorrow. Love, thy mother too has perished, died in anguish, broken hearted, home return, and do her honour, lay her in the lack of calmer. These are the measures of Colerboinan. Woe is me, my life hard-fated, that my mother too has perished, she that nursed me in my cradle, made my couch a golden cover, called for me the spool and spindle. Love, Colerbo was not present when his mother's life departed, may have died upon the mountains, perished there from cold and hunger, laved the dead form of my mother, in the crystal waters flowing, wrap her in the robes of Irmin, tie her hands with silk and ribbon, take her to the grave of ages, lay her in the lack of calmer, bury her with songs of mourning, let the singers chomp my sorrow, cannot leave the fields of battle, while Untamo goes unpunished, fell destroyer of my people, Colerboinan journeyed onward, still rejoicing to the combat, sang these songs in supplication. Uko, mightiest of rulers, loaned to me thy sword of battle, drugged to me thy matchless weapon, and against a thousand armies I will war and ever conquer. Uko gave the youth his board-sword, gave his blade of magic powers to the wizard Colerboinan, thus equipped the mighty hero, slew the people of Untamo, burned their villages to ashes, only left the stones and ovens and the chimneys of their hamlets. Then the conqueror, Colerbo, turned his footsteps to his homeland, to the cabin of his father, to his ancient fields and forests. Empty did he find the cabin, and the forests were deserted, no one came to give him greeting, none to give the hand of welcome, laid his fingers on the oven, but found it cold and lifeless. Then he knew to satisfaction that his mother lived no longer, laid his hand upon the fireplace, cold and lifeless were the hard stones. Then he knew to satisfaction that his sister too had perished. Then he sought the landing places, found no boats upon the rollers, then he knew to satisfaction that his brother too had perished. Then he looked upon the fishnets, and he found them torn and tangled, and he knew to satisfaction that his father too had perished. Vitally he wept and murmured, wept one day and then a second. On the third day, Spakers follows. Faithful mother, fond and tender, why haste left me here to sorrow? In this wilderness of trouble, but thou dost not hear my calling, though I sing in magic accents, though my teardrops speak lamenting, though my heart bemoans thine absence. From her grave awaits the mother, too clervo speaks these measures. Thou hast still the dog remaining, he will lead thee to the forest. Follow thou the faithful watcher, let him lead thee to the woodlands, to the farthest woodland border, to the caverns of the wood nymphs. There the forest maidens linger, they will give thee food and shelter, give my hero joyful greetings. Full of ointment with his watchdog, hastens onward through the forest. Journey's on through fields and fallows, journey's but a little distance, till he comes upon the summit, where he met his long lost sister.  For the void and wicked wizard grust the handle of his broadsword. Ask the blade this simple question. Tell me, o' my blade of honour, does thou wish to drink my life blood? Drink the blood of Kulavoynen? Thus his trusty sword makes answer. Well-divining his intentions. Why should I not drink thy life blood, blood of guilty Kulavoynen? Since I feast upon the worthy, drink the life blood of the righteous. There upon the youth Kulavo, wicked wizard of the Northland, lifts the mighty sword of Uko, bids adieu to earth and heaven, firmly thrust the hilt in heather, to his heart he points the weapon, throws his weight upon his broadsword, pouring out his wicked life blood. Airby journeys to Manala, thus the wizard finds destruction. This is the end of Kulavoynen, born in sin and nursed in folly. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, as he hears the joyful tidings, learns the death of Fel Kulavo, speaks these words of ancient wisdom. O ye many unborn nations, never evil nurse your children, never give them out to strangers, never trust them to the foolish, if the child is not well-nurtured, is not rocked and led up rightly. Though he grows to years of manhood, bear a strong and shapely body, he will never know discretion, never eat the bread of honour, never drink the cup of wisdom. End of Rune 36 Recording by Mark Thornton, Miranda, New Zealand Ilmarinen, metalworker, wept one day and then a second, wept the third from morn till evening, over the death of his companion, once the maiden of the rainbow, did not swing his heavy hammer, did not touch its copper handle, met no sound within his mitty, met no blow upon his anvil, till three months had circled over, then the blacksmith spake as follow. Woe is me, unhappy hero, do not know how I can prosper, long the days and cold and dreary, longer the still the night and colder. I am weary in the evening in the morning, till I am weary, have no longing for the morning, and the evening is unwelcome, have no pleasure in the future, all my presos gone forever with my faithful life companion, slaughtered by the hand of witchcraft. Often with my heart strings quiver, when I rest within my chamber, when I wake at dreamy midnight, half unconscious, friendly searching for my noble wife departed. Wifeless leave the morning blacksmith, altered in his form and features. Wept one month and then another, wept three months in full succession, then the magic metal worker, guttered gold from deeps of ocean, guttered sulfur from the mountains, guttered many heaps of bird's-wood, filled with faggot-thirty slage, burned the bird's-wood into ashes, put the ashes in the furnace, laid the gold upon the embers, likewise laid a piece of sulfur of the size of lamps in autumn, or the fleet-foot hair in winter, placed servants at the below. Dust to melt the magic metals, eagerly the servant's labor, clothless, headless, to the workmen, fan the flames within the furnace. Ill-Marinen magic blacksmith, works on ceasings at his forging, dust to mold a golden image, mold a bride from gold and sulfur, but the workmen fail their master, faithless than they at the below. Woe the artist, Ill-Marinen. Fence the flame with force of magic, blows one day and then a second, blows the third from more until even, then he looks within the furnace, looks around the oven-border, hoping there to see an image, rising from the molten metals, comes a lampkin from the furnace, rising from the fire of magic, wearing hair of gold and copper, lays with many threads of sulfur, all rejoice but Ill-Marinen. I had the beauty of the image, this is the language of the blacksmith. May the wolf admire thy grace, I desire a bride of beauty, born from molten gold and sulfur. Ill-Marinen the magician, to the furnace through the lampkin, added gold in the great abundance and increased the mass of sulfur, added other magic metals, set the workmen at the below, ceaselessly the servant's labor, gloveless, headless to the workmen, fan the flame sweet in the furnace, Ill-Marinen wizard-forged man, works on ceasing with his metals, molding well a golden image, wife of molten gold and sulfur, but the workmen fail their master, faithless to the apply the below, now the artist Ill-Marinen, fans the flame by force of magic, blow one day and then a second, blows a third from mourn till evening, when he looks within the furnace, looks around the oven-border, hoping there to see an image, rising from the molten metals. From the flames a cold arises, golden mane and silver-headed, hooves are form of shining copper, all rejoiced by Ill-Marinen at the wonderful creation, this is the language of the blacksmith, let the bear admire their grace, I desire a bride of beauty, born of many magic metals. Thereupon the mourner-forger, drives the cold back to the furnace, adds a greater mass of silver and of gold the rightful masters, sets the workmen at the bellows, eagerly the servant's labor, gloveless, headless to the workmen, fan the flame sweet in the furnace, Ill-Marinen the magician, works on ceasing at his fifth craft, molding well a golden maiden, bride of molten gold and silver, but the workmen fail their masters. Fethlessly they ply the bellows, now the blacksmith Ill-Marinen, fans the flame with magic powers, blows one day and then a second, blows a third from mourn till evening, then he looks within his furnace, looks around the oven-border, trusting there to see a maiden, coming from the molten metals, from the wire of virgin rice, golden-haired and silver-hated, beautiful in form and feature, all are filled with awe and wonder, but the artist and magician's Ill-Marinen metal-worker forges night and days on ceasing, on the bride of his creation. Feth he forged for the maiden, hands and arms of gold and silver, but her feet are not for walking, neither can her arms embrace him, ears his forged for the virgin, but her ears are not for hearing, forged her a mouth of beauty, eyes he forged bright and sparkling, but the magic mouth is speechless and the eyes are not for seeing, spake the artist Ill-Marinen. This, indeed a priceless maiden, could she only speak in wisdom, could she breathe the breath of Ukko? There, upon he lays the virgin on his silken couch of slumber, on his downy place of resting, Ill-Marinen heads his bathroom, makes its ready for his service, binds together silken brushes, brings three cans of crystal water, wherewithal to lathe the image, lathe the golden maid of beauty. When these towels had been completed, Ill-Marinen, hoping, trusting, laid his golden bride to slumber, on his downy couch of resting, ordered many silken wrappings, ordered pure skins, three in numbers, ordered seven lambs wool blankets, thus to keep him warm in slumber, sleeping by good golden image. He hailed forged from magic metals, warmed the side of Ill-Marinen, that was wrapped in furce and blanket, chilled the part beside the maiden, by his bride of gold and silver, one side warm the other lifeless, turning into ice from coldness, spake the artist Ill-Marinen. Not for me was born this virgin from the magic molten metals, I shall take her to Waenola, give her to old Waenamoinen, as a bride and life companion, comfort to him in this dotage. Ill-Marinen, much this herdnet, takes the virgin to Waenola, to take plains of Kalevala, to his brother speaks as follow, Oh, though ancient Waenamoinen, look with favor on this image, make the maiden fair and lovely, beautiful in form and feature, sweet as a dire's declining. Waenamoinen, old and trotful, look in wonder on the virgin, on the golden bride of beauty, spake these words to Ill-Marinen. Wherefore dost thou bring this maiden? Wherefore bring to Waenamoinen, bride of molten gold and silver? Spake in answer Ill-Marinen. Wherefore should I bring this image? But for purpose the nobles, I have brought her as companion, to die life in years declining as a joy and consolation, when thy days are full of trouble. Spake the good old Waenamoinen. Magic brother, wonder forger, throw the virgin to the furnace, to the flames die golden image, forge from her a thousand trinkets, take the image into egg's land, take her to the plains of Poia, take for her the mighty powers, may engage in deadly contests, waltzy tropy for the victor, not for me this bride of wonder, neither for my worthless people. I soul never wet an image, born from many magic metals, never wet a silver maiden, never wet a golden virgin. Then the hero of the waters, called together all his people, spake this force of ancient wisdom. Every child of Northland, listen, where the poor of fortune favored, never bow before an image, born of molten gold and silver, never wild the sunlight's presence, never wild the moonlight's glimmers, choose a maiden of metals, choose the bride from gold created, hold the lips of golden maiden, civil breath the breath of sorrow. End of Rune 37 Rune 38 of the Kalevala This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information on how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Kalevala, compiled by Elias Loneroad, translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 38, Ilmarinens Fridlis Wuyng Ilmarinen, the magician, the eternal metal artist, lays aside the golden image. Beauties made of magic metals, throws the harness of his cursor, binds him to his ledge of birch wood, sits himself upon the cross-band, snaps the whip above the razor, thinking once again to journey to the mansions of Pojola. There, too, a bride in honor, second daughter of the Northland, on his journey, restless northward, journeyed one day, then a second, so deterred from mourn till evening, when he reached a Northland village on the plains of Sarjola, Lohi, horses of Pojola, standing in the open courtyards, spied the hero Ilmarinen, thus addressed the metal worker. Tell me how my child is living, how the bride of beauty prospers as a daughter to thy mother. Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, had bent down and broke dejected, thus addressed the Northland horses. Oh, doldame of Sarjola, do not ask me of thy daughter, since Ella's eye into Onela sleeps the maiden of the rainbow, sleeps in death the bride of beauty, underneath the fragrant hither in the kingdom of Manala. Come, I, for a second daughter, for the fires of die-virgins, beauteous horses of Pojola, give to me thy youngest maiden, for my former wife's compartments, for the chambers of her sister. Lohi, horses of the Northland, spake these words to Ilmarinen. Fulish was the Northland hostess, when she gave her ferocious virgin in the bloom of youth and beauty to the blacksmith of Manala, only to be led to Manala, like a lampkin to the slaughter. I soul never give my daughter, shall not give my youngest maiden. Bride of time to be her after, life companion at thy fireside, sooner will I give the fair one to the cataract and whirlpool, to the river of Manala, to the waters of Tuoni. Then the blacksmith's Ilmarinen drew away his head, disdainful, shock his sabre-locks in anger, entered to the inner courtroom, where the maiden sat in waiting, spake these measures to the daughter. Come with me, though bright-eyed maiden, to the cottage where die-sister lived and lingered in contentment, baked for me the thud-sum biscuit, brewed for me the brew of barley, kept my dwelling place in order. On the floor a babe was lying, thus his song to Ilmarinen. Uninvited, leave this mansion, go, though stranger, from this dwelling, once before though camous hither, only bringing pain and trouble. Filling all our hearts with sorrow, fairest daughter of my mother, do not give this sweeter welcome, look not on his eyes with pleasure, nor admire his form and fetters, in his mouth are only wolf teeth, cunning folk's clothes, in his mittens. In his soothed art only bear clothes, in his belt a hungry dagger, weapons this of blood and murder, only worn by the unworthy. Then the daughter spake as follows to the black smith in Marinen. Follow did this maid will never, never heed unworthy sweeters, though hustling the bride of beauty, once the maiden of the rainbow, though would also slay her sister. I deserve a better sweeter, with a truer nobler husband, wish to ride in richer slage, have a better home protection, never will I swap the cottage and the cold place of a black smith. Then the hero Ilmarinen, the eternal metal artist, turned his head away, disdainful, saw his hebbul logs in anger, quickly seized the trembling maiden, held her in his grasp of iron, hastened from the court of Lohi, to his sledge up onto the highway. In his slate, he sits the virgin, snugly wraps her in his furrows, snap his whip above the razor, gallops on the high road homeward. With one hand the reins be tightened, with the other holds the maiden, spakes the virgin daughter, weeping. We have reached the lowland berries, hear the herbs of water borders, leave me here to sing in Paris, as a child of cold misfortune. Wicked Ilmarinen, listen, if thou dost not quickly free me, I will break thy sledge to pieces, throw thy fur ropes to the north winds. Ilmarinen makes this answer, when the black smith built his no sledge, all the parts are hoped with iron, therefore will the beautiest maiden never beat my sledge to fragments. Then the silver tinseled daughter wept and wailed in bitter accent, wrung her hands in desperation, spake again to Ilmarinen. If thou dost not quickly free me, I shall change to ocean salmon, be a whiffing of the waters, though will never does escape me, as a pike I'll flitly follow. Then the maiden of Pojola, wept and wailed in bitter accent, wrung her hands in desperation, spake again to Ilmarinen. If thou dost not quickly free me, I shall hasten to the forest, meet the rocks, become an ermine. Though will never does escape me, as a serpent I will follow. Then the beauty of the Northland, wailed and wept in bitter accent, wrung her hands in desperation, spake once more to Ilmarinen. Surely if thou dost not free me, as a lark I'll fly as ether, hide myself within the storm clouds. Neither while though does escape me, as an eagle I will follow. They had gone but little distance, when the corset sheathed and halted, frightened at some passing object, and the maiden looked in wonder, and thus now behold some footprints baked this word to Ilmarinen. Who has run across the hour highway? This the timid hair, he answered, there upon the stolen maiden sobbed and moaned in depths of sorrow, heavy-hearted, spake these measures. Woe is me, ill-fated virgin, happier for my life hereafter, if the hair I could but follow to his borough in the woodlands, crook legs forward to me is finer than the ropes of Ilmarinen. Ilmarinen the magician, tossed his head in full resentment, galloped on the highway homeward, traveled but a little distance, when again his corset halted, frightened at some passing stranger, quick the maiden looked and wondered in the snow, behold some footprints, spake these measures to the blacksmith, who has crossed our snowy pathway. This a fox, replied the minstrel, there upon the beautiest virgin, moaned again in depths of anguish, sang this accent, heavy-hearted. Woe is me, ill-fated maiden, happier for my life hereafter, with the cunning fox to wander, than with this ill-mannered sweeter, whenered for to me is finer than the ropes of Ilmarinen. There upon the metal workers, shut his sleep insured his pleasure, hastened on the highway homeward, traveled but a little distance, when again his corset halted, quick the maiden looked and wondered in the snow, behold some footprints, spake these words to the magician, who again has crossed our pathway. This the wolf, said Ilmarinen. There upon the faded daughter, fell again to bitter weeping, and in tone this word of sorrow. Woe is me, a helpless maiden, happier for my life hereafter, brighter fall will be my future, if this tracks I could but follow, on the wolf the hair is finer than the force of Ilmarinen, fatless sweeter of the Northland. Then the minstrel of Vainola, closed his sleep again in anger, shook his sabre locks, with sinful snap the wave above the riser, and the steed flew onwards swiftly, over the way to Kalevala, to the village of the blacksmith, sad and weary from his journey, Ilmarinen home returning, fell upon his coach in slumber, and the maiden loved the rician. In the morning slowly waking, had confused and locks disheveled, spake the wizard words as a follow. So let set myself to singing magic songs in cantations, so I know in cons his maiden to a black wolf on the mountains, to a salmon of the ocean, so not send her to the woodlands, all the forests will be frightened, so not send her to the waters, all the fish will flee in terrors, this my sword soldering her lifeblood, and her reign of scorn and hathard. Quick the sword fills his intention, quick defines his evil purpose, spakes these words to Ilmarinen, was not born to drink the lifeblood of a maiden pure and lovely of a fair but helpless virgin, there upon the magic minstrel, filled with rage, began his singing, sang the fairy rocks asunder, till the distant hills re-eco, sang the maiden to a seagull, crocking from the ocean ledge, calling from the ocean island, screeching on the sandy sea coast, flying to the winds opposing, when this conjuring hath ended, Ilmarinen joined his nose ledge, whipped his stead upon the gallop, hastened to his ancient smithy, to his home in Califala. Why Namoinen, old and truthful, comes to meet him on the highway, spake this word to the magician, Ilmarinen, worthy brother, wherefore come as heavy hearted from the dismal Sariola? Does Pohjola live and prosper? Spake the minstrel, Ilmarinen. Why should not Pohjola prosper? There the sample grins on the ceasing, noisy rocks the lit in colors, grins one day the flower for eating, grins the second flower to selling, grins the third day flower for keeping. Thus it is Pohjola prosper, while the sample is in Nordland. There is plowing, there is solving, there is growth of every fruit too, there is welfare never ending. Spake the ancient why Namoinen. Ilmarinen, artist's brother, where then is the Nordland daughter, far we know and beauty is maiden, for whose hand though has been absent? This is the words of Ilmarinen. I have changed the headful virgin to a seagull on the ocean, now she calls above the waters, screeches from the ocean island. On the rocks she calls and murmurs, faintly calling for a sweeter. End of Rune 38. Rune 39 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 Loneud. Translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 39, Venamoinen's Sailing. Venamoinen, old and faithful, spake these words to Ilmarinen. O thou wonder working brother, let us go to Sariola, there to gain the magic sample, there to see the lid in colors. Ilmarinen gave this answer, hard indeed to seize the sample, neither can the lid be captured from the never-pleasant Northland from the Dismos Sariola. Luohi took away the sample, carried off the lid in colors, to the stone mount of Poyola, hid it in the Copper Mountain, where nine locks secure the treasure. Many young roots sprout around it, grow nine fathoms deep in sand-earth, one great root beneath the mountain, in the cataract a second, and a third beneath the castle, built upon the mount of ages. Spake the ancient Venamoinen. Brother Mind and Wonder Worker, let us go to Sariola, that we may secure the sample. Let us build a goodly vessel, bring the sample to Vanola, bring away the lid in colors from the stone-burg of Poyola, from the copper-bearing mountain, where the miracle lies anchored. Ilmarinen thus made answer. By the land the way is safer, limpo travels on the ocean, gasly death upon his shoulder. On the sea the waves will drift us, and the storm winds wreck our vessel, then our hands must do the rowing, and our feet must steer us homeward. Spake the ancient Venamoinen, safe indeed by land to journey, but the way is rough and trying, long the road and full of turnings, lovely is the ship on ocean, beautiful to ride the billows, journey easy over the waters, sailing in a trusty vessel. Should the west wind cross our pathway, will the south wind drive us northward? Be that as it may, my brother, since thou dost not love the water, buy the land, then let us journey. Forge me now the sword of battle, forge for me the mighty fire-sword, that I may destroy the wild beasts, frighten all the Northland people, as we journey for the Sampo, to the cold and dismo village, to the never-pleasant Northland, to the dismo Sariola. Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen, the eternal forger artist, laid the metals in the furnace, in the fire laid steel and iron, in the hot coals gold and silver. Rightful measure of the metals set the workmen at the furnace, lustily they plied the bellows. Like the wax the iron melted, like the dough the hard steel softened, like the water ran the silver, and the liquid gold flowed after. Then the minstrel Ilmarinen, the eternal wonder forger, looks within his magic furnace on the border of his oven. There beholds the fire-sword forming, sees the blade with golden handle, takes the weapon from the furnace, lays it on his heavy anvil, for the falling of the hammer. Forges well the blade of magic, well the heavy sword he tempers, ornaments the hero weapon, with the finest gold and silver. Veine Moinen, the magician, comes to view the blade of conquest, lifts admiringly the fire-sword, then these words the hero utters. Does the weapon match the soldier? Does the handle suit the bearer? Yea, the blade and hilt are molded to the wishes of the minstrel. On the sword point gleams the moonlight, on the blade the sun is shining, on the hilt the bright stars twinkle, on the edge a horse is neighing, on the handle plays a kitten, on the sheath a dog is barking. Veine Moinen wields his fire-sword, tests it on the iron mountain, and these words the hero utters. With this broadsword I could quickly cleave in twain the mount of Poya, cut the flinty rocks asunder. Spake the blacksmith Ilmarinen, wherewith shall I guard from danger, how protect myself from evil, from the ills by land and water. Shall I wear an iron armor, belt of steel around my body? Stronger is a man in armor, safer in a mail of copper. Now the time has come to journey to the never-pleasant Northland. Veine Moinen, ancient minstrel, and his brother Ilmarinen, hastened to the field and forest, searching for their fiery coarsers in each shining belt a bridle with the harness on their shoulders. In the woods they find a racer, in the glen a steed of battle ready for his master's service. Veine Moinen, old and trusty, and the blacksmith Ilmarinen, throw the harness on the coarser, hitch him to the sledge of conquest, hasten on their journey northward, drive along the broad seas margin, till they hear someone lamenting, on the strand hear something wailing, near the landing place of vessels. Veine Moinen, ancient minstrel, speaks these words in wonder, guessing, this must be some maiden weeping, some fair daughter thus lamenting, let us journey somewhat nearer to discover whence this wailing. Drew they nearer, nearer, nearer, hoping thus to find a maiden weeping on the sandy seashore. It was not a maiden weeping, but a vessel sad and lonely, waiting on the shore and wailing. Spake the ancient Veine Moinen, why art weeping goodly vessel, what the cause of thy lamenting? Art thou mourning for thy rollocks, is thy rigging ill-adjusted? Dost thou weep since thou art anchored on the shore in times of trouble? Thus the warships spake in answer. To the waters with this vessel haste upon the well-tard rollers, as a happy maiden journeys to the cottage of her husband. I, alas, a goodly vessel, weep because I lie at anchor, weep and wail because no hero sets me free upon the waters, free to ride the rolling billows. It was said when I was fashioned, often sung when I was building, that this bark should be for battle, should become a mighty warship, carry in my hull great treasures priceless goods across the ocean. Never have I sailed to conquest, never have I carried booty, other vessels not as worthy, to the wars are ever sailing, sailing to the songs of battle. Three times in the summer season come they home with treasures laden, in their hulls bring gold and silver. I, alas, a worthy vessel, many months have lain at anchor, I, a warship well constructed and decaying in the harbor, never having sailed to conquest. Worms are gnawing at my vitals, in my hull their dwelling places, and ill-omend birds of heaven build their nests within my rigging. Frogs and lizards of the forest play about my oars and rudder, three times better for this vessel, were he but a valley birch tree, or an aspen on the heather, with the squirrels in his branches and the dogs beneath them barking. They, nemoin and old and faithful, thus address the ship at anchor. Weep no more thou goodly vessel, man of war no longer murmur, thou shalt sail to Sariola, sing the war songs of the Northland, sail with us to deadly combat. Wart thou built by the Creator, thou can't sail the roughest water, sidewise journey over the ocean, dost not need the hand to touch thee, dost not need the foot to turn thee, needing nothing to propel thee. Thus the weeping boat made answer, cannot sail without assistance, neither can my brother vessels sail unaided over the water, sail across the waves undriven. Spake the ancient fey nemoin and should I lead thee to the broad sea, wilt thou journey north unaided, sail without the help of rowers, sail without the aid of south winds, sail without the helm to guide thee. Thus the wailing ship replying, cannot sail without assistance, neither can my brother vessels sail without the aid of rowers, sail without the help of south winds, nor without the helm to guide them. These the words of vey nemoin and wilt thou run with aid of oarsmen, when the south winds give assistance guided by a skillful pilot? This the answer of the warship, quickly can I course these waters, when my oars are manned by rowers, when my sails are filled with south winds, all my goodly brother vessels sail the ocean with assistance, when the master holds the rudder. Then the ancient vey nemoin and left the racer on the seaside, tied him to the sacred birch tree, hung the harness on a willow, rolled the vessel to the waters, sang the ship upon the broad sea, asked the boat this simple question. O thou vessel well appearing from the mighty oak constructed, art thou strong to carry treasures, as in view thou art commanding? Thus the goodly ship made answer, strong am I to carry treasures, in my hull a golden cargo, I can bear a hundred oarsmen, and of warriors a thousand. Vey nemoin and the magician then began his wondrous singing. On one side the magic vessel sang he youth with golden virtues, bearded youth with strength of heroes, sang them into mail of copper. On the other side the vessel sang he silver tinseled maidens, girded them with belts of copper, golden rings upon their fingers. Sings again the great magician, fills the magic ship with heroes, ancient heroes brave and mighty, sings them into narrow limits, since the young men came before them. At the helm himself be seated near the last beam of the vessel, steered his goodly boat in joyance, thus addressed the willing worship.  Then the ancient vey nemoin and set the young men to the rowing, let the maidens sit in waiting. Eagerly the youthful heroes bend the oars and try the rollox, but the distance is not lessened. Then the minstrel vey nemoin and set the maidens to the rowing, let the young men rest in waiting. Eagerly the merry maidens bend the aspen oars and rowing, but the distance is not lessened. Then the master vey nemoin and set the old men to the rowing, let the youth remain in waiting. Lustily the aged heroes bend and try the oars of aspen, but the distance is not lessened. Then the blacksmith Ilmarin and grasped the oars with master magic, and the boat leaped over the surges, swiftly sped across the billows. Far and wide the oars resounded, quickly was the distance lessened. With a rush and roar of waters, Ilmarin and sped his vessel, benches, ribs, and rollox creaking, oars of aspen far resounding. Flapped the sails like wings of moorkocks, and the prow dips like a white swan, in the rear it croaks like ravens, lout the oars and rigging rattle. Straightway ancient vey nemoin and sitting by the bending rudder, turns his magic vessel landward to a jutting promontory where appears a northland village. On the point stands lemenkin and kakumiel a black magician, at the wizard of Vynola, wishing for the fish of Poya, weeping for his faded dwelling, for his perilous adventures, hard at work upon a vessel on the sailyards of a fish boat, near the hunger point and island, near the village home deserted. Good the ears of the magician, good the wizard's eyes foreseeing, casts his vision to the southeast, turns his eyes upon the sunset, sees afar a wondrous rainbow farther on a cloudlet hanging, but the bow was a deception and the cloudlet a delusion. Tis a vessel swiftly sailing, tis a warship flying northward over the blueback of the broad sea on the far extending waters, at the helm the master standing, at the oars a mighty hero. Spake the reckless lemenkinon, do not know this wondrous vessel, not this well constructed warship, coming from the distant soul me, rowing for the hostile Poya. Thereupon wild lemenkinon, called aloud in tones of thunder, over the waters to the vessel, made the distant hills re-echo with the music of his calling. Wents this vessel on the waters, who's the warship sailing hither? Spake the master of the vessel to the reckless lemenkinon. Who art thou from fen or forest, senseless wizard from the woodlands, that thou dost not know this vessel, magic warship of Vynola? dost not know him at the rudder, nor the hero at the rollox? Spake the wizard lemenkinon, well I know the helm director, and I recognize the rower, Vynamoinon, old and trusty, at the helm directs the vessel, Ilmarin, and does the rowing. Whither is the vessel sailing, whither wandering my heroes? Spake the ancient Vynamoinon, we are sailing to the Northland, there to gain the magic sample, there to get the lid in colors, from the stone-berg of Poyola, from the copper-bearing mountain. Spake the evil lemenkinon, oh thou good old Vynamoinon, take me with thee to Poyola, make me third of magic heroes, since thou goest for the sample, goest for the lid in colors. I shall prove a valiant soldier when thy wisdom calls for fighting, I am skilled in arts of warfare. Vynamoinon ancient minstrel gave assent to Ati's wishes. Thereupon wild lemenkinon hastened to Vynola's warship, bringing floats of Aspen timber to the ships of Vynamoinon. Thus the hero of the Northland speaks to reckless lemenkinon. There is Aspen on my vessel, Aspen floats in great abundance, and the boat is heavy laden, wherefore dost thou bring the Aspen to the vessel of Vynola? Lemenkinon gave this answer, not through caution sinks a vessel, nor a haystack by its proppings, seas abound in hidden dangers, heavy storms arise and threaten fell destruction to the sailor, that would brave the angry billows. Spake the good, old Vynamoinon, therefore is this warlike vessel built of trusty steel and copper, trimmed and bound in toughest iron, that the winds may not destroy it, may not harm my ship of magic. End of Rune 39.


Alright. So now, this is what I want to do. This isn't a roly-poly scramble thing, but it's a skill we got to have learning how to scramble. It's kicking out, okay? Kicking out is a timing thing. It's a what? Timing thing. Timing is like small window of opportunity. Boom. And I hit it perfectly, or close to it. Now we'll do the cutbacks and the broomsticks and the dive rolls and all that fancy stuff after lunch, but I want to get this kick out because it's a good skill for you to have. So as I'm moving this guy around and he's thinking maybe he's going to dive. I don't know if he's going to scramble or do something crazy. Then boom, I just kick out. Now here's what I want you to do when you kick out. I want you to turn your hips away. The thing about pointing my hip to the mat and I'm making my foot as skinny as possible. My leg as skinny as possible. I'm going to drag this guy down and right when he goes to pick it up, when he's only got one arm on my leg, turning my hip away and I'm diving out. So it's like a big spring. Load that spring up and snap my leg back to it. So legs inside. I got my leg on the inside. It's not a cross, it's not in the middle. So I'm going to drag this guy down. Remember I go in front of him when I drag him down. I'm going to drag him down to the mat. I'm cranking my wizard hard right here. I got a lot of tension because if it's loose, he's just going to lose his arm out right here. Put this windmill out. I'm in a lot of trouble. So I'm constantly putting pressure right here. When I feel him change knees to shelf, right here, I'm going to come over the top with my wizard hand. Big swim. Big swim. See I'm pointing my hip down, trying to get my leg as straight and as skinny as possible. Now I'm going to snap my knee all the way up like I'm trying to knee myself in the face. Right here. So I got him down to the mat. I split his power in half. Now I got him changing knees. I'm ripping my leg out. I don't expect anybody to know who Bessie Kadukov is. Three-time world champ. You can tag him on Twitter. Zeb, he's dead. But he was amazing here. One of the world title. They used to have an old school clinch. If it was tied at the end of a freestyle match, they'd start a guy on a high cross. And the dude was just so good. He changed head right here to this position. Loose leg out. One more world title. Had 30 seconds for this guy to finish the takedown. Stupid roll, but it won the guy. Tied the car out. Pretty sad. Good was awesome. That was really, really good. So, cross in front. Drag him down. I feel that knee change. I don't do it now. I'm cranking. I'm cranking. I'm trying to leave that pressure. So, here comes the knee change. Big swim. Point my hip. Snap that foot. Okay. Halfway fast. Look like this. We're battling. We're battling. We're battling. Here. I'm driving now. I'm turning. Ready to do the rest. Got it. Can we see it? Good. Let's get it going.