The Kalevala

In primeval times, a maiden, Beauteous Daughter of the Ether, Passed for ages her existence In the great expanse of heaven, O’er the prairies yet enfolded. Wearisome the maiden growing, Her existence sad and hopeless, Thus alone to live for ages In the infinite expanses Of the air above the sea-foam, In the far outstretching spaces, In a solitude of ether, She descended to the ocean, Waves her coach, and waves her pillow. Thereupon the rising storm-wind Flying from the East in fierceness, Whips the ocean into surges, Strikes the stars with sprays of ocean Till the waves are white with fervor. To and fro they toss the maiden, Storm-encircled, hapless maiden; With her sport the rolling billows, With her play the storm-wind forces, On the blue back of the waters; On the white-wreathed waves of ocean, Play the forces of the salt-sea, With the lone and helpless maiden; Till at last in full conception, Union now of force and beauty, Sink the storm-winds into slumber; Overburdened now the maiden Cannot rise above the surface; Seven hundred years she wandered, Ages nine of man’s existence, Swam the ocean hither, thither, Could not rise above the waters, Conscious only of her travail; Seven hundred years she labored Ere her first-born was delivered. Thus she swam as water-mother, Toward the east, and also southward, Toward the west, and also northward; Swam the sea in all directions, Frightened at the strife of storm-winds, Swam in travail, swam unceasing, Ere her first-born was delivered.

As it happened, Wainamoinen, Wainamoinen, the magician, Rode that sunset on the highway, Silently for pleasure driving Down Wainola’s peaceful meadows, O’er the plains of Kalevala.

Youkahainen, young and fiery, Urging still his foaming courser, Dashes down upon the singer, Does not turn aside in meeting, Meeting thus in full collision; Shafts are driven tight together, Hames and collars wedged and tangled, Tangled are the reins and traces. Thus perforce they make a stand-still, Thus remain and well consider; Water drips from hame and collar, Vapors rise from both their horses. Speaks the minstrel, Wainamoinen: “Who art thou, and whence? Thou comest Driving like a stupid stripling, Careless, dashing down upon me. Thou hast ruined shafts and traces; And the collar of my racer Thou hast shattered into ruin, And my golden sleigh is broken, Box and runners dashed to pieces.”

Youkahainen then make answer, Spake at last the words that follow: “I am youthful Youkahainen, But make answer first, who thou art, Whence thou comest, where thou goest, From what lowly tribe descended?”

Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Answered thus the youthful minstrel: “If thou art but Youkahainen, Thou shouldst give me all the highway; I am many years thy senior.”

Pohyola’s fair and winsome daughter, Glory of the land and water, Sat upon the bow of heaven, On its highest arch resplendent, In a gown of richest fabric, In a gold and silver air-gown, Weaving webs of golden texture, Interlacing threads of silver; Weaving with a golden shuttle, With a weaving-comb of silver; Merrily flies the golden shuttle, From the maiden’s nimble fingers, Briskly swings the lathe in weaving, Swiftly flies the comb of silver, From the sky-born maiden’s fingers, Weaving webs of wondrous beauty.

Came the ancient Wainamoinen, Driving down the highway homeward, From the ever sunless Northland, From the dismal Sariola; Few the furlongs he had driven, Driven but a little distance, When he heard the sky-loom buzzing, As the maiden plied the shuttle. Quick the thoughtless Wainamoinen Lifts his eyes aloft in wonder, Looks upon the vault of heaven, There beholds the bow of beauty, On the bow the maiden sitting, Beauteous Maiden of the Rainbow, Glory of the earth and ocean, Weaving there a golden fabric, Working with the rustling silver.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Quickly checks his fleet-foot racer, Looks upon the charming maiden, Then addresses her as follows: “Come, fair maiden, to my snow-sledge, By my side I wish thee seated.”

Thus the Maid of Beauty answers: “Tell me what thou wishest of me, Should I join thee in the snow-sledge.” Speaks the ancient Wainamoinen, Answers thus the Maid of Beauty: “This the reason for thy coming: Thou shalt bake me honey-biscuit, Shalt prepare me barley-water, Thou shalt fill my foaming

This the time to sing of Ahti, Son of Lempo, Kaukomieli, Also known as Lemminkainen. Ahti was the king of islands, Grew amid the island-dwellings, At the site of his dear mother, On the borders of the ocean, On the points of promontories. Ahti fed upon the salmon, Fed upon the ocean whiting, Thus became a mighty hero, In his veins the blood of ages, Head erect and form commanding, Growth of mind and body perfect; But alas! he had his failings, Bad indeed his heart and morals, Roaming in unworthy places, Staying days and nights in sequence At the homes of merry maidens, At the dances of the virgins, With the maids of braided tresses.

Up in Sahri lived a maiden, Lived the fair and winsome Kulli, Lovely as a summer-flower, From a kingly house descended, Grew to perfect form and beauty, Living in her father’s cottage, Home of many ancient heroes; Beautiful was she and queenly, Praised throughout the whole of Ehstland; From afar men came to woo her, To the birthplace of the virgin, To the household of her mother.

Time had gone but little distance, Ere a boy was born in magic Of the virgin, Untamala, Of a mother, trouble-laden, Him the mother named Kullervo, “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 locks stood endwise; Rocked one day, and then a second, Rocked the third from morn till noontide; But before the third day ended, Kicks the boy with might of magic, Forwards, 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, Seemed that he would grow a hero, And his mother, Untamala, Thought that he, when full of stature, When he found his strength and reason, Would become a great magician, First among a thousand heroes.

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 Kalervo and his people!”

Untamoinen hears the saying, Speaks these words to those about him: “To my tribe he brings destruction, In him grows a new Kalervo!”