HEROES OF THE OLDEN TIME
THE SAMPO
A WONDER TALE OF THE OLD NORTH
BY
JAMES BALDWIN
Illustrated by N. C. Wyeth
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1917
PROEM
This is a tale which the runolainen of the far North used to sing in
hovel and hall, and which the heroes of primeval times learned by heart
and taught to their children. In its original form it was related, not
in plain, unvarnished prose, as you shall find it here, but in endless
monotonous measures, tuned to the music of the kantele. [A] It was made
up of numerous stories, songs, folk-melodies, and incantations, with
which were interwoven many independent episodes that are neither
interesting nor necessary to its completeness. The weaver of tales, who
now relates these adventures to modern readers, has chosen to deviate
widely from the methods of the ancient story-tellers. He has combined
various parts, as pleased his fancy, into one complete harmonious
fabric, and, while he has retained much of the original warp and woof,
he has added various and many colorings and connecting threads of his
own invention. In doing this he has merely exercised the time-honored
right of poets and story-tellers—the right to make new cloth out of
old.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I MISTRESS AND MINSTREL 1
II THE MAID OF BEAUTY 14
III THE GRAYBEARD AND HIS SON 21
IV THE WICKED HORNET 32
V THE TREE OF MAGIC 43
VI THE SMITHY 49
VII THE TEMPEST 59
VIII THE RECIPE 66
IX THE CALDRON 73
X THE FORGING OF THE SAMPO 86
XI THE HOMESICK HERO 97
XII THE UNFINISHED BOAT 109
XIII THE LAND OF TUONELA 125
XIV THE HAG OF THE ROCK 137
XV THE HERO’S RETURN 145
XVI THE WISDOM KEEPER 151
XVII THE LAUNCHING 162
XVIII THE MAID OF THE MORNING 168
XIX THE UNEXPECTED JOURNEY 178
XX THE FRIENDLY RIVALS 190
XXI THE BARKING DOGS 196
XXII THE OLD MAN’S WOOING 207
XXIII THE FIELD OF SERPENTS 214
XXIV THE GREAT PIKE 225
XXV THE BRIDEGROOM’S TRIUMPH 235
XXVI THE WEDDING FEAST 242
XXVII THE HOME COMING 253
XXVIII THE SLAVE BOY 257
XXIX A DREADFUL VENGEANCE 271
XXX THE GOLDEN MAIDEN 278
XXXI THE FAMINE 292
XXXII THE WEEPING SHIP 298
XXXIII THE KANTELE 311
XXXIV THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC 320
XXXV THE FLIGHT 332
XXXVI THE PURSUIT 346
XXXVII THE FATE OF THE SAMPO 353
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Golden Maiden Frontispiece
The flames died suddenly away, and out of the
vessel there sprang a wonderful image—the image
of a beautiful maiden.
FACING PAGE
The Magician and the Maid of Beauty 16
High in the sky he saw a rainbow, and on it the
Maid of Beauty.
The Hag of the Rock 138
An old, old woman, gray-eyed, hook-nosed, wrinkled,
was sitting on the rock and busily spinning.
The Slave Boy 262
Then, at length, when all were peacefully feeding,
he sat down upon a grassy hummock and looked around
him, sad, lonely, vindictive.
THE SAMPO
CHAPTER I
MISTRESS AND MINSTREL
“You must rise early in the morning,” said Dame Louhi, the Wise Woman
of the North. She stood at the door of her chamber and looked back into
the low-raftered hall where her daughter was spinning. Her face was
wrinkled and grim, her thin lips were puckered over her toothless
mouth, her gray-green eyes sparkled beneath her shaggy eyebrows.
She paused and listened. No answer came from her busy daughter. The day
was almost ended. Already the swallows were asleep under the eaves, the
reindeer were lying down in their paddock, all the underlings of Dame
Louhi’s household had retired to rest. So near was her dwelling to the
sea that she could hear the waves lapping on the beach and the
ice-floes crunching and grinding and pounding against the shore. But
other sounds there were none.
The Mistress, Dame Louhi, grew impatient. She stamped her foot angrily,
and loudly repeated her command: “You must rise early in the morning,
my daughter.”
This time the maiden heard her. She ceased twirling her spindle, and
sweetly answered, “Yes, mother, for there is a great deal to be done
to-morrow.”
The Mistress was satisfied; and as she turned to enter her chamber you
should have seen how unlike the mother was the fair daughter whom men
called the Maid of Beauty. Nature had given to the maiden all the
loveliness that had been denied to the dame. And she was not only
surpassingly beautiful, but she was wise and skilful and very
industrious. The housekeeping in the roomy dwelling beside the sea
would have been shabbily attended to had it not been for her daily
care; and the sun would have shone but seldom in the Frozen Land [B]
had not the Maid of Beauty encouraged it with her smiles.
So, on the morrow, long before any one else had risen, she was up and
bustling hither and thither, attending to this thing and that and
putting the house in order. She went out to the sheepfold and sheared
six fat lambs. She spun their six white fleeces into snowy yarn, and of
the yarn she wove enough cloth for six warm garments.
Then she went into the kitchen and rekindled the fire upon the hearth.
She swept the floor and dusted the long benches. She scrubbed the
birchwood tables till they were as white and glistening as the
frost-covered meadows. She made the rooms neat and tidy and set the
breakfast things to cooking. By this time the day was dawning; the sky
in the east was becoming flecked with yellow and red; the cock was
crowing, wild ducks were quacking by the shore, sparrows were chirping
under the eaves.
The maiden paused and listened—listened long and intently. She heard
the joyful sounds of the morning; she heard the cold waves lapping and
splashing upon the shore. She looked out of the door and saw the first
rays of the sun dancing and glancing upon the uneasy surface of the
sea. Away from the shore, she saw the broad meadows lying lonely and
still under the lonely sky and beyond them the dark line which marked
the beginning of the forest and the rugged land of mountains.
Suddenly, as she looked and listened, she heard a wailing which was not
the wailing of the sea. She held her breath and listened again. She
heard a cry which was not the cry of a sea-bird.
“Oh, mother,” she called, “what is that strange sound? The wild geese
never call so hoarsely; the waves never make such moaning. Listen,
mother! What can it be?”
Wise old Louhi, grim and toothless, rose quickly and hastened to the
door, chattering and mumbling and grumbling. She paused and listened,
but the sound seemed very faint. She ran down to the landing-place
before the house, and there she listened again. Soon the sound came to
her ears, louder and more distinct, and yet hard to make out. Once,
twice, thrice she heard the call; and then she knew what it meant.
“It is a man’s voice,” she said. “Some hero has been shipwrecked near
our shore. He is in distress; he calls for help.”
She leaped nimbly into her boat. She pushed it from the shore and rowed
with speed out of the little inlet and around the rocky point which
jutted far into the sea. The cries grew louder, the calls were more
frequent as she urged her boat forward over the sullen, icy-cold waves.
Soon she saw the shipwrecked man. He was not fighting the waves as she
had supposed, but was clinging to the branches of a tree that had been
uprooted and carried to sea. Ah, the sad plight of the poor man! He
seemed wounded and helpless; his face was gaunt and pale; his eyes were
filled with sadness and salt-water; he was shivering with cold and deep
despair.
Shouting words of cheer, the Mistress hurried to him. She lifted him
from the place of danger and seated him in her boat. Then with steady
arms and mighty strokes she rowed homeward, nor did she pause until the
boat’s keel grated on the beach before her door.
She carried the stranger into the house; she placed him by the warm
fire; she bathed his limbs, his face, his head in tepid water and
wrapped him up in soft skins of the reindeer. For three long days—yes,
for four summer days—she tended him as though he were her son, and no
questions did she ask. Then, to her great joy, he sat up and soon grew
well and strong.
“Now, friend and fellow of the sea,” said the gray woman, “tell me your
name. Tell me why and how you have come to our lovely land and to
Pohyola, the sweetest of homes.”
The stranger, who also was old and gray, answered, “My name is
Wainamoinen, and all the world knows me; for I am the first of
minstrels, the prince of wizards, the man whom other men delight to
honor. Luckless was the hour when I embarked on a ship to go fishing;
still more luckless was it when a storm overturned the vessel. Nine
days did the sea toss me—yes, ten days did the waves buffet me—ere I
was cast upon these shores.”
“I welcome you, Wainamoinen!” cried the grim Mistress. “Welcome,
welcome to this northern land! Your name is well known to me, and long
have I honored it. Men call you the sweet singer of Hero Land, and they
say that no other songs cheer the dreary hours of winter as yours do.
You shall stay here in Pohyola and sing to me and my people. My house
shall be your home and this delightful land shall be your country.”
The gray-bearded Minstrel shook his head and sighed. He looked out and
saw the lonely meadows and the snowy mountains and the cold gray sea.
Then his eyes filled with tears and he wept.
“O singer of Hero Land, why are you so sad?” asked the woman. “Have I
not been kind to you? Why, then, do you weep and gaze towards the sea?”
“I weep for my own dear country; I am sick for my home,” answered the
Minstrel. “I do not wish to remain in this Frozen Land. I am lonely and
heart-broken.”
“Cheer up, cheer up!” said Dame Louhi, trying to look pleasant.
“Beautiful Pohyola shall be your country. This comfortable house shall
be your home. My fireside shall be your fireside, and my friends shall
be your friends.”
But the Minstrel still wept.
“Stay here and be our honored guest,” continued the Mistress. “You
shall sleep in the warmest corner, you shall sit at the head of our
table. Good food we will give you—choice bacon, fresh salmon from the
sea, white cakes of barley, hot from the oven. Stay with us and cheer
us with your sweet songs.”
“Nay, nay!” moaned the sad Minstrel. “How can I sing in a strange land?
My own country is the fairest; my own home is the dearest; my own table
is the sweetest. All that I can ever do in this Frozen Land is to sigh
and weep; and I shall sigh and weep till my eyes are out and my voice
is gone forever.”
“You are foolish,” then said the unlovely Mistress. “Pohyola is the
fairest place in all the world, and you must learn to love it.”
The Minstrel still shook his head and sighed. All his thoughts were
with his home land.
The summer passed swiftly, but to Wainamoinen the days were full of
loneliness. He wandered over the silent meadows, he went out with the
fishermen to catch salmon in the sea, he visited one place and another
in the vast Frozen Land, vainly trying to forget his grief. And not
once did he open his lips in song, for there was no music in his heart;
and how shall a minstrel sing if his heart is empty?
At length Dame Louhi relented.
“How much will you give me if I send you back to your own country?” she
asked. “Come, let us make a bargain.”
“How much will I give?” answered he. “I have nothing here that is my
own, but I promise to send you many rich treasures. I will send you
gold, I will send you silver.”
“But you claim to be a mighty wizard,” said Dame Louhi. “Show us some
of your work in magic.”
“Never was there a greater magician than I,” returned the Minstrel
boastfully. “You have but to name some wonderful act and forthwith I
will perform it. But first, I must have your promise to send me home.
My heart is so full of the thought.”
“Very well, then,” answered the gray woman. “If you will make the magic
Sampo for me, I promise to send you home at once. It must be the real,
the wonderful Sampo; I will have nothing else.”
“The Sampo! What is that?”
“Do you ask me what is the Sampo? Minstrels from the earliest times
have sung of its power, and all the wizards of the North have tried
their spells, hoping to make something equally precious and potent. And
do you, a minstrel and a wizard, ask what it is?”
The Minstrel was cunning, and he answered: “In my own country we call
it by another name. If you will describe it I will tell you what that
name is and also some strange things which no other minstrel knows.”
The Mistress was off her guard. “The Sampo,” she said, “is the mill of
fortune which wise men, since the beginning of things, have sought to
invent. It is the magic mill which grinds out all sorts of treasures
and gives wealth and power to its possessor. One has only to whisper
his wishes to it and they will all come true.” [C]
“Ah!” answered the Minstrel. “In our country we call it the Stone of
the Wise Men.”
“That is a good name. And now, if I promise to send you safe home, will
you try your magic power and forge me such a mill? Have you the skill
to fit it with wheels and levers? Can you hammer into shape a becoming
lid for it—a lid of rainbow colors?”
Wainamoinen sat silent for a long time, shaking his head and thinking.
Then he said:
“It is a thing so strange and so difficult that I must have time to
consider my strength. In three days you shall have my answer.”
He went out alone, and for many tedious hours he walked up and down by
the seashore pondering upon the subject. He repeated all the magic
runes that he remembered, he recited spells to the winds and the waves
and the gray-blue sky, he recalled all the words of power that he had
learned from the sages of old. Then, at length, on the third day, he
went back to the house where Dame Louhi was still sitting by her
fireside.
“I cannot make the Sampo for you,” he said. “My magic is not strong
enough; my skill is not of the kind that forges mills of fortune. But I
have a friend who can do wonderful things. It was he who shaped the sky
that bends above our country; and, surely, to forge the Sampo is no
more difficult than that.”
“Ah, that is the man whom I am looking for,” cried the woman eagerly.
“What is his name? Will you send him to me?”
“His name is Ilmarinen, and he is dear to me as a brother,” answered
the Minstrel. “He is the prince of all smiths, and there is nothing in
magic or in smithing that he cannot do. If you will permit me to return
to my dear home land, to the Land of Heroes, I will send him to you
without delay.”
“But suppose he doesn’t wish to come?”
“Then I will send him against his will. My magic is strong enough to
command him.”
“Can I trust you? Do you promise?”
“You have my word, and I will perform,” answered the Minstrel. “Never
yet have I failed to do that which I have agreed to do.”
“You shall go home, then, quickly,” said the gray woman. “You may
promise the skilful smith a rare reward if he will forge the Sampo for
me. I will even give him, if he so desire, my daughter for his
wife—this I promise.”
Forthwith she hurried to the paddock. She chose the fleetest reindeer
and harnessed it to her birchwood sledge. She brought warm furs for the
Minstrel to wrap around him. She put the whip and the long reins in his
hands.
“Now fare you well, and speed you to your home land!” she said. “Drive
swiftly while the sun shines, but remember to keep your eyes upon your
pathway, and do not look upward. If you should gaze towards the
mountain top or the sky, sad misfortune will befall you. Fare you well,
first of minstrels! Send me the wizard, the prince of smiths, and fail
not, lest my curses follow you and blight your life.”
The Minstrel cracked his whip joyfully, the reindeer sprang forward,
the journey homeward was begun. Merrily did the birchwood runners
whistle as they glided over the half-frozen earth. With a glad heart
did Wainamoinen speed across the brown meadows and into the silent
forest; his face beamed like the sunlight, his eyes glowed like twin
stars, and a song was ready to burst from his lips.