THE FORGING OF THE SAMPO
The four winds heard the magic call of Ilmarinen, and they hastened
from the corners of the sky to do his bidding. First came the East
Wind, riding over the sea, combing the crests of the waves with his
clammy fingers, and rushing with chilly breath through the dank marshes
and across the lonely meadows. He knocked at the door of the smithy, he
rattled the latch, and shrieked down the chimney:
“Master of wizards and prince of all smiths, what will you have me do?”
And Ilmarinen answered, “Set my bellows to blowing that I may forge the
wondrous Sampo.”
Next there was heard a joyous whistling among the pine trees, and a
whir-whirring as of the wings of a thousand birds; and there was a
fragrance in the air like the fragrance of countless wildflowers, and a
soft breathing like the breath of a sleeping child. The South Wind
crept softly up to the smithy door, it peeped slyly in, and said
merrily:
“What now, old friend and companion? What will you have me do?”
And Ilmarinen answered, “Blow into my furnace, and blow hard, that I
may forge the wondrous Sampo.”
Then came the jolly West Wind, roaring among the mountains, dancing in
the valleys, playing among the willows and the reeds, and frolicking
with the growing grass. He laughed as he lifted the roof of the smithy
and peered down at the furnace and the forge and the tools of the
Smith.
“Ha, ha!” he called. “Have you some work for me? Let me get at it at
once.”
And Ilmarinen answered, “Feed my fire, so that I may forge the wondrous
Sampo.”
He had scarcely spoken when the sky was overcast and heavy gray clouds
obscured the sun. The North Wind, like an untamed monster, came
hurtling over the land, howling and shrieking, as fierce as a thousand
wolves, as fleet as the swiftest reindeer. He filled the air with
snowflakes, he covered the hills with a coating of ice. The pine trees
shivered and moaned because of his chilly breath, and the brooks and
waterfalls were frozen with fear.
“What do you wish, master of wizards?” he called from every corner of
the smithy. “Tell me how I can serve you.”
And Ilmarinen answered, “Fan the flames around my magic caldron, so
that I may forge the wondrous Sampo.”
So, the chilling East Wind, the whistling South Wind, the laughing West
Wind, and the blustering North Wind, joined together in giving aid to
the wizard Smith. From morning till evening, from evening till another
morning, they worked with right good will, as their master directed
them. The great bellows puffed and groaned and shook the very ground
with its roaring. The flames filled the furnace; they wrapped
themselves around the caldron; they burst out through a thousand cracks
and crevices; they leaped, in tongues of fire, through the windows of
the smithy. Showers of red sparks issued from the chimney and flew
upward to the sky. The smoke rose in clouds of ink-like blackness and
floated in vast masses over the mountains and the sea.
For three anxious days and three sleepless nights the winds toiled and
paused not; and Ilmarinen sang magic incantations, and heaped fresh
fuel upon the fire, and cheered his helpers with shouts and cries and
words of enchantment which wizards alone can speak.
On the fourth day he bade the winds cease their blowing. He knelt down
and looked into the furnace. He pushed the cinders aside; he uncovered
the caldron and lifted the lid, slowly, cautiously. How strange and
beautiful was the sight that rose before him! Colors of the rainbow,
forms and figures without number, precious metals, floating vapors—all
these were mingled in the caldron.
Ilmarinen drew the vessel quickly out of the furnace. He thrust his
tongs into the mixture, and seized it with the grip of a giant. He
pulled it bodily from the caldron, writhing, creeping, struggling, but
unable to escape him. He twirled it in the air as blacksmiths sometimes
twirl small masses of half-molten iron; then he held it firmly on his
anvil of granite, while with quick and steady strokes he beat it with
his heavy hammer. He turned it and twisted it and shaped it, and put
each delicate part in its proper place. All night and all day, from
starlight till starlight, he labored tirelessly and without ceasing.
Slowly, piece by piece and part by part, the magic Sampo with its
wheels and levers grew into being. The wizard workman forged it with
infinite skill and patience, for well he knew that one false stroke
would undo all his labor, would be fatal to all his hopes. He scanned
it from every side; he touched up the more delicate parts; he
readjusted its springs and wheels; he tested its strength and the speed
of its running. Finally, after the mill itself was proved satisfactory,
he forged the lid to cover it; and the lid was the most marvellous part
of all—as many-colored as the rainbow and embossed with gold and lined
with silver and ornamented with beautiful pictures.
At length everything was finished. The fire in the furnace was dead;
the caldron was empty and void; the bellows was silent; the anvil of
granite was idle. Ilmarinen called to his ten serving-men and put the
precious Sampo upon their shoulders. “Carry this to your Mistress,” he
said, “and beware that you touch not the lid of magic colors.”
Then, leaving the smithy and all his tools in the silence of the
forest, he followed the laborers to Pohyola, proud of his great
performance, but pale and wan and wellnigh exhausted from long labor
and ceaseless anxiety.
The Wise Woman was standing in the doorway of her smoke-begrimed
dwelling. She smiled grimly as she saw the working men returning. She
welcomed Ilmarinen not unkindly, and he placed before her the result of
his long and arduous labors.
“Behold, I bring you the magic Sampo!” he said. “In all the world there
is no other wizard that could have formed it, no other smith that could
have welded its parts together or forged its lid of many colors. You
have only to whisper your wishes into the small orifice on the top of
the mill, and it will begin to run—you can hear its wheels buzzing and
its levers creaking. Lay it on this side and it will grind flour—flour
for your kitchen, flour for your neighbors, flour for the market. Turn
the mill over, thus, and it will grind salt—salt for seasoning, salt
for the reindeer, salt for everything. But the third side is the best.
Lay the mill on that side and whisper, ‘Money.’ Ah! then you will see
what comes out—pieces of gold, pieces of silver, pieces of copper,
treasures fit for a king!”
The Mistress of Pohyola was overcome with joy. Her toothless face
expanded into a smile—a smile that was grim and altogether ill-favored.
She tried to express her feelings in words, but her voice was cracked
and broken, and her speech sounded like the yelping of a gray wolf in
the frozen marshes. Without delay she set the mill to grinding; and
wonderful was the way in which it obeyed her wishes. She filled her
house with flour; she filled her barns with salt; she filled all her
strong boxes with gold and silver.
“Enough! enough!” she cried, at length. “Stop your grinding! I want no
more.”
The tireless Sampo heard not nor heeded. It kept on grinding, grinding;
and no matter on which side it was placed, its wheels kept running, and
flour or salt or gold and silver kept pouring out in endless streams.
“We shall all be buried!” shouted the Mistress in dismay. “Enough is
good, but too much is embarrassment. Take the mill to some safe place
and confine it within strong walls, lest it overwhelm us with
prosperity.”
Forthwith she caused the Sampo to be taken with becoming care to a
strong-built chamber underneath a hill of copper. There she imprisoned
it behind nine strong doors of toughest granite, each of which was held
fast shut by nine strong locks of hardest metal. Then she laughed a
laugh of triumph, and said; “Lie there, sweet mill, until I have need
of you again. Grind flour, grind salt, grind wealth, grind all things
good for Pohyola, but do not smother us with your bounties.”
They closed the strong doors and bolted them and left the Sampo alone
in its dark prison-house; but through the key-hole of the ninth lock of
the ninth door there issued a sweet delightful whirring sound as of
wheels rapidly turning. The Sampo was grinding treasures for Dame
Louhi’s people, and laying them up for future uses—richness for the
land, golden sap for the trees, and warm and balmy breezes to make all
things flourish.
Meanwhile Ilmarinen sat silent and alone in the Mistress’s hall,
thinking of many things, but mostly of the reward which he hoped to
receive for his labor. For an hour he sat there, waiting—yes, for a day
of sunlight he remained there, his eyes downcast, his head uncovered.
Suddenly Dame Louhi, the Wise Woman, came out of the darkening shadows
and stood before him. The flames which darted up, flickering, from the
half-burned fagots, lighted her grim features and shone yellow and red
upon her gray head and her flour-whitened face. Very unlovely, even
fearful, did she seem to Ilmarinen. She spoke, and her voice was gruff
and unkind.
“Why do you sit here idle by my hearth-stone?” she asked. “Why, indeed,
do you tarry so long in Pohyola, wearing out your welcome, and wearying
us all with your presence?”
The Smith answered her gently, politely, as men should always answer
women: “Have I not forged the Sampo for you—the wondrous Sampo which
you so much desired? Have I not hammered its lid of rainbow colors?
Have I not made you rich—rich in flour, in salt, in silver and gold? I
am now waiting only for my reward—for the prize which you promised.”
“Never have I promised you any reward,” cried the Mistress angrily.
“Never have I offered to give you a prize;” and her gaunt form and
gruesome features seemed truly terrible in their ugliness.
But Ilmarinen did not forget himself; the master of magic did not
falter.
“I have a friend whose name is Wainamoinen,” he answered. “He is the
first of all minstrels, a singer of sweet songs, a man of honor, old
and truthful. Did you not say to him that you would richly reward the
hero who should forge the magic Sampo—that you would give him your
daughter, the Maid of Beauty, to be his wife?”
“Ah, but that was said to him and not to you,” said the Mistress, and
she laughed until her toothless mouth seemed to cover the whole of her
misshapen face.
“But a promise is a promise,” gently returned the Smith; “and so I
demand of you to fulfil it.”
The features of the unlovely Mistress softened, they lost somewhat of
their grimness as she answered: “Willingly would I fulfil it, prince of
wizards and of smiths; but I cannot. Since Wainamoinen’s visit, the
Maid of Beauty has become of age. She is her own mistress, she must
speak for herself. I cannot give her away as a reward or prize—she does
not belong to me. If you wish her to go to the Land of Heroes with you,
ask her. She has a mind of her own; she will do as she pleases.”
She ceased speaking. The firelight grew brighter and then suddenly died
away, and the room became dark.
“I will see her in the morning,” said Ilmarinen.