THE HERO’S RETURN
It was midwinter in Wainola, and the shortest day of the year. The sun
had not been able to rise above the horizon and short was the interval
between night and night. The North Wind came hurtling over the sea,
carrying the storm spirit in his arms. He buried the earth in snow and
filled the air with blinding frost. He roared on the hill-tops, and
shrieked in the tree-tops, and threatened to overwhelm everything that
stood in his way.
But, safely sheltered in their low-roofed dwellings, the villagers
thought but little of the turmoil out-of-doors. They sat gossiping and
nodding beside their cheerful hearth-fires, and were glad that their
lives had been cast in the pleasant Land of Heroes. To sleep, to eat,
to rejoice together in the hour that was their own—this, to them, was
the sum of all happiness—and this, too, is wisdom.
Suddenly, far down the snow-drifted road, a sound was heard which was
not the noise of the wind, a cry was heard which was not the voice of
the storm spirit. It was repeated again and again, each time a little
nearer. Men heard it and ran to their doors to look out and listen.
Women left off their knitting, they forgot their baking, and peered out
wonderingly, into the gloomy twilight. Again the call was heard. It was
the call of a human voice; but by whom was it uttered? Was it the cry
of a stranger, or was it the shout of a home-coming hero?
Presently, some of the watchers saw in the distance a dim figure
battling with the storm, struggling through the heaped-up snowdrifts.
Friend or stranger, it mattered not, this man needed help. A dozen
heroes ran forward to save him, a dozen strong arms were stretched out
to succor him—and lo! to the wonder and joy of all, they perceived that
it was Wainamoinen, their honored neighbor, their best-loved
countryman. His face was haggard and worn, and his body was bent with
weariness from long journeying and much buffeting with the storm.
“O sweetest of singers! Is this indeed you?” cried his rescuing
friends.
He could answer them not a word, so feeble had he become; his eyes grew
suddenly dim, and he fainted away in their arms.
They lifted him gently; they carried him to Ilmarinen’s dwelling and
laid him on his own bed. There the master Smith and his mother, Dame
Lokka, did all that they could for his comfort. They covered him with
soft robes, they wrapped his half-frozen feet in warm flannels and
chafed his icy hands between their own cheer-giving palms. Then, as he
gradually came to himself, the good matron brought him that which would
satisfy his hunger. She fed him warm milk of the reindeer, food most
nourishing; soups and gruels she also gave him till his strength
revived. All this and more did these kind people do for the returning
hero—gave him rest and quiet, asking no questions, saying nothing,
suffering no one to disturb him.
On the third day the poor man rose and sat in his old accustomed seat
by the fire—he seemed quite well and strong. Then the neighbors flocked
in to see him. They came by twos and threes—men, women, and
children—and each one brought him some gift to cheer him in his
illness.
“Why did you leave us, O best of singers?” they asked. “We have missed
you sadly, and great was our fear that we should never see you again.”
“O my friends,” answered the hero, “it is only through Jumala’s
goodness that I am here! For surely I have been in dreadful places, I
have seen dreadful sights, I have suffered dreadful hardships.”
“Tell us about it,” cried both men and women. “Tell us of the dreadful
places in which you have been. It will ease your mind and make you
stronger.”
“My friends,” then answered the Minstrel, “I have been to the land of
Tuonela. Oh, whisper not that name, breathe it not to your children or
to one another! For it is a land indescribable, full of terrors, full
of fearful creatures. Many heroes have gone unwittingly to Tuoni’s
kingdom, but none have ever returned. O my friends, pray now to Jumala,
the almighty! Pray that the day may be far away when you shall cross
the dark river into that unnamable region.”
He could say no more. His friendly neighbors saw how sadly the memory
of his journey distressed him, and they asked no more questions. They
talked of the storm, of their household affairs, of their children, of
Ilmarinen’s latest work in smithing; and all thoughts of the dark river
and Tuoni’s kingdom were banished from their minds.
Days passed, and strength returned to the hero minstrel. Soon all his
ancient courage came to him again, and the happy habits of by-gone days
were resumed. Again he sat with the master Smith through the evening
hours, and pleasantly discussed the charms of the Maid of Beauty; again
in every dwelling he was a welcome visitor, and his voice was heard
singing the sweet songs of the older times; and again the children of
the village clustered round him to listen to his words of wisdom and to
be taught the lore of the ancients.
“Now, every child of Hero Land, listen to me,” he would say. “Here are
five rules for you to remember—yes, six which you must write down in
your hearts and never, no, never, forget:
Honor father, honor mother;
Kindly bear with one another;
Help the helpless, cheer the friendless;
Let your deeds of love be endless;
Cheat your trusting neighbor never;
Speak the truth, and speak it ever.
Obey these rules, my children, and you will be happy. And when the time
comes for you to cross the dark river you need have no fears of King
Tuoni, for messengers of light will lead you into the valley of rest
prepared for the good and the true. Pray earnestly to Jumala to help
you.”