THE KANTELE
With eyes that never failed and arms that never tired the Minstrel
stood by the helm and guided the vessel around the jutting headland and
straight forward into the great white sea. On the benches the rowers
sat, wielding their oars with strength and deftness and singing and
shouting for gladness. On the deck the long-armed Ahti danced nimbly
and joyously, forgetful of his fishing, forgetful of his hunger.
For one long day and through the moonlit night the ship sped onward
across the open sea. On the next day it skirted the low, marshy shores
of the Frozen Land. On the third day it sailed through narrow straits
between small islands, approaching by stealth the longed-for haven of
Pohyola. And now the rowers were silent, the maidens had ceased their
singing, the young men refrained from shouting, even the nimble Ahti
left off his dancing and sat quietly at the feet of Ilmarinen.
Suddenly, in a deep channel, the vessel’s bottom grated upon something,
and the ship shivered and stood still. It remained fast in its place
and no effort of the rowers could move it. The nimble Ahti seized a
long pole and thrust it into the water, trying with all his great
strength to push the ship along. What was it that had thus so suddenly
stopped the flight of the gallant vessel?
“O thou lively Ahti,” then cried the Minstrel, “lean far over the
gunwales and look below. See what it is that keeps us moveless. Is it
some rock, or is it the snaggy trunk of some forest tree lying deep
beneath the waves?”
The long-armed hero obeyed. Holding fast with one hand to the vessel’s
edge, he let himself down into the water. He looked under the ship’s
hull, he peered closely at her keel, and then he leaped quickly back
among the rowers.
“It is not a rock,” he shouted, “neither is it a tree! It is a fish, a
mighty pike that has stopped the vessel. Never have I seen so large a
fish. It lies in the water silent, motionless, asleep, like a senseless
mountain. The ship is wedged against its back fin—a fin as large as the
sail upon our mast. If the fish should sink, it will drag our vessel
down into the depths; if it should rise, it will tumble us all headlong
into the sea.”
“Too much talk will never save us,” said Wainamoinen. “Never yet was
pike slain by idle words. Draw your sword and wield it valiantly with
your long, ungainly arms. Sever in twain the fish on which we are
grounded.”
“Surely I will do so,” answered Ahti. “I will carve him into a thousand
pieces.”
He drew his fish-knife from his belt, he reached downward with his long
arms, he slashed furiously this way and that; but nothing did he cut
save the yielding water.
Up leaped Ilmarinen from his seat among the rowers. He seized the
boaster by the hair and thrust him back among the benches. “Easy it is
to brag,” he said, “but to do is quite another story.”
Then with his sword of truest metal he reached down—deep down beneath
the ship’s round hull. With all his strength he struck at the fish,
thinking to cleave it in twain. But the scales of the monster were like
iron plates lapping one upon another. The sword was shivered in pieces,
it fell from the hero’s hand, and the pike still slept unharmed in the
quiet water.
“This is no boy’s work!” cried Wainamoinen. “A man is needed—a man’s
sense, a man’s strength, a man’s skill. Stand aside, and see what a
real man can do.”
Then, drawing the sword—the keen-edged sword, Faultless, which the
Smith had forged for him—he leaped into the sea, he dived deep down to
the fish’s resting-place. With one tremendous stroke he severed the
mighty pike in twain, with another he hewed off its head. The monstrous
body sank to the bottom; but the Minstrel dragged the head up to the
surface, and with Ahti’s help he hoisted the mighty jaws into the
vessel.
“Now, row! Row all together!” shouted Ilmarinen.
Instantly the hundred oars were dipped into the waves, all the rowers
pulled together and the ship began again to move steadily, proudly
through the water. Wainamoinen stood at the helm. With masterly skill
he piloted the vessel through narrow ways, he guided it along deep,
winding channels, and finally steered it to the mainland, where it
rested in a safe, well-sheltered haven close by the village of Pohyola.
All leaped out upon the sands, glad that the long voyage was ended. A
fire was built and the young men and maidens clustered round it. The
head of the pike was brought, and all examined its huge scales, its
staring eyes, its sharp-pointed teeth.
“It is long since we tasted food,” said the Minstrel. “Let the fairest
of the maidens cook this fish. Let them broil it for our breakfast.
Never shall we enter Pohyola while hunger pinches us, while famine robs
us of strength.”
Forthwith the maidens began the cooking. Ten of the most beautiful were
chosen to perform the work. The young men hastened to gather sticks on
the shore to feed the fire, to make hot coals for the broiling.
Wainamoinen drew his knife blade from its sheath and with skilful
strokes divided the head into a hundred pieces—yes, into more than a
hundred he cleaved it, that each of the crew might have abundance. The
flames roared, the red coals glowed upon the sand, the juicy morsels
sizzled loudly and gave forth savory odors very pleasant indeed to the
nostrils.
Soon the breakfast was prepared and all sat down upon the sand to eat
the delicious morsels which the maidens had cooked. Sharp were their
appetites, and when they had finished, nothing was left of the mighty
head save its bones and its dagger-like teeth which lay scattered on
the beach.
“What a pity that these should be wasted!” said the Minstrel, picking
up a fragment of the jawbone—a fragment with the teeth still fast
within their sockets. “Surely, if Ilmarinen had them in his smithy he
might shape them into something useful, beautiful, wonderful.”
“Nay, nay!” answered Ilmarinen. “Nothing can be made from such useless
things. The skilfulest smith can never fashion fish-bones into anything
of value.”
“It may be so,” said Wainamoinen thoughtfully, “and yet, perhaps I, who
am not a smith, may make something from them that will give joy to men
and women.”
Thereupon, with his sharp-edged knife he set to work to fashion from
the fish-bones a thing to give forth music. Of a piece of cedar he made
the framework; of the pike’s jawbone he made the bridge; of the pike’s
sharp teeth he made the pegs to hold the harp strings. Then out into
the fields he went, searching in the thickets and among the briars.
Soon he found five horsehairs which the wild steeds of Pohyola had lost
while pasturing there—five horsehairs, long and strong and resonant.
“These will serve right well for harp strings,” he said.
He hung the horsehairs in their places, he stretched them tight, he
gave to each its proper length and tension. “Ha! ha!” he laughed. “Who
now will say that nothing can be made of fish-bones? Here is something
that will breathe forth music sweeter than a minstrel’s song. It will
delight the young, the old, the rich, the poor—all sorts of people—with
its rare and matchless melodies. Call it the kantele, call it the harp
of the North, and let minstrels never fail to play upon it.”
The news of his invention spread quickly. The youths, the maidens came
crowding round him. From the fields and the fishermen’s boats the men
came running. From the huts and the washing pools the women came
dancing. Half-grown boys and little girls pushed shyly forward—all
curious to gaze on the wonderful kantele, all anxious to hear its sweet
music. And Wainamoinen passed it from hand to hand, saying, “Look at
it, let your fingers play upon it, let its melodies rejoice your
hearts.”
Wistfully the little girls, the maidens, the older women, all held the
harp in their hands and with their tender fingers swept the harp
strings. Boldly, confidently, the half-grown boys, the young men, the
old fishermen, all grasped the wonderful instrument and tried to play
upon it. But the tones which they drew from it were harsh, unpleasant,
unmusical.
“It is not thus the kantele is played,” said Wainamoinen. “Not one of
you can draw cheerful music from it, and yet the melodies are there;
they lie hidden in the strings of horsehair, in the jawbone of the
pike.”
“I can play it,” said the nimble Ahti. “With my long arms I can call
forth the melodies that now lie slumbering within it. Let me try what I
can do.”
Wainamoinen put the harp of fish-bone in his gnarly hands; he rested it
upon his knees; very eagerly the little fellow swept the harp strings
with the tips of his long fingers. But the sound which came forth was
not music—it was a noise, discordant, grating, painful to the ears.
“It is always thus,” said the Minstrel, growing impatient at last. “The
poorest doers are the biggest boasters. The music of the kantele lies
still beneath its bridge, beneath the jawbone of the pike. Not one of
you has the skill to coax it forth from its lurking-place. Let us all
go now to the village, to the roomy dwelling of Dame Louhi. Perhaps the
Mistress of the land, the old, the grim, the gray, the Wise Woman of
the North, will be able to touch the harp strings aright—perhaps she
will know how to play the kantele and bring sweet melodies from its
heart.”
And all the young men shouted, “To Dame Louhi’s dwelling! Let us see
what the Wise Woman can do. Yes, lead us to Dame Louhi’s dwelling.”