THE FATE OF THE SAMPO
Like a cruel eagle in pursuit of a young falcon the mighty warship of
Pohyola sped onward, relentless, pitiless, triumphant. At every sweep
of the hundred oars she seemed to leap from the waves, to spring
forward like a wild beast pouncing upon its prey. The swordsmen
shouted, the spearsmen poised their weapons, they waited only for Dame
Louhi’s command.
“In another moment!” she shouted; “but have a care not to harm the
Sampo.”
Then suddenly a wonderful thing took place. Right in the ship’s pathway
a huge iceberg rose dripping from the sea, a mighty, impassable barrier
blocking the way like a massive wall of iron. High above the masthead
of the speeding vessel, the white cliff towered—it towered even to the
clouds and the blue sky beyond. The magic spell of the Minstrel’s small
bit of tinder had done its work.
In an instant there was a dreadful crash, a sound of breaking timbers,
of grinding ice, of shouts and groans and despairing cries. The warship
was wedged firmly in a rift of the great ice cliff. The mast was broken
short off and fell splashing into the sea. Every rib of the strong
vessel was shattered, the rowlocks were broken, the oars were lost in
the turbulent waves, the deck boards were loosened and carried away.
Then it was that the Mistress, the mighty Wise Woman of the North,
showed her great power. With one foot in the sea and the other firmly
placed in the rift of the icy barrier, she quickly changed her form
into that of a monstrous gyrfalcon, the fiercest, the most untiring of
birds of prey. Of the sides of the ship she formed herself wings,
wide-spreading and powerful. Of the long rudder she fashioned a tail,
flat and broad, with quill-like feathers overlapping each other as do
the boards on the roof of a house. Of the ship’s dragon-headed prow she
made herself a beak of copper, sharp, relentless, cruel. Of the two
massive war shields that hung at the ship’s bows she made herself a
pair of round eyes, keen as the eyes of a panther, restless, untiring.
And lastly, of ten sharp scythes in the ship’s hold she formed talons
for herself, fierce, curved fingers, ending in needle-like claws, with
which to fight her battles.
With a voice like that of a tempest she screamed to her warriors who
were clinging to the remains of the wreck: “Make yourselves very small!
Make yourselves very small and do as I bid you!”
They obeyed her, and beneath her wings she hid her hundred swordsmen,
while upon her tail she placed her thousand spearsmen.
With a screech that thrilled the sea to its very bottom and made the
great iceberg tremble and totter, the mighty bird extended her wings
and soared aloft. Up, up, she flew, surmounting the icy barrier that
had risen in her path, undismayed, triumphant. Like a dark stormcloud
in the depth of winter, obscuring the sky and overshadowing the earth,
she hovered midway between the blue heavens and the boundless sea,
eagerly looking for the prey which had wellnigh escaped her.
Meanwhile the heroes, rejoicing because of their deliverance, were
rapidly nearing their wished-for haven of safety. The headland of
Wainola and the long, white shore so dear to them rose plain and clear
above the horizon; soon their perilous voyage would be ended. Joy
beamed in every countenance and hope cheered every heart.
Suddenly the sun was obscured and an ink-black shadow fell upon the
deck of the red ship—it fell upon the Sampo where it was bound with
ropes to the bow beams. The rowers paused in their rowing and looked
up, amazed, confounded. Even Wainamoinen, so brave, so steadfast,
turned pale as he gazed aloft and saw the peril that menaced them. The
next moment the fierce gyrfalcon, the transformed Louhi, swooped down
and perched herself upon the splintered mast. With one horrid foot she
grasped the sail-yard, while with the other she reached down and sought
to seize the Sampo.
Surely then did the hero Minstrel feel that his doom was at hand. He
let go of the long oar, the rudder with which he had steered the
vessel, and as it fell splashing into the sea, he lifted his eyes and
prayed:
“O Jumala, good and kind, help me in this my time of peril. Cast a robe
of fire round me. Shield my head, my arms, my body, and let no stroke
of weapon harm me. Help us all with strength and wisdom.”
With a hasty effort he drew his enchanted sword, the sword, Faultless,
the last piece of workmanship wrought in Ilmarinen’s smithy. He raised
it to strike the mighty bird upon the sail-yard. But first he spoke to
her, humbly, pleadingly, as an earnest peace-maker:
“Hail! hail! O Mistress of Pohyola! Will you not now divide the Sampo
with me, each taking half of the precious treasure? Much better it will
be for us to share it like friends than to fight for it and then lose
it.”
Fearfully screamed the fierce gyrfalcon, the transformed Wise Woman, as
she answered, “No, I will not divide the Sampo with you. The mill of
plenty is mine, and no part of it will I share with strangers and
robbers.”
Having said this she gaped horribly with her beak of copper, and again
reached far out with her sharpened talons, trying to grasp the coveted
Sampo. Failing in this, she screamed a second time, and from her wings
the swordsmen leaped down. She screamed again and a host of spearsmen
dropped upon the red ship’s deck. Dreadful was the confusion that
followed, and sad would have been the fate of the heroes had not
Wainamoinen, with unheard-of swiftness, let fall his sword of magic. He
struck with all his might the extended talons, the crooked fingers, the
horrid feet of the relentless gyrfalcon. The sharp edge of the weapon
fell squarely upon the scythe-like, grasping claws; it sheared them off
close by the ankle joints; it shattered them every one, save only the
smallest, the crookedest, the indescribable little finger of Dame
Louhi.
Loudly, most horribly did she shriek, not more from pain than from
intensest anger and despair. And now on the fated red ship of the
heroes an awful struggle began—a struggle the bloodiest and the
woefullest that sea or sky ever looked upon or minstrel’s song ever
painted in words. Swords flashed, spears crashed, men shouted. The
screams of frightened maidens, the moans of the wounded and the dying,
the victorious cries of the warriors, and the despairing lamentations
of the heroes—all these sounds were mingled in one awful chorus. But
above every other sound the hoarse cries of the dauntless Mistress were
heard, making the earth shudder and causing the deep sea to quake.
One by one the heroes fell; and by fives and tens the low-browed
warriors of Pohyola were thrust overboard to perish in the waves.
Towering above both friends and foes, mighty in strength and endurance,
the master Smith moved to and fro performing many deeds of courage. But
the weavers of his fate had decided against him; it was not for him to
prevail. Covered with wounds, the blood flowing from his arms, his
head, his heart, he felt his end approaching. “O thou who wert once the
Maid of Beauty!” he cried, looking upward. “O thou matchless one among
women! I see thee in the mist-filled air, I hear thy voice calling from
the rainbow arch. I come! I come! I come to meet thee!”
Overwhelmed in the fight, his arms unnerved, his strength departed, he
fell toppling into the sea. As a giant pine, when rent by the storm,
falls crashing from the mountain top and is swallowed in the bottomless
gorge below, so fell the hero. The pitying waves closed over him; he
was with his loved ones in the halls of rest.
Bravely, too, did the ever-ready Ahti struggle to defend the Sampo,
wielding his long arms valorously, until his strength failing he also
was hurled into the hungry deep. And Wainamoinen, immovable as the
lofty headland of his own sweet country, stood steadfast at his post,
directing and cheering his comrades and overwhelming with terror the
foes who dared approach him.
Suddenly, in the midst of the mêlée, the mighty bird of prey, even the
transformed Mistress of Pohyola, leaped down from her lofty perch, and
sweeping across the vessel’s bows sought to carry away the Sampo. With
her maimed and useless feet she struck it, and with her one crooked,
indescribable finger she grasped it. But the ropes with which the
heroes had bound it confused her—she could not break them. She
therefore seized the pictured cover with her monstrous beak, she pulled
it from its place, and, twisting it until it broke into three jagged
pieces, she cast it into the sea. Angry and despairing, she flapped her
rude wings against the sides of the mill, smashing the wheels and
levers and breaking the wonderful framework into a thousand pieces.
Dismayed by the ruin she had caused, the fierce gyrfalcon, the
determined Wise One, ceased her destroying work and looked around her.
Slowly, as in pain, she spread her wings and rose from the crimson deck
all strewn with fragments; but, as she leaped high into the air, she
seized with her one indescribable finger a single small, three-cornered
piece of the precious Sampo; with the strength of despair she clutched
it within her crooked claw.
“Alas! this is all that I can recover for my poor country, my ruined
people!” she screamed. “O my Pohyola! O my dear land, once so
prosperous! May Jumala give me strength to carry this small, precious
gift to you!”
Feebly, she soared upward, she turned her flaming eyes toward Pohyola,
and with laboring wings made her way slowly across the sea.
By now the red ship had floated far, and the few remaining heroes
shouted as, looking upward, they saw the friendly headland looming
right above them. The next moment the vessel’s keel was grating upon
the sand; its long prow was jutting quite over the safe, inviting
beach. The fighting had ceased with the breaking of the Sampo. With the
flight of the baffled Mistress all animosity was ended.
Like one awaking from a swoon, the Minstrel looked around him. Where
were the heroes who had survived the great struggle? Where were the
frightened maidens? Where were the Pohyolan warriors whom the sea had
not claimed? Not one remained; all had leaped ashore and fled. The
Minstrel stood alone on the red, disordered deck.
The fragments of the Sampo had been scattered in many places. Some of
the wheels had rolled into the sea; they had sunk to the bottom, there
to be covered with tangled weeds and the slimy ooze of the unseen
depths. The levers and the lighter parts of the framework were still
floating upon the water, tossed hither and thither by the waves and the
wind. The fragments of the pictured cover had already been carried far
away, were sailing like little ships across the vast expanse of the
sea.
“Alas, alas! that the grandest treasure in the world should thus be
scattered and lost!” cried the Minstrel.
He leaped quickly overboard into the shallow water and with anxious
haste began to gather up the few remaining pieces that were still
floating around the vessel. With much labor and care he picked them up,
laying them one by one for safe keeping in the folds of his long cloak.
But alas! all these pieces were small, and he searched in vain for any
trace of the precious pictured cover.
At length, when not another vestige could be found, the Minstrel with
tired limbs went up to the misty summit of the headland, carrying the
fragments with him. Very old and feeble he was, but steadfast and brave
as in former days. He stood alone upon the lofty shore, gazing far out
over the illimitable sea. He stood there alone, his head erect, his
white beard streaming in the wind, and his hands uplifted toward the
heavens.
“O Jumala!” he prayed, “O Jumala, thou giver of blessings, grant that
these small fragments of the mill of fortune may take root and flourish
and in time bring great joy and many comforts to the dear people of
this pleasant land.”
Then taking the pieces reverently in his hands, he planted them one by
one in the ground, covering them deep in the rich soil of Wainola’s
headland. And even while he stood there and watched, his prayer was
answered. For the small broken fragments of the Sampo took root and
grew up quickly, producing great crops of rye and barley, and luscious
fruits of all kinds, and other foods in great abundance. Thus were the
famishing people fed and made glad, prosperity smiled upon all, and the
Land of Heroes again became the land of plenty and of peace.
As the Minstrel still stood on the lofty headland and looked into the
far distance, his eyes became very bright and his vision wonderfully
clear. He saw all the other fragments of the Sampo and its pictured
cover, and he watched each one as it was carried east, west, or south
and left upon some strange, unheard-of shore. Some of the pieces
floated far, far to the summer islands where the sun shines hot every
day in the year. And on the shores where they were drifted, wonderful
trees sprang up, bearing delicious fruits and gorgeous flowers, such as
the people of northern climes had never seen nor dreamed about. The
fragments that were carried to the eastern seas spread their influence
and took root in many lands. Like the Sampo itself, they poured out
wealth in many forms and in endless profusion. And from them sprang
numberless beautiful and priceless objects—pearls and precious stones,
gold and silver, fine silks, strong castles, and kingly palaces.
As for the pictured cover, it was borne far, very far, to the utmost
bounds of the western sea. Broken though it was, and battered and torn
into strips and fragments, it, too, performed most marvellous things.
For in the places wherein it rested and took root, noble men and women
sprang up, scholars and statesmen and skilful workers in all kinds of
metals, and these were destined to rule the world.
The heavier fragments which had sunk beneath the waves and were buried,
invisible, in the black ooze and among the tangled seaweed, they also
took root and spread out many branches toward every corner of the
earth. And from them sprang the wealth of the seas, the joy of all
fishermen, the triumph of sailors, white-sailed merchant-ships and
mighty vessels of war.
And the tiny, rough-cornered piece, which with her last strength the
baffled Mistress had carried with her only finger back to her home
land—what became of that? Small and without beauty it was, and there
was little that it could do; but from it sprang such scant comforts and
pleasures as the people of the Frozen Land have enjoyed until this
day—warm underground huts, fishes for food, soft furs for clothing, and
the reindeer for all kinds of uses.
With great wonder and thankfulness Wainamoinen saw these marvellous
transformations—these changes by which the Sampo enriched and blessed
not only his own land, but many an undiscovered and far-distant shore.
His heart throbbed with joy immeasurable, and his fingers began to play
on the strings of his kantele. Sweet was the music that he called
forth, sweeter than any that mortal man has ever heard since that day;
and as he played he sang again the old, old songs of the world’s
beginning, the old, old songs with which he had already charmed not
only men and women, but all living things. And when he had ceased
singing and the sound of the kantele was heard no more, he again raised
his hands and called earnestly to the mighty, the invisible Jumala:
“O thou great and good Creator, look down and hear our last petition.
Grant that we may live in joy and comfort, and when our span of life is
ended, let us die in peace and hope, loved by all who know us, and
worthy to be honored through the ages.”
So, also, prays the weaver of tales, whose story is now ended.
NOTES
Note A.—A very long time ago, among the ancestors of the people known
as Finns, there were professional minstrels called runolainen, whose
business it was to preserve the memory of the national songs, folk-lore
tales, and old sagas of the race. They went from place to place, among
the lowly as well as the great, singing their songs and playing the
kantele, a primitive sort of harp from which they drew entrancing
music. Through them a vast store of legends, wonder tales, songs,
proverbs, tales of magic, etc., survived from generation to generation
solely in the memories of the people. It was not until about a century
ago that any systematic effort was made to give this legendary lore a
permanent form by putting it into writing. The first person to attempt
this was the Finnish poet, Zakris Topelius, who put together and
published a small volume of traditions and folk tales. An interest in
the subject being awakened, Dr. Elias Lönnrot undertook the task of
collecting and putting into permanent form all that was best in the
legendary literature of his countrymen. Many years were occupied in
this work. He travelled to every part of Finland, lived with people of
every condition, and listened to their recitals of stories and songs
which they had learned from the lips of their ancestors. These he
committed to writing, and from them he constructed a single poem which
he called “Kalevala.” This poem is remarkable for its great length and
its tiresome, monotonous metre—qualities which discourage English
readers from attempting its acquaintance. From the folk-lore tales of
the runolainen and from portions of this long poem, the present weaver
of tales has constructed the story of “The Sampo,” with such variations
and connecting links as seemed most necessary to fit it to the tastes
and requirements of modern readers.
Note B, page 2.—The Frozen Land may have been identical with modern
Lapland. In any case, it was situated in the far-distant North and was
known in the original tale as Pohyola, or Sariola. Hero Land, or the
Land of Heroes (page 6), was the ancient home of the Finns. It was
known sometimes as Kalevala, sometimes as Wainola, but of its exact
location there is no certain knowledge.
Note C, page 10.—“Sampo”—compare this with Aladdin’s lamp, with the
philosopher’s stone of the mediæval alchemists, with Solomon’s carpet,
etc.
Note D, page 32.—This story of the origin of iron is derived from the
ninth rune of the poem “Kalevala.” It is here related with numerous
variations.
Note E, page 126.—The Minstrel’s journey to Tuonela is briefly related
in the sixteenth rune of the “Kalevala.” The story-teller has not
attempted to follow the poetical account closely. Compare the visit of
Odysseus to the Land of Shades (“Odyssey,” bk. XI); also see Virgil’s
“Æneid,” bk. VI, and the “Elder Edda” for similar narratives.
Note F, page 216.—The story of the tests of courage to which Ilmarinen
was required to submit is related in the nineteenth rune of “Kalevala.”
Some points of similarity are found in the story of Jason and Medea.
Note G, page 321.—Old Persian books tell us that at an early period the
climate of some distant northern countries was so mild that they
enjoyed nine months of summer with only three months of winter.
Finally, sudden changes occurred which completely reversed this order
of the seasons. Can we believe that in the present story we have a
faint reminiscence of that very ancient time?