Monster to Music

Monster to Music April 28, 2015

In Rune 40 of the Finnish epic, Kalevala, the hero, Wainamoinen, is sailing with his friends to Pohjola, where he intends to recover the Sampo, a talisman of good luck and extraordinary, mysterious power. No one today quite knows what the Sampo was, but many of the episodes of the Kalevala circulate around battles to have and control it. Along the way, the heroes meet a giant pike. 

Several of Wainamoinen’s companions try to kill it, unsuccessfully, but then Wainamoinon takes out his sword and dispatches the fish:

Wainamoinen, old and trusty,

Thus addresses his companions

“Poor apologies for heroes!

When occasion calls for victors,

When we need some great magician,

Need a hero filled with valor,

Then the arm that comes is feeble,

And the mind insane or witless,

Strength and reason gone to others!”

Straightway ancient Wainamoinen,

Miracle of strength and wisdom,

Draws his fire-sword from his girdle,

Wields the mighty blade of magic,

Strikes the waters as the lightning,

Strikes the pike beneath the vessel,

And impales, the mighty monster;

Raises him above the surface,

In the air the pike he circles,

Cuts the monster into pieces;

To the water falls the pike-tail,

To the ship the head and body;

Easily the ship moves onward.

Wainamoinen, old and faithful,

To the shore directs his vessel,

On the strand the boat he anchors,

Looks in every nook and corner

For the fragments of the monster;

Gathers well the parts together,

Speaks these words to those about him:

“Let the oldest of the heroes

Slice for me the pike of Northland,

Slice the fish to fitting morsels.”

Wainamoinon gazes at the bones and wonders if anything can be made from it. From it, he makes a kantele, a dulcimer-like instrument that became the national instrument of Finland.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,

Looked upon the pile of fragments,

On the fish-bones looked and pondered,

Spake these words in meditation:

“Wondrous things might be constructed

From the relies of this monster,

Were they in the blacksmith’s furnace,

In the hands of the magician,

In the hands of Ilmarinen.”

Spake the blacksmith of Wainola:

“Nothing fine can be constructed

From the bones and teeth of fishes

By the skillful forger-artist,

By the hands of the magician.”

These the words of Wainamoinen:

“Something wondrous might be builded

From these jaws, and teeth, and fish-bones;

Might a magic harp be fashioned,

Could an artist be discovered

That could shape them to my wishes.”

But he found no fish-bone artist

That could shape the harp of joyance

From the relies of their feasting,

From the jaw-bones of the monster,

To the will of the magician.

Thereupon wise Wainamoinen

Set himself at work designing;

Quick became a fish-bone artist,

Made a harp of wondrous beauty,

Lasting joy and pride of Suomi.

Whence the harp’s enchanting arches?

From the jaw-bones of the monster.

Whence the necessary harp-pins?

From the pike-teeth firmly fastened.

Whence the sweetly singing harp-strings?

From the tail of Lempo’s stallion.

Thus was born the harp of magic

From the mighty pike of Northland,

From the relies from the feasting

Of the heroes of Wainola.

All the young men came to view it,

All the aged with their children,

Mothers with their beauteous daughters,

Maidens with their golden tresses;

All the people on the islands

Came to view the harp of joyance,

Pride and beauty of the Northland.

Like the music of Orpheus, the harp has magical powers to draw out animals and to put people to sleep. Wainamoinen uses it to lull the Queen of Pohjola, Louhi, to sleep so that he can steal the Sampo. In Rune 41, we’re told:

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,

The eternal wisdom-singer,

Laves his hands to snowy whiteness,

Sits upon the rock of joyance,

On the stone of song be settles,

On the mount of silver clearness,

On the summit, golden colored;

Takes the harp by him created,

In his hands the harp of fish-bone,

With his knee the arch supporting,

Takes the harp-strings in his fingers,

Speaks these words to those assembled:

“Hither come, ye Northland people,

Come and listen to my playing,

To the harp’s entrancing measures,

To my songs of joy and gladness.”

Then the singer of Wainola

Took the harp of his creation,

Quick adjusting, sweetly tuning,

Deftly plied his skillful fingers

To the strings that he had fashioned.

Now was gladness rolled on gladness,

And the harmony of pleasure

Echoed from the hills and mountains:

Added singing to his playing,

Out of joy did joy come welling,

Now resounded marvelous music,

All of Northland stopped and listened.

Every creature in the forest,

All the beasts that haunt the woodlands,

On their nimble feet came bounding,

Came to listen to his playing,

Came to hear his songs of joyance.

Leaped the squirrels from the branches,

Merrily from birch to aspen;

Climbed the ermines on the fences,

O’er the plains the elk-deer bounded,

And the lynxes purred with pleasure;

Wolves awoke in far-off swamp-lands,

Bounded o’er the marsh and heather,

And the bear his den deserted,

Left his lair within the pine-wood,

Settled by a fence to listen,

Leaned against the listening gate-posts,

But the gate-posts yield beneath him;

Now he climbs the fir-tree branches

That he may enjoy and wonder,

Climbs and listens to the music

Of the harp of Wainamoinen. . . .

Eagles in their lofty eyrie

Heard the songs of the enchanter;

Swift they left their unfledged young ones,

Flew and perched around the minstrel.

From the heights the hawks descended,

From the, clouds down swooped the falcon,

Ducks arose from inland waters,

Swans came gliding from the marshes;

Tiny finches, green and golden,

Flew in flocks that darkened sunlight,

Came in myriads to listen ‘

Perched upon the head and shoulders

Of the charming Wainamoinen,

Sweetly singing to the playing

Of the ancient bard and minstrel.

Later, Wainamoinen loses the harp, and walks through the forest lamenting, until he has an encouraging conversation with a birch tree (Rune 44):

the ancient singer

Went lamenting through the forest,

Wandered through the sighing pine-woods,

Heard the wailing of a birch-tree,

Heard a juniper complaining;

Drawing nearer, waits and listens,

Thus the birch-tree he addresses:

“Wherefore, brother, art thou weeping,

Merry birch enrobed in silver,

Silver-leaved and silver-tasselled?

Art thou shedding tears of sorrow,

Since thou art not led to battle,

Not enforced to war with wizards?

Wisely does the birch make answer:

“This the language of the many,

Others speak as thou, unjustly,

That I only live in pleasure,

That my silver leaves and tassels

Only whisper my rejoicings;

That I have no cares, no sorrows,

That I have no hours unhappy,

Knowing neither pain nor trouble.

I am weeping for my smallness,

Am lamenting for my weakness,

Have no sympathy, no pity,

Stand here motionless for ages,

Stand alone in fen and forest,

In these woodlands vast and joyless.

Others hope for coming summers,

For the beauties of the spring-time;

I, alas! a helpless birch-tree,

Dread the changing of the seasons,

I must give my bark to, others,

Lose my leaves and silken tassels. . . .

Spake the good, old Wainamoinen:

“Weep no longer, sacred birch-tree,

Mourn no more, my friend and brother,

Thou shalt have a better fortune;

I will turn thy grief to joyance,

Make thee laugh and sing with gladness.”

Then the ancient Wainamoinen

Made a harp from sacred birch-wood,

Fashioned in the days of summer,

Beautiful the harp of magic,

By the master’s hand created

On the fog-point in the Big-Sea,

On the island forest-covered,

Fashioned from the birch the archings,

And the frame-work from the aspen. . . .

the ancient bard and minstrel

Journeyed through the fen and forest.

On a hillock sat a maiden,

Sat a virgin of the valley;

And the maiden was not weeping,

Joyful was the sylvan daughter,

Singing with the woodland songsters,

That the eventide might hasten,

In the hope that her beloved

Would the sooner sit beside her.

Wainamoinen, old and trusted,

Hastened, tripping to the virgin,

Asked her for her golden ringleta,

These the words of the magician.

“Give me, maiden, of thy tresses,

Give to me thy golden ringlets;

I will weave them into harp-strings,

To the joy of Wainamoinen,

To the pleasure of his people.”

Thereupon the forest-maiden

Gave the singer of her tresses,

Gave him of her golden ringlets,

And of these he made the harp-strings.

Sources of eternal pleasure

To the people of Wainola.

Thus the sacred harp is finished,

And the minstrel, Wainamoinen,

Sits upon the rock of joyance,

Takes the harp within his fingers,

Turns the arch up, looking skyward;

With his knee the arch supporting,

Sets the strings in tuneful order,

Runs his fingers o’er the harp-strings,

And the notes of pleasure follow.

In the end, the hero must move on. Christianity comes into Finland, and the old Winamoinen is denounced as a “son of folly and injustice.” He sings a copper boat into being, so that he can sail away toward the sunset. Even in his departure, though, he leaves the kantele, the one continuity between pagan and Christian: 

Thus the ancient Wainamoinen, 

In his copper-banded vessel, 

Left his tribe in Kalevala, 

Sailing o’er the rolling billows, 

Sailing through the azure vapors, 

Sailing through the dusk of evening, 

Sailing to the fiery sunset, 

To the higher-landed regions, 

To the lower verge of heaven;

Quickly gained the far horizon, 

Gained the purple-colored harbor. 

There his bark be firmly anchored, 

Rested in his boat of copper; 

But be left his harp of magic, 

Left his songs and wisdom-sayings, 

To the lasting joy of Suomi.

The church expels the hero, but it can make use of a pike-jaw turned harp and a birch tree strung with a maiden’s hair. Because the church too is in the business of turning monsters to music.


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