🧚 The Unfinished Boat

Never were two pledged lovers more stanch and true than the ancient Minstrel and the youthful Smith, and their affection for each other grew stronger and stronger as the days went by.1 The brief summer waned, and the long winter came with its sleet and snow and furious storms; but through all the weather changes and the varying fortunes of the year, the mutual devotion of the two heroes remained steadfast.2 Ilmarinen toiled daily in his smithy, hammering out chains and hoes and axes, and shaping things of beauty and of use for his kinsfolk and neighbors in Wainola.3 And the Minstrel also toiled, composing new songs of love and conflict, retelling old tales of mystery and magic, and studying to discover the secrets of nature and of life.4

“Come and live with me,” said the younger hero to the older.5 “My cottage is roomy, my table is large, and my hearth is cozy and warm.6 My mother, Lokka, will welcome you; she will serve you and prepare toothsome victuals for your meals.7 Your sweet songs will enliven the hours of evening, and we will converse often together concerning those things that are nearest to your heart and mine.8 Come!9 Come and be my elder brother!”10

“I thank you,” answered the Minstrel.11 “We shall both be happy.”12

And so, without further persuasion, he took up his abode in the home of his friend; and Dame Lokka the Handsome, the best of all the matrons in Hero Land, kept house for them both.13

“What have you wrought in your smithy to-day?” old Wainamoinen would ask as they met at the evening meal.14

Then the master Smith, grimy with soot and gray with ashes, would begin to tell of a hoe he had beaten out, or a gold ring he had fashioned; but ere he had spoken a dozen words his mind would wander far away to a low-roofed dwelling in the Frozen Land, and the rest of his speech would be a burning discourse in praise of the Maid of Beauty.15

“Now, sing to us your newest song, sweetest of minstrels,” the younger hero would say as they sat together beside the evening fire.16

And the Minstrel would begin with a hymn of creation, or a tale of mighty strife and heroism; but at the end of the strain he would forget his subject and begin to chant a ballad of love or a ditty recounting the charms of the matchless maiden of Pohyola.17

Thus, ere long, it came about that the two friends were constantly and forever recalling the sweetest memories of their lives—memories which, strange to say, were also mingled with thoughts of experiences that had been unpleasant, painful, humiliating.18 They talked daily of their strange adventures in Pohyola; and now, in the halo of long absence, the Frozen Land was remembered only as a land of spring showers and summer sunshine, and their days of sadness and gloom were forgotten in contemplation of the blessedness which they had felt in the presence of the Maid of Beauty.19 And now her image seemed always before their eyes, and her voice seemed calling to them through the misty and frost-laden air of the desolate North Land.20

Gradually, and by a process unknown to himself, Ilmarinen came to think of her as he thought of the sun and the stars and the wonderful sea, as something mysterious, sublime, incomprehensible, which he might worship from afar but never hope to possess or understand.21 She was his deity, his Jumala, as far superior to him as he, the prince of smiths and wizards, was superior to the beasts of the fields and woods.22

But the Minstrel, old and steadfast, was more worldly-minded.23 He remembered how the maiden had laughed at him and twitted him as she sat on the rainbow plying her magic shuttles and weaving the web of the unmeasured sky; and as he thought of her words and her taunting manner, his feeling of reverence for her was tempered with a desire for some sort of revenge.24 Therefore he resolved that he would get even with her; verily he would show her that he, too, was one of the mighty—a magician unexcelled in power, a master of things seen and unseen.25 And having done this, what would be easier than to make her his own?26

Long did he ponder, and many were the thoughts that came into his old, experienced mind.27 Day after day, week after week, he sat by Dame Lokka’s fireside, thinking, thinking, thinking—yet keeping all his thoughts to himself.28

“He is composing some new, sweet song,” said the motherly matron; and she refrained from disturbing him.29

At last, when the wild geese were again honking in the quiet fjords and the frogs were making the marshes musical, he perfected a secret plan by which he hoped to win the object of his desires, and at the same time add much to his already matchless fame.30 He told no one of his project, but he clenched his hands together and shut his teeth hard with determination.31

“None but women say ‘I cannot’; none but cowards say ‘I dare not,’” he repeated to himself again and again as though he would bolster up his courage.32

Then, unknown to Ilmarinen—unknown to all his friends and neighbors—he set to work to build a boat, roomy and stanch and shaped for swiftest sailing.33

It was his intention, when this boat was finished, to make a secret voyage to the Frozen Land and boldly make known his suit to the Maid of Beauty.34 If she would listen to him and accept the high place of honor which he had once before offered her—if she would consent to be the mistress of his kitchen, to bake his honey cakes and sing at his table, well and good; the fame of Wainamoinen, prince of minstrels, would be carried to the ends of the earth.35

But what if she should scorn him as before?36 Was he not a magician?37 Through the power of magic he would subdue her; he would carry her aboard his vessel; he would bring her, willy nilly, to the Land of Heroes; she would have no choice but to be the queen of his dwelling in Wainola.38

The boat itself was to be built by magic.39 By magic spells the beams were to be hewn and properly placed, the keel was to be laid, the hull was to be made stanch and shapely.40 No hammer was to be used in the work of building, but every nail and spike must be driven in the right place by a magic word that was known only to the prince of wizards, the first of all minstrels.41

The place which Wainamoinen chose for the building of his boat was on the shore of a shady island well concealed behind a lofty headland.42 Trees grew along the shore, and there were thousands of them covering the hillside; but they were small trees, mere saplings, and would be of little use in boat-building.43 Where could the Minstrel find fit timber for his vessel?44 Who would cut it for him?45 Who would saw the boards, and who would carry them to the shore?46 The Minstrel could not do these things by magic alone.47 He must have help.48

In a cave on the hillside there dwelt a brown dwarf, the last of the ancient race of earth men.49 He was small of stature, wrinkled, and old—so old that he himself had long ago lost all reckoning of his age.50 Men called him Sampsa, and they told many a tale of his wisdom and cunning, and how in former times he had guarded the treasures of kings.51 His days were spent in the forest and his nights in the unexplored chambers of his cavern home.52 He knew by name every tree and shrub that grew in the Land of Heroes, and he understood the language of birds and of beasts and of every living thing.53 Who better than he could be the Minstrel’s helper?54

With a golden axe upon his shoulder Sampsa sauntered, singing, through the forest.55 To each slender sapling and to every beast and bird he said, “Good-morning!” and every bird and beast and growing tree returned the salutation.56 Presently the little man paused beside an aspen, smooth of bark, and tall and graceful.57 The tree trembled and every leaf upon it quivered when he held before it his sharp-edged axe with golden poll and copper handle.58

“O master!59 O man of earth,” it whispered, “what do you wish of me?”60

“I am seeking timber for a boat,” answered Sampsa.61 “The Minstrel is building a magic vessel to cruise on northern seas, and he has sent me to find a tree from which to make the beams and keel.62 May I have your trunk, my friend?”63

The aspen groaned, and every one of its thousand leaves seemed to have a tongue as it softly murmured: “Surely, I am not fit for boat timber.64 My branches are hollow; a grub has eaten my heart.65 My wood is soft and pithy; it would never float upon the water.66 I pray you, pass me by, O master!”67

“You speak well,” said the dwarf; “stay where you are and enjoy the soft breezes from the sea.68 Whisper your light songs to the birds, and let them nest among your branches.69 I will look elsewhere for boat timber.”70

He shouldered his golden axe and trudged onward, deeper and deeper into the forest.71 In a secluded valley between two mountains, he found a pine tree, green and slender and beautiful.72 He struck it lightly with his sharp axe-blade, and every needle on its branches shrieked as though in sudden terror.73