Rune XXXIb

Then they laid the child of wonder, Fatherless, the magic infant, In the cradle of attention, To be rocked, and fed, and guarded; But he rocked himself at pleasure, Rocked until his locks stood endwise; Rocked one day, and then a second, Rocked the third from morn till noontide; But before the third day ended, Kicks the boy with might of magic, Forwards, backwards, upwards, downwards, Kicks in miracles of power, Bursts with might his swaddling garments Creeping from beneath his blankets, Knocks his cradle into fragments, Tears to tatters all his raiment, Seemed that he would grow a hero, And his mother, Untamala, Thought that be, when full of stature, When he found his strength and reason, Would become a great magician, First among a thousand heroes. When three months the boy had thriven, He began to speak as follows: "When my form is full of stature, When these arms grow strong and hardy, Then will I avenge the murder Of Kalervo and his people!" Untamoinen bears the saying, Speaks these words to those about him; "To my tribe he brings destruction, In him grows a new Kalervo!" Then the heroes well considered, And the women gave their counsel, How to kill the magic infant, That their tribe may live in safety. It appeared the boy would prosper; Finally, they all consenting, He was placed within a basket, And with willows firmly fastened, Taken to the reeds and rushes, Lowered to the deepest waters, In his basket there to perish. When three nights had circled over, Messengers of Untamoinen Went to see if he had perished In his basket in the waters; But the prodigy, was living, Had not perished in the rushes; He had left his willow-basket, Sat in triumph on a billow, In his hand a rod of copper, On the rod a golden fish-line, Fishing for the silver whiting, Measuring the deeps beneath him; In the sea was little water, Scarcely would it fill three measures. Untamoinen then reflected, This the language of the wizard: "Whither shall we take this wonder, Lay this prodigy of evil, That destruction may o'ertake him, Where the boy will sink and perish?" Then his messengers he ordered To collect dried poles of brushwood, Birch-trees with their hundred branches, Pine-trees full of pitch and resin, Ordered that a pyre be builded, That the boy might be cremated, That Kullervo thus might perish. High they piled the and branches, Dried limbs from the sacred birch-tree, Branches from a hundred fir-trees, Knots and branches full of resign; Filled with bark a thousand sledges, Seasoned oak, a hundred measures; Piled the brushwood to the tree-tops, Set the boy upon the summit, Set on fire the pile of brushwood, Burned one day, and then a second, Burned the third from morn till evening. When Untamo sent his heralds To inspect the pyre and wizard, There to learn if young Kullervo Had been burned to dust and ashes, There they saw the young boy sitting On a pyramid of embers, In his band a rod of copper, Raking coals of fire about him, To increase their heat and power; Not a hair was burned nor injured, Not a ringlet singed nor shrivelled. Then Untamo, evil-humored, Thus addressed his trusted heralds: "Whither shall the boy be taken, To what place this thing of evil, That destruction may o'ertake him.