The Graybeard smeared a little of the ointment on the Minstrel’s wounded knee; he stroked the poor man’s back, his hands, his head. He waved his palms slowly to and fro before his eyes. And all the while he softly muttered a little song of wisdom and power.
The groans of the wounded man waxed [[30]]louder and louder. He turned this way and that, seeking ease; but at each moment the pain grew greater, and he writhed in anguish. Then the Graybeard raised his voice and angrily commanded the pain to depart.
“Hear me, pitiless pain!” he cried. “Go away from this house! Depart! Vanish! Leave this worthy stranger and betake yourself to your own place. Hide yourself in the Hill of Tortures. There, if you choose, you may fill the stones with anguish; you may rend the rocks with torment. But now let this hero rest in peace. Depart! Depart! Depart!”
As he uttered the last word the pain vanished. The Minstrel’s mind grew clear; he felt his strength returning; he laughed right joyfully and rose from his bed. The wound was healed, the ugly gash had disappeared, every trace of pain had vanished from his body.
“I never felt so well in my life!” he shouted as he danced about the room. Then remembering himself, he threw his arms around the Graybeard’s neck and thanked him for his exceeding kindness.
“No thanks are due to me,” said the old man, leading him to a seat by the fireside. “I have [[31]]done nothing myself; Jumala did it all. Give praises to Jumala, the great Creator, from whom all good things come.”
Thereupon the Minstrel raised his hands towards heaven, and cried, “To thee, O Jumala, the gracious, I humbly offer thanks. To thee I owe my life, my strength, my all—accept my gratitude.”
“Jumala only is good,” said the Graybeard. “He only is merciful and kind. But what shall we say of Iron—of Iron, the spiteful, the treacherous, the wicked? Tell me, my friend, why should Iron bear a grudge against you? Why should he seek to destroy your life?”
Wainamoinen, first of minstrels, answered, “Iron has no grudge against me. He wounded me, it is true, but not purposely. Had it not been for a wicked hornet, Iron would never have harmed me—would never have harmed any one. Blame not Iron. Blame the hornet that made him what he is.”
“Pray tell me how that can be,” said the Graybeard.