[THE HEALING OF WAINAMOINEN]
...She is all fair, the Goddess of Veins—the Goddess Suonetar, the beneficent Goddess of Veins. Marvelously doth she spin the veins of men with her wondrous spindle, with her distaff of brass, with her spinning-wheel of iron....
Like the leaping of the mountain stream, like the rushing of a torrent, the blood issued from the knee of Wainamoinen, wounded by his own axe through the craft of Hiisi the Evil, through the malice of Lempo, the herder of wolves and bears.
The ancient and valiant Wainamoinen had knowledge of all wisdom, all speech that is eternal, all magical words save only the word by which wizard wounds are healed. He invoked the magical art, he uttered the awful imprecation; carefully he read the Original Words, pronounced the runes of science.
But he had forgotten the mightiest words—the Words of Blood, the charmed words by which the palpitant torrent is checked, by which the gory stream is held back, by which invincible dikes are cast athwart the places broken by iron, athwart the bites made by the blue teeth of steel.
And the blood ceased not to gush bubbling from the wound of the hero, from the knee of Wainamoinen.
The aged and valiant Wainamoinen harnessed his steed to his brown sledge; he mounted upon the seat, smote the swift horse, and cracked his great whip adorned with pearls.
The steed flew over the long course, drawing the brown sledge, devouring distance. Swift as wind was the driving of Wainamoinen, until he neared the dwelling of the sorcerers, the first of the habitations of the wizards. And he halted at the threshold, and cried: "Is there in this habitation any man learned in the knowledge of iron—any man who can oppose a dike to this river, who can check this torrent of blood?"
A child, a little child, was seated in the middle of the floor; and the child answered, saying: "There is no man here learned in the knowledge of iron—no man able to assuage with his breath even the bruises of wood, nor to ease the pain of heroes.... Go thou to another habitation."