The aged Wainamoinen, the valiant Wainamoinen, made answer: "Then Iron hid itself; Iron found a refuge in the extremity of a long cloud, in the summit of an oak stripped of its branches, in the budding bosom of a young girl.... There were three virgins, three affianced maidens, who poured forth upon the ground the milk of their breasts. The milk of the first was black; the milk of the second, white; the milk of the third was ruddy. Of the virgin whose milk was black, Flexible Iron was born; of her whose milk was white, Fragile Iron was born; of her with the ruddy milk was born Steel.... Then for two years Iron hid itself in the midst of a vast marsh, upon the summit of a rock where the white swans laid their eggs, where the wild duck hatched out her little ones. And the wolf rushed through the marsh; and the bear rushed into the sterile plain; and they tore up the earth that concealed the Iron. But a god, passing through that barren place, saw the black sand that the wolf had torn up, that the bear had trampled beneath his feet.... And that day the Iron was taken out of the marsh, and purged from the slime of the earth, and purified by drying from the humidity of the waters."
The old man roared from the recess of the hearth: "So that was the origin of Iron? that was the birth of Steel?"
But the valiant Wainamoinen made answer: "Nay! not yet has the origin of Iron been told. For, without devouring Fire, Iron may not be born; without Water, it may not be hardened. Into the workshop of the great smith it was borne, into the forge of Ilmarinnen; and the mighty craftsman, the Eternal Smith, said unto it: 'If I place thee within my fire, if I put thee into the flame of my forge-fire, thou wilt become arrogant, thou wilt wax strong, thou wilt spread terror about thee, thou wilt slay thy brother, thou wilt kill the son of thy mother.'... Then the Iron within the forge fires, under the blows of the hammer, sware this oath: 'I have trees to rend, hearts of stone to gnaw; no! never will I slay my brother, never will I kill the son of my mother.'... Then did Ilmarinnen soften the Iron within the heart of the furnace, and shape it upon the anvil. But ere dipping it into the water, he tested with his tongue, he tasted with his palate, the creative juices of Steel, the water that gives hardness unto Iron. And he cried: 'This water is powerless to create Steel, to harden Iron. O Mehilainen, bird of Hiisi! O Herlihainen, my bird-friend! fly hither upon thine agile wings; fly over the marshes, over the lands, over the straits of the ocean! bring me honey upon thy feathers; bear to me upon thy tongue the honey of seven meadow-stalks, of six flower-pistils, for the Steel I am going to make, for the Iron I wish to harden.'... But Herlihainen, the evil bird of Hiisi the Evil, brought the venom of blood, the black juices of a worm that his lizard-eyes had seen, the hidden poison of the toad; and he gave these to Ilmarinnen for the Steel which was being prepared, the Iron that was to be tempered. And suddenly the Iron quivered with rage; it growled; it moved; its oath was forgotten; like a dog it swallowed its own oath, and it slew its brother, it murdered the son of its mother. Even now it plunges into flesh, bites the knees of men, rages so that blood flows and flows and overflows in vast torrents."
The old man roared from the recess of the hearth: "Now I know the origin of Iron, the fatal destiny of Steel!" And to his memory came back the Original Words, the great Words of Blood; and he cursed the Iron with magical curses, and quelled with caressing speech the panic of the fleeing blood. And the hurt of the Iron ceased, and the red torrent stayed its flowing.
Then the old man took within his fingers the extremities of the veins, and counted them, and uttered the magical prayer:
All fair is she, the Goddess of Veins—Suonetar, the beneficent Goddess of Veins. Marvelously doth she spin the veins of men with her beautiful spindle, with her distaff of brass, with her spinning-wheel of iron.... Come, O Goddess of Veins! Come unto me! I invoke thy succor, I call thy name!... Bring hither in thy bosom a roll of ruddy flesh, a blue skein of veins, that the wound may be filled, that the ends of the veins may be tied!...
And suddenly the hurt of Wainamoinen was healed: the flesh became firmer than before; the severed veins were retied, the severed muscles rejoined, the broken bones reknit.
And many other wonderful things said and done by the old man within the recess of the hearth are told of in the Fourth Rune of the ancient Kalewala.