The Son of a Slave
A translation of Orjan poika
Pirkka, the fur cap wearer, spoke:
“Hoy! Get up, men,
fresh snow is on the ground;
let us go to Lapland’s villages
to collect debts from the Laplanders!”
They raided Lapland,
spilled blood on the fresh snow,
killed the men with swords,
wooed all women;
a wide swath of Lapland was smoking,
villages lay abandoned,
children were crying in the ashes,
dogs roamed on the mountains.
Pirkka brought back a slave to be his maid.
Some time later
the slave was singing to her child:
“Fair is your mother’s tribe,
fairer the tribe of the grass;
your family on the fells is large,
your family in the underworld larger;
Pirkka’s spears cannot sting them,
the axes of his men cannot reach them.”
Her mean master growled:
“The best songs are the shortest!”
He grabbed a sword from the wall,
killed the woman he had abused. –
Such was Pirkka, the fur cap wearer.
A fair boy grew up, the son of a slave.
A trip to Lapland was approaching,
the men were thinking:
“Would the slave be of use
on the sleigh ride?”
They took the boy with them.
They rode in a sleigh
over the bays of a great lake for one day,
over a frozen swamp for another day,
over a high mountain for a third day;
the slave felt strange
and his heart pounded in his chest.
They reached the top of a fell;
fires were flickering in valleys,
lights were seen in Lapland’s villages.
Pirkka, the fur cap wearer, spoke:
“I don’t trust the whelp of a slave:
his eyes flash
more fiercely than the northern lights;
he’d better stay behind.”
They chained the boy to a tree.
Pirkka’s men returned,
toboggans filled with furs,
shaft bows covered with jewellery, taken as tax.
It occurred to Pirkka, the fur cap wearer:
“We forgot the boy,
who will release the miserable thing?”
Young men of the clan
set out on their skis.
The hay-shoe
slept, chained to a tree
on silvery snow.
He dreamed of his mother’s country.
Red toboggans glided
on red hills,
blue reindeer ran
at the mouths of blue streams,
silver swans swam,
golden cuckoos called,
cuckoos called, birds sang,
every forest was green
in the great summer of Lapland
under the midnight sun.
A smile crossed his lips:
“God, watch over my mother’s country!”
Bowstrings twanged,
feathered arrows swished,
the kantele of death rang
on the knee of the Almighty.
Pirkka, the fur cap wearer, spoke:
“Hoy! Get up, men,
fresh snow is on the ground;
let us go to Lapland’s villages
to collect debts from the Laplanders!”
They raided Lapland,
spilled blood on the fresh snow,
killed the men with swords,
wooed all women;
a wide swath of Lapland was smoking,
villages lay abandoned,
children were crying in the ashes,
dogs roamed on the mountains.
Pirkka brought back a slave to be his maid.
Some time later
the slave was singing to her child:
“Fair is your mother’s tribe,
fairer the tribe of the grass;
your family on the fells is large,
your family in the underworld larger;
Pirkka’s spears cannot sting them,
the axes of his men cannot reach them.”
Her mean master growled:
“The best songs are the shortest!”
He grabbed a sword from the wall,
killed the woman he had abused. –
Such was Pirkka, the fur cap wearer.
A fair boy grew up, the son of a slave.
A trip to Lapland was approaching,
the men were thinking:
“Would the slave be of use
on the sleigh ride?”
They took the boy with them.
They rode in a sleigh
over the bays of a great lake for one day,
over a frozen swamp for another day,
over a high mountain for a third day;
the slave felt strange
and his heart pounded in his chest.
They reached the top of a fell;
fires were flickering in valleys,
lights were seen in Lapland’s villages.
Pirkka, the fur cap wearer, spoke:
“I don’t trust the whelp of a slave:
his eyes flash
more fiercely than the northern lights;
he’d better stay behind.”
They chained the boy to a tree.
Pirkka’s men returned,
toboggans filled with furs,
shaft bows covered with jewellery, taken as tax.
It occurred to Pirkka, the fur cap wearer:
“We forgot the boy,
who will release the miserable thing?”
Young men of the clan
set out on their skis.
The hay-shoe
slept, chained to a tree
on silvery snow.
He dreamed of his mother’s country.
Red toboggans glided
on red hills,
blue reindeer ran
at the mouths of blue streams,
silver swans swam,
golden cuckoos called,
cuckoos called, birds sang,
every forest was green
in the great summer of Lapland
under the midnight sun.
A smile crossed his lips:
“God, watch over my mother’s country!”
Bowstrings twanged,
feathered arrows swished,
the kantele of death rang
on the knee of the Almighty.