Beowulf (10 page)

 

A cup was offered in kind friendship

 

with terms of welcome then twisted gold

 

placed before him fine arm-bracelets

 

corselets and garments with the greatest neck-ring

 

of all on this earth that ever I heard of.

 

No tales have told of a treasure so rich

 

a finer hoard-ring since Hama carried

 

to that bright city the Brosinga necklace,

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famed gold-marvel, fled with that treasure

 

from Eormenric's torment to eternal glory.

 

That neck-ring was worn by war-King Hygelac

 

Swerting's nephew when he sailed from home

 

led a plunder-raid on his last voyage

 

fought for war-booty. Wyrd took him then

 

when boasting with pride he brought to them all

 

death among Frisians. He ferried that treasure

 

studded with gemstones over seething wave-rolls

 

fated king-warrior—he fell beneath his shield.

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To the Franks he left his lifeless body

 

gold-laced mailcoat and glorious neck-ring.

 

Then lesser warriors looted that treasure

 

as he lay battle-shorn lord of the Geats—

 

he paid for that pride.

 

                                   Applause filled the hall

 

as Wealhtheow spoke stood before her guest:

 

“Have luck with this neck-ring beloved Beowulf

 

accept these gifts gold-gleaming treasures

 

and use them well—may you win always

 

make known your strength and save for these boys

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wise counsel-words—I'll reward you for that.

 

You have earned such fame that from far and near

 

in this wide middle-earth men will honor you

 

as far as the sea circles this windyard

 

these high cliffwalls. Keep while you live

 

peace with your courage. I'll repay you for that

 

with bright treasure-gifts. Be to my sons

 

a gentle hero with joy in your heart.

 

Each man at this feast is faithful to all

 

loyal to his lord loving in mindthoughts—

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these thanes are together good men and strong

 

these drunken warriors do as I bid them.”

 

She sat then to banquet the best of feasting

 

warmed with wine-cups—warriors rejoiced

 

unwary of their fate waiting for destiny

 

like friends before them at failing of day

 

when Hrothgar left them to lie in his bower

 

went to his rest. War-Danes guarded

 

the darkening meadhall as in days gone by.

 

They cleared the bench-planks, brought for sleeprest

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bedding and bolsters. A beer-drinker there

 

ready for his doom rested among them.

 

They set by their heads where hands could reach them

 

bright linden-shields—on benches above them

 

over sleeping warriors weapons were ready

 

hard mask-helmets hand-locked corselets

 

stout-shafted spears. They were seldom caught

 

unready for war waking or sleeping

 

at home or afield held themselves ready

 

for their lord's command moments of swordplay

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their war-sovereign's needs—they were worthy men.

 

They sank to their sleep. One sorely paid

 

for his evening slumber like others before him

 

since Grendel came to them greedy hall-watcher

 

rage in his blood till he blundered at last

 

death came to him. The Danes discovered

 

that one still living waited for that night

 

slouched through the shadows searching for revenge

 

grim murder-fiend—Grendel's hell-mother

 

bereaved monster-wife mourned for her child.

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She was damned to hide in a dark water-home

 

cold wildwood stream since Cain murdered

 

his only brother-kin beat down to earth

 

his father's son-child. He was sent for that

 

marked with murder from man's company

 

banished to wasteland. Then woke from his loins

 

misbegotten monsters. Among them was Grendel

 

hate-hearted fiend who found at Heorot

 

a waking strength-warrior waiting in that hall.

 

Grendel grabbed him grappled his hand—

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but mindful of power the mercy of his strength

 

that bountiful gift from God's kingdom

 

the warrior caught him clamped in his fingers

 

that great claw-hand crushed that night-killer

 

gripped him to death. Grendel went slinking

 

crossed the moorland to his cold death-cavern

 

exiled from mercy. Then his mother sorrowed

 

grieved for her child greedy for man-blood

 

went prowling for vengeance payment for her son.

 

She came then to Heorot where careless Shield-Danes

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slumbered peacefully. They soon found there

 

the old night-torture when in through the door

 

came Grendel's mother. Her great warrior-strength

 

was less than her son's as little as a woman's

 

is weaker in warfare than a weaponed man's

 

when bloodied swordblades smith-hammered edges

 

slash helmet-crowns hard over boar-crests

 

gold-handled swords slash against helmets.

 

Sleeping warriors woke to the fight

 

reached for swordblades raised linden-shields

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hoisted their weapons—helmets and corselets

 

were left by the benches in that lunging raid.

 

She yearned to leave them longed to be away

 

flee with her life when they found her there—

 

quickly she snared a single warrior

 

fastened in her claws as she fled to the moor.

 

That ill-fated Dane was dearest to Hrothgar

 

of all warriors in that wide kingdom

 

powerful guardian plucked from his rest

 

bountiful thane. Nor was Beowulf there

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who slept through the night in a separate bower

 

champion of the Geats with his great treasures.

 

Sorrow came to Heorot—she snatched from the gable

 

that high-hung monster-arm—horror came back then

 

to the wakening death-hall. It was woeful bargaining

 

each party to pay the price of slaughter

 

with a loved-one's life.

 

                                   That forlorn treasure-king,

 

sorrow-gripped lord, sang a mourning-song

 

grieved for his heart-thane hearth-friend and warrior

 

a king's counselor killed in his hall.

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Quickly was Beowulf battle-weary guest

 

called to his bower. At breaking of day

 

he went with his shieldmen walked through the dawn

 

to the king's rest house—that bereft throne-warden

 

wondered in misery if the Wielder of us all

 

ever would spare them save them from fiendgrief.

 

Then Hygelac's thane with hand-chosen warriors

 

crossed the floor-planks clinked an armor-song

 

stood before the king sorrowing Dane-lord

 

asked if his night-rest had eased his suffering

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if the breaking of Grendel had brought peace to him.

 

Hrothgar answered helm of the Shield-Danes:

 

“Don't ask about happiness! Horror has come back

 

to the Danes in Heorot. Dead is Aeschere

 

good Yrmenlaf's guide and blood-brother

 

my closest adviser counsel to us all

 

shoulder-companion when shields were hoisted

 

defender of my life when foot-warriors clashed

 

and helmets were struck. So should a man be

 

always beside us as Aeschere was!

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He found in Heorot a hell-spawned murderer

 

restless hand-killer. From our high meadhall

 

that slaughter-stained spirit has sought her mere-cave

 

I know not where. She now has avenged

 

the felling of Grendel that feud you began

 

with violent grappling that great handgrip

 

that settled our account for those cold death-years

 

the closing of Heorot. He cringed at your hand

 

went dying through the night and now this she-fiend

 

has avenged her monster-son vicious man-killer—

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too far she has carried this feud over blood-kin

 

it seems to us all aching in our minds

 

weeping for Aeschere warrior of my heart

 

high-minded hall-thane—now his hand is idle

 

that once granted us each wish and command.

 

I have heard evening-tales hearth-talk of scouts

 

of hall-messengers hailing from abroad

 

that they have sighted a solitary pair

 

monstrous moor-walkers moving through shadows

 

sorrowful fen-spirits. They say that one of them

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misshapen exile is most like a woman—

 

the wanderer with her woefully deformed

 

prowled the march-tracks manlike to their eyes

 

yet bigger by far than the best of warriors.

 

In times long past tenders of the land

 

named him Grendel. No one can say

 

what creatures spawned them their kin in this world.

 

They live secretly in a sombre land

 

dwell by wolf-slopes wind-tortured bluffs

 

gloomy fen-hollows where a forested stream

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dives from the bluffs down past earthlight

 

flows underground. Not far from Heorot

 

measured in miles the mere lies hidden—

 

reaching above it with rime-covered branches

 

strong-rooted trees stretch from rock-slopes.

 

At night may be seen a strange wonder-sight—

 

fire on the water. No wiseman lives

 

who knows the bottom of that black monster-home.

 

Though the heath-prancer by hounds labored

 

the strong-antlered hart may seek life-haven

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driven from afar he will die beside it

 

forfeit his life there for fear of crossing

 

plunging his head in that hell-cursed water.

 

A surging of waves swirls to the clouds

 

when whistling winds come whirling in anger

 

to that sorrowful place—the sky hangs gloomy

 

and the heavens weep. Our hope for mercy

 

lies only in your help. The home of these fiends

 

dark moor-cavern monsters' water-den

 

is not far from Heorot. Find it if you dare!

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I will reward you with weapons and gold

 

ancient treasure-gifts time-tested corselets

 

as I earlier did if you answer this plea.”

 

Beowulf spoke son of Ecgtheow:

 

“Do not grieve, old battle-king! It is better for all

 

to fight for our friends than fall into mourning.

 

Each one among us shall mark the end

 

of this worldly life. Let him who may

 

earn deeds of glory before death takes him—

 

after life-days honor-fame is best.

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Arise, good guardian let us go quickly

 

to find the moor-tracks of that murdering fiend.

 

I promise you firmly she will find no safety

 

in the earth's caverns or the cold forest-mounds—

 

nowhere in this land will she live for long!

 

At this painful dawning have patience with sorrow

 

bear your death-grief in your deep-wounded heart.”

 

Up stood the king called to his God then

 

thanked him for the words that warrior had spoken.

 

Then for Hrothgar a horse was saddled

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curly-maned war-steed. The wise Dane-leader

 

went forth in splendor. Warriors advanced

 

marched from the hall. The monstrous tracks

 

were easy to follow on the narrow path

 

where that loveless creature loped through the trees