Beowulf (11 page)

 

over wild moorland wandering streams

 

bearing that body the best counsel-thane

 

of all who with Hrothgar made Heorot their home.

 

The lord of the Danes led through wilderness

 

steep stone-passes solitary trails

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narrow-dark gorges unknown trackways

 

slippery rockbluffs secret demon-dens.

 

He rode before them following the signs

 

guided his warriors Geats with the Danes

 

till suddenly they found frosted tree-branches

 

stretching mournfully over sloping grayrock

 

joyless treelimbs over trembling water

 

dreary and wind-driven. Danes were silent

 

with sorrow in their hearts at the sight before them

 

when they circled the mere saw greeting them

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on the moldering bank of that bloodstained water

 

on the edge of that hell-sump Aeschere's head.

 

The water-top heaved as they hovered around it

 

with hot gore-swells. Horn-notes sounded

 

a strong battle-song. They sat by the bank.

 

In that hell-murky mere many a snake-creature

 

curious water-worms cut through the gore—

 

on the hard bank-slopes black fiends were roiling

 

serpents and mere-sprites slid along the rock—

 

by cold morninglight they moved through the water

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slithering with greed. They scattered then in anger

 

bitter and blood-swelled as the bright horn-notes

 

signaled a challenge. The chief of the Geats

 

shot from a yew-bow a sharp arrowhead

 

struck to the life-core a loathsome mere-creature

 

ended its misery—it afterwards became

 

a lazier swimmer when its life departed.

 

With a barbed boar-spear it was brought to shore

 

hooked with steel-teeth hauled to the edge

 

rolled on the rockbank robbed of lifeblood—

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they gazed in wonder at that grisly swim-serpent

 

blackening with death.

 

                                   Then Beowulf prepared

 

called for his armor careless of his life.

 

Bright warrior-mail bonded by hands

 

linked armor-coat locked against swordswings

 

covered his breastcage enclosed his heart

 

that no fiendgrip might fix upon his life

 

grapple to his soul with grim hell-fingers.

 

A gleaming mask-helmet guarded his head

 

gilded with boar-crests bordering the rim

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old treasure-helm ancient wonder-smith's

 

shield against steel-bites that no sharp blade-edge

 

might slice through to him as he sought the mere-ground

 

stroked to the bottom of that baleful pond

 

wrapped against death in rich armor-bonds.

 

Nor was it the worst of weapons that day

 

that Unferth loaned him orator of Heorot—

 

a hard cutting-sword Hrunting by name

 

praised through the years by proud weapon-thanes.

 

The hammer-forged blade of hand-twisted steelbands

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was hardened by blood—the bite of its edges

 

had never yet failed a firm-handed warrior

 

anyone who dared death in battle-rush—

 

its strength was known in stories of war-clash

 

when edges and spearshafts sang through the air.

 

That son of Ecglaf strong counsel-thane

 

offered no charges no challenging wine-words

 

when he loaned his battle-blade by that blood-red mere

 

to the better sword-champion—though brave in memory

 

he dared not dive in that deep hell-water

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to foster his fame—he forfeited there

 

stories of his past. The proud guest-warrior

 

was ready now for all eager for that fight.

 

Beowulf spoke son of Ecgtheow:

 

“Beloved Hrothgar Healfdene's son

 

remember your words in the warmth of Heorot

 

before I go swimming in search of this monster—

 

if ever I serve you in your hour of need

 

and part with my life-breath you have promised to be

 

for me and my folk-thanes a father to my name.

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Let your good hand harbor my shield-thanes

 

my board-companions if battle takes my life

 

and send to Hygelac, Hrothgar my lord,

 

those marvelous treasures that you made my own.

 

He will learn from that gold, the Geats' hall-king

 

good son of Hrethel, when he sees those rewards,

 

that I found in Denmark a fine goldwarden

 

proud ring-giver and prospered while I lived.

 

Give to Unferth my good treasure-sword

 

twist-hammered blade bound by steel-smiths

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a man's war-weapon. I will manage with Hrunting

 

earn my goldgifts or enter into death.”

 

After those words the Weather-Geats' leader

 

turned to his work—no time would he waste

 

for answering speech—the spiteful water

 

swallowed him away. It was wondrously long

 

before downstrokes bore him to the depth of that mere.

 

Soon that water-fiend warden of the depths

 

guardian of fury through fifty murder-years

 

found an alien creature come to explore

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from the earth above her that bleak hell-home.

 

She grabbed him then with her great handspurs

 

clenched him with claws—the covering mailcoat

 

linked corselet-rings locked with steelmesh

 

stopped those talons from stabbing his heart—

 

those loathsome fingers failed against smith-hands.

 

The black she-wolf bore him away

 

tugged through the water that warrior from above

 

to her deep cavern-den—caught in that grasp

 

he could wield no weapons—wondrous creatures

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pressed around him reached for his life

 

crunched with nail-teeth gnashed at his breast-coat

 

greedy for his blood. Then that grim wolf-woman

 

dragged him to her cave cold rock-chamber—

 

no roiling water could reach to that den

 

roofed against flood-water far beneath the earth—

 

firelight shimmered there on the floor of that dungeon

 

restless flame-shadows flickered on the wall.

 

Now he could see her sorrowful blood-fiend

 

great mere-monster—he grabbed his sword then

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swung high with it swept it down at her

 

struck at the head with a sounding blade-tone

 

steel-song ringing. He soon discovered

 

that his bright swordedge could not bite that flesh

 

strike to that life—that strong treasure-sword

 

failed him at need. Those file-hard edges

 

had cut through battle-mail in countless shield-fights

 

sheared through mask-helmets—that marvelous war-weapon

 

had never forfeited the fame of its past.

 

Beowulf remembered boastwords in Heorot

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Hygelac's hearth-thane held to his promise—

 

he flung the sword then far across the cave

 

flushed with anger no failure in his heart—

 

he remembered his handgrasp mindful of Grendel

 

his great gripstrength. A good war-thane

 

fighting for fame following name-glory

 

will trust his courage no care for his life.

 

He grabbed her then Grendel's hell-mother

 

grappled her shoulders in his great handvise

 

tugged at her arms with angry heartstrength

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twisted her backwards bent her to the floor.

 

She clamped his arms in her cold fiendgrip

 

returned his tugging with tight claw-fingers—

 

she toppled him over with towering strength

 

raging with fire-eyes felled him to the floor

 

leapt on his chest lifted her shortsword

 

broad murder-knife burning to avenge

 

her only offspring. Over his breastcage

 

a hand-locked mailcoat harbored his life

 

countered the piercing of point and edge.

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He would soon have died there deep under the earth

 

Ecgtheow's son strong Geat-champion

 

but his hard battle-coat held against that thrust—

 

close-woven steelmesh clenched against swordbite

 

kept him from death—the Deemer of this world

 

decided that contest the King of mankind

 

strengthened that warrior as he stood to his feet.

 

He saw then glittering a great hoard-weapon

 

smith-wrought by giants a sword for victory