Beowulf (19 page)

 

brought help to his kinsman kindled him with words:

 

“Beloved Beowulf bear up your heart—

 

you said in your youth in yore-days of glory

 

that you never would allow while life held to you

 

the lowering of your name. Now known through the earth,

 

great-hearted Beowulf, bear up your mind-strength

 

to finish this dragon—I will fight beside you.”

 

After those help-words the hell-serpent came

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raging gold-miser glaring with death-eyes

 

flushed with fire-fury to flash away the life

 

of that hateful challenger. Hard flame-launching

 

shriveled the shieldwood seared through mailcoats—

 

now helpless to bear that hot serpent-breath

 

the young hall-thane hid beside his lord

 

held to the iron-round hoping for relief

 

from those awesome flame-spears. The old battle-king

 

remembered his glory-name mightily struck then

 

with his sharp blade-edge borne so strongly

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that it stuck in that neck. Naegling burst then

 

broke upon that bone Beowulf's trophy-sword

 

old and battle-hard. That best of honor-blades

 

failed him at need finest of smith-steel

 

could give him no help. His hand was too strong

 

overswung each sword as stories have told me

 

struck too forcefully when he stepped to battle—

 

wonder-hard weapons did not work for him.

 

For the third time then twisting in hate-coils

 

that monstrous fire-dragon mindful of his feud

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struck past that shield with his searing bellows-breath

 

went straight to Beowulf bit round his neck

 

with bitter venom-teeth. Beowulf stopped then

 

his life-force draining in dark blood-welling.

 

Then, as I heard, that hall-king's champion

 

young kin-warrior came to that monster

 

with craft and weapon-skill as his king taught him.

 

He ducked past the head—hot flame-belching

 

burned his hand then as he buried his sword

 

burnished treasure-blade in that black snake-belly.

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Then that great fire-breath grew feebler at last

 

that blistering blast bellowed more softly

 

as the blade took hold. Then Beowulf rose

 

gathered his mindthoughts grasped his shortsword

 

bitter and battle-sharp broad steel-edges—

 

the Geat-lord struck severed the ring-bones.

 

They felled that fiend found his life-core

 

kinsmen together cut him to hell-death

 

king and his soldier. So should a man be

 

a thane with his lord. The leader of the Geats

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fought his last blood-fight the bourne of his deeds

 

daytimes of this world. Then that dragonbite wound

 

burned into his blood blistered and swelled there

 

a monster's deathbite. Murderous poison

 

welled within his breast baleful serpent-gall

 

pushed towards his heart. The proud one wandered

 

slowly by the wall sat by the barrow-stone

 

lost in life-thoughts. He looked upon giants' work

 

how the stone arches stout with pillar-strength

 

the old earth-hall entered the cliffside.

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Then with his hands that heart-loyal thane

 

laved him with water, his beloved blood-king,

 

youth knelt by age yearning to comfort

 

his wound-weary lord loosened his helmet.

 

Beowulf spoke then sick with a life-wound

 

mortal slaughter-bite. He saw clearly

 

that his long life-years could linger no more

 

earth's bright moments—all was departing

 

the number of his days death immeasurably near:

 

“Now I would give to my good son-child

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my armor and weapons if only a land-heir

 

had been granted to me to guard my kingdom

 

prince of my loins. I have led this people

 

for fifty love-winters. No folk-king there was

 

any on this earth of any neighborland

 

who dared come to me with dark battle-rush

 

goad me with spears. In this good homeland

 

I lived through loan-years looked to my kingdom

 

sought no treachery swore no oath-lies

 

spared anger-words. For all these things

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sick with life-wound I sing in my heart.

 

The Shaper of men cannot shame my going

 

with murder of kinsmen at the moment of silence

 

when life darkens. Leave me to rest here

 

go to that goldhoard under gray cliffrock,

 

beloved Wiglaf, now the worm lies cooling

 

sleepened by swords stripped of his treasure.

 

Hurry, my warrior, help me to see

 

this serpent's wealth-hoard wound gold-collars

 

bright wonder-gems—bear them before me

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to ease my heartbane help me to leave

 

this life and people that I long have held.”

 

Charged with those words Weohstan's son-child

 

obeyed his beloved life-weary kinsman

 

stepped through the stench of stilled dragon-breath

 

entered the rock-vault of that ancient barrow.

 

Enclosed there by pillars piles of heirlooms

 

glinted in the gloom gleaming treasure-heaps

 

glittering gemstones by the gray rockwork

 

wonders by the walls in that worm's gold-den

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the old dawn-flyer's ancient wine-vessels

 

rich silver-cups bereft of polishers

 

stripped of ornament. There were swordstruck helmets

 

old and rust-laden arm-bracelets tarnishing

 

curiously twisted. A king's treasure-mound

 

gold upon the ground will grab at the minds

 

of all hall-warriors hidden though it be.

 

High above the hoard like a hovering glow-lamp

 

hung a golden banner greatest of handworks

 

laced with limbcraft—light shone from it

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gleamed through the darkness a guide for his eyes

 

to stare at wonders. Of that serpent's coil

 

no trace could be seen—swords had removed him.

 

Then, as I heard, that hoard was plundered

 

smith-wonders gathered by a sorrowing warrior

 

who piled in his arms plates and jewel-cups

 

to his own liking and the old gold-banner

 

brightest of standards. Biting steel-edges

 

fire-hardened swordblades freed that treasure-trove

 

quenched the hate-fire hot terror-breath

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of that lone mound-miser who measured the land

 

belching with flame-waves burning through the night

 

searing the darkness till he died of murder.

 

Wiglaf hurried then weighted with that bounty

 

trembling to learn if his beloved shield-king

 

was breathing life-breath as he last saw him

 

lord of the Weather-Geats waiting for treasures

 

sick with blood-bane bordered in darkness.

 

Wrapped in those riches he rushed to his lord

 

stricken bounty-king seared and wound-weary

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at the end of life. He laved him again

 

wakened him with water till words came pressing

 

broke through his breast. The battle-king spoke then

 

gazed at the goldworks that great treasure-pile:

 

“For these fine war-trophies I finally must say

 

thanks to the Wielder Wonder-King of all

 

our glorious Deemer for such dear gold-marvels

 

that I now may leave to my beloved Geatfolk

 

at this last death-moment darkening of light.

 

Now that I've bought this bright treasure-mound

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with my old lifeblood look to my kingdom

 

the needs of my Geats—I must now leave you.

 

Tell my battle-friends to build me a mound

 

high by the balefire on the headland's point.

 

It will signal my name to sons of this nation

 

tower to the sky on tall Hronesnaes

 

so that sea-travelers in time will call it

 

Beowulf's barrow as they beat through the swells

 

sail their prow-ships on the pounding waves.”

 

He removed from his throat a marvelous neck-ring

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gold-gleaming collar gave it to his thane,

 

young spear-warrior, yielded his armor

 

helmet and mailcoat hailed him farewell:

 

“You are the last of our beloved kinsmen

 

the Waegmunding clan. Wyrd has guided

 

all of my family to fate's shadowland

 

my fine companions—I will follow them now.”