Beowulf (8 page)

 

a great death-wound gaped in his shoulder

 

sinew-bonds weakened snapped viciously

 

bonelockings burst. To Beowulf there

 

victory was granted. Grendel fled then

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sickened with death slouched under fen-slopes

 

to his joyless home no hope for his life—

 

he knew at last the number of his days.

 

To the Danes' misery a dawning of mercy

 

rose from that battle, bright deliverance.

 

Heorot was cleansed healed of thane-slaughter

 

aching morning-grief, emptied of murder

 

by that tall visitor—victory was bright

 

joy to his heart. He held to his promise,

 

evening boastwords, banished from that hall

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dark sorrow-songs consoled the Danes

 

for long torture-years terror in the night

 

an empty meadhall from evening till dawn.

 

He hailed the sunrise hoisted a signal

 

a clear token-sign that terror was dead

 

nailed Grendel's arm that great handgrip

 

near the high gable-point of Heorot's roof.

 

By morning's light many a warrior

 

gathered watchfully by the gift-hall's door.

 

Chieftains and followers from far and from near

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gazed at that wonder grisly monster-arm

 

hand and knife-claws high death-trophy.

 

Grendel's life-loss gladdened the Danes

 

who followed his footprints where he fled to his death

 

left his sorrow-tracks staining the moors

 

went back to the mere bleak monster-home

 

teeming with nicors tomb of the damned.

 

The water-top trembled welling with blood

 

roiled restlessly with red venom-waves

 

hot demon-gore heaved from the depths—

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Grendel was deathwards doomed man-killer

 

laid down his life in that loathsome mere—

 

hell received him and his heathen soul.

 

They turned away wonder in their hearts—

 

old counselors carried by horses

 

many a young one mounted beside them

 

turned back from the mere. Beowulf's renown

 

filled their mindthoughts—many a Spear-Dane

 

mindful of that night remembering hell-years

 

swore that no man under mighty heaven

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from south or north on sea or on land

 

was greater in battle than Beowulf the Geat.

 

Nor did they blame their bountiful lord

 

gladman Hrothgar good man and king.

 

At times the riders ready for contest

 

let their war-steeds leap to the race

 

where broad meadowlands bright grass-tables

 

widened the trail. At times the minstrel

 

heavy with memory mindful of the past,

 

ancient war-sagas old monster-tales,

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wove his verse-songs—one word found another

 

skillfully bound. He sang at first

 

of Beowulf's valor victory in Heorot

 

death of a monster and his dark water-home

 

a champion's tale. He told what he knew

 

stories he had heard of Sigemund the Dane

 

marvelous moments of mighty sword-feats

 

Waelsing's adventures wide traveling

 

secret wanderings seldom disclosed

 

except to Fitela faithful companion

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when he fell to telling tales of his youth

 

to his only shield-friend always by his side—

 

uncle and nephew in narrow adventures

 

seeking forest-fiends strange wood-giants

 

ending them with swords. After his deathday

 

Sigemund's renown was sung in battle-songs

 

tales of dragon-breath days of sword-slaughter

 

glorious rewards. Under gray barrow-stone

 

he gambled his life gathered his courage

 

fought against his fate, nor was Fitela with him.

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It chanced that his sword-point struck through the flesh

 

pierced that serpent stuck in the barrow-wall—

 

that marvelous dragon died of murder.

 

Sigemund survived unsinged by that breath

 

earned a treasure-mound for his own delight

 

a loan from destiny. He loaded a boat

 

bore to its bosom the bright slaughter-prize

 

that serpent's goldnest—the steaming dragon

 

monstrously hot melted to the ground.

 

The wandering Waelsing was widely renowned

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most hailed of heroes after Heremod fell

 

stumbled to his death restored to Sigemund

 

the greater glory-name. Good King Heremod

 

stooped to evil-days stunned his kingdom

 

joined fiend-creatures fared to hell with them

 

after his deathfall. Danes mourned for that

 

bowed to anguish baleful life-sorrow.

 

They ached with yearning for those early throne-years

 

bountiful memories—many a wiseman

 

had looked to that lord for long peace-days

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feasts and friendship as his father's king-love

 

had brought to the Danes—deep treachery

 

darkened their gift-hall as that dangerous man

 

bent down to evil. Beowulf prevailed

 

Hygelac's war-thane held to his promise

 

brought to all of them bright victory.

 

They raced their mounts measured the pathway

 

on the track to Heorot. The hastening of day

 

shoved up the sky—soon came fugitives

 

from safe night-lodgings to see that arm-trophy

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high upon the hall. Their hopeful king

 

keeper of the hoard came from the bride-bower

 

marched with his house-guard to Heorot's doorway

 

and his queen with him, waiting for hope-news,

 

measured the hall-yard maidens at her side.

 

Hrothgar spoke then stood by the doorstep

 

stared above him at the steep roof-gable

 

garnished with gold and Grendel's hand:

 

“May thanks to the Wielder for this wondrous sight

 

be long in our hearts. Loathsome misery

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Grendel has brought me. God brings to us

 

wonder after wonder Wielder of glory.

 

Until this day I dared not imagine

 

relief from sorrow shame and treachery

 

sinful murdering when stained with gore

 

this best of meadhalls mournfully stood

 

empty and idle—agony and grief

 

gripped our heart-thoughts with no hope for mercy

 

a hand to defend us from that foul hell-monster

 

sorcery and death. Through the Deemer's will

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a visiting Geat has vanquished forever

 

this murdering demon that no Dane's courage

 

could banish or harm. That heartstrong woman

 

mother of this man marked by the Wielder

 

to bear such a son may say to the world

 

that the old Measurer honored her womb-seed

 

blessed her in childbirth. I choose you now

 

beloved Beowulf best among warriors

 

as the son of my hopes—hold this kinship

 

near to your heart—you will never be poor

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in goods of this world while I wield this goldhoard.

 

I have often allowed to lesser warriors

 

weaker in battle-strength bounteous rewards

 

for smaller victories. You've assured it now

 

through your great courage that glory will be yours

 

forever and always. May the almighty King

 

reward you for this with wisdom and strength.”

 

Beowulf answered Ecgtheow's son:

 

“With war-willing hearts we waited for terror

 

gambled our lives gave up to murder

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a thane of Hygelac. I hoped as I struggled

 

that you for yourself might see that monster

 

in all his strangeness stripped of his life.

 

I hoped to bind him hard in my grasp

 

clamp his fiend-corpse to a cold slaughter-bed

 

hold in my handgrip his hateful life-core

 

bring you his death—but his body betrayed me.

 

I could not hold him here by the gift-throne

 

hard as I tried when the high Measurer

 

planned differently—he pulled too strongly

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fled with his life. But he left his hand

 

to mark our struggle his mighty fiend-claws

 

and death-wrenched arm. No ease from revenge

 

did he buy with that bargain no booty from hell—

 

not long will he live loveless murderer

 

laboring in sin for sorrow has him

 

clamped in a life-grip lashed to his crimes

 

in baleful death-bonds—he will bide in misery

 

stained with hall-blood stand for judgment

 

bound to the will of the bright Measurer.”

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Then Ecglaf's son Unferth the heckler

 

stood silent there stunned by that trophy

 

hushed with horror humbled orator.

 

They stared at that hand by the high roof-gable

 

terror-warped fingers—the tips of the nails

 

were hard as smith-steel sharp death-talons

 

heathen's handspurs a hellish warrior's

 

sword-tips of evil. They all agreed there

 

that the best of blades battle-swords of old

 

could not hew that arm from its huge shoulder

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hack from its body that hell-fiend's claw-hand.

 

Soon it was time to restore the meadhall

 

shape it for feasting—they flocked then to Heorot

 

warriors and women worked through the day

 

washed the gore-tracks. Golden tapestries

 

were hung on the walls wondrous designs

 

elvishly woven for the eyes of men.

 

In that bright meadhall benches were shattered

 

beams unanchored iron-hard hinges

 

wrenched and twisted—the roof only

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kept to its shape when that shambling killer

 

fled to the moors marked with a death-wound

 

lifeblood draining. Nor is death avoided

 

not easily tricked try it as we may

 

but each soul-bearer must seek in the end

 

by fate impelled a final slumber-bed—

 

each earth-dweller earns a resting-place

 

where his body will lie bowered from sky-light

 

sleeping after banquet. Soon it was ready—

 

to the hall he went Healfdene's son

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ready for feasting firelight and peace.

 

Never have I heard of happier warriors

 

more highly behaved with their hoard-guardian.

 

They bent to the benches by bright fire-flicker

 

lifted their cups. Comrades together

 

Hrothgar and Hrothulf hoisted their mead-drink

 

uncle and nephew honored by them all

 

no guile in their hearts. Heorot was filled then

 

with family and friends—no feuding in the air

 

darkened the Danes no deep treachery.

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To Beowulf then bountiful Hrothgar

 

gave a golden banner beacon of victory