Beowulf (12 page)

 

blade for a champion best of war-weapons

1560

gleaming with goldwork greater in steel-weight

 

than any other man could manage in warfare.

 

He seized it by the hilt, that heavy wonder-sword

 

grasped in his hands the gold-gleaming handle

 

raised it in anger rage in his heart

 

swung at her neck with his strong handgrip

 

till it bit through the flesh burst fiend-muscles

 

broke through bone-rings—the blade cut through

 

felled her to the floor fated hell-creature—

 

the sword was blooded and Beowulf rejoiced.

1570

Light came rushing radiant and warm

 

as God's bright candle glows in the heavens

 

glittering above. He gazed about him

 

moved along the wall wielding his giant-sword

 

with a great hilt-grip, Hygelac's shield-thane

 

towering with rage—yet ready for vengeance

 

he stepped through the cavern searched for Grendel

 

anxious to repay that prowling visitor

 

for years of torture in that tall meadhall

 

twelve long winters of woeful murder

1580

when he fell upon Hrothgar's hearth-companions

 

slew them in their sleep swallowed them down,

 

fifteen warriors of the folk of Denmark,

 

and carried from the hall to his cold water-den

 

the same number. He saw him then

 

Grendel slumped there with a great shoulder-wound

 

wearied by his crimes waiting for judgment

 

lifeless at last after long murder-years

 

horror in Heorot. With a hard swordswing

 

Beowulf slashed at him struck through his neck

1590

ended that hall-feud for Healfdene's son.

 

Watching at the mere top the waiting Shield-Danes

 

Hrothgar's counselors cold in their hearts

 

saw a welling of blood waves of death-gore

 

rise to the surface. Sorrowful advisers

 

battle-weary thanes borne down by grief

 

carried to their king a care-heavy message—

 

they hoped no longer that the leader of the Geats

 

might rise in victory through that roiling water

 

return to his men—they murmured in sorrow

1600

grieved that the she-wolf had slaughtered him below.

 

The sun swung low. They left the mere then—

 

those mourning Sword-Danes sought with their king

 

their good meadhall. Their guests stayed on

 

sick with horror stared at the blood-froth.

 

They wished without hope that their hero would surface

 

dive up to them. Deep below the earth

 

that broad wonder-blade wasted and quivered

 

withered in that blood—it wavered and dripped

 

melted and shrunk like shining icicles

1610

when the Ruler of heaven unwraps frost-bindings

 

warms water-ropes, Wielder of us all,

 

of times and seasons the true Measurer.

 

The lord of the Geats looked at the treasures

 

heaped and glittering in that grisly fiend-hall—

 

from the wealth before him he wanted no more

 

than Grendel's head and that golden swordhilt—

 

the blade had vanished burned down to nothing

 

melted in the heat of that hell-spirit's blood.

 

Soon he was swimming straight up to earthlight

1620

shot through the surface of that seething mere.

 

That peaceful pond was purged of evil

 

opened to sunlight when those alien spirits

 

paid for their loan-days with their pitiful lives.

 

He came then to land leader of the Geats

 

proud of the booty he bore in his hands

 

great hell-mysteries haled from the depths.

 

His thanes received him thankful to their God

 

for bringing him back from that baleful journey

 

safe from his fight with that foul death-mother.

1630

His hard mask-helmet hand-woven corselet

 

were quickly removed. The mere grew quiet

 

calm monster-pond colored with fiend-blood.

 

They left that devil's hole led by their champion,

 

no mourning in their minds, measured the trackways

 

the known moorpaths. Marching Geat-thanes

 

bore the great head, grim death-plunder,

 

climbed through the mist past the cold rockstream

 

followed the pathway—four good warriors

 

bore on their spearshafts, struggling with the weight,

1640

Grendel's gore-head through green forest-trees.

 

Fourteen spear-fighters filed across the meadow

 

marched upon the hall with its high gold-gables

 

Geats all together—their good warleader

 

towered among them trod the meadowgrass.

 

Once more he approached the proud wine-hall

 

champion of the Geats great monster-bane

 

to hail the king there Hrothgar the Dane.

 

Hefted by the hair the head of that murderer

 

was borne into the hall where beer-drinkers waited—

1650

Shield-Danes gathered there with their good hall-queen

 

to gaze upon hell that huge fiend-head.

 

Beowulf spoke son of Ecgtheow:

 

“From Grendel's mere, gladman Hrothgar

 

bountiful lord, we bring gifts to you

 

tokens of victory tidings of relief.

 

I barely endured that deep monster-fight

 

under dark blood-water where death came pressing

 

stabbing at my heart—I would still be there

 

if the great Shaper had not shielded my life.

1660

No help was Hrunting with hell's sorcery

 

that battle-sharp blade could not bite her flesh—

 

then the great Wielder Glory-King of all

 

gave me a wonder-blade granted to my sight

 

a huge giant-sword hanging by the wall.

 

I reached for the hilt raised it quickly

 

slashed at that she-wolf sliced through her neck

 

ended her misery. Then that old wonder-blade

 

burned and dwindled, dark murder-blood

 

melted it away. This marvelous swordhilt

1670

I bring back to you. Both man-killers

 

are banished from Heorot hall of the Danes.

 

I promise you this night, proud land-master,

 

you may sleep soundly sorrowing no more.

 

All of your warriors women and children

 

youth and elders aged counselors

 

all of your subjects may slumber in peace

 

reprieved from night-murder, prowling thane-killers.”

 

Then that ancient swordhilt old gold-treasure

 

strange work of giants wonder-smith's pattern

1680

was placed in the hands of Healfdene's son—

 

after long winters, leaving the Danes

 

with nightbale and tears, terror was sleeping.

 

Those murdering moor-stalkers mother and fiend-son

 

kept to their cavern under cold forest-stream.

 

That old treasure-hilt ancient wonderwork

 

came into the hands of Heorot's treasure-king

 

the best battle-lord in the breadth of Denmark.

 

Hrothgar was gladdened gazed upon the hilt

 

curious sword-handle—cut into the gold

1690

was a tale of evil that old earth-struggle

 

when great flood-waters fell upon earth-giants

 

carried them away—the Wielder of all

 

God of creation crushed their wickedness

 

with welling water-rush washed them from earth.

 

Written in rune-marks on that rich swordhilt,

 

gleaming goldplate garnished with serpents,

 

was a curious name, who caused that sword

 

to be shaped and hammered smithied in yoredays

 

a weapon for the mighty. Then the wise Dane-lord

1700

Healfdene's son spoke his mindthoughts:

 

“It can well be said by sons of this earth

 

by those who remember moments of the past,

 

clashing of spearshields that this keen battle-thane

 

was born for glory! Beowulf my friend

 

your fame is founded far across the waves

 

where wise men gather. Guard it carefully

 

strength with wisdom. I will stand by my word

 

make good my promises. To your Geat-friends now

 

you will come with counsel courage for their hearts

 

through long comfort-years.

1710

                                   Not so kind was Heremod

 

to the kin of Ecgwela care-heavy Shield-Danes—

 

he brought them no joy but baleful murder