Beowulf (16 page)

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Long afterwards in lingering years

 

after sharp swordswings sang in anger

 

and death found Hygelac by distant waters—

 

after Battle-Swedes came crossed into Götland

 

brought to Heardred baleful spear-play

 

bore him from life in the land of Weather-Geats

 

haled from the gift-throne Hereric's nephew—

 

after Beowulf rose to rule that kingdom

 

fathered the Geats for fifty winters

 

learned through the years lessons of the throne—

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once more a monster moved through the night

 

a raging flame-dragon ruled in darkness

 

fire-grim guardian of a great treasure-mound

 

steep stonebarrow—a secret pathway

 

led to this wealth. A wandering fugitive

 

stumbled inside by the sleeping dragon

 

stole from the treasure a studded ale-cup

 

jeweled gold-vessel. The jealous goldguard

 

did not hide his wrath raged at that theft

 

by a sneaking runaway. Soon the Geatfolk

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found that his fury fell upon their land.

 

Not at all willfully did that wandering slave

 

breach that barrow bear the cup away

 

but in desperate need that nameless servant

 

hiding in heath-slopes from hateful whiplashing

 

sorrowful slave-wretch stumbling for his life

 

fell into that gloom. He found quickly

 

that terror waited there walled him in fear—

 

the slumbering serpent lay still in repose

 

unwary of his guest winking jewel-stones

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heaped in his coils—one cup was taken

 

an offering for mercy.

 

                                   Many were the heirlooms

 

in that deep earthhouse old hall-treasures

 

gathered there in grief in gone sorrow-days

 

rings and bracelets bountiful throne-gifts

 

left hopelessly by a last survivor

 

dear gold-memories. Death took them all

 

in times long vanished victor of men

 

till one still living alone with that wealth

 

lordless hall-warden could hope no longer

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to wield that treasure—time was upon him

 

boundary of life. A barrow stood ready

 

under the bluff-rock above the waterways

 

nestled in the cliff narrow and secret.

 

He bore those treasures to the barrow's fold

 

ring-hoard of warriors worthy of a king

 

sealed them in sorrow and spoke his grief-words:

 

“Hold you now, Earth now that heroes are sleeping

 

these treasures of men. They were taken from you

 

by good warrior-friends gone into silence—

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funeral fire-greed has fetched my people

 

from their loaned life-days, led into darkness

 

bright hall-laughter. Where are the sword-bearers

 

quick board-servants to burnish the ale-cups

 

vessels of victory? They have vanished away.

 

Hard mask-helmets hand-wrought with gold

 

shall gleam no longer—good men are sleeping

 

who should polish them well for warriors and kings.

 

This moldering mailcoat maimed in battle-clash

 

with bites of edges over breaking of shields

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crumbles in darkness—this death-stained swordvest

 

can march no longer linked ring-corselet

 

by a warrior's side. No sweet harp-strumming

 

gathers the songwords nor the good falcon

 

swings through the hall nor the swift battle-steed

 

clatters in the yard. Cold death-wardens

 

have sent into silence sons of this land.”

 

So the mourning one mindful of youth-years

 

one after all of them wanders alone

 

through day and night-time till death's welling

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comes to his heart. The hoard lay open—

 

the old fire-serpent found it waiting there

 

who burns through the air blasting hall-timbers—

 

searing hate-creature soaring through the night

 

ringed with fire-breath raging through darkness

 

torturing earth-dwellers—ever shall he seek

 

hidden treasure-hoards heathen gold-chambers

 

to guard in his coils—no good does it bring him.

 

Three hundred winters he hoarded his prize

 

wrapped his riches in his rocky barrow,

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crafty treasure-ward, till a trembling slave

 

kindled his anger claimed a gem-cup

 

bore it to his lord begged a settlement

 

a gift for his life. That great treasure-mound

 

was touched by thief-hands—time was granted

 

to that lucky wretch. His lord received it

 

ancient elf's work ale-cup for kings.

 

Then that serpent woke swelled with anger—

 

he searched the stonework saw beside the mound

 

a hostile foot-track where that hopeless slave

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had stolen near to him stepped past his head.

 

So may the undoomed easily survive

 

sorrow and ruin he who reaps the favor

 

of the world's Wielder. That waking flame-serpent

 

rushed round his treasure raged for that thief

 

who crept past his sleep swelled him with goldgrief.

 

Hot with hate-thoughts he hurtled outside

 

circled the barrow—he saw no creature

 

on the wild heathland hiding from fury.

 

At times he shot back to his bountiful riches

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searched for his cup—soon he discovered

 

that some man-creature had diminished his hoard

 

plundered his goldnest. No patience eased him

 

as he watched and waited for waning of that day.

 

That fearful treasure-guard fumed with yearning

 

writhing to ransom his rich jewel-cup

 

with flames from the sky. The sun grew heavy

 

dragged down the day—the dragon was ready

 

on his wall by the sea soared with balefire

 

fueled by his fury. The feud had begun,

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sorrow for landfolk which soon would be ended

 

by their great people-king, grievously paid for.

 

That serpent went sailing spewing flame-murder

 

blistering meadhalls—mountains of hate-fire

 

moved through the land—he would leave no creature

 

alive on the earth lone night-flyer.

 

That death-dragon's work was widely visible—

 

with vicious vengeance, violent greed-death,

 

that winged sky-monster seared and blasted

 

the home of the Geats. To the hoard he dived

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dark stonebarrow as day broke the night.

 

With great fire-bellows he flung through the land

 

bale-flames and ashes—to his barrow he fled

 

for shelter from sunrise. Soon all failed him.

 

To Beowulf was sent sorrowful tidings

 

grief-heavy news that his great meadhall

 

mightiest of gift-thrones had melted in flames

 

cindered by dragon-heat. That darkest message

 

was horror to his heart hardest of fate-strokes.

 

He thought for a time he had turned from the Wielder

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angered the Shaper with shameful action

 

bittered his Maker—his breast was troubled

 

with dark wonder deep soul-questions.

 

The dragon had charred that champion's kingdom

 

blasted to ashes the earth around him

 

from sea unto sea. Soon that battle-king

 

lord of the Geats would give him answer.

 

He called for a shield shaped to his war-needs

 

a great iron-round for the Geats' defender

 

steel life-guardian—he had learned clearly

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that no good treewood could turn back those flames

 

board against fire-breath. The border of loan-days

 

had come for that lord last of earth-moments

 

and the dragon as well doomed to depart

 

who had lived with treasure for long centuries.

 

The old people-king was too proud for war-troops

 

had no wish to battle that wondrous night-flyer

 

with strong warriors—no serpent's fire-blast

 

bothered his heartstrength no hot-searing flames

 

brought fear to that warrior who had wagered before

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crushed sea-monsters on the swelling waves

 

sailed on to Heorot hall of the Spear-Danes

 

salvaged Hrothgar from hell's murderer

 

grappled with Grendel and his grim mother-fiend

 

returned with his life.