Beowulf (21 page)

 

Nor could that warrior Wonred's young son

 

give the old one a good counterblow

 

for the Swedish war-king slashed through his helmet

 

stained him with blood till he bowed at last

 

fell down to earth. Yet fate was not ready—

 

Wulf soon recovered though cut to the bone.

 

Then his helpful blood-brother Hygelac's thane

 

struck with his sword to save his kinsman

 

swung his treasure-blade sliced to the grayhead

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through the king's helmet—he crumbled then

 

Swedefolk's guardian slipped down from life.

 

No lack of blade-friends broke through the shieldwall

 

bound Wulf in wrappings when warfare allowed them

 

when they ruled the field in the falling of light.

 

Then Eofor stripped there the slain warrior-king

 

took from Ongentheow his iron corselet

 

hilted treasure-sword tall mask-helmet

 

bright war-trappings bore them to Hygelac

 

who kept all of it clearly promised him

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ample rewards then afterwards gave them.

 

The lord of the Geats great Hrethel's son

 

called to the gift-throne those good thane-brothers

 

gave Wulf and Eofor wondrous treasure-gifts

 

gave each to hold a hundred thousand

 

of land and goldrings—no good hall-thane

 

could envy that treasure earned with heartstrength—

 

and to Eofor gave his only daughter

 

a princess for valor and a pledge of favor.

 

For that we will pay those proud survivors

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for slaughter of kin killed in their homeland

 

when young Swede-warriors strike once again

 

learn that Beowulf our beloved warleader

 

lies lifeless now his last breath-moment

 

vanished into time a tale for mead-benches

 

songs for a king who crushed hell-monsters

 

stepped up to a throne served his people there

 

held high his promise. Now haste will be best

 

that we go to find him guide him at last

 

from that fire-black field where he fell deathwards

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to his final bedrest. Those fine gold-treasures

 

will melt with his heart that mighty dragon-hoard

 

shall all go with him grimly purchased

 

with his own lifeblood—for the last time now

 

he has paid for goldrings. Pyre-flames shall eat them

 

flame-roof shall thatch them no thane shall wear them

 

treasures so dear no dressed hall-maidens

 

shall wear on their bosoms wound-gold necklaces

 

but grief will adorn them of gold-love bereft

 

as they wander in exile through alien domains

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now that our lord has laid down his laughter

 

songs and hall-joys. Now spears will be lifted

 

grim and morning-cold gripped in anguish

 

with frost-numbing hands. No harp's sweet sounding

 

will waken bench-warriors but the black-gleaming raven

 

circling with fate will say many things

 

describe to the eagle ample corpse-banquets

 

how he shared with the wolf wondrous slaughter-meals.”

 

So that grim messenger gave his report

 

his unfrivolous news nor did he lie much

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in words or warnings. Warriors all rose

 

uneagerly shuffled under Earnanaes

 

lagging with sorrow to look upon death.

 

They found on the sand their soulless gift-lord

 

still and wordless there who served and ruled them

 

for fifty winters—the final life-day

 

had come for the good one—the Geats' hall-master

 

dear warrior-king died a wonder-death.

 

There they discovered that cooling fire-snake

 

stretched upon the earth, seething no more

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with foul flame-death flying no longer

 

with burning bellows, blackened with death.

 

Fifty long feet was his full length-measure

 

stretched on the fire-field. He flew in hate-joy

 

seared through the nights then soared at daybreak

 

to his grayrock den—now death stilled him

 

ended his slumber in that stony barrow.

 

By him were heaped bracelets and gem-cups

 

jeweled gold-dishes great treasure-swords

 

darkened with rust from their deep earth-home

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a thousand winters walled against light.

 

Those ancient heirlooms earned much curse-power

 

old gold-treasure gripped in a spell—

 

no one might touch them those nameless stone-riches

 

no good or bad man unless God himself

 

the great Glory-King might give to someone

 

to open that hoard that heap of treasures,

 

a certain warrior as seemed meet to him.

 

They found no happiness who first buried there

 

wealth in the ground—again it was hidden

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by an only survivor till an angered serpent

 

singed for a cup till swords cooled him

 

sent him deathwards. Strange are the ways

 

how the king of a country will come to the end

 

of his loaned life-span when at last he vanishes

 

gone from the meadhall his gold and his kin.

 

So it was with Beowulf when he bore his shield

 

to that roaring night-flyer. He could not foretell

 

how his great throne-days would gutter to darkness.

 

Those ancient sorcerers swore a greed-spell

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baneful warriors who buried their treasure

 

so that all plunderers would be punished with misery

 

confined in an idol-grove fast in hell-bonds

 

scourged with torture who tread on that ground—

 

unless for gold-need he was granted in fee

 

the gold-owner's favor with full pardon.

 

Wiglaf spoke then son of Weohstan:

 

“Oft shall warriors through the will of one

 

come to heartgrief heavy mind-sorrow.

 

Our eldest wisemen could not win with speech

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convince with their words the ward of our kingdom

 

to give to destiny that goldhoard's keeper

 

leave him coiled there where he long had slumbered

 

wrapped in that barrow till the world's end-day.

 

He held to his name—the hoard is opened

 

grimly purchased—too great was that fate

 

that brought our hall-king to that baleful place.

 

I stepped inside there saw all around me

 

the wealth of that hoard walled by cliffrock—

 

the price for that entrance was paid heavily

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by monster and man. From that mound I gathered

 

grabbed with my hands a great treasure-pile

 

bright gold and gemstones bore them out then

 

to my suffering king. Still quick I found him

 

proud of his winnings wavering in thought.

 

Old and weakening he offered you greetings

 

asked that you build in honor of his deeds

 

over the balefire an arching barrow-mound

 

high above the sea hailing his name there

 

greatest of warriors through this wide earthyard

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landlord of our hearts homestead and glory.

 

Now comes the time to tame this gold-curse

 

open and plunder that ancient treasure-pile

 

wonders under wall-stone—the way is clear now,

 

come to gaze at it curious jewel-cups

 

rings and broad-gold. Let the bier be lifted

 

raised and flame-ready for ritual of death.

 

We will fetch our hall-lord to that final gift-throne

 

our beloved people-king where he long shall rest

 

fast in the Wielder's wonderful embrace.”

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He sent word then that son of Weohstan

 

man of command now to many a homestead

 

Geats from everywhere to gather up bale-wood

 

fetch from afar funeral branch-logs

 

for that final departure: “Now the fire shall rise

 

dark flames roaring with our dear gift-lord

 

who held against war-hail hard iron-showers

 

when storms of arrows angrily impelled

 

shot over shieldwall when shafts of ash-wood

 

straight with feather-gear followed the arrowheads.”

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Then that young warrior Weohstan's offspring

 

picked from his men proud warrior-thanes

 

seven of his best strong Geat-champions

 

went one of eight under that rock-roof

 

best of shield-bearers—one bore in his hand

 

a pitch-bright pinetorch pushed back the darkness.