Beowulf Read online

  No words had ever sounded sweeter to this lady, this splendid queen of the Danes. The poet sang then of the victory to come, of the foul fiend destroyed and evil banished, and Geat and Dane alike raised their rousing voices till all Heorot resounded once more to the ringing rafters. But now, as he looked out, Hrothgar saw the shadows lengthening and knew that the time was coming to quit the hall. He knew, as they all did, that outside in the falling dark, which would very soon drown the world, the dreaded monster was leaving his lair again, was already gliding through the brooding shadows toward Heorot.

  Hrothgar and Beowulf, great heroes both, saluted each other in love, and, in parting, Hrothgar spoke his last words: “I now hand over Heorot to you, brave Beowulf, to have and to hold through this night. Guard it well. I know that in the fight to come, you will stretch every sinew, summon up all the strength and all the courage you possess. In return, should you survive and the beast be destroyed, I promise before everyone here that I will show you more generosity than a king ever showed before to any man.” So saying, Hrothgar and his queen led the Danes from the hall. Only Beowulf and his Geatish thanes remained, charged now with the safety of the kingdom. “The time is soon coming. So let each of us put our trust in God,” said Beowulf to his men, “but in our strength and fighting skills also. Do this and we shall not fail.” And with that, he took off his coat of mail and his helmet, as he had vowed to do. He unbuckled his war-sword too, and then gave all his armor and weapons to his faithful attendant.

  Before going to their beds, the Geats gathered one last time, set forehead to forehead, drinking deep of one another’s courage, fiercer now than ever in their fiery determination. “We ask the Lord to bless our endeavors tonight,” Beowulf whispered. “Remember that we fight this fight in His name. It would be easy to come at the beast with weapons. But I shall cut short this monster’s life with my own God-given strength. Let God choose which of us shall triumph, and we have no fear of losing. Believe that, my friends, and we shall win.”

  So Beowulf went to his bed, and his men too, but in truth they slept only fitfully, for there was not one of them, not even Beowulf himself, who could be certain how the night would end, whether any of them would ever again see the light of dawn. They knew well enough how many brave Danes this Grendel creature had dragged lifeless and bleeding from Heorot, how unlikely it was that some, or all, of them would ever again see their hearth and home. In silent prayer, each of them placed his life in the hands of his Almighty Maker, who had from the very beginning ruled supreme in all the affairs of men.

  Up from his lair and through the shadows came Grendel, this stalker of the night, while in Heorot the warriors lay turn-tossed in their sleep, only one of them left on ever watchful guard, every moment steeling himself for the ordeal of battle he knew must very soon come. And it was coming too. Grendel came gliding through swirling moorland cloud-mists, death-dealing in his hate-filled heart, thirsting to kill again that night as he had so often before. Down from the forest came Grendel now; he saw the mead-house and scented the sweet flesh of those inside — easy victims, as easy as before, he thought.

  Had the monster known what awaited him there, he would most surely have thought twice, slunk back to his lair, and never returned, for this would be the last time the beast was ever to go out on a killing spree. Never more would the terror-tyrant stalk the land. Now it was his turn to suffer the panic of fear, and the pain of death-agony. So the giver of death and destruction would become the receiver at last. He did not know it yet, though, and came on unawares to Heorot.

  Rage-wracked, on wreckage bent, Grendel ripped open the iron-studded doors — they were no hindrance to him. He scanned the dark hall through fire-blazing eyes, saw the slumbering thanes, still drowsy in sleep, the solitary, startled sentry, the whole war-band. Rejoicing at the prospect of another flesh-feast, this vile and vengeful creature laughed out loud at his good fortune. He would tear each and every one of them to pieces, stain Heorot’s floor once more with the lifeblood. A night of gore and gluttonous pleasure lay ahead of him, or so it seemed. And so it began, too, as he snatched up the first Geatish sentry he saw — Handscio he was called — and simply tore him apart, bolting his flesh in great gobbets, gnawing and gnashing on his bones, stripping the meat, sucking the veins, until, in moments, nothing of the poor helpless man was left, not a hair of his head, not a hand, not a foot, not even a nail.

  That was just the beginning for him, Grendel thought. Onto his next victim he pounced at once, reaching out to grab him with his killing claws. But now he was met with a grip of steel, a grip harder, tighter, than he had ever known, that seized him, held him fast by the arm. Locked in the vise of this grip, he could not break free, however much he struggled, and he knew at once that he had met his match. Filled with sudden fear, the monster struggled again and again to unloose this fist, yearning only now to be away from Heorot and home again in the safety of his lair. Vainly he tried to pull away, but Beowulf’s fingers fastened harder still in an ever-tightening grip around that callous killer’s arm.

  How Grendel longed to get out, to escape to the forests and fens, but no power on this earth could force Beowulf to release his grip. Now Grendel, this merciless, murderous ogre, knew that he should never have come this night, that his death was coming, and that despite all his efforts to tear himself away, there was nothing he could do to prevent it, no way he could save himself. Fear of this death drove him mad with anger, and anger only made him stronger; he would fight to the death to save himself. He would never give in.

  It was amazing that the great hall of Heorot was not split asunder that night, so ferocious was the wrestling between these two giants. Locked together in this deadly embrace, they reeled and writhed about the mead-hall, so that all the Danes outside could hear a dreadful cacophony of crashing and crying resounding through Heorot. Gold-worked trappings and iron braces, all well made and sturdy, simply snapped and buckled as the two of them in deadly earnest wrestled and grappled and struggled with each other. There was no ground given in this terrible fight, nor mercy either. So they fought on, this Grendel now fear-soaked, his strength failing him, and brave Beowulf, fist still clenched around the monster’s arm and knowing he had only to cling on and not let go to banish to hell forever the damned one, God’s and his own worst enemy. Outside, they clearly heard the monster’s demon scream, his hideous, howling screech. The sound of it chilled every listener to the bone, yet hope gladdened them too, for these they knew were not human cries but rather the strident sobbing of the beast in agony and terror.

  Seeing Grendel thus pinioned by the Geatish hero, thus tortured and weakened by his pain, Beowulf’s companions-in-arms drew their swords and sprang now to his side to help him in his fight, to finish if they could this murderer’s wretched life. They were not to know, Beowulf’s battle-friends, that no manmade sword, no steel, could pierce this cruel creature’s enchanted hide. Only naked strength could end his unnatural life. Grendel understood this, and he knew he was weakening, that his end must be near. He could think of no possible way to escape. Greathearted Beowulf, sensing his sagging strength, still had the beast by the arm; now he twisted it and turned it until the shoulder muscles split apart, the tendons snapped, the bone joints burst, and Grendel’s arm was ripped and wrenched, bleeding, from his body.

  Then Grendel fled, armless and half-dead already, from Heorot. Over the moors he staggered and stumbled, through the fens back to his den, knowing all the while that this was his last day on earth, that his life’s blood was draining from him. He was dying his death.

  So Beowulf the Good had triumphed in his bitter fight with Grendel the Evil One. Thus were all Danish hopes fulfilled and Beowulf’s promise to them too. He had destroyed the great destroyer with his bare hands, saved Hrothgar’s royal mead-house and the Danish people from further terrors, and given them back the sanctuary of their hearth and their home. So that everyone should know that the tyrant was truly dead and their grief finally at an end, th
e hero hung high in the gables of Heorot, where all could see it and marvel at it too, that whole torn-off limb — shoulder, arm, and hand — gruesome witness to the monster’s violent end.

  By the next morning, the news of the great fight at Heorot had spread throughout the land. They came in their hundreds from the seashore, from the fens and moors and mountains, from near and far to see this hideous limb hanging there in the hall, and then to follow the fiendish foe’s last footprints through the shadowy forest and the moor-mist, tracking the trail of blood to the monster’s marsh-pool. To this remote and dismal place the dying monster had come only hours before, the last of his blood ebbing fast with every faltering step. Here he had dived to his miserable death, his hot wound-blood bubbling and boiling in the brackish waves. So he had sunk at last to his cavernous lair below, and had died there alone in his agony, to be welcomed back in hell, where he belonged.

  Beowulf’s marvelous feat was now the talk of Heorot and all the Danish lands beyond. None was his equal, they said, none braver, nor more worthy, even, to be king here in Denmark in his own right. And this was not said to slight great Hrothgar, for he was a good and much-loved king of his people, but only in praise of Beowulf and his great courage and strength. That day the poet wove his word-song, told the story of the hero in glowing, golden language, rang the word-changes, and all who were there remembered and told it again and again, so that their children and their children’s children should never forget his daring deeds, nor the noble name of Beowulf either.

  That evening all were summoned to Heorot, to that splendid mead-hall freed now forever from Grendels’s evil reign and cleansed of the night’s horrors. Beowulf the Great, as guest of honor, came in with Hrothgar the king, and his glorious queen, with all her maidens following. And gathering there now too, thronging Hrothgar’s happy hall, were all the thanes and warriors, anyone who could find a place, each of them gazing in awe at the sight of Grendel’s dreadful arm hanging there from the rafters. But it was not chiefly this grisly reminder they had come for, but to see Beowulf, their great champion, sitting beside good King Hrothgar, and to show their joyous triumph and their relief at this timely and blessed deliverance.

  Taking his stand on the steps, his queen and Beowulf on either side, Hrothgar began his speech of thanks, and all there listened to every gracious word. “Let our thanks be first to God above for his mercy. To the master of heaven and master of this earth, worker of all miracles, for it is he who has brought Grendel to his death at last. I will be honest with you. Until yesterday, until Beowulf came, I doubted whether Grendel — and I curse his name for all the grief he brought to us — could ever be overcome, whether this loveliest of mead-halls could ever be truly ours again, whether the damned demon’s bloodletting slaughter could ever be brought to an end. Then God sent us this man, this hero among men, now here at my side, the noble Beowulf, and his companions-in-arms, and together they have achieved in one night what we had tried and failed to do in twelve long years of sorrow. What mother would not have been proud to have borne such a son as this? What father does not yearn for a son like Beowulf? So Beowulf, best of men, from this moment I cherish you as I would my own son. And as I promised before, anything that is in my gift you shall have — it will be small reward for your great service to us all. Know also that your deeds will bring you greater riches still, which are my undying honor and gratitude and love, and that of all my people too. May Almighty God grant you always the success you enjoyed last night wherever you go, whatever the fight, whoever the foe may be.” And the cheering that followed this rang loud in the rafters of Heorot, and was silenced only when Beowulf himself began to speak. It was not at all in a proud or boasting tone — that was never his way.

  “We came here willingly, my warriors and I, to challenge the evil one on your behalf, and with God’s help we prevailed. Yet I am sorry that you see hanging up there only his arm. I should have preferred you to have seen the rest of him here too. I tried my utmost to hold him fast, to squeeze the life out of him, but I did not have a good enough grip on him to prevent his escape. By tearing himself away and leaving behind his arm, he must have hoped to save himself from death, wretched creature. But God did not wish it, and so the fiend lives no more. He will no more haunt your land or plague your people. Like any other murderous criminal, he awaits now God’s own justice. We may have his arm, but God has his evil soul and will do with him as he pleases.”

  All the talk was then of the fine words they had just heard, and of what a furious fight it must have been during that perilous night when Beowulf destroyed the beast. Long they gazed at the grotesque arm up there, at the horrible hand and fearsome fingers, the nails as strong and sharp as steel, each one a spur-talon, each a vicious war-weapon for gouging and gashing. They shuddered to look at it, to think what damage it could do, and marveled once again at Beowulf’s bravery.

  Then Hrothgar the king ordered the banqueting hall to be made ready at once for a feast. How willingly they went to work to prepare the place, adorning it richly from golden gable to shining floor. They hung glowing, gold-wrought tapestries. They mended or covered all the damage and destruction that the greatest of all mead-halls had suffered the night before, and prepared a great feast of thanksgiving, as the king had commanded.

  That evening when all was ready, into that happy hall came Hrothgar and Beowulf again. All around them now, on the mead-benches, sat the thanes and warriors and as many of the good people of Denmark as the benches would allow. Hrothgar’s queen was there, of course, and all her ladies, and all the Geatish warriors too. And all rejoiced and feasted as never before, the mead-cup passing from hand to hand, until Heorot was filled once more with the laughter of friends, with sweet song and marvelous music, with unbounded joy.

  Then, offering him the cup, the queen spoke to Hrothgar. “Now, my lord and king, to these Geats speak graciously and generously, and let your gift-promise not be forgotten now, for Heorot is ours again, cleansed of evil and bright again with joy.” She came next with the cup to Beowulf, where he sat between her two sons, Hrethric and Hrothmund. And when he had drunk, then came the time of gifts. Two arm-wreaths were brought, and robes and more gold rings, but best of all, the richest collar, the finest prize, more ornate and finely wrought than any I ever saw, the most treasured jewel Hrothgar possessed, worn on the neck of great war-kings and heroes, a fabled collar for an already fabled warrior. “It is no more than you deserve, Beowulf,” said Hrothgar’s fair queen, and all listened when she spoke and agreed wholeheartedly. “May good fortune come with these jewels, and may the rest of your life be always filled with happiness and prosperity. And may treasure come your way often and in large amounts! Be strong, but be gentle too, and a wise guardian too to my two boys. By them, and by me and my lord Hrothgar, your name will be held in honor and love till the end of time.”

  How they cheered the queen’s words then, those thanes and lords and ladies, and what a sumptuous feast it was of wine and food, and all held in a perfect harmony of joy and hope. They did not know then that the joy would be short-lived, the hope destroyed even before the night was over.

  As the night-shadows fell over Heorot, Hrothgar and his queen escorted Beowulf and all the Geatish heroes to their beds, leaving the great mead-hall in the care of the thanes of Denmark. They cleared away the benches and spread the floor with beds and bolsters and, as they had so often done before, made a dormitory of the great hall. Out of habit these warriors kept their weapons near at hand, always ready for war, their shields and hand-swords at their sides, and, on the benches nearby, their mail-coats, their mighty helmets and spears. But not one of them expected any attack that night. Safe in their hall, or so they thought, they fell asleep at once and slept soundly. It was a sleep they would pay for dearly and soon.

  For Grendel had a mother, a murderous hag, as hideous a monster as her fiend of a son. Now she was a bereaved mother out for revenge, maddened by her loss, and she would be savage in her grief. With vengeance
brimming in her soul, she came to Heorot in the dead of that night, all the Danish lords fast asleep inside, each lost in his dreams. How quickly were these dreams turned into a sudden nightmare! She may not have had the monster strength of her son, but she was thirsting for blood as she came in among them and powerful in her fury. The thanes quickly roused themselves from their slumbers and sprang at once to arms to fight her off, but they were not quick enough. She tore down Grendel’s arm, that hideous trophy, but so precious to her. She snatched up the sleeping Ashhere, Hrothgar’s most favorite lord, and then, seeing so many swords raised against her, made her escape. She had to be satisfied with this one kill. It was revenge enough for her. Away over the high moors she went in the darkness, clutching in her fierce embrace the bleeding Ashhere, and found her way back to her distant fen to gorge herself on his flesh. How sweet was the taste of vengeance to this horrible hag.

  Meanwhile all Heorot was in uproar. Swiftly summoned to the hall, Hrothgar heard the dreaded news that Ashhere was dead and gone, his beloved friend murdered. He called at once for Beowulf. Who else would he turn to? Ashhere could not be saved, not now. Not even Beowulf, that victory-blessed Geat, could do that, but if anyone could destroy this demon-mother, it was him. The wise old king, distraught with sadness, opened his word-hoard and spoke his heart to the Geatish prince. “Ashhere was my hearth-companion, my best and oldest friend. Side by side we stood in many a bloody battle, striking for our lives, for each other. And now he’s dead, no more than a meal-feast for Grendel’s blood-lusting mother. Last night for us you killed her son, tore the life out of him, and now she has had her grim revenge. I do not know and I cannot tell where she has gone to, but country people have often told stories of two such ogres haunting the high moors and mists. One of them, it was said, was more woman in shape than man — a twisted monster-woman, they said, a giant of a creature, demonic and unnatural. The other they called Grendel, that fiend from hell you so bravely destroyed. We thought at first that these were mere imaginings — stories told by simple people with simple minds. How wrong we were, and how bitterly we have paid for it. They never spoke of a father to this monster — though all of them said he must have been the very devil himself. But time and again they saw a mother looming out of the moor-mists.