Beowulf (6 page)

Beowulf wore a blue cloak and the golden collar Queen Wealhtheow had given him. On his head was the helmet that would not break, at his side the sword as sharp as a flame. However, he did not put his trust in these. He knew that for Grendel’s Mother, as
for Grendel, more subtle and essential weapons were necessary. Beowulf’s best weapon was himself. He put all his faith in that.

Wealhtheow had not begged him not to go. She knew he must. Hrothgar had wanted to come too, he was so incensed by the wanton slaying of Aeschere. But Beowulf told him to stay in Heorot. “A king’s place is with his people. Besides, if I fail—as I might against such a she-devil—who would there be to protect this land of Danes?”

He had promised Hrothgar that he would not sleep until he had found Grendel’s Mother and rid hall Heorot of the threat of Her.

Wealhtheow’s last words had been: “Take care. She was the wife of Cain. She is ten times more terrible than Her son.”

It was the smell of the fen, once he was out in it, that surprised Beowulf most. There were dry bones everywhere amongst the marsh grasses, and the pools stank of centuries of decay. Yet this was not sufficient to account for the stench hanging over the miles and miles of desolation. It seemed to break from scummy bubbles lanced by the sun, and drift downwind, getting thicker. It made Beowulf cough. His horse shook its head. The golden bridle jingled.

At last the spoor came to an end.

Beowulf drew rein.

He stood beside a black rock that overhung the waters of a pool. The pool had dark veins of blood in it. There was a twisted tree on the rock. Dangling from the only branch that grew on the tree was a gory head. It was Unferth’s. The eyes did not look sideways as they often had in life.

Beowulf spoke to his men.

“Bury Unferth’s head,” he said. “He was a person to be pitied.”

Some of the Geats wanted to argue, they hated the dead Dane so much. But when they saw their leader stripping off his blue cloak and obviously preparing to dive into the pool, they had no heart to question his commands.

Beowulf stared at the water. The blood was boiling in it, hissing like snakes. He guessed this must be Grendel’s blood—the monster had plunged bleeding into the pool and drowned. And Unferth’s head, as well as the spoor, told him that Grendel’s Mother was down there too.

He rubbed at the ring on his finger. He said: “Wait here for me for two days and two nights. If I do not come back to you before that time has passed, then I shall be dead and
lost forever and do not risk your lives in coming to look for me.”

His men promised that they would do as he said. None of them thought he would ever see Beowulf again. Their faces were strained and fearful—but Beowulf laughed before plunging headlong into the pool.

Down, down, down went Beowulf, deeper and deeper, and the water getting darker and darker. He thought he would never come to the bottom. Perhaps there was no bottom, and he was falling into hell? Perhaps there was no way back? The water was foul, thick with blood and slime. The strange thing was that he could breathe the blood bubbles as they traveled past. They had a vile taste, but without them he would never have found sufficient breath to go so deep. He swam on. Soon he was far beyond any depth where the sun had ever shone. He shut his eyes because it was blacker with them open.

When Beowulf opened his eyes again there was a gleam of light below him. He kicked his way toward it. It grew, a ghostly green spot, bigger and bigger. Then it was all about him. It was alive, this light. It quivered. It
throbbed. It came off the wings of huge mothlike creatures drifting and looping in the underwater current. The creatures seemed blind. They did not attack him, but the cloud of them was so thick that he had to hack a passage through with his sword. Their wings flaked in the water, some stuck to him, some whirled about him, as he went on deeper into the pool.

She was waiting. She made no noise. Her tentacle arms were a part of the sucking, obsequious water.

Beowulf fell into them, as into a seaweed trap.

They closed about him tenderly. For a moment he succumbed, seduced by gentleness. Then, struggling to free himself, he found he could not. He kicked. Her grip tightened. She dragged him down.

Beowulf experienced a few seconds of sheer panic. There was no escaping, none, from these spongy intangible fingers that pulled him on, on, on, irresistibly insistent, coaxing, maternal. He could drown this way. She could choke him. She could squeeze the life from him. His face turned blue. Stars swam and spun in his brain.…

Then he was gulping great lungfuls of air.
Air! She had dragged him into Her den. The current loomed behind him, a liquid wall of black and green. Apparently, by some freak or witchcraft, it could not penetrate here. The cave went back a long way. Her arms stretched all along it, alive, like lichen.

Slowly She began to draw him down into the heart of the cave.

Beowulf snatched at his sword. Its jewels were sticky from Her vile embrace. It was difficult to hold. The hilt slipped in his hand. Nevertheless, he managed to swing at the tentacles that gripped him. The blade bounced off. Her skin was too tough and scaly. He threw the sword away. It clattered against the wall. He could hear Her laughter, soft, malevolent, bloodthirsty.

He tried to get a grip on the rock floor, drag his heels, dig in with his toes, anything, but it was no good, no use; She kept on drawing him down into the dark, sucking at his skin, making kissing and swallowing noises, Her arms winding and unwinding about him like sinewy, swollen snakes.

Beowulf screamed with fright.

And the scream saved him. It brought him to his senses. It reminded him what he must do if he was not to be destroyed. He stopped
shaking. He ceased his struggling. He let himself go dead in Her clammy grasp.

Grendel’s Mother did not laugh now. She pulled him on more urgently. Some of his quiet strength communicated itself to Her terrible touch, and She sensed danger. But just what that danger was, and the doom it held in store for Her, She did not know until Beowulf began to speak, easily, boldly, in a voice that made the whole cave ring.

Beowulf said: “I am Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow. I am Beowulf, the one sun-seeker. I am Beowulf, who killed Grendel. I did not fear the child of Cain. No more do I now fear You, who were once Cain’s bride. No, nor would I fear the hideous Cain himself, if he had not been punished with lightning for the deed he did with You. Listen, She-evil, and I will tell You why this heart does not blush or blanch at the wicked worst You can do. It is because I, Beowulf, know myself. It is because I hold a Cain in me, but do not let him out. That man is truly brave who, feeling fear, yet puts his fear to use and plucks new courage from the fear itself. That man is truly good who knows his own dark places.”

Grendel’s Mother still dragged him down, but more slowly now, much more slowly. Her
arms were losing power over him. She could feel Her magic going.

Beowulf said: “There is a power You are powerless against. That power is in me. You see it shining in the golden collar about my neck. You feel it creeping through Your flesh, leaving You numb and cold. You think You hold me, She-evil, but in truth
I hold You!”

So saying, he wound his square-tipped fingers firmly round one of the tentacles that gripped him. He felt the creature shudder as though suddenly touched by fire.

Her arms continued to draw him down, sluggishly.

He was nearing the deepest part of the cave.

He could make out the looming shape of Her.

He could see the eyes that glittered in Her breasts.

Beowulf stared into those terrible eyes. He did not blink or falter. His short sight helped him.

His strong hands tightened about the slimy tentacle.

Grendel’s Mother sighed. A fetid breath of air passed through the chamber. Now that Beowulf was so close to Her the smell of sticky mother’s milk was almost overwhelming.
But he refused to be overwhelmed. He kept on tightening his grip. He kept on staring into the green corroding sea of Her eyes.

When he spoke again he put an equal emphasis on each word, so that it sounded like an incantation.

He said: “I am Beowulf, son of Beowulf.”

The monster’s eyes went cloudy.

He said: “I am Beowulf, father of himself.”

The eyes were helpless. They flickered with sleep.

He said: “I am Beowulf, who am myself.”

The eyes shut.

“Sleep,” said Beowulf softly. “Sleep deep and never wake again.”

She slept.

Gently, carefully, with a stroking softness that was nearly pity, Beowulf put his hands about Her neck, and strangled Her.

She did not fight. The tentacles went loose. They fell to the floor like useless ropes. Her body was melting. She was dead.

Beowulf stood back and wiped his hands on his golden collar. It was good to touch something good again. The collar absorbed the rusty stains of the monster’s skin, and shone brighter than ever before.

Beowulf leaned his back to the wall. He was exhausted. His breath came deep. His heart was pounding. But he had never been so glad to hear it beating.

Gradually his eyes began to see into the thick dark that lay beyond the pool of what had once been Grendel’s Mother. There was treasure there, but he did not want it. Only a huge sword caught his interest. It hung from a knob of rock. It was curved and terrible, far too heavy for mortal fighting, plainly the work of giants. He took it down with both hands, rested it between his knees, and ran his finger along its biting edge.

The sword made a sound like singing.

Deep in the underwater hall he heard another noise. A voice, as if in answer to the sword. A voice, but not forming words or syllables or any other kind of intelligible sound. It was a voice that spoke as ice speaks when it breaks on a winter tarn, or as men’s bones speak when a killer cracks them. It was Grendel!

But Grendel was dead.…

Grendel
was
dead, and it was his lifeless corpse, one arm torn out, that reared up quick in answer to the song of the sword, and sprang at Beowulf now!

Beowulf did not hesitate.

He lifted the giant sword in two hands and swung it. The sword flashed. Beowulf slashed. Grendel’s dead head was severed from the shoulders of his dead body. Black blood gushed out and melted the giant blade as though it were no more than an icicle. Beowulf was left with only the hilt in his hand.

The corpse toppled over. It fell in the slime where only Her eyes were left.

Beowulf snatched up Grendel’s head, stamped on Her eyes, and hurried from the cave.

High above, the red and black waters boiled and bubbled. Rain poured from a surly sky. Beowulf’s men ringed the pool disconsolately. Their horses neighed and fretted to be gone.

One Geat said: “No one could live in that. It’s scalding hot.”

“So much blood,” said another. “The She-monster has torn our lord in pieces.”

They could not look at each other.

“He must be dead.”

“Dead.”

“Yes. He must be dead.”

Just then, with a loud shout, Beowulf burst through the fiery scum at the pool’s top.

He held Grendel’s head up high.

His men were too astonished to raise a cheer. Some fell on their knees and offered thanks to God. But they cheered enough when they had helped the weary Beowulf from the water. The fen rang with their shouts of joy. The rain stopped. The sun came out. The waters of the lake subsided. Even the horses were inspired with the general happiness. They came round and poked at the monster’s head with their muzzles. None was more curious than Beowulf’s own mount, the white mare with the black mane.

It took four men to bear Grendel’s head down to Heorot. They stuck their long spears in from different angles and carried it between them. Beowulf rode directly behind. Everyone sang.

Hrothgar and Queen Wealhtheow saw the happy triumphal procession afar off, and came galloping to greet it on sun-colored horses. They both wept for joy when Beowulf told them all that had happened.