Beowulf (8 page)

Hrothgar spoke, king of the Scyldings:
“For past deeds done and for past support
you have sought to find us, my friend Beowulf.
Once your father brought about a great feud
when he killed Heatholaf with his own hand
among the Wulfings, and his kin in the Weders
refused him protection for fear of war.
From there he sought the folk of the South-Danes,
us Honor-Scyldings, over the rolling waves.
I was then first ruling the folk of the Danes
wielding power in my youth over wide-spread lands,
with a stronghold of warriors. Heorogar was then dead,
my elder brother, from our father Healfdene,
was no longer living—a better man than I!
I then paid to settle the feud for your father.
I sent to the Wulfings over welling waters
ancient treasures, and Ecgtheow swore oaths to me.
¹²
I now suffer great sorrow in spirit to say,
before any man, what Grendel has brought
to humiliate Heorot with his hateful schemes
and his horrid attacks. My hall-troop dwindles,
now less of a war-band. Wyrd swept them off
in the terror of Grendel. May God quickly
cut off that mad pillager from power to act!
Often our warriors, when over their ale-cups,
made boasts during beer-drinking
that they in the beer-hall would wait and watch
to do battle with Grendel, wielding dread swords.
Then in the morning was this mead-hall
stained with their blood in the break of day:
all the hall-benches were steaming hot gore,
from the slaughter in the hall. Still less did I have
of well-loved warriors as death carried them off.
Now sit down to the feast and unfasten your thoughts
to these gallant men, as your spirit moves you.”

Then in the beer-hall were benches cleared
for the Geats as a group all gathered together.
Their strong chieftain went over to take his seat,
famed for his strength. A thane performed service,
who bore in his hands the adorned ale-cup,
and poured out sweet drink. At times the scop sang,
a clear voice in Heorot. There was joy among heroes,
the roar of retainers, of Danes and of Weders.

Unferth
¹³
then spoke, the son of Ecglaf,
who sat at the feet of the lord of the Scyldings,
brought forth fighting words—for to him the venture
of brave seafaring Beowulf was great offence,
since he could not stand that any other man
might earn more glory throughout middle-earth,
under the heavens, than he himself:
“Are you the Beowulf who with Breca competed,
on the broad sea in a swimming contest,
where out of bravado you dared ocean-danger,
and for foolish boasting gambled your lives
in the ocean deep? Nor might any man,
either friend or foe, dissuade you from
that perilous plan. You two swam out on the sea,
your strong arms embracing the streams,
crossing the sea-paths, coursing with hands,
gliding over ocean. Waves welled up,
the wildness of winter. You both in the water’s power
struggled seven nights, till he surpassed you at sea,
proved stronger in swimming. Then currents at dawn
carried him to the coast of the Heatho-Raemas,
and from there he sought his own native soil,
the land of the Brondings with its bright stronghold,
where beloved Breca ruled over his nation,
both towns and treasures. This son of Beanstan
thus truly fulfilled his boast to beat you.
And so I expect still worse of an outcome—
though elsewhere you were bold in battle-storms,
fierce in the fighting—if you dare a whole night
to wait here for Grendel, the grisly monster.”

Then Beowulf spoke, the son of Ecgtheow,
“Well, my friend Unferth, besotted with beer,
you have brought forth much about Breca,
told tales of his venture! Yet I tell the truth,
that I have proved greater in sea-strength,
more of a match for the waves, than any other man.
While we were still boys, we two agreed
and made great boasts—as may often pass
between youths—that out on the sea we both
would dare the deep, and so that we did.
As we swam out to sea, we held near at hand
our naked swords, steeled to fend off
whales in the water. He might not swim
away from me with swifter speed in the sea,
amid boiling waves, nor did I leave him behind.
We two stayed together in welling waters
for five full nights, till driven apart by rising swells,
by walls of water in the fiercest of weathers.
The night grew dark, and winds from the north
attacked us in battle, the waves wild warriors.
Monsters of the deep were roused to rage.
Against these foes, my strong mail-shirt,
with links forged by hand, woven for war,
served as defense where it kept my breast safe,
glowing with gold. One dreaded foe drew me
down to the deep, holding me fast
in its gruesome grip. Yet to me it was given
that I struck the sea-monster with the point of my sword,
a blade proved in battle. Thus through my hand,
the storm of my sword swept the beast away.

“Again and again, these loathsome creatures
pressed me severely—though I served them well
with my fine old sword, as it was fitting.
By no means did these wicked destroyers
have the joy of feasting, tasting my flesh,
while seated to dine at the bottom of the sea.
But in the morning, those struck by my blade
were cast up on the shore, the leavings of waves,
slain by the sword, so never thereafter
did they threaten the journeys of seafaring men
over deep water-ways. Light came from the east,
bright beacon of God. And the waves subsided,
so I might see the towering sea-nesses,
the windy high walls. Wyrd often preserves
one not doomed to die, if his courage is strong!
It thus fell to me that I with the sword
slew nine sea-foes. Never have I heard
under heaven’s arch of a harder night-battle,
nor of a man more sore-pressed among streams of waves.
Still, I survived from those hostile grasps,
worn-out from the struggles. Then the sea bore me,
in a rushing current of welling waters,
to the land of the Finns. Never have I heard
such stories told of your skill in battle,
in furious sword-fights. Never yet has Breca—
nor either of you two—done deeds
of such blood-sport so boldly in battle,
with burnished blades—nor here do I boast—
yet you have killed your own brothers,
your nearest kin. For that you shall suffer
the horrors of hell, though your wit be sharp.
I therefore say to you truly, son of Ecglaf,
that never would Grendel, that gruesome monster,
have taken such a toll on your lord and men,
humiliating Heorot, if your spirit were
so fierce in battle as you suppose yourself.
But Grendel has learned not to fear a feud,
or serious sword-storm, from your people,
nor to tremble in terror at the Victory-Scyldings.
He strikes at will, not sparing even one
of the men of the Danes, but fills his desire
for death and devouring among the Spear-Danes,
without fear of fighting. But now before long,
I shall show to him the strength and courage
of Geats in warfare. Then the one who still can
will go bravely to the mead, when morning’s sun,
clothed in light, shall shine from the south
over children of men for another day.”

Then there was joy for the giver of treasures,
gray-haired and battle-brave. The chief of the Bright-Danes,
protector of his people, now counted on help,
for he heard in the hero a resolute purpose.

There was the laughter of heroes, a happy uproar
rejoicing in shouts. Then Wealhtheow stepped forth,
mindful of courtesy. The queen of Hrothgar,
adorned with gold, greeted the men in the hall.
The noble woman first offered the ale-cup
to the lord of the land of the East-Danes.
She bade him have joy in the drinking of beer,
dear to his followers, and the king famed for victory
took all he desired from the feast and the hall-cup.
Then the lady of the Helmings
^j
went all around,
to men and youths, serving each a share
in precious cups—till the time came
that the gold-adorned queen, in a gracious spirit,
bore the mead-cup directly to Beowulf.
Wise in words, she greeted the Geats’ prince,
thanking God for granting her greatest wish
that now she could trust in one truly noble
to halt wicked attacks. The battle-fierce warrior
took the cup held in Wealhtheow’s hands
and related to her his readiness for battle.
Beowulf spoke, the son of Ecgtheow:
“I was determined, when I set out to sea,
seated in sailing-boat with my band of warriors,
that I would completely fulfill the wish
of your people, or fall in the fight,
in the grasp of Grendel. I shall perform
great deeds of valor, or I shall see
the last day of my life in this mead-hall.”
The queen liked well these fearless words,
the Geat’s boasting-speech. Adorned with gold,
the noble wife went to sit by her lord.

Then, once again, inside the hall
were brave words spoken by spirited people,
the sounds of happiness—till the time came
when the son of Healfdene wished to seek
rest for the night. For the king knew the monster
was bent on battle in the high hall,
once men might not see the light of the sun,
with night growing dark over all the earth,
and shapes of shadows came gliding along,
dark under clouds. The company all rose up.
Then Hrothgar addressed himself to Beowulf,
warrior to warrior, and wished him success,
power over the wine-hall, speaking formal words:
“Never before, since I could lift hand and shield,
have I given care of the great hall of the Danes
to any other man, as I now do to you.
Now have and hold this best of dwellings,
mindful of glory, and make known your might,
guard against fierce foes. Nor will you lack reward
if you survive the great task before you.”

Then Hrothgar went out with his band of heroes,
the protector of the Danes departed the hall.
This war-chief wished to seek out Wealhtheow,
his queen and bed-fellow. As men have heard,
the glorious ruler had set a hall-guard
against the foe Grendel—serving special duty
for the king of the Danes, keeping watch against giants.
Truly, the prince of the Geats firmly trusted
in the force of his strength and the favor of God.

He then shook off his shirt of iron mail
and helmet from his head. He gave to another
his burnished sword, the best iron for battle,
and ordered him to hold this war-gear for now.
Then the bold man, Beowulf of the Geats,
spoke words of boasting before mounting his bed:
“I do not suppose myself any less battle-bold,
or less strong in the struggle than Grendel himself,
so I will not put him to sleep with a sword,
to rob him of life, though I readily could.
He knows not of weapons—how to strike with sword,
how to hew my shield—though he is renowned
for his furious fighting. No, we two in dark of night
shall forego the sword, if he dares to seek
war without weapon, and then may wise God,
the holy Lord, judge which side will succeed,
which one will win glory, as to him seems right.”
Then the battle-brave Geat reclined, lay his face
on a cushion, and courageous sea-men
lay on their hall-beds all around him.
Not one of them thought that from that place
he might ever again return to his homeland,
come to his kin or the town where he was reared.
For they had heard that death had destroyed
far too great a number of the Danish folk
in that wine-hall. Yet God gave to them,
this band of Weders, good fortune in war,
strong help and support—so they could defeat
the fearsome foe through one man’s skill,
his own great might. Thus the truth is made known
that almighty God has always wielded power
over the nations of men.

Then in the dark of the night
came the shadow-glider. The warriors were sleeping
who were appointed to guard the gabled hall—
all except one. It was known to the men
that the dread demon could not throw them
down in the darkness when God did not wish it.
But the one who was watching with spirit enraged
awaited the outcome of fighting this foe.

Then from the moors that were thick with mist,
Grendel emerged, wrapped in the anger of God.
The hellish ravager sought to surprise
one of the men at rest in the high hall.
He crept under clouds toward the wine-hall,
till he could see clearly the glorious building,
glowing with gold plates. Nor was this
the first time he sought Hrothgar’s home,
yet never before or after, in all his days,
did he find a worse fortune among the hall-thanes.
Then deprived of joy, the creature came
to the famed hall. When touched by his hands,
the door sprang open, burst from its bands.
Then bent on destruction, and bulging with rage,
he forced open the hall’s mouth to move quickly in—
a fiend trespassing on the shining floor,
his spirit filled with fire. His eyes shone forth
with fearsome lights much like flames.
He saw in the hall a large group of heroes,
a company of kinsmen all sleeping together,
a brave band of warriors. His spirit exulted
as the monster expected, before break of day,
to tear life from limbs of everyone there,
wreaking his terror while harvesting hope
of feasting on flesh. Yet it was not his fate
that he might again feed on the race of men,
after that night. The heroic kinsman of Hygelac
closely watched how the wicked man-slayer
fought with such skill in sudden attacks.
Nor did the demon think to delay,
but for his first victim he swiftly seized
a sleeping warrior and slit him wide open,
biting into the body, drinking blood in streams,
swallowing huge mouthfuls—till soon
he had eaten the entire man’s corpse,
even feet and hands. Next he stepped forth
to clutch with his claws strong-hearted Beowulf
where he lay at rest, the foe reaching for him
to grab with his hands. The Geat answered quickly,
propped on one arm, he faced the attack.
That devourer of men then soon discovered
that he never had met any one in middle-earth,
even in far-off regions, of the race of men
with hand-grip more strong. His spirit sank,
filled with fear that he could not get away.
He was eager for flight, to escape into darkness,
to find fellowship with devils. Never had he met
such a dread encounter in his former days.
The brave kinsman of Hygelac then brought to mind
his speech last evening and sprang to his feet,
to hold his foe fast till his fingers broke.
The giant fought to flee, but the Geat still advanced.
The wicked destroyer wildly thought
where to make his escape, far away from the hall,
to find safety in fens, yet knew his fingers trapped
in his enemy’s grasp. This was a grim journey
that the hellish ravager took to Heorot!
The din filled the mead-hall. All of the Danes,
the bold warriors, were to drink this time
the ale of terror. Both fighters raged in their fury,
as they fought for the hall. The tall house trembled.
It was a great wonder that the wine-hall,
the fairest of buildings, withstood the war-strife,
did not fall to the ground. But it was held firm,
from both within and without, by iron bands
skillfully fastened. Many a mead-bench,
adorned with gold, flew from the floor,
as I have heard told, in the struggle of foes.
No wise warrior among the Scyldings
would have thought any man could by his own might
so threaten to destroy the hall decked with horns,
to break it apart—though it might fall in fire’s embrace,
swallowed in smoke. New sounds rose up
that were not of this earth. The North-Danes recoiled
at the horrible terror, as each of their troop
heard a wail go up from inside the walls,
the enemy of God screaming songs of despair,
his cries of defeat—as this captive of hell
found his wounds fatal. Beowulf won with his death-grip,
proved the greatest in might of any man,
in that day and time, during his life on earth.