Grendel (15 page)

Who knows what all this means? Neither awake nor asleep, my chest filled with an excitement like joy, I tried to think whether or not I was afraid of the strangers, and the thought made no sense. It was unreal—insubstantial as spiderweb-strands blowing lightly across a window that looks out on trees. I have sometimes watched men do
mysterious things. A man with a wife and seven children, a carpenter with a fair reputation as wise, not maddened by passions, not given to foolishness—regular of habit, dignified in bearing, a dedicated craftsman (no edge unbeveled, no ragged peg, no gouge or split)—once crept from his house at the edge of the town while his family slept, and fled down snowy paths through woods to the house of a hunter away in search of game. The hunter’s wife admitted him, and he slept with her until the second rooster crowed; then he fled back home. Who knows why? Tedium is the worst pain. The mind lays out the world in blocks, and the hushed blood waits for revenge. All order, I’ve come to understand, is theoretical, unreal—a harmless, sensible, smiling mask men slide between the two great, dark realities, the self and the world—two snake-pits. The watchful mind lies, cunning and swift, about the dark blood’s lust, lies and lies and lies until, weary of talk, the watchman sleeps. Then sudden and swift the enemy strikes from nowhere, the cavernous heart. Violence is truth, as the crazy old peasant told Hrothulf. But the old fool only half grasped what he said. He had never conversed with a dragon. And the stranger?

Afraid or not, I would go to the meadhall, I knew. I toyed, of course, with the ridiculous theory that I’d stay where I was safe, like a sensible beast. “Am I not free?—as free as a bird?” I whispered, leering, maniacal. I have
seen—I embody—the vision of the dragon: absolute, final waste. I saw long ago the whole universe as not-my-mother, and I glimpsed my place in it, a hole.
Yet I exist,
I knew.
Then I alone exist,
I said.
It’s me or it.
What glee, that glorious recognition! (The cave my cave is a jealous cave.) For even my mama loves me not for myself, my holy specialness (he he ho ha), but for my son-ness, my possessedness, my displacement of air as visible proof of her power. I have set her aside—gently, picking her up by the armpits as I would a child—and so have proved that she has no power but the little I give her by momentary whim. So I might set aside Hrothgar’s whole kingdom and all his thanes if I did not, for sweet desire’s sake, set limits to desire. If I murdered the last of the Scyldings, what would I live for? I’d have to move.

So now, for once unsure of victory, I might set limits to desire: go to sleep, put off further raids till the Geats go home. For the world is divided, experience teaches, into two parts: things to be murdered, and things that would hinder the murder of things: and the Geats might reasonably be defined either way. So I whispered, wading through drifts waist-high, inexorably on my way to Hrothgar’s meadhall. Darkness lay over the world like a coffin lid. I hurried. It would be a shame to miss the boasting. I came to the hall, bent down at my chink, peered in. The wind was shrill, full of patterns.

It was a scene to warm the cockles of your heart. The Danes were not pleased, to say the least, that the Geats had come to save them. Honor is very big with them; they’d rather be eaten alive than be bailed out by strangers. The priests weren’t happy either. They’d been saying for years that the ghostly Destroyer would take care of things in time. Now here were these foreigner upstarts unmasking religion! My old friend Ork sat shaking his head in dismay, saying nothing, brooding, no doubt, on the dark metaphysical implications. Things fade; alternatives exclude. Whichever of us might exclude the other, when the time came for me and the stranger to meet, the eyes of the people would be drawn to the instance, they would fail to rise to the holy idea of process. Theology does not thrive in the world of action and reaction, change: it grows on calm, like the scum on a stagnant pool. And it flourishes, it prospers, on decline. Only in a world where everything is patently being lost can a priest stir men’s hearts as a poet would by maintaining that nothing is in vain. For old times’ sake, for the old priest’s honor, I would have to kill the stranger. And for the honor of Hrothgar’s thanes.

The Danes sat sulking, watching the strangers eat, wishing some one of them would give them an excuse to use their daggers. I covered my mouth to keep from cackling. The king presided, solemn and irritable. He knew that his
thanes couldn’t handle me alone, and he was too old and tired to be much impressed—however useful it might be to his kingdom—by their fathead ideas of honor.
Get through the meal, that’s the thing,
he was thinking.
Keep them from wasting their much touted skills on one another.
The queen wasn’t present. Situation much too touchy.

Then up spoke Unferth, Ecglaf’s son, top man in Hrothgar’s hall. He had a nose like a black, deformed potato, eyes like a couple of fangs. He leaned forward over the table and pointed the dagger he’d been eating with. “Say, friend,” he said to the beardless leader of the Geats, “are you the same man that went swimming that time with young Breca—risked your lives in the middle of the winter for nothing—for a crazy meadboast?”

The stranger stopped eating, smiled.

“We heard about that,” Unferth said. “Nobody could stop you—kings, priests, councilors—nobody. Splash!
Uh, uh, uh!”
Unferth made swimming motions, eyes rolled up, mouth gasping. The thanes around him laughed. “The sea boiled with waves, fierce winter swells. Seven nights you swam, so people say.” He made his face credulous, and the Danes laughed again. “And at last Breca beat you, much stronger than you were. He proved his boast against you—for what it may be worth.” The Danish thanes laughed. Even Hrothgar smiled. Unferth grew serious, and
now only the stranger went on smiling, he alone and the huge Geats next to him, patient as timberwolves. Unferth pointed with his dagger, giving friendly advice. “I predict it will go even worse for you tonight. You may have had successes—I haven’t heard. But wait up for Grendel for one night’s space and all your glorious successes will be done with.”

The Danes applauded. The stranger smiled on, his downward-slanting eyes like empty pits. I could see his mind working, stone-cold, grinding like a millwheel. When the hall was still, he spoke, soft-voiced, his weird gaze focused nowhere. “Ah, friend Unferth, drunk with mead you’ve said a good deal about Breca. The truth is, nevertheless, that I beat him. I’m stronger in the ocean than any other man alive. Like foolish boys we agreed on the match and boasted, yes … we were both very young … swore we’d risk our lives in the sea, and did so. We took swords with us, swimming one-handed, to fight off whales.”

Unferth laughed, and the others followed, as was right. It was preposterous.

The stranger said, “Breca couldn’t swim away from me, for all his strength—a man with arms like yours, friend Unferth—and as for myself, I chose not to swim away from him. Thus we swam for five nights, and then a storm came up, icy wind from the north, black sky, raging waves,
and we were separated. The turmoil stirred up the sea-monsters. One of them attacked me, dragged me down to the bottom where the weight of the sea would have crushed any other man. But it was granted to me that I might kill him with my sword, which same I did. Then others attacked. They pressed me hard. I killed them, nine old water nickers, robbed them of the feast they expected at the bottom of the sea. In the morning, sword-ripped, they lay belly-up near shore. They’d trouble no more passing sailors after that. Light came from the east and, behold, I saw headlands, and I swam to them. Fate often enough will spare a man if his courage holds.”

Now the Danes weren’t laughing. The stranger said it all so calmly, so softly, that it was impossible to laugh. He believed every word he said. I understood at last the look in his eyes. He was insane.

Even so, I wasn’t prepared for what came next. Nobody was. Solemn, humorless despite the slightly ironic smile, he suddenly cut deep—yet with the same mildness, the same almost inhuman indifference except for the pale flash of fire in his eyes. “Neither Breca nor you ever fought such battles,” he said. “I don’t boast much of that. Nevertheless, I don’t recall hearing any glorious deeds of yours, except that you murdered your brothers. You’ll prowl the stalagmites of hell for that, friend Unferth—clever though you are.”

The hall was numb. The stranger was no player of games.

And yet he was shrewd, you had to grant. Whether or not they believed his wild tale of superhuman strength, no thane in the hall would attack him again and risk the slash of that mild, coolly murderous tongue.

Old King Hrothgar, for one, was pleased. The madman’s single-mindedness would be useful in a monster fight. He spoke: “Where’s the queen? We’re all friends in this hall! Let her come to us and pass the bowl!”

She must have been listening behind her door. She came out, radiant, and crossed swiftly to the great golden bowl on the table by the hearth. As if she’d brought light and warmth with her, men began talking, joking, laughing, both Danes and Geats together. When she’d served all the Danes and the lesser Geats, she stood, red hair flowing, her neck and arms adorned in gold, by the leader of the strangers. “I thank God,” she said, “that my wish has been granted, that at last I have found a man whose courage I can trust.”

The stranger smiled, glanced at Unferth. Hrothgar’s top man had recovered a little, though his neck was still dark red.

“We’ll see,” the stranger said.

And again I found something peculiar happening to my mind. His mouth did not seem to move with his words,
and the harder I stared at his gleaming shoulders, the more uncertain I was of their shape. The room was full of a heavy, unpleasant scent I couldn’t place. I labor to remember something: twisted roots, an abyss … I lose it. The queer little spasm of terror passes. Except for his curious beardlessness, there is nothing frightening about the stranger. I’ve broken the backs of bulls no weaker than he is.

Hrothgar made speeches, his hand on the queen’s. Unferth sat perfectly still, no longer blushing. He was struggling to make himself hope for the stranger’s success, no doubt.
Heroism is more than noble language, dignity. Inner heroism, that’s the trick! Glorious carbuncle of the soul! Except in the life of the hero the whole world’s meaningless.
He took a deep breath. He would try to be a better person, yes. He forced a smile, but it twisted, out of his control. Tears! He got up suddenly and, without a word, walked out.

Hrothgar told the hall that the stranger was like a son to him. The queen’s smile was distant, and the nephew, Hrothulf, picked at the table with a dirty fingernail. “You already have more sons than you need,” the queen laughed lightly. Hrothgar laughed too, though he didn’t seem to get it. He was tipsy. The stranger went on sitting with the same unlighted smile. The old king chatted of his plans for Freawaru, how he would marry her off to his enemy, the king of the Heathobards. The stranger
smiled on, but closed his eyes. He knew a doomed house when he saw it, I had a feeling; but for one reason or another he kept his peace. I grew more and more afraid of him and at the same time—who can explain it?—more and more eager for the hour of our meeting.

The queen rose, at last, and retired. The fire in the hearth had now died down. The priests filed out to the god-ring to do their devotions. Nobody followed. I could hear them in the distance: “O ghostly Destroyer …” The cold ring of gods stared inward with large, dead eyes.

It is the business of rams to be rams and of goats to be goats, the business of shapers to sing and of kings to rule. The stranger waits on, as patient as a grave-mound. I too wait, whispering, whispering, mad like him. Time grows, obeying its mechanics, like all of us. So the young Shaper observes, singing to the few who remain, fingertips troubling a dead man’s harp.

We wait.

The king retires, and his people leave.

The Geats build up the fire, prepare to sleep.

And now, silence.

Darkness.

It is time.

I touch the door with my fingertips and it bursts, for all its fire-forged bands—it jumps away like a terrified deer—and I plunge into the silent, hearth-lit hall with a laugh that I wouldn’t much care to wake up to myself. I trample the planks that a moment before protected the hall like a hand raised in horror to a terrified mouth (sheer poetry, ah!) and the broken hinges rattle like swords down the timbered walls. The Geats are stones, and whether it’s because they’re numb with terror or stiff from too much mead, I cannot tell. I am swollen with excitement, bloodlust and joy and a strange fear that mingle in my chest like the twisting rage of a bone-fire.
I step onto the brightly shining floor and angrily advance on them. They’re all asleep, the whole company! I can hardly believe my luck, and my wild heart laughs, but I let out no sound. Swiftly, softly, I will move from bed, to bed and destroy them all, swallow every last man. I am blazing, half-crazy with joy. For pure, mad prank, I snatch a cloth from the nearest table and tie it around my neck to make a napkin. I delay no longer. I seize up a sleeping man, tear at him hungrily, bite through his bone-locks and suck hot, slippery blood. He goes down in huge morsels, head, chest, hips, legs, even the hands and feet. My face and arms are wet, matted. The napkin is sopping. The dark floor steams. I move on at once and I reach for another one (whispering, whispering, chewing the universe down to words), and I seize a wrist. A shock goes through me. Mistake!