Their coming had not gone unnoticed from those homeland cliffs. Geatish coastguardsmen had long been watching for their return, anxiously awaiting their beloved heroes. They were there on the beach helping to moor the boat, to hold it fast so that no sea-surge could harm this boat of heroes. They were there to help unload the heroes’ golden hoard, marveling at the amount of it, at the richness of it. They did not have far to carry it, for Hygelac, the Geatish king, lived with his war-band close by the seawall itself.
News of their coming, of the hoard they carried, raced ahead of them to Hygelac himself, brave king of all the Geats. Beowulf, his nephew and greatest champion, his hearth-companion, had survived his perilous quest and was returning home unscathed! By order of Hygelac the mead-hall was cleared at once and prepared for Beowulf and those honored Geatish heroes. As he saw Beowulf and his warriors striding into the hall, Hygelac could scarcely contain his burning curiosity to hear all about their adventures in Denmark and their miraculous return.
After all the greetings were done — there never was such a warmth of welcome — and the mead-cup had been offered around to each and every one of these heroes, the two noble kinsmen, Hygelac and Beowulf, sat down face to face, the one eager to know, the other eager to tell. Hygelac leaned forward, longing to hear.
“Tell us now, beloved brave Beowulf, how you survived this battle in distant Heorot. I warned you, did I not, of the dangers that lay ahead of you in Denmark. ‘Do not go, dear friend,’ I said, ‘and face that murderous monster Grendel.’ Those were my very words, if I remember. Yet you did not listen to my advice. You were determined to help Hrothgar, a friend in need, and I confess now that I much admired you for it. Tell me now all that happened. Live it for us again, so we may know all you have done while you were gone.”
So Beowulf told his story to his king — of how the Geats had been so royally welcomed to Heorot, that great mead-hall, of Grendel’s coming by night, how Handscio had been snatched up half asleep and ground to death in Grendel’s jaws. “I grappled with this beast bare-handed, my lord Hygelac,” said Beowulf, “grasped his arm and would not let him go. When he tore himself away, still I held his severed arm. Perhaps he thought he had escaped. But it was his death-wound, his life’s blood draining out of him deep in his watery lair. So that monster died, and so I avenged all the hurt he had done to Hrothgar and the Danes. And generously that king rewarded me, just as he had promised, with a treasure-hoard of gold, rich and finely worked. And at Heorot all of us, Danish thanes and Geatish warriors, rejoiced. But we rejoiced too soon, for out of the night came Grendel’s vengeful mother, a fiend filled with fury. She struck down the first she saw — Ashhere he was called — most beloved counselor and dearest hearth-companion to Hrothgar, the old king. So I went after her. Seeking her lair, I plunged into the whirlpool of sea-serpents and found her there, this gruesome guardian of the deep. Hand to hand we fought. I was as near to death then as I have ever been. Saved only by God, and by a giant sword. With this I hewed off both their hideous heads, made an end to that family of monsters, slew the last of Satan’s children, and brought peace again to Hrothgar and the Danish people. For all this, the fair and generous king presented us with more treasures still, all of which, brave king, I have carried back for you, who are my only family.”
Then Beowulf had them bring in all the treasures he had received from Hrothgar: a boar’s head standard, helmet and war-shirt and sword, all of which had belonged to Hrothgar’s own brother — no gift could have been more precious than all this garb of war, none more kindly meant. Four high-stepping horses were then led in, burnished bay they were, and matching as apples. All these and more Beowulf gave that day to his lord. Surely there was never a more generous heart than this.
To Hygelac’s queen he presented the marvelous ancient collar he had been given by Hrothgar, three prancing horses also and fine saddles too. Wearing this jewel, the queen shone in beauty as never before. For all these great gifts and to honor this great champion, Hygelac laid in Beowulf’s lap the finest sword in the royal treasure. Richly wrought in gold it was, magnificent in every detail. But that was not all. The king bestowed on him there and then a huge estate and a fine hall too, fit for such a hero who had brought through his brave deeds such honor and such riches to the land of the Geats.
All seemed then peaceful and set fair for Hygelac and the Geats, but the fate of kings and their people, even of great heroes, is forever fickle and fraught with danger.
It was not so many years after this that in the heat of battle, Hygelac, brave king of the Geats, was struck down and killed. He was much mourned, for he had ruled wisely and well. But the Geats were fortunate indeed despite their sadness, for now the whole kingdom passed into the hands of that great hero, Beowulf. For more than fifty years he ruled the land and ruled it fairly, generous always in spirit, a good and kindly king. Never had there been a king more loved and admired than Beowulf. Gray-haired now — even for this hero, age had taken its toll of years — he had every right to expect a peaceful old age, but cruel fate was to intervene and deny it to him. We do not always have what we deserve.
For three hundred years or more, deep in a burial mound high on the cliffs above the moors, lay a hoard-guarding dragon, sleeping all this while, undisturbed. So he might have stayed forever, harmless in his dragon-dreams, a hoard of golden treasure for his bed. No one would ever have known of him, nor of the treasure. But quite by chance some nameless slave happened upon this cave. Condemned to a flogging and on the run from his warrior master, he found the opening and, seeking any shelter he could find, crept in and came across this slumbering dragon curled up on his pile of treasure; heaps of hoard-things there were.
Seized with sudden terror at the sight of this monstrous dragon, the unfortunate slave wanted only to escape. But one golden goblet lay close by, so close he simply could not resist it. He snatched it up and ran for his life. And even as he ran, an idea came into his head. This goblet would be a perfect gift for my master, he thought. I’ll go back and give it to him. Maybe it will appease his fury. Little did he know what fire-fury he would bring upon himself and his whole people by this thoughtless act. Little did he know or care how this treasure had come to be there with the death-dragon guarding it — how in a heathen age long ago, the sole survivor from a tribe of earls that had been brought to a sudden and violent war-death had carried this treasure-hoard of talismans into the mound, knowing that he could no longer guard it and care for it himself. He decided to hide it, bury it where no one could ever find it. Over the treasure he bewailed his grief for his lost friends, for the joys they had shared, crying out to the earth itself to protect the precious tribe-treasure, last vestiges of a proud people now slaughtered and silent in death, all their harp playing, all singing, done forever. So he left the treasure-filled mound and, maddened with grief, wandered the wind-wild moors until death came for him too. So all that tribe was gone. But the treasure remained.
Soon there came that way a dreaded dragon, a night-ravager. A foul flame-fiend he was, always seeking out hellish hiding holes where he could rest. One day he happened on this same treasure-filled mound — fate had brought him there — and made it his own, possessed it with his power, intending to sleep there on this priceless pillow till the end of time. Not that it did him any good. Possession was all his joy. So for three hundred years undisturbed this death-dragon guarded his underground hoard, until that doomed day when that wretched slave came upon the place by chance, discovered the godless creature sleeping there, and carried off that golden goblet, a peace offering to his master, or so he thought. A luckless man. But the dragon through his serpent scales had felt the loss of the treasure and, hearing the footfall of the intruder, opened one angry eye and watched him go. After three hundred years he was slow to wake. This worm of wickedness now slithered out of his hole, following where the fleeing slave had gone. Rage-roaring, he circled his mound looking for the man’s footprints, but found none out there in the wilderness. Yet
he knew his treasure-house had been breached, knew the golden cup had been stolen from him and was burning with fire-fury at the offense. He would have his sweet revenge, that was sure. He longed now for the flames of war, for the fire of battle again after so many years asleep. He could hardly wait.
That night this death-dealing dragon came flying over the moors. Armed with fire he came, spewing out his flames wherever he went. He did not mind whose dwelling it was he left burning brightly behind him. In his eyes, all were guilty of the crime. If he had his way, he would not have left a single man alive. Over all the Geatish land the blazing fires rose skyward. A scourge of fire-spitting destruction he wrought in that one night, pouring out his venomous fire, burning everywhere and everyone with his flame-throwing, poisonous breath. Before morning light came to the sky, with the country and its people left so cruelly ravaged, the serpent flew back to his hidden hoard deep inside his secret mound. Here he believed he would be quite safe. But he was mistaken, as you shall hear.
Beowulf had heard by now of the horror visited on his countrymen that night by this death-dragon. His own mead-hall, most magnificent of all buildings in the land, the very heart of his kingdom, had been consumed by the serpent’s fire. Sorrow overcame him when he saw the ashes smoldering. Grief-gripped and guilt-ridden, that good king imagined that he must have brought this on himself, that he had somehow angered his eternal God. When he saw how that devil’s dragon had visited fire and fury on all the land by the sea, where his people had lived out their lives in peace, secure, they thought, in the safety of their homes, anger swelled inside him and overcame his grief and his guilt. Now the old king roused himself to action and swore to punish this evil death-messenger.
Old he may have been, but Beowulf was formidable still in strength and will. At once he gave orders that a huge shield should be made, all in iron — he knew wood would be little use against the searing heat of the serpent’s fire. Only with such a shield would he be able to come close enough to the hoard-squatting dragon to put an end to this murderer’s miserable life. But Beowulf, this mighty warrior of old, would not go up against this death-dragon with his army of warriors. He was a hero who had never known fear. He scorned the dragon’s strength and his fighting prowess too. Beowulf had survived battles in plenty and had emerged victorious in many other clashes since that time when he had destroyed the monster Grendel and his sea-hag mother all those years before in the land of Hrothgar. He was not afraid again to do battle in defense of his people, this noble hero. So he took only eleven warrior-companions with him to seek out this fiery ravager of the night. They were all he would need, he thought.
But one more came with them too: the slave who had stumbled by chance into the hidden mound and woken the hoard-watching dragon from his centuries of sleep. He had been discovered, this guilty slave, clutching the precious golden goblet. So the cause of the serpent’s woeful attack had been discovered, and the slave was brought along, this cursed coward, to show them the way into the mound, for he alone knew the inside of the dragon’s earth-hall, the cavernous lair heaped high with treasure, where the dreaded dragon lay. Beowulf knew how formidable this underground guardian was, how fierce and fiery a foe he would be. And he was not wrong.
To the headland on the cliffs they came and saw at last the secret mound and the narrow way in. Here Beowulf spoke to his trusted hearth-companions. He meant with his words to lift their hearts, to exhort and encourage them, to banish their fear. There was no fear in the great hero, but the truth was that his own spirit was gloomy and heavy with premonition, as if he already knew that this was the place and the time of his last fight, that this dragon would be the end of him, his body and soul torn apart at last in the struggle that lay ahead. Strongly he spoke, though, banishing all those dark thoughts from his mind.
“Cherished comrades-in-arms, I have survived many struggles in my life and I do not forget any of them, nor the brave war-companions who died at my side. I have always had good fortune in these battles, wielding my bright, hard-edged sword again and again in service first of Hygelac, my king in my early days, and as king myself now these long years since. Every battle I ventured I won, by God’s good grace, and I shall win again today, old as I am. I am the stern guardian of my people and must destroy this death-dragon before he destroys us. I would go up against him bareheaded and bare-handed as I grappled once with that monster Grendel. But I must somehow defend myself against the fire of this flame-spitter. So I will carry this iron shield to fend off the flames and will wear my mail-shirt and helmet to protect my flesh from his fire-venom. I shall be strong in spirit, give all in this fight. I shall not run from this heathen hoard-guardian, however hot and fierce his flames. Wait here for me. This is my fight. It is for me, your king, to match myself against this champion of evil. I will dare all bravely. Should I win, God willing, then the hoard-dragon will die his death and harm us no more, and we shall win all the gold he guards. Should I fail, then your king will not see this nightfall, nor any other tomorrow, nor share the cup of mead with you ever again. If this is my end, then so be it.”
Strongly he spoke out, this champion of the Geats. Despite all his doubts he was still confident in his prowess. Brave beside his shield he stood, in helmet and war-shirt ready now to meet the death-dragon face to face. He would not shrink from the fight, this survivor of countless conflicts and battle-clashes. Then out of the mound came a sudden blast of flame. Waves of savage fire surged out of that deadly tunnel. So the dragon began the battle, breathing out his perilous fire. Without being burned alive, there seemed no way in, no way past those terrible flames for Beowulf.
In his anger now the hero roared his defiance. Like a battle-horn it sounded, echoing through the vaulted cavern. Deep inside, the hated dragon recognized the champion’s voice-challenge. Filled with fury, he stirred himself to violent action. Uncoiled now, the serpent roared out his thunderous response, a hissing gout of foul flame and billowing breath-smoke. The ground shook. The rocks and the trees trembled as the death-dragon emerged, enraged, from the mound, seeking out his foe. There stood Beowulf before him, bravest of warrior kings, his shield held before him, his trusted sword drawn. Each saw then the terrible power of the other, felt the same portent of impending doom. But neither would shirk the death-encounter. Beowulf stood his ground as the all-enveloping flames rushed forward toward him, curling over and around him, enveloping him entirely in smoke and fire. Bravely he stood fast behind his great shield, knowing already that, huge though it was, it was too small to protect him. Undaunted, the hero swung up his huge ancestral sword, ancient sword of all the Geatish kings, and struck the dragon a savage, scything blow, cut through his foul flesh to the bare bone beneath; a deathblow he meant it to be, hoped it would be. But this time his good old sword failed to bite deeply enough. Wounded now, the dragon came on in his agony, spat his hellish fire over the greathearted king, forced him back with his spewing flames. Beowulf felt the skin-searing pain and knew then that this time there would be no easy victory, that he had met his match at last.
Then as the death-dragon raged and roared, rearing up to attack Beowulf again, those chosen few, those trusted comrades-in-arms, who should have rushed to his side in his moment of need, turned away and ran for the safety of the woods, saving their shameful skins, leaving their king to face that flame-belching monster all alone. Only Wiglaf, the youngest there, stood by his lord. He felt the bonds of kinship more keenly than the others. He knew his duty, knew where his place was. He would not desert the king who had bestowed on him and his family so much kindness. Land he held and a wealthy house and gold too, all given to him and his forebears by this most generous of all kings. He would stay and fight at Beowulf’s side. Angrily he urged the others to do the same, shouting after them, “How can you leave him now, when he needs us most, our dear lord Beowulf? Did he not choose us himself to accompany him on this perilous adventure? Did we not all come here expecting a fight? Now when we should be at his side, you run away like rabb
its! As for me, I would far rather die here alongside him, feel with him the pain of death if I must, end my life fighting in the struggle, sword in hand, rather than desert him and return home shamed forever.”
But his words fell on deaf ears. Fear-filled, the cowards dropped their swords and ran for their lives, all courage withered suddenly and gone, and all honor with it.
Wiglaf did not hesitate now. Disdaining all fear — and this was his first battle — the young lion threw up his wooden shield and strode through the battle-smoke to his lord’s side. “Beloved and best Beowulf, I am here to help you. I shall defend you to the death, my king, as I have sworn to do.” Just as he spoke, the death-dragon attacked for a second time, seeking out both hated foe-men with his blast of flame. In that billow of fire the youngster’s shield was at once burned, reduced to cinders, and his mail-shirt was melted away in the heat as if it had simply never been there. So the young kinsman leaped in behind the old king’s shield. New strength surged into Beowulf’s heart as he saw now that he was not alone in his fight. He sprang up once again from behind his shield and struck at the fire-snorting snake with all his might. But his iron blade snapped. That ancient sword of sternest steel, which had never before failed him in battle, failed him now and left him at the mercy of the pitiless monster who came down upon him for the third time.
Beowulf Page 4