Beowulf

by Caitlin R. Kiernan

  …the freezing swells of Gandvik, the Bay of Serpents, rise and fall, bearing the two swimmers aloft so that they might, from time to time, glimpse the rugged, distant coastline of the land of the Finns. But then the water falls suddenly away beneath them, and the men can hardly even see the sky for the towering walls of the sea. The currents here are deadly, feared by fishermen and sailors alike, but Beowulf and Brecca are strong, stronger even than the cold fingers of the Urdines that would drag them under, stronger than the will of Ægir Wavefather. They are making slow but steady progress toward the eastern shore, swimming neck and neck, seeming an even match. And so it has been for the last five days, neither man holding a lead over the other for very long. Brecca carries a dagger gripped between his teeth, while Beowulf swims with a sword held tight in his right hand. One does not venture unarmed out upon the Gandvik. To the north, there are purple-black clouds tinged with gray, and lightning has begun to lick at the waves.

  “You look tired!” Brecca calls out to Beowulf, then gets a mouthful of salt water.

  “Funny…I was only just now…thinking the same of you!” Beowulf shouts back. Then a wave pushes them farther apart, raising Beowulf up even as Brecca slips into its yawning trough. And finally the Geat presses his advantage, for he is the stronger man, truly, and the better swimmer, and he has waited these five long days, conserving his strength for this last stretch before land. With only a little effort, he pulls ahead of Brecca.

  But it may yet be that the sea giant and his daughters will have the final say, proving neither man a fit match for their domain. For the approaching storm brings more than wind and rain and lightning. It stirs the very depths, reaching down into the abyss where fearful creatures dwell, great snakes and unnameable brutes that crawl the slimy bottom and may live out their entire lives without once breaching or coming near to the surface. But angered by these gales and by the cracking hammer falls of Thor Giantkiller, they are distracted and drawn upward from their burrows in the mud of secret trenches and grottoes, moving swiftly through forests of kelp and midnight, and soon enough they find the swimmers. These are serpents beside which even mighty whales would seem as mackerel, the ravenous children of great Jörmungand, who holds all Midgard in his coils. The spawn of matings between Loki’s dragon child and all manner of eels and sharks and hideous sea worms, these monsters, and no man gazes upon their faces and lives to tell another.

  From his vantage point high atop the wave, Beowulf looks back down toward Brecca, spotting him there amid the chop and spray in the same instant that one of the monstrous serpents bursts forth from the sea. At first, Brecca does not seem to see it, looming there above him, its vast jaws dripping with brine and ooze and weeds, its single red eye peering down at the swimmer. Beowulf glances longingly toward the shore, and he knows it is within his grasp, surely, both dry land and victory. A lesser man might have looked upon the arrival of this beast as a blessing from the gods, but Brecca has been Beowulf’s friend since their childhood, and so he sets his back to the shore. He shouts a warning, but already there are dark tentacles winding themselves about Brecca’s body, driving the breath from his lungs and threatening to crush his ribs. He gasps, and the dagger slips from his teeth and vanishes in the sea.

  “No!” Beowulf screams. “You will not have him!” And he swims as quickly as he can, moving against the current, back to the place where his friend struggles with the serpent. Distracted, the creature turns toward Beowulf, who slashes at its face with his sword, plunging the blade through the crimson eye and deep into its skull. Blood the color of the angry, storm-wracked sky gushes from the wound and stains the sea. But already a second serpent is rising from the water, and a third follows close behind it.

  Brecca escapes from the dying monster’s coils, and Beowulf tells him to go, go now, to swim if he’s still able. Then something below twines itself about Beowulf’s legs and hauls him under. Air rushes from his mouth and nostrils, silver bubbles trailing about his face as he hacks madly at the tentacle with his sword, severing it and wriggling free of its loosening grip. He breaks the surface a second later, only to find another of the creatures bearing down on him, its jaws open wide and bristling with teeth as long a warrior’s lance. But Beowulf takes its head off with a single blow, slicing through scaly hide, through sinew and bone, cleaving its spine in two. And the third beast, sensing its imminent fate at the hands of the Geat, only watches him for a moment—hissing and leering hungrily—before it sinks once more beneath the sea, returning to whatever foul black pit birthed it.

  Exhausted, bleeding, still clutching his heavy sword, Beowulf turns and begins to swim again and has soon caught up with Brecca. The waves have carried them much nearer the shoreline than before, and now Beowulf spies men scattered out along the rocky beach, all of them cheering the brave swimmers on. His spirits buoyed by the shouts and glad noise of the Geats and Finns, and also by the sight of Brecca alive and well and by his own victory over the serpents, Beowulf forgets his pain and pushes on. He passes Brecca and is ahead by a full length, and how much sweeter will be his victory, that it will have been gained despite the decision to go to Brecca aid, despite the Ægir’s hounds.

  “A good race!” he calls back to Brecca. “A shame that one of us must lose it,” but then Beowulf is seized about the waist and pulled underwater for a second time. Again, wreathed in the shimmer of his own escaping breath, he whirls about to confront his attacker, his sword held at the ready…but then he sees clearly what has dragged him down. And this time it is no serpent, not one of the sea giant’s fiends nor some other nameless abomination come stealing up from the lightless plains of silt and shipwrecks.

  Instead, it is a being so beautiful that he might almost believe he has died defending Brecca and now this is some strange, fair herald of the Valkyries. Not a woman, no, not a human woman, but so alike in form that he at first makes that mistake. As his breath leaks away, Beowulf can only believe that he has been haled by an impossibly beautiful maiden, or some elf spirit that has taken the form of such a maiden. Her long hair, streaming about her face, is like the warm sun of a summer’s afternoon falling across still waters, then flashing back twice as bright, and he squints at its brilliance. Her skin might be sunlight as well, or newly minted gold, the way it glints and shines.

  So, perhaps this is a hero’s death, and so a hero’s reward, as well. He stops struggling and lowers his weapon, ready to follow this vision on to paradise and whatever banquet Odin has already prepared in his honor. And then Beowulf glances down, past the fullness of her breasts, and where the gentle curves of her belly and hips ought be, the golden skin is replaced by golden scales and by chitinous plates like the shell of a gilded crab. Worse still, where her legs should be, there is a long and tapering tail ending in a broad lancet fin. She smiles and clutches at him, and now Beowulf sees the webbing between her fingers and the hooked claws where a human woman would have nails. She does not speak, but he can plainly hear her voice inside his mind, beckoning him to follow her deeper. An image comes to him, then, of the two of them locked together in a lover’s embrace, her lips pressed to his as they drift farther from the sun’s rays and all the world above.

  And he kicks free…

  …“I killed the monster with my own blade,” Beowulf tells Unferth and anyone else there beneath the roof of Heorot who is listening to his tale. “Plunging it again and again into its heart, I killed it. But I did not win the race.”

  “You do not have to prove yourself to him,” Wealthow says, drawing a smirk from Unferth.

  But Beowulf continues. “They sing of my battle with the sea monsters to this day, my friend. And they sing no such songs about Brecca. But I braved their hot jaws, making those lanes safe for seamen. And I survived the nightmare.”

  “Of course,” Unferth says, and fakes a tremendous yawn. “The sea monsters. And you killed, what, twenty was it?”

  “Three, all told. But…will you do me the honor of telling me your name.”


  Unferth shrugs and passes his empty cup back to his slave. “I am Unferth, son of Ecglaf, son of—”

  “Unferth?” Beowulf asks, and before Hrothgar’s man can reply, the Geat has turned to address his own thanes. “Unferth, son of Ecglaf? Well, then your fame has crossed the ocean ahead of you. I know who you are…”

  Unferth manages to look both proud of himself and uncertain at the same time.

  “Let’s see,” Beowulf says. “They say that you are clever. Not wise, mind you, but sharp. And they say, too, that you killed your brothers when you caught them bedding your own mother. In Geatland, they name you ‘Unferth Kinslayer,’ I believe,” and Beowulf laughs.

  Unferth stares back at him, speechless, his mossy eyes burning bright with hatred and spite. And then he lunges at Beowulf, growling like a dog. The Geat steps to one side, and Unferth trips, landing in a drunken heap at Beowulf’s feet. The Geat crouches beside him, grinning.

  “I’ll tell you another true thing, Unferth Kinslayer. If your strength and heart had been as strong and as fierce as your words, then Grendel would never feel free to murder and gorge on your people, with no fear of retaliation. But tonight, friend, tonight will be different. Tonight he will find the Geats waiting for him. Not frightened sheep, like you.”

  Suddenly, several of the Danish thanes advance and draw their weapons, rushing to the aid of their king’s most favored and trusted advisor. Seeing this, Beowulf’s own men reach for their swords and daggers—

  “Well done!” shouts King Hrothgar. “That’s the spirit, young Beowulf!” and he begins clapping his hands together enthusiastically. The thanes on either side look confused, but slowly they begin to return blades to sheaths and back away from one another.

  “Yes,” continues Hrothgar. “That’s the spirit we need! You’ll kill my Grendel for me. Let us all drink and make merry celebration for the kill to come! Eh?”

  The slave, Cain, helps Unferth to his feet and begins dusting off his clothes. “Get away from me,” Unferth snaps, and pushes the boy roughly aside.

  Beowulf smiles a bold, victorious smile, his eyes still on Unferth as he places a hand on old Hrothgar’s frail shoulder.

  “Yes, my lord,” says Beowulf. “I will drink and make merry, and then I will show this Grendel of yours how the Geats do battle with our enemies. How we kill. When we’re done here, before the sun rises again, the Danes will no longer have cause to fear the comforts of your hall or any lurking demon come skulking from the moorland mists.”

  And now that those assembled in the hall have seen Beowulf’s confidence and heard for themselves his pledge to slay Grendel this very night, their dampened spirits are at last revived. Soon, all Heorot is awash in the joyful, unfettered sounds of celebration and revelry.

  “My king,” says Queen Wealthow, as she offers him a large cup of mead, “drink deeply tonight and enjoy the fruits and bounty of your land. And know that you are dear to us.” And when he has finished, she refills the cup, and the Helming maiden moves among the ranks—both Dane and Geat, the members of the royal household and the fighting men—offering it to each in his turn. Only Unferth refuses her hospitality. At the last, she offers the cup to Beowulf, welcoming him and offering thanks to the gods that her wish for deliverance has been granted. He accepts the cup gladly, still enchanted by the beauty of her. When he has finished drinking and the cup is empty, he bows before Hrothgar and his lady.

  “When I left my homeland and put to sea with my men, I had but one purpose before me—to come to the aid of your people or die in the attempt. Before you, I vow once more that I shall fulfill that purpose. I will slay Grendel and prove myself, or I will find my undoing here tonight in Heorot.”

  Wealthow smiles a grateful smile for him, then leaves the dais and moves again through the crowded mead hall, until she comes to the corner where the musicians have gathered. One of the harpists stands, surrendering his instrument, and she takes his place. Her long, graceful fingers pluck the strings, beginning a ballad that is both lovely and melancholy, a song of elder days, of great deeds and of loss. Her voice rises clearly above the din, and the other musicians accompany her.

  Hrothgar sits up straight on his throne and points to his wife. “Is she not a wonder?” he asks Beowulf.

  “Oh, she is indeed,” Beowulf replies. “I have never gazed upon anything half so wondrous.” He thinks that perhaps the king is near to tears, the way his old eyes sparkle wetly in the firelight.

  Then Beowulf raises his cup to toast Wealthow, who, seeing the gesture, smiles warmly and nods to him from her place at the harp. And it seems to the Geat that there is something much more to her smile than mere gratitude, something not so very far removed from desire and invitation. But if Hrothgar sees it, too, he makes no sign that he has seen it. Instead, he orders Unferth to stand and give up his seat to Beowulf, and Hrothgar pulls the empty chair next to his throne and tells Beowulf to sit. He motions to his herald, Wulfgar, who leaves and soon returns with an elaborately carved and decorated wooden box.

  “Beowulf,” says Hrothgar. “Son of Ecgtheow…I want to show you something.” And with that the king opens the wooden box, and the Geat beholds the golden horn inside.

  “Here is another of my wonders for you to admire,” the king tells him, and Hrothgar removes the horn from its cradle and carefully hands it to Beowulf.

  “It’s beautiful,” Beowulf says, holding the horn up and marveling at its splendor, at its jewels and the bright luster of its gold.

  “Isn’t she magnificent? The prize of my treasury. I claimed it long ago, after my battle with old Fafnir, the dragon of the Northern Moors. It nearly cost me my life,” and he leans closer to Beowulf, whispering loudly. “There’s a soft spot just under the neck, you know.” And Hrothgar jabs a finger at his own throat, then points out the large ruby set into the throat of the dragon on the horn. “You go in close with a knife or a dagger…it’s the only way you can kill one of the bastards. I wonder, how many man have died for love of this beauty.”

  “Could you blame them?” asks Beowulf, passing the horn back to Hrothgar.

  “If you take care of Grendel, she’s yours forever.”

  “You do me a great honor,” Beowulf says.

  “As well I should. I only wish that I possessed an even greater prize to offer you as reward for such a mighty deed.”

  Beowulf turns then from Hrothgar and the splendid golden horn and listens as Queen Wealthow finishes her song. For the first time since his journey began, he feels an unwelcome twinge of doubt—that he might not vanquish this beast Grendel, that he may indeed find his death here in the shadows of Heorot. And watching Wealthow, hearing her, he knows that the dragon’s horn is not the only thing precious to the king that he would have for his own. When she’s finished and has returned the harp to the harpist, he stands and clambers from the dais onto the top of one of the long feasting tables. Wealthow watches, and Beowulf feels her eyes following him. He takes a goblet from one of his thanes and raises it high above his head.

  “My lord! My lady! The people of Heorot!” he shouts, commanding the attention of everyone in the hall, and they all stop and look up at him. “Tonight, my men and I, we shall live forever in greatness and courage, or, forgotten and despised, we shall die!”

  And a great and deafening cheer rises from his men and from the crowd, and Beowulf looks out across the hall, directly at Queen Wealthow. She smiles again, but this time there is uncertainty and sadness there, and a moment later she turns away.

  7

  The Walker in Darkness

  In his dream, Grendel is sitting outside his cave watching the sunset. It isn’t winter, in his dream, but midsummer, and the air is warm and smells sweet and green. And the sky above him is all ablaze with Sól’s retreat, and to the east the dark shadows of a sky wolf chasing after her. And Grendel is trying to recall the names of the two horses who, each day, draw the chariot of the sun across the heavens, the names his mother taught him long ago. There is a te
rrible, burning pain inside his head, as though he has died in his sleep and his skull has filled with hungry maggots and gnawing beetles, as though gore crows pick greedily at his eyes and plunge sharp beaks into his ears. But he knows, even through the veil of this dream, that the pain is not the pain of biting worms and stabbing beaks.

  No, this pain comes drifting across the land from the open windows and doors of Heorot Hall, fouling the wind and casting even deeper shadows than those that lie between the trees in the old forest. It is the hateful song sung by a cruel woman, a song he knows has been fashioned just so to burrow deep inside his head and hurt him and ruin the simple joy of a beautiful summer’s evening. And Grendel knows, too, that it is not the slavering jaws of the wolf Skoll that the sun flees this day, but rather that song. That song which might yet break the sky apart and rend the stones and boil away the seas.

  No greater calamity in all the world than the thoughtless, merry sounds that men and women make, no greater pain to prick at his soul than their joyful music and the fishhook voices of their delight. Grendel does not know why this should be so, only that it is. And he calls out for his mother, who is watching from the entrance of the cave, safe from the fading sunlight.

  “Please, Modor,” he asks her, “make them stop. Make her be quiet.”

  “How would I ever do that?” she replies and blinks at him with her golden eyes.

  “Oh, I could show you,” he says. “It is not so very hard to silence them. It is a simple thing. They break—”

  “You promised,” she hisses softly.

  “To endure this agony, is that what I promised?”

  “You promised,” she says again, louder than before.

  So, Grendel dreams that he shuts his eyes, hoping to find some deeper twilight there, a peaceful, painless dusk that cannot be ruined by the voice of a woman, by harps and flutes and drums, by the shouts of drunken men and the shrieks of drunken women. He shuts his eyes tightly as he can and drifts down to some time before this sunset outside his cave, a silent time, and he pretends that the ache in his ears and the din banging about inside his brain have yet to begin. Heorot Hall has not been built, and the king has not found his queen. Grendel is yet a child, playing alone in the murk of the cave, making some secret game from a handful of seashells and the backbone of a seal. Not a day he actually remembers, but a day that might have been, nonetheless.