Beowulf
Page 10
he flung the sword then far across the cave
flushed with anger no failure in his heart—
he remembered his handgrasp mindful of Grendel
his great gripstrength. A good war-thane
fighting for fame following name-glory
will trust his courage no care for his life.
He grabbed her then Grendel’s hell-mother
grappled her shoulders in his great handvise
tugged at her arms with angry heartstrength
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twisted her backwards bent her to the floor.
She clamped his arms in her cold fiendgrip
returned his tugging with tight claw-fingers—
she toppled him over with towering strength
raging with fire-eyes felled him to the floor
leapt on his chest lifted her shortsword
broad murder-knife burning to avenge
her only offspring. Over his breastcage
a hand-locked mailcoat harbored his life
countered the piercing of point and edge.
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He would soon have died there deep under the earth
Ecgtheow’s son strong Geat-champion
but his hard battle-coat held against that thrust—
close-woven steelmesh clenched against swordbite
kept him from death—the Deemer of this world
decided that contest the King of mankind
strengthened that warrior as he stood to his feet.
He saw then glittering a great hoard-weapon
smith-wrought by giants a sword for victory
blade for a champion best of war-weapons
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gleaming with goldwork greater in steel-weight
than any other man could manage in warfare.
He seized it by the hilt, that heavy wonder-sword
grasped in his hands the gold-gleaming handle
raised it in anger rage in his heart
swung at her neck with his strong handgrip
till it bit through the flesh burst fiend-muscles
broke through bone-rings—the blade cut through
felled her to the floor fated hell-creature—
the sword was blooded and Beowulf rejoiced.
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Light came rushing radiant and warm
as God’s bright candle glows in the heavens
glittering above. He gazed about him
moved along the wall wielding his giant-sword
with a great hilt-grip, Hygelac’s shield-thane
towering with rage—yet ready for vengeance
he stepped through the cavern searched for Grendel
anxious to repay that prowling visitor
for years of torture in that tall meadhall
twelve long winters of woeful murder
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when he fell upon Hrothgar’s hearth-companions
slew them in their sleep swallowed them down,
fifteen warriors of the folk of Denmark,
and carried from the hall to his cold water-den
the same number. He saw him then
Grendel slumped there with a great shoulder-wound
wearied by his crimes waiting for judgment
lifeless at last after long murder-years
horror in Heorot. With a hard swordswing
Beowulf slashed at him struck through his neck
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ended that hall-feud for Healfdene’s son.
Watching at the mere top the waiting Shield-Danes
Hrothgar’s counselors cold in their hearts
saw a welling of blood waves of death-gore
rise to the surface. Sorrowful advisers
battle-weary thanes borne down by grief
carried to their king a care-heavy message—
they hoped no longer that the leader of the Geats
might rise in victory through that roiling water
return to his men—they murmured in sorrow
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grieved that the she-wolf had slaughtered him below.
The sun swung low. They left the mere then—
those mourning Sword-Danes sought with their king
their good meadhall. Their guests stayed on
sick with horror stared at the blood-froth.
They wished without hope that their hero would surface
dive up to them. Deep below the earth
that broad wonder-blade wasted and quivered
withered in that blood—it wavered and dripped
melted and shrunk like shining icicles
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when the Ruler of heaven unwraps frost-bindings
warms water-ropes, Wielder of us all,
of times and seasons the true Measurer.
The lord of the Geats looked at the treasures
heaped and glittering in that grisly fiend-hall—
from the wealth before him he wanted no more
than Grendel’s head and that golden swordhilt—
the blade had vanished burned down to nothing
melted in the heat of that hell-spirit’s blood.
Soon he was swimming straight up to earthlight
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shot through the surface of that seething mere.
That peaceful pond was purged of evil
opened to sunlight when those alien spirits
paid for their loan-days with their pitiful lives.
He came then to land leader of the Geats
proud of the booty he bore in his hands
great hell-mysteries haled from the depths.
His thanes received him thankful to their God
for bringing him back from that baleful journey
safe from his fight with that foul death-mother.
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His hard mask-helmet hand-woven corselet
were quickly removed. The mere grew quiet
calm monster-pond colored with fiend-blood.
They left that devil’s hole led by their champion,
no mourning in their minds, measured the trackways
the known moorpaths. Marching Geat-thanes
bore the great head, grim death-plunder,
climbed through the mist past the cold rockstream
followed the pathway—four good warriors
bore on their spearshafts, struggling with the weight,
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Grendel’s gore-head through green forest-trees.
Fourteen spear-fighters filed across the meadow
marched upon the hall with its high gold-gables
Geats all together—their good warleader
towered among them trod the meadowgrass.
Once more he approached the proud wine-hall
champion of the Geats great monster-bane
to hail the king there Hrothgar the Dane.
Hefted by the hair the head of that murderer
was borne into the hall where beer-drinkers waited—
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Shield-Danes gathered there with their good hall-queen
to gaze upon hell that huge fiend-head.
Beowulf spoke son of Ecgtheow:
“From Grendel’s mere, gladman Hrothgar
bountiful lord, we bring gifts to you
tokens of victory tidings of relief.
I barely endured that deep monster-fight
under dark blood-water where death came pressing
stabbing at my heart—I would still be there
if the great Shaper had not shielded my life.
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No help was Hrunting with hell’s sorcery
that battle-sharp blade could not bite her flesh—
then the great Wielder Glory-King of all
gave me a wonder-blade granted to my sight
a huge giant-sword hanging by the wall.
I reached for the hilt raised it quickly
slashed at that she-wolf sliced through her neck
ende
d her misery. Then that old wonder-blade
burned and dwindled, dark murder-blood
melted it away. This marvelous swordhilt
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I bring back to you. Both man-killers
are banished from Heorot hall of the Danes.
I promise you this night, proud land-master,
you may sleep soundly sorrowing no more.
All of your warriors women and children
youth and elders aged counselors
all of your subjects may slumber in peace
reprieved from night-murder, prowling thane-killers.”
Then that ancient swordhilt old gold-treasure
strange work of giants wonder-smith’s pattern
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was placed in the hands of Healfdene’s son—
after long winters, leaving the Danes
with nightbale and tears, terror was sleeping.
Those murdering moor-stalkers mother and fiend-son
kept to their cavern under cold forest-stream.
That old treasure-hilt ancient wonderwork
came into the hands of Heorot’s treasure-king
the best battle-lord in the breadth of Denmark.
Hrothgar was gladdened gazed upon the hilt
curious sword-handle—cut into the gold
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was a tale of evil that old earth-struggle
when great flood-waters fell upon earth-giants
carried them away—the Wielder of all
God of creation crushed their wickedness
with welling water-rush washed them from earth.
Written in rune-marks on that rich swordhilt,
gleaming goldplate garnished with serpents,
was a curious name, who caused that sword
to be shaped and hammered smithied in yoredays
a weapon for the mighty. Then the wise Dane-lord
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Healfdene’s son spoke his mindthoughts:
“It can well be said by sons of this earth
by those who remember moments of the past,
clashing of spearshields that this keen battle-thane
was born for glory! Beowulf my friend
your fame is founded far across the waves
where wise men gather. Guard it carefully
strength with wisdom. I will stand by my word
make good my promises. To your Geat-friends now
you will come with counsel courage for their hearts
through long comfort-years.
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Not so kind was Heremod
to the kin of Ecgwela care-heavy Shield-Danes—
he brought them no joy but baleful murder
dark death-sorrows to his Danish followers.
With hot rage-thoughts he ravaged his people
hearth-companions till hate severed him,
jealous slaughter-king, from the joys of men
though the great Measurer marked him for honor
lifted him on high haled him to a throne
a towering meadhall. To his mind came rushing
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blood-hungry thoughts—no bracelets or rings
he gave to his warriors but woeful misery
shame and sorrow sharp death-grieving
endless murdering. Mark carefully
this lesson of anguish—old in winters
I warn you by this. It is wondrous to see
how almighty God in his endless wisdom
grants unto a man a mind to rule with
kingdom and meadhall to keep until death.
At times the Measurer maker of us all
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brings moments of pleasure to a proud earth-king
gives to that warrior worldly power-goods
hall and homeland to hold for his own
renders him ruler of rich meadow-lands
a broad kingdom—he cannot foresee
in his own unwisdom an end to such wealth.
He dwells in happiness no hindrance bothers him
no illness or age or evil reckoning
darkens his mind no deep serpent-thoughts
edge-hate in his heart—but all this loan-world
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bends to his will welcomes him with gold
till high throne-thoughts throng into his mind
gather in his head. Then the guardian sleeps
the soul’s warden—it slumbers too long
while a silent slayer slips close to him
shoots from his bow baleful arrows.
Deep into his heart hard under shield-guard
strikes the arrowhead—no armor withstands
that quiet marksman cold mind-killer.