Beowulf

by Michael Morpurgo

  “None of them ever dared venture to this hidden place where the monster and his mother lived, for it is known to be a place of wolves, of wild moors, dark fells, and perilous paths. Somewhere there, they said, a torrent of water plunges into the deep earth to make an underground channel that passes through vaulting caverns. Here these ogres had their loathsome lair. It is no distance from here, but no man of sense has ever ventured near the place. Even a wounded stag, hard pressed by baying hounds hot on his scent, would rather face the hounds’ tearing teeth than plunge into that bottomless stream. Sometimes I have heard that these waters stir themselves into such a rage that they swirl up into the clouds and the whole earth weeps in terror.

  “I have no one else to turn to. If you dare, as you dared before, then find this hideous sea-hag, seek her out in her unlovely lair, and destroy her. I shall reward you as I did before, with golden treasures from my hoard. My generosity will be even greater this time, I assure you.”

  Then Beowulf, Edgetheow’s noble son, replied, “For a fighting man like me, daring is everything. How else will a fighting man be remembered if he does not dare? I cannot banish your grief, great king. But I can and will avenge your loss. Of that you can be sure. I shall quickly find where this hag of hell has gone to. And I promise there will be nowhere she can hide, no fold in the field, no ditch, forest, or craggy cleft, no watery haven, nowhere. However deep she dives, I shall find her, and when I do, your revenge and mine will be swift and sure.”

  So they rode out after her together, Danish king and Geatish hero, their lords and thanes beside them, their shield-bearers marching alongside. It was not difficult to see which way she had gone. Along woodland paths, over the high moors foul with fog they traced her bloody steps, following where she had gone before, dragging her bloody victim. The trail narrowed between the cliffs, and the path here was tortuous and treacherous. Up over the scree they went then and down again onto the fens, a haunted, dreadful place where no one could ever live, nor would ever wish to live.

  Sensing danger all around them now, Beowulf and his warriors went ahead to scout the land. They came then to a cheerless cluster of ash trees by a rushing stream that tumbled beneath a rocky crag, and beyond that they found a dark, deep lake, stained with blood. And all knew at once whose blood it was. Worse evidence was to come, for they saw left there on the edge of the cliff the most grievous sight: Ashhere’s head. Stirred to new fury, they let out an eager battle cry, sounded the war-horn loud and long so that the whole world could hear their anger.

  Roused and enraged by the challenge of the battle-horn, a giant sea-serpent slithered to the surface. They saw now that the lake was teeming with serpents, and with countless strangely writhing water-snakes too. This place was truly a home of monsters. Beowulf at once let loose an arrow, the iron tip striking home to its mark, deep in the sea-serpent’s throat. Other spears then rained down until the body of this wave-lurker was dragged lifeless to the shore. Grisly, grim, and gruesome — no one word could describe this ghoul of the deep. Everyone there was happy to see that he was dead, I can tell you. But others were there, skulking shadows of the deep, waiting for Beowulf, waiting for their moment to strike.

  Beowulf now made himself ready for the fight that lay ahead of him, putting on first his heavily mailed shirt, so strong that no enemy could pierce it. On his head he set a splendid silver helmet that would protect him and ward off the worst of the blows. Wonderfully crafted it was, adorned with gold, richly carved all around with wild boars at bay — no sword-swipe had ever breached its stern defense. Unferth, Hrothgar’s herald and counselor, then handed him a hilted sword — Hrunting, he called it — a sword unlike any other, ancient, tried, and tested, wave-patterned, iron-edged, imbued over the years with the blood and venom of those it had destroyed. This sword had never failed any hero before. Beowulf clutched it keenly, eager now to face the foe.

  But first he spoke to silver-haired Hrothgar, close beside him: “The time has come, great king, to test again my courage and my strength. Remember, wise lord, all that we agreed before the fight with Grendel, that should I die in your service, you will be like a father to me when I am gone, protecting my hearth-companions and sending what gifts you have granted me, kind Hrothgar, to my lord Hygelac for his safekeeping. Being his servant, you will understand that all I have is his. It will show him how generous you have been, how you keep your word, and he will love you for it. And let Unferth have back Hrunting, the blade he just gave me. It should rightly be his again. With Hrunting I shall kill the ogress or die in the attempt. Let God choose between us.”

  With these words, Beowulf, that daring prince, dived into the lake and disappeared. So deep was the perilous pool that it seemed to take forever before he saw the bottom and felt it with his feet. And there that blood-greedy hag of the deep was waiting for him. Ready in ambush, she sprang on him, fastening him at once with her hellish hooks. But although he was caught, Beowulf was so far unharmed, for her clenched claws could not pierce his mail-shirt and draw blood.

  The sea-hag dragged the prince, pinioned and helpless in her grasp, to her cavernous lair. Try as he did, Beowulf could not even draw his sword to defend himself against this water-wolf, nor against the onslaught of twisting sea-monsters now slashing at him with their tearing tusks, which threatened to rip away his life-saving battle-coat. Still held fast in her deadly embrace, Beowulf found himself hauled to the surface into a vaulted cavern lit all around with fires of hell, it seemed, but at least he could breathe again and was free of the pressing weight of water. At least now he would not simply be swept away and drowned. Then he looked up and saw the monstrous size of this hideous sea-hag — he had felt her strength already. Undaunted, he saw his chance. He broke free of her, tore himself away, drew Hrunting, circled it high above him, and brought it screaming down on her head, sure it must be her death stroke. But Hrunting, that battle-hardened, all-powerful sword that had sliced so easily through helmet and mail, could not bite this monster’s hoary hide but simply bounced off, leaving her flesh unharmed, unscathed, unmarked even. Never before had Hrunting failed a warrior in a fight as it had now.

  But Beowulf, intent on victory, was not in the least downhearted. Rather his courage was renewed, his ferocity sharpened. Seeing that its blade-edge would be useless, the hero flung Hrunting aside and trusted now, as he had before, to his own strength, to the God-given power in his hands. Now was not the moment to think of saving his life. Now would be his time of testing, his achieving of everlasting glory.

  Anger steeled his strength; fury fired his determination, stirred him to action. Beowulf hurled himself at Grendel’s mother, grabbed her by the shoulder, and threw her bodily to the ground. But in a moment she repaid him fully, grasping him with her horrible hand-hooks, so that he stumbled and fell, too weary now to save himself. At once she was astride him. He was at her mercy. She snatched up her dagger. Now she would avenge her boy, her only son. With a scream of triumph she struck, but the mail-shirt shielded him from the sharp-edged blade, from the deadly point. Again and again she stabbed and slashed, but Beowulf’s blessed battle-shirt did not fail him. Without it, the Geat hero would certainly have been slaughtered there and then. But God, looking down, saved him, and gave him the victory.

  Summoning the last of his strength, Beowulf threw her off and leaped to his feet, and there above him on the wall he saw hanging an ancient war-trophy, a giant sword, so huge, so heavy, that only a giant could wield it in battle-play. But this death-defying champion, this Geatish hero, was boiling with war-fury. Like this, he was as strong as any giant, and he knew it. He sprung to the wall, caught up the sword by its hilt, and whirling it once above his head, the blade singing out its death-song, he brought it down on her neck, cutting clear through bone and flesh in one blow. Her death-agony was swift, and when it was done, she lay at his feet, stilled by death, Beowulf’s giant sword hot with her fiendish blood. It was over; it was done. The monster-mother was united in death at last with her monst
er-son.

  Looking about him now in that hellhole, Beowulf saw scattered there the wretched remains of Hrothgar’s brave hearth-companions, those that Grendel had murdered as they slept in Heorot hall. He saw too where Grendel himself lay, stiff in death, his lifeblood long ago drained from him. There was one more task for this giant sword. Beowulf, the fiercest of champions, finished the task and severed Grendel’s hideous head with a single swipe.

  Way up above, in the light of day, Hrothgar and his thanes, hearts heavy with anxiety, watched and waited by the pool. Fearful too were the Geatish warriors for their prince, especially when they saw blood bubbling up from the depths, marbling the surface of the water. Many long hours had passed now since Beowulf dived down into the deep, and most now believed that the famous hero could not this time be triumphant, but that the she-wolf, that devilish sea-hag, had at last done him to death.

  As dusk came down over that dreary place, Hrothgar and his thanes turned sadly for home and hearth, all hope now abandoned. But the Geats stayed, stunned with grief, hoping against hope to see once more their beloved leader; but they knew well enough now that they would not.

  Down below in the ogres’ lair, Beowulf looked about him in wonder at the heaped hoard of treasures, blood-booty of that damned pair. Much good it was to them now. The Geat hero took none of these treasures when he left, only the head of Grendel; Hrunting, the sword that had failed him; and the hilt of the giant sword that had done the she-wolf to death. Only the hilt remained of this deadly war-weapon — the engraved blade itself had simply been melted away by the hot blood of the doomed fiend that lay headless there.

  So Beowulf, that sainted survivor, plunged once more into the deep and with powerful strokes swam upward through the water, unhindered now by sea-serpents and writhing monsters of the deep, for the pool was now cleansed of these vile creatures, gone where all evil goes, where Grendel and his mother had gone, down to hell itself, where they belonged, never to return again.

  The first his faithful companions saw of their beloved prince was his silver war-helmet breaking the waves. Then, with spirits high and with joy, they rushed to the water’s edge to help him, wondering at his battle trophies, all of them thanking God for his victory and his safe return unharmed to their side. Quickly they loosened his mail-shirt and helmet, and all welcomed him joyously, good friends and loyal hearth-companions. So they left that dreadful pool behind them, blood-red from shore to shore, and still as death. It was a place all of them were happy to leave, Beowulf most of all.

  A bold spring in their step, carefree now at heart, they followed the well-trodden path back toward Heorot. It was a triumphant procession, but a slow one, for that heavy head, Grendel’s hideous head, had to be carried, and it was no easy matter, I can assure you. It took four of the strongest Geats to hold the spear steady, the dreaded head stuck high on the point, glaring in death all around it as they went.

  So with Grendel’s head aloft they made their way to Heorot, fourteen brave Geats, and the great warrior prince. Marching into that splendid mead-hall they came, much to the surprise and joy of everyone there. As Beowulf held up that monstrous head by its unlovely locks, it was indeed as ugly a thing as any there had seen, an awesome sight, but one that no longer brought fear to their hearts, only rapturous relief and great gratitude toward this prince of warriors. They listened to him now, Hrothgar and his queen, and all the gathered thanes.

  “We have brought back for you, great king of Denmark, all these trophies of our victory. They were heavy indeed to carry, but our heart-song made light of the burden. I will not pretend to you that it was easy, my lord. It was a close-run thing, this fight under water, a fight I very nearly lost before it had begun. Hrunting, fine weapon though it is, was useless against this she-wolf of the deep. But God was with me, and I thank only him for my victory. I snatched up another sword, a giant of a weapon, hanging there on the wall, and with it I avenged all the murder and misery inflicted on you by this family of fiends. First the monster’s head I severed, then this grisly reminder still lying there from that earlier conflict. Your enemies are dead. You have your peace back, so all of you may now sleep safely in Heorot. We have seen the last of them, my lord king. Everyone here can rest assured of that, I promise you.”

  Then Beowulf presented to the silver-haired king the golden hilt, all that remained of the giant sword that had done such damage in the fight. So the hilt belonged fittingly to Hrothgar, the best and wisest of kings. He spoke now to the silent hall.

  “Beowulf, my friend and best of men, your name and your nobility will resound throughout the world, even in the farthest corners. I marvel not only at your strength but also at the wisdom of one so young. Stay as generous and peaceable as you are, Beowulf. Do not become as other heroes have before you, so tuned to battle that a thirst for blood consumes you. I tell you this because I am old in years and I know that all men, however noble and fine, are frail, and our lives are finite. At the height of our powers, when triumph succeeds triumph, we cannot imagine an end to our success. Pride grows within us, despite ourselves. We can easily forget that our powers are God-given and should be used only in his service. Know, beloved Beowulf, that even with you the end must come; flesh and strength will fail. You are now in the high noon of your strength, but waiting for you, and not so far away, is sickness maybe, or a slashing sword, burning fire or drowning wave, the stab of a dagger, or just old age. Death awaits us all. I thank God in his great mercy that my own death has been postponed long enough for me to enjoy this moment, the end of Grendel and his kind, to gaze in triumph at his gory head. So, remembering all this, let us all rejoice and feast together tonight. And in the morning I shall give you all your promised treasure.”

  But they did not feast long that night, for Hrothgar the old king was tired and wished to rest. No feast can continue without its host, and the truth was that the Geatish prince was ready for his bed too. He had earned his rest that night, I think. Battle-weary, the hero and his thanes slept deeply until the black raven in the tree outside raucously greeted the coming of the new day. Sunlight chased away the shadows as the prince and his companions made ready to leave. Now that the fight was done, they wanted to be home, every warrior among them. They had been away long enough. Before he left, Beowulf returned Hrunting to Unferth, the king’s herald, and thanked him for the loan of it, without ever finding fault with the blade that had failed him. Beowulf was like this: fierce in battle, but generous and thoughtful in spirit. He did not want to hurt Unferth’s feelings.

  Now dressed in their armor and prepared for the journey home, Beowulf and his warriors went to Hrothgar to say their last farewells. The Geatish hero spoke first: “You will understand, great Hrothgar, how we long to return to Hygelac, to see once again our home and hearth. You have looked after us royally. We shall not forget your kindness. Know also, lord Hrothgar, that I shall always be ready to come to your aid again if you should ever need me. If I hear you are threatened by your neighbors or that any intend you harm, I shall come back with a thousand warriors to help you. Hygelac, my young king, lord of the Geats, would, I know, always want me to be at your side, shoulder to shoulder, and defending you against your enemies, along with a forest of sharpened Geatish spears, if ever you should need us.”

  Saddened at this parting, Hrothgar, wise in his great age, spoke to Beowulf, knowing that it was unlikely he would ever set eyes on his dear friend again. Tears filled his eyes as he embraced the Geatish hero for the last time. He spoke to him as a father to his favorite son. “I have never known a man at the same time so young and so wise. In you, strength and wisdom are perfectly matched. How the Lord in heaven has blessed you. If any ask me, I shall say this. Should, God forbid, the Geats lose their renowned king through sword or sickness, they could not want for a better prince than you to take his place and rule over the kingdom. In coming here to help us, you have brought our two peoples close together. By your courage you have banished any lingering ancient rivalries between
Dane and Geat. So long as I am king, our ships will cross the seas between us filled not with spears but only with gifts of friendship and love. We shall from now on stand always fast together, Sea-Geats and Spear-Danes, firm against our enemies.”

  So Beowulf left, carrying with him twelve new treasures, those promised parting gifts from the king to the Geatish hero, that dear man, friend forever of the Danish king and his people. Gold-decked and resplendent with rings he left them, and not a Dane who watched him go believed the reward was any more than he deserved.

  Now they came again to the seashore, sorrowing in their loss of Handscio, their dead war-companion, and at the same time rejoicing in all that had been achieved, and also in Hrothgar’s generosity toward them. The coastguardsman who had greeted them days before saw them coming again, these young warrior heroes in their war-shirts and glittering helmets. He rode to greet them, guiding them to the waiting sea-boat he had guarded so carefully for them. Once the ship was loaded with horses and armor, and Hrothgar’s hoard of gifts, Beowulf gave the coastguardsman a gift — a gold-hilted sword. It was a gift I am sure the man treasured forever. Then a mist rose high over the deck, the slack sail hoisted was soon wind-filled and taut, and the ship’s timbers felt again the sea-surge. Out over the waves the ship danced, rejoicing to feel again the foam at its throat. Like the warriors, that sea-boat longed to be home, and it rode the ocean, surf-skimmed the waves, until they saw at last the welcome cliffs and headlands of home, a coast they knew and loved. A favorable breeze brought them over the shallows and beached them safely on shore.