The Penguin Book of Dragons
Page 7
A source of terror, intent on evil.
Stout-hearted stood with towering shield
The lord of warriors, while the wyrm coiled himself
Swiftly together; the warrior waited.
Came then burning, the coiled one slithering,
Hastening to its fate. The shield defended
His life and limb a lesser while
Than the famous leader might have liked,
If he for once upon that day
Despite his doom might still prevail,
Succeed in battle. He swung up his arm,
The lord of Geats, the grim and mottled beast
He struck with ancient sword, but its sharp edge failed,
Bright against bone, bit with less force
Than the nation’s leader had need of then,
Hard pressed in battle. The barrow’s guardian
Felt that sword-stroke, and fierce in mood
Spewed waves of fire; widely then shone
The light of battle. Boasted not of victory
The gold-friend of Geats; his war-sword failed,
Unsheathed in battle, as it never should have,
Iron good of old; that was no easy trek
When the illustrious son of Ecgtheow
Had to leave this level plain of earth,
Against his will go to dwell in
A place elsewhere, as each man must,
Relinquish his loan of days. It was not long until
The awesome enemies advanced again:
The hoard-guard took heart, his breast heaving,
Attacked a second time; he suffered harsh straits,
Wrapped in fire, who his folk had ruled.
Nor did his comrades crowd round their leader,
The sons of nobles, stand and support him
With warlike strength, but into the wood they fled
To save their own lives. In one of them welled
His heart with sorrows; still less may kinship
Be set aside for one seeking what is right.
He was called Wiglaf, Weohstan’s son,
Beloved shield-warrior, of the Scylfing clan
And Ælfhere’s lineage. He saw his liegelord
Under his helmet be hurt by heat.
His mind cast back on the benefits he got
When living in wealth among the Wægmundings,
Each of the folk-rights his father had given him.
He could not hold back; one hand grasped shield,
Of yellow linden, the other drew ancient sword.
[Wiglaf alone comes to the aid of his stricken lord and together they slay the dragon.]
He strode in helmet to help his lord
Through smoke of slaughter, then spoke these words:
“Beloved Beowulf, as best you can
Perform what in youth you promised long since
Never to allow while yet alive
Your glory to dim; famous for deeds,
A stern-minded prince, with might and main
Defend now your life; and I will fight with you.”
After those words the angry wyrm came,
The malevolent beast launched an attack
A second time with surging fire
Against hated foes, flames coming in waves;
Shield burned to the boss, his byrnie was
Of little use to the young spear-warrior
So shelter he sought under kinsman’s shield,
Sped forth eagerly since his own had been
All wrecked by flames. Then yet the war-king
Remembered past deeds, and struck so mightily
With his sword of battle that it stuck in the skull,
Driven by hate and need. Naegling burst apart,
Beowulf’s old sword, streaked with silver-grey,
Failed in the fight.5 Fate granted him not
That the iron’s edge at all provided
Help in the battle; his hand was too strong
So every blade as I have heard tell
Could not withstand his strokes in battle,
A weapon wondrous hard; it was no whit the better.
Then for a third time the terrible fire-dragon,
Destroyer of nations, intent on vile deeds
Rushed at the man of glory when it got the chance,
Hot and battle-grim it bit the neck deeply
With sharp, bony tusks; he became all bloody,
His life-blood’s essence welled up in waves.
I heard in time of need by the nation-king’s side
His steadfast thane showed great courage,
Craft and keenness, as befit his kin.
He heeded not the dragon’s head but the hand was burned
Of the brave man coming to his kinsman’s aid.
He lunged at the enemy somewhat lower down,
The man in armor, so his ornamented sword
Sank in where he struck and suddenly the flames
Began to subside. The king himself
Regained his wits and drew his war-dagger
Keen and battle-sharp from beside his byrnie;
The Weders’ king cut the wyrm wide open.
They felled the foe, forced out its life,
Cut it down with courage, the kindred nobles,
Both together. So should a man be,
A thane in time of need! That for the king was
The last moment of triumph made by his own deeds,
Works in the world. Then the wound began,
Which the earth-dragon earlier had given him,
To burn and swell; too soon he found
Welling up in his breast a baleful evil,
A poison within. The noble king walked
Along the wall of rock, wisely pondering,
Then sat and gazed upon the work of giants,
How the stone-arches supported by pillars
Within the age-old earth-hall were held.
The incomparable thane then cupped his hands,
Laved with water his lord and friend,
Glorious king all covered in blood
And battle-weary. He unbuckled his helmet.
Beowulf spoke, despite his pain,
His mortal wounds; full well he knew
His span of days had all departed,
His joys on earth, that all were gone
His numbered days, his death full nigh.
“I would have given my war-gear all
Unto my son, had it been so granted
That any heir would live on after me,
Child of my own. I ruled over my people
For fifty winters; there was no folk-king,
Not any of those from neighboring tribes,
Who dared wage war with allies against me,
Threaten with horror. In my homeland I waited
For my time to come, my kingdom ruled well,
I sought no feuds nor falsely swore
Oaths unjustly. For all this I may,
Though wracked with wounds, take rightful pleasure;
The Ruler of men may not therefore
Accuse me of kin-slaying, while courses away
The life from my body. Go look you now,
Make haste to the hoard under hoary stone,
Beloved Wiglaf, while the wyrm lies sore wounded,
Asleep in death, stripped of treasure.
Go swiftly so that I may see
The ancient wealth, heirlooms of gold,
Bright precious gems, so I may more gently
With wealth of treasure take my leave
Of life and nation, which I long held.”
Then I heard swiftly the son of Weohstan
Obeyed the words of his wounded lord,
Sick from battle; wearing byrnie went,
Woven battle-coat, under barrow’s roof.
The fierce young thane, flushed with victory,
Passed by the seat, saw many jewels
And gold glittering on ground where it lay,
Wonders on walls and throughout the wyrm’s den,
The old dawn-flier’s, flagons standing,
Vessels of ancients with no one to burnish them,
And missing their gems. There was many a helmet
Old and rusty, many an arm-ring,
Torque finely twisted. (Treasure may easily,
Gold on the ground, get the better of
Every last human, hide it who will.)
He saw too a standard shining and gilded
Hang high over hoard, of hand-crafts the best,
Woven with fine skill, reflecting the light
So he could discern the surface of the barrow,
Scan all the works of art. Of the wyrm there was
No sign whatsoever, for sword had dispatched him.
Then I heard the hoard was plundered,
Old work of giants by one man alone,
Filled his arms up with flagons and platters,
All much as he wanted, as well as the standard,
Brightest of banners. The bold king’s sword
With edges of iron had already harmed
The one who guarded the golden treasure
For so very long, flames of terror it brought
For the sake of the hoard, hot and surging
In the middle of nights, before meeting its death.
The herald urgently hastened his way back,
Bold in spirit, spurred on by treasure,
Sore wanting to know whether in that place
He would find alive, if losing strength,
The lord of Weders where he had left him.
While laden with treasure, his lord and friend,
The famous king, he found all bloody,
His life at an end. Again he began
To cast water on him, until word’s point
Broke through his breast. The bold one spoke,
The old man in sorrow surveyed the gold:
“For these precious things I peer at now
I thank the Lord, eternal leader,
King of Glory, give thanks in words
That I am permitted for my people’s sake
To gain such gold before I go to my death.
For all this heap of hoarded treasure
I have paid with the life allotted to me.
Take care of my people; I cannot remain.
Bid the war-famed men build up a mound
After flames consume me on a cape by the sea.
It shall stand in memory to all my folk
And tower high on Hronesnes
So that seafarers since will name the place
Beowulf’s barrow, who pass by in ships
Driven from afar through the fog-covered sea.”
Then unclasped from his throat a collar of gold,
The glory-minded king gave it to his thane,
The young spear-warrior, as well as gilded helm,
Arm-ring and byrnie, bid him use those well.
“You are the last remaining member of our clan
Of Wægmundings, swept away by destiny
Our bloodline all, earls of valor
To meet their fates, and I must follow them.”
Those were the last words of the wise old man,
Innermost thoughts before mounting the pyre,
Hot and hostile flames; from his breast flew out
His soul, gone to seek judgment, just and true.
Then befell the one still young in years
Great sorrow when seeing spread out on the earth
His dearest liegelord, his life at an end,
Suffering pitiably. His slayer too lay dead,
Awesome earth-dragon, emptied of life,
Overcome in battle. It could no longer,
The crooked-coiling wyrm, control the ring-hoard,
Had been snatched away by edges of iron,
Hard, hammer-struck, sharpened in battle,
So the wide-flier was felled by wounds,
Crashed down from above near the barrow’s hoard.
It no longer moved in the middle of the night
Through the air with pleasure, proud of its gold,
Displaying its form, but it fell to earth
Cut down by the handiwork of the warrior king.
Indeed, few men have managed it,
However hardy, as I have heard tell,
Though they were daring of deeds till then,
To rush against the ravager’s venom
Or disturb with hands the hall of rings,
Encounter the earth-hall’s guardian awake,
Dwelling in its barrow. Beowulf paid
The price of death for his portion of treasure.
Each of them brought the other to an end
Of this fleeting life. It was not long until
The laggards in battle came back from the wood . . .
[A messenger announces the death of Beowulf and the dragon.]
“Now the giver at will of gifts to the Weder-folk,
Lord of the Geats, lies still on his death-bed,
A bed of slaughter, because of the wyrm’s deeds;
Alongside him lies his loathsome foe
Stricken with dagger-wounds; for sword could not
In any way inflict a wound
On the warring creature. Now does Wiglaf,
Son of Weohstan, sit beside Beowulf,
One nobleman next to another unliving,
Weary in heart keeps watch at the head
Of both friend and foe. Our folk can expect
A time of attack when the truth is disclosed
To Franks and Frisians, the fall of our king
Made widely known.”
[As the warriors survey the scene of the battle, the messenger predicts bad tidings for the Geats now that Beowulf is dead.]
Thus the man made his many predictions,
Hateful tidings; he told few lies
About words or deeds. The warriors arose,
Went unblithely under Eagles Nest
With welling tears the wonder to behold.
They saw on the sand, his soul departed,
On his bed of rest, he who rings gave them
In earlier times; the end of days
Had come for the good and glorious king,
The lord of Weders met a wondrous death.
So too they saw the strangest creature,
The loathsome wyrm lying across from him
On the fields of earth; the fire-dragon was
Grim and mottled, besmirched by flames.
It was fifty feet in measures
Of length where it lay; lustfully had it ruled
The sky by night, descending down
To seek its den; but death stopped it cold,
No longer to use the earth-caves below.
Beside it lay countless cups and flagons,
Golden platters and precious swords,
Eaten through by rust, as if resting there
For eons in the earth’s embrace.
That old inheritance was huge and
mighty,
Ancient men’s gold gripped in a spell,
So that none could touch that treasure-hall’s rings,
Not any of men, unless God himself,
The true king of glory, should grant to someone
As he thinks meet among men to go
And open the hoard, for he holds and shields us.
[The dragon’s treasure is cursed, so they burn it on Beowulf’s funeral pyre.]
Little did any grieve
That they with haste should haul outside
The dear treasures. The dragon they shoved,
Wyrm over cliff-walls, let waves take him,
The sea gather in the guardian of treasures.
Then was wrought gold on wagons loaded,
Countless bright things, and the king beside them,
The veteran of battles borne to Hronesnes.
Then the Geatish people prepared for him
A pyre on earth, by no means paltry,
Hung round with helmets and shields of battle,
Bright byrnies, as he had bid them.
The glorious leader was laid down amidst
Thanes lamenting their beloved lord.
They began to kindle the greatest of bale-fires,
Warriors on the hilltop; the wood-smoke rose up,
Black above the blaze, the bonfire roared
Mixed with weeping; the winds subsided
And flames broke through the body’s bone-house
Hot at its core. With heavy hearts
They mourned their misery, their murdered lord.
A Geatish woman began to keen,
Her hair bound up, her heart aching,
Sang in sorrow and said repeatedly
That she invasions sorely dreaded,
Terror of war-troops, woeful slaughter,
Humiliation and thralldom. Heaven swallowed the smoke.
A burial mound the men of the Weders
Built up on the headland; it was high and broad,
Widely seen by men sailing the waves,
Piled together in just ten days,
A beacon for the brave. The brands and ashes
Were all walled up, in as worthy a way
As men of wisdom could best devise.
They set in barrow brooches and arm-rings,
Such trappings as men, intent on evil,
Had stolen from the well-stocked hoard,
Let earth retake the treasure of earls,
Gold under ground where yet it dwells
As useless to men as ever before.
Brave horsemen round the barrow rode,
Born of nobles, a band of twelve
Lamenting in sorrow and mourning their king,