Beowulf

by Caitlin R. Kiernan

  To Beowulf, these are the words of a man fighting to convince himself of something he knows to be otherwise. They stare at each other in silence for a long moment, then Hrothgar takes the golden circlet from off his head and frowns down at it.

  “They think this band of gold is all there is to being king. They think because I wear this, I am somehow wiser than they. Braver. Better. Is that what you believe?” he asks Beowulf.

  “I could not say, my lord.”

  “One day,” says Hrothgar, placing the crown once more on his head, “one day you will, I think. One day, you will understand the price—the terrible price—to be paid for her favors, and for the throne. You will know how a puppet feels, dangling on its strings…” Then he trails off and chews at his lower lip.

  “My Lord Hrothgar—” Beowulf begins, but the king raises a hand to silence him. There’s a mad gleam shining in the old man’s eyes, and it frightens Beowulf more than the sight of any terror that might yet lurk in bogs or over foggy moors.

  “No, I will speak no more of this,” Hrothgar says, and he turns and unlocks the door and steps back out into the mead hall, and Beowulf follows him. When Hrothgar reaches the feasting table on the dais, he takes a place behind Wealthow’s chair, and at the top of his voice, he addresses the hall.

  “Listen!” he roars. “Listen to me, all of you! Because Lord Beowulf is a mighty hero. Because he killed the demon Grendel, and laid its mother in her grave. Because he lifted the curse from off this accursed, beleaguered land. And because I have no heir…”

  Hrothgar pauses to take a breath, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. The harpist has stopped playing, and the scop has stopped singing. Most of the hall has fallen silent and turned toward the dais. Beowulf glances at Wealthow, and she wears the mien of a frightened woman.

  “Because…” continues Hrothgar, even louder than before. “Because all these things are true—and no one here among you may dare to say otherwise—I declare that on my death I leave all that I possess—my kingdom, my riches, my hall…and even my queen…It all goes to Beowulf.”

  Unferth rises, confused, and he glances nervously from Beowulf to Hrothgar. “But,” he stammers, “my lord, surely you—”

  “I have spoken!” bellows Hrothgar, and Unferth sits down again. “There will be no argument. When I am gone, Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, shall be your king!”

  And then, for the space occupied by no more than half a dozen heartbeats, a shocked silence lies heavy over the hall, a silence like storm clouds, but then it breaks apart and all those assembled under Heorot begin to cheer.

  “My husband,” says Queen Wealthow, her voice almost lost in the throng’s hurrahs and hoorays, the cries of “Long live Hrothgar” and “All hail Beowulf,” the whistling and clapping of hands. “Are you sure you know what it is you’ve done?”

  But the king of the horned hall does not reply, only winks knowingly at her as though they share some secret. And so she glances to Unferth, who sits, hands folded on the table before him, silent, his jaw set, his teeth clenched. She knows that in earlier times, before Grendel and the coming of the Geats, that Unferth, son of Ecglaf, had believed with good cause that he would one day wear the crown and rule the kingdom of the Ring-Danes. She, too, had believed he would be Hrothgar’s successor to the throne.

  Hrothgar bends down and whispers in his lady’s ear. His voice is thin, like high mountain air or old paper.

  “I have had my days in the sun,” he tells Wealthow. “I have had my nights with you, sweet queen, and taken my pleasures. Now, I would see another in my stead. And in my bed, as well. One who is truly worthy of these honors. One you may find both more suitable and less loathsome.”

  Many of the people in the hall have begun to climb onto the dais, crowding in around Beowulf, offering their congratulations and generous tributes to his bravery and future reign. He smiles, but it’s an uneasy, uncertain smile, too filled up with the dizzying shock one feels when events turn too quickly, when dreams seem as real as waking thought. He glances to Wiglaf, but Wiglaf is staring deep into his mead cup, some peculiar sadness on his face, and he does not see Beowulf. And now the merewife’s promises come back to him again, and might not that have only been a dream? Her hands upon him, her lips so cold against his?

  Love me, and I shall weave you riches beyond imagination. I shall make you the greatest king of men who has ever lived.

  And now Hrothgar, son of Healfdene, grandson of Beow, turns to face him, and the old king bows, but only very slightly, and there is another deafening cheer from the hall. Then Hrothgar turns away and walks back toward the door leading to the anteroom behind the dais and then to the balcony beyond.

  Queen Wealthow, feeling a sudden chill, a peculiar unease, turns to watch her husband as he takes his leave of the celebration. But she tells herself that whatever disquiet she feels is only a natural reaction to Hrothgar’s startling abdication and nothing more. She watches him pass through the fire-lit anteroom and out onto the balcony, and Wealthow tells herself he needs some time alone, and so she keeps her seat and does not follow him.

  Out on the balcony, the north gale whips at the old man’s beard and at his robes, the breath of a giant to fuel high white waves. He faces the sea, and at his back lies his home and wife, all his lands, his kingdom and everything that he has ever done. All brave deeds and every act of cowardice, all his strengths and weaknesses, his victories and defeats. All he has loved and hated.

  “Enough,” he says. “I will go no farther.” But the wind takes the words away and scatters them like ash. Hrothgar reaches up, removing the circlet from his head, that crown of hammered gold first worn by his great-grandfather, Shield Sheafson. He sets it safely in the lee of the low balustrade, so the wind will not carry it away.

  “I will not see Ásgard,” he says. “It is not meant for the eyes of men like me,” and then Hrothgar steps over the balustrade and lets the abyss take him. Perhaps he hears Wealthow screaming and perhaps it is only the wind in his ears.

  And in the instant before the fall has ended and he strikes the rocks, Hrothgar glimpses with watering eyes something slithering about beneath the fast-approaching waves, something plated round with glittering scales, a gilded woman with the sinuous tail of an eel, the unmistakable form of the merewife.

  And only seconds later, Wealthow stands at the edge of the balcony, staring down at his body shattered there on the sea-licked granite boulders far below. By the time Beowulf reaches her side, by the time Unferth and Wiglaf and others from the hall have seen for themselves that Hrothgar is gone, she’s stopped screaming. She has stuffed the knuckles of one fist into her mouth and is biting down on them to choke the sound in her throat.

  And then all the sea appears to draw back, gathering itself into a towering, whitecapped surge, a wave high enough to reach the fallen king’s body. It rushes forward, a crashing, frothing shroud for a broken corpse, and when it retreats, it takes Hrothgar away with it, and he passes forever from the eyes of man. Then the waves are only waves again, and the wind is only wind.

  Wealthow takes her hand from her mouth. There’s blood on her knuckles, tiny wounds born of her own teeth. The wind is freezing her tears upon her cheeks. “He must have fallen,” she says, knowing it’s a lie. “He was drunk, and he must have fallen.”

  Unferth has put one arm protectively about her shoulders, as though he fears she will follow her husband over the ledge. But now he sees the circlet lying where Hrothgar set it, and he releases her and stoops to pick it up. It seems unnaturally heavy in his hands, this dull ring of gold that might have been his, that he might have worn had Grendel’s assault upon Heorot never begun. If he had been the man who slew the monster and its mother. But it is so very heavy, heavier than it has any right to be. Unferth turns to Beowulf and Wiglaf and the thanes who have shoved their way through the anteroom and out onto the balcony. They are all watching him, wide-eyed and silent. Unferth holds the crown up so all can see, and he looks Beowul
f in the eye.

  “All hail,” he says, and swallows, the words sticking like dust in his throat. “All hail King Beowulf!”

  And he places the golden circlet on Beowulf’s head, glad to be rid of the crown. In years to come, he will recall the way it felt in his fingers, the weight of it, the peculiar sense that it was somehow unclean. For a time there is only the howling of the winter wind, the waves battering themselves against the rocky shore. But then Wealthow turns and looks upon her new king.

  “You wear it well, my lord,” she says, forcing a smile, and she pushes her way through the crowd, back toward the shelter of Heorot Hall. By the time she’s reached the throne dais, the thanes have begun to cheer.

  PART TWO

  The Dragon

  15

  King Beowulf

  And so the skein of years unwinds, the lone white eye of the moon trailing always on the heels of Sól’s flaming, wolf-harried chariot—day after day and year after year, season following season as it ever has since the gods raised Midgard long ago. And even as the passage of time is constant, so are the ways of men, and so it is that on this cold day in the month of Frermánudr, but two days remaining before Yule, Beowulf, King of the Ring-Danes, sits astride his horse looking out upon the battle raging where the sea touches his land. Thirty years older than the night he killed Grendel, this Beowulf, and greedy time reckons its toll upon all things under Midgard, even heroes and the kings of men. His hair and beard are streaked with the frost that stains any long life, and his face is creased and wizened. But he might easily be mistaken for a man ten years younger, if only because his eyes still burn as brightly and his body is still strong and straight. He wears the scars of a hundred battles, but he wears them no differently than he wears the golden circlet that once crowned King Hrothgar’s head.

  Wiglaf, son of Weohstan, sits upon his own mount to Beowulf’s right, and together, from this small bluff at the end of the moorlands, they watch the men fighting down on the shore. The Frisian invaders made landfall in the night, but in only a few hours Beowulf’s archers and swordsmen, his thanes bearing axes and spears, have driven them back to the beaches. The Frisian force is in tatters, and there can be no hope left among them of victory. Even retreat seems unlikely, unless the man who commands these warriors should deign to call back his hounds. From the start, the Frisians were too few and too poorly trained to succeed in this attack, and any man still left alive among them will be fortunate to escape with his skin.

  Beowulf shakes his head and shuts his eyes, wishing to see no more of this shameful, bloody scene.

  “This is no longer a battle, Wiglaf,” he says. “It’s slaughter.”

  Wiglaf, also marked by age and also yet a strong man, nods toward the battle.

  “The Frisians want to make themselves heroes, my lord. They would have the bards sing of their deeds.”

  “It’s going to be a short song,” sighs Beowulf, opening his eyes again.

  “Aye,” says Wiglaf. “But can you blame them? Your legend is known from the high seas and the snow barriers to the great island kingdom. The whole world knows the lay of Beowulf and Grendel. You are the monster slayer.”

  Beowulf shakes his head again and laughs, but there is not the least trace of humor in the sound.

  “We are the monsters now,” he says, making no effort to hide his disdain and self-loathing. “We are become the trolls and demons.”

  “They come to find the hero,” says Wiglaf, and he points to the handful of Frisian invaders who have not yet fallen.

  “The time of heroes is dead, Wiglaf. The Christ God has killed it…leaving mankind nothing but weeping martyrs and fear…and shame.”

  And now a voice comes from the beach, rising free of the clash and clamor of battle. “Show me to King Beowulf!” it demands. “I would die by his sword and his alone! Show me to Beowulf!”

  Wiglaf glances nervously to Beowulf, who has tightened his grip on the reins.

  “You cannot,” says Wiglaf firmly. “He means only to taunt you into delivering his own glory, my lord. You know that. Do not reward him.”

  “Leave him!” shouts Beowulf, ignoring Wiglaf’s counsel. He spurs his horse forward, riding swiftly along the sandy bluff and into the midst of his warriors, most of whom have gathered about one of the last of the Frisians remaining alive. They have stripped away his helmet and much of his armor, forcing him down onto the bloodied sand. They kick at his bare head and unprotected belly, laughing and cursing the man, denying him the honor of death. Beowulf recognizes the Frisian as the leader of this invasion.

  “Stop!” cries Beowulf, bringing his horse to a halt, its hooves spraying sand in all directions. The men do as they’re told, turning and gazing up at their king scowling down at them.

  “What is this?” asks Beowulf to his thanes. “You think it sport to mock your opponent in this fashion? To kick and bully an unarmed man, then make jest of his pain? No. Let him die quickly, with some measure of dignity left intact. You are soldiers…behaving like a mob.”

  And then Beowulf pulls tight on the reins, turning his horse about and almost colliding with Wiglaf, who has only just gained the foot of the bluff.

  “Kill me yourself!” shouts the leader of the Frisians, getting slowly, painfully to his feet. “If you would have me dead, then kill me yourself, coward.”

  And Beowulf sits there on his horse, staring ahead at Wiglaf, his back turned to both the Frisian and his own thanes. He can clearly read the warning in Wiglaf’s eyes, the caution that never seems to leave them for very long. The waves are loud upon the shore, the waves and the wind and the pounding of Beowulf’s heart in his ears.

  “Kill me yourself,” the Frisian says again, sounding bolder now and taking a step nearer the king.

  “Hold your tongue, bastard,” Wiglaf tells the man. “The king can never engage in direct battle.” And then to Beowulf’s thanes he says, “Kill the invader now. Do it quickly, and put his head on a spear. Plant it high on the bluff as a warning to others who would come to our land seeking their immortality.”

  There’s a low murmur of disappointment from the Danes, as if they are being cheated of some rightful and well-deserved prize. But a number of the men raise their swords to do as Wiglaf has ordered.

  “Stop!” Beowulf commands, turning his horse to face the Frisian once again. The thanes look confused, but immediately lower their weapons and begin to back away.

  “You think me a coward?” Beowulf asks the leader of the Frisians as he nudges his horse forward, until he is looming over the battered man.

  “I think you are an old man,” replies the Frisian, standing up as straight as he can manage and looking Beowulf directly in the eyes. He has retrieved his weapon from the sand, a bearded ax, its iron head rusty and pitted but keen and slick with blood. “I think you’ve forgotten which end of an ax is sharp and how to wield a sword in battle. You watch from a safe distance, squatting on your pony, and then call the battle won by your own hand.”

  Beowulf draws his sword and dismounts, never taking his eyes off the Frisian.

  “Hear me, my lord,” says Wiglaf. “The king can never engage in direct battle.”

  “And whose rule is that, anyway?” Beowulf asks without turning to face his advisor, and Wiglaf does not reply. The thanes have begun to form a loose circle, with Beowulf and the Frisian at its center.

  “So,” says Beowulf to the Frisian, “you want your name added to the song of Beowulf? You think maybe that ballad should end with me slain by the blade of some netherland halfwit with no name that I have yet heard?”

  “I am called Finn,” the man replies. “And I am a prince among my people. And my name shall be remembered forever.”

  Beowulf nods and smiles, holding the pommel of his sword between thumb and forefinger, letting it swing this way and that like the arm of a deadly pendulum, the tip of the blade barely grazing the sand.

  “Only if you kill me,” he tells the man. “Otherwise, you are nothing.�
�� And Beowulf drives his sword into the sand at his feet, burying it halfway to the hilt, and he walks unarmed toward the Frisian.

  “Give the king a weapon!” orders Wiglaf, and there are eager cries from the thanes:

  “Take mine, Lord Beowulf!”

  “No, take mine!”

  “Kill the bastard with my sword!”

  At least a dozen good blades are offered, but Beowulf waves them all away. He closes the space between himself and the Frisian, who stands his ground, gripping his ax and smiling as though this is a fight he has already won. Beowulf stops with scarcely ten feet remaining between them and begins loosening the leather straps on his breastplate. Still advancing on the Frisian warrior, he removes his mail and gauntlets and both leather greaves. Now less than five feet remains between him and Finn, and Beowulf is within reach of the warrior’s ax. Beowulf rips open his white woolen tunic and strikes his chest hard with his right fist.

  “What are you doing?” asks Finn, staring at Beowulf’s naked torso, at the awful tapestry of scars there, the marks left by more battles than Beowulf could ever recall. The Frisian’s smile has faded, and he clutches his ax so tight his hands have gone white and bloodless.

  “You think you’re the first to try to kill me, Finn, Prince of Frisia?” asks Beowulf. “Or even the hundredth?”

  When Finn does not reply, Beowulf continues.

  “Then let me tell you something, netherlander. Perhaps it is something you have not heard. The gods won’t allow me to find death at the head of your feeble ax. Neither will Odin Allfather let me die by a sword or lance or arrow…or be taken by the sea,” and Beowulf motions toward the waves behind Finn. “The gods will not even allow me to pass in my sleep…ripe as I am with age.” Then Beowulf strikes his bare chest again, harder than before.

  “Plant your ax here, Finn of Frisia. Take my life.”

  “Are you a madman?” asks the Frisian, and he begins to back away, holding his ax up in front of him. “Has some animal or demon spirit taken your mind? Are you bersërkr?”