ever would spare them save them from fiendgrief.
Then Hygelac’s thane with hand-chosen warriors
crossed the floor-planks clinked an armor-song
stood before the king sorrowing Dane-lord
asked if his night-rest had eased his suffering
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if the breaking of Grendel had brought peace to him.
Hrothgar answered helm of the Shield-Danes:
“Don’t ask about happiness! Horror has come back
to the Danes in Heorot. Dead is Aeschere
good Yrmenlaf’s guide and blood-brother
my closest adviser counsel to us all
shoulder-companion when shields were hoisted
defender of my life when foot-warriors clashed
and helmets were struck. So should a man be
always beside us as Aeschere was!
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He found in Heorot a hell-spawned murderer
restless hand-killer. From our high meadhall
that slaughter-stained spirit has sought her mere-cave
I know not where. She now has avenged
the felling of Grendel that feud you began
with violent grappling that great handgrip
that settled our account for those cold death-years
the closing of Heorot. He cringed at your hand
went dying through the night and now this she-fiend
has avenged her monster-son vicious man-killer—
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too far she has carried this feud over blood-kin
it seems to us all aching in our minds
weeping for Aeschere warrior of my heart
high-minded hall-thane—now his hand is idle
that once granted us each wish and command.
I have heard evening-tales hearth-talk of scouts
of hall-messengers hailing from abroad
that they have sighted a solitary pair
monstrous moor-walkers moving through shadows
sorrowful fen-spirits. They say that one of them
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misshapen exile is most like a woman—
the wanderer with her woefully deformed
prowled the march-tracks manlike to their eyes
yet bigger by far than the best of warriors.
In times long past tenders of the land
named him Grendel. No one can say
what creatures spawned them their kin in this world.
They live secretly in a sombre land
dwell by wolf-slopes wind-tortured bluffs
gloomy fen-hollows where a forested stream
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dives from the bluffs down past earthlight
flows underground. Not far from Heorot
measured in miles the mere lies hidden—
reaching above it with rime-covered branches
strong-rooted trees stretch from rock-slopes.
At night may be seen a strange wonder-sight—
fire on the water. No wiseman lives
who knows the bottom of that black monster-home.
Though the heath-prancer by hounds labored
the strong-antlered hart may seek life-haven
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driven from afar he will die beside it
forfeit his life there for fear of crossing
plunging his head in that hell-cursed water.
A surging of waves swirls to the clouds
when whistling winds come whirling in anger
to that sorrowful place—the sky hangs gloomy
and the heavens weep. Our hope for mercy
lies only in your help. The home of these fiends
dark moor-cavern monsters’ water-den
is not far from Heorot. Find it if you dare!
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I will reward you with weapons and gold
ancient treasure-gifts time-tested corselets
as I earlier did if you answer this plea.”
Beowulf spoke son of Ecgtheow:
“Do not grieve, old battle-king! It is better for all
to fight for our friends than fall into mourning.
Each one among us shall mark the end
of this worldly life. Let him who may
earn deeds of glory before death takes him—
after life-days honor-fame is best.
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Arise, good guardian let us go quickly
to find the moor-tracks of that murdering fiend.
I promise you firmly she will find no safety
in the earth’s caverns or the cold forest-mounds—
nowhere in this land will she live for long!
At this painful dawning have patience with sorrow
bear your death-grief in your deep-wounded heart.”
Up stood the king called to his God then
thanked him for the words that warrior had spoken.
Then for Hrothgar a horse was saddled
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curly-maned war-steed. The wise Dane-leader
went forth in splendor. Warriors advanced
marched from the hall. The monstrous tracks
were easy to follow on the narrow path
where that loveless creature loped through the trees
over wild moorland wandering streams
bearing that body the best counsel-thane
of all who with Hrothgar made Heorot their home.
The lord of the Danes led through wilderness
steep stone-passes solitary trails
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narrow-dark gorges unknown trackways
slippery rockbluffs secret demon-dens.
He rode before them following the signs
guided his warriors Geats with the Danes
till suddenly they found frosted tree-branches
stretching mournfully over sloping grayrock
joyless treelimbs over trembling water
dreary and wind-driven. Danes were silent
with sorrow in their hearts at the sight before them
when they circled the mere saw greeting them
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on the moldering bank of that bloodstained water
on the edge of that hell-sump Aeschere’s head.
The water-top heaved as they hovered around it
with hot gore-swells. Horn-notes sounded
a strong battle-song. They sat by the bank.
In that hell-murky mere many a snake-creature
curious water-worms cut through the gore—
on the hard bank-slopes black fiends were roiling
serpents and mere-sprites slid along the rock—
by cold morninglight they moved through the water
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slithering with greed. They scattered then in anger
bitter and blood-swelled as the bright horn-notes
signaled a challenge. The chief of the Geats
shot from a yew-bow a sharp arrowhead
struck to the life-core a loathsome mere-creature
ended its misery—it afterwards became
a lazier swimmer when its life departed.
With a barbed boar-spear it was brought to shore
hooked with steel-teeth hauled to the edge
rolled on the rockbank robbed of lifeblood—
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they gazed in wonder at that grisly swim-serpent
blackening with death.
Then Beowulf prepared
called for his armor careless of his life.
Bright warrior-mail bonded by hands
linked armor-coat locked against swordswings
covered his breastcage enclosed his heart
that no fiendgrip might fix upon his life
grapple to his soul with grim hell-fingers.
A gleaming mask-helmet guarded his head
gilded with boar-crests bordering the rim
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old treasure-helm ancient wonder-smith’s
shield against steel-bites that
no sharp blade-edge
might slice through to him as he sought the mere-ground
stroked to the bottom of that baleful pond
wrapped against death in rich armor-bonds.
Nor was it the worst of weapons that day
that Unferth loaned him orator of Heorot—
a hard cutting-sword Hrunting by name
praised through the years by proud weapon-thanes.
The hammer-forged blade of hand-twisted steelbands
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was hardened by blood—the bite of its edges
had never yet failed a firm-handed warrior
anyone who dared death in battle-rush—
its strength was known in stories of war-clash
when edges and spearshafts sang through the air.
That son of Ecglaf strong counsel-thane
offered no charges no challenging wine-words
when he loaned his battle-blade by that blood-red mere
to the better sword-champion—though brave in memory
he dared not dive in that deep hell-water
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to foster his fame—he forfeited there
stories of his past. The proud guest-warrior
was ready now for all eager for that fight.
Beowulf spoke son of Ecgtheow:
“Beloved Hrothgar Healfdene’s son
remember your words in the warmth of Heorot
before I go swimming in search of this monster—
if ever I serve you in your hour of need
and part with my life-breath you have promised to be
for me and my folk-thanes a father to my name.
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Let your good hand harbor my shield-thanes
my board-companions if battle takes my life
and send to Hygelac, Hrothgar my lord,
those marvelous treasures that you made my own.
He will learn from that gold, the Geats’ hall-king
good son of Hrethel, when he sees those rewards,
that I found in Denmark a fine goldwarden
proud ring-giver and prospered while I lived.
Give to Unferth my good treasure-sword
twist-hammered blade bound by steel-smiths
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a man’s war-weapon. I will manage with Hrunting
earn my goldgifts or enter into death.”
After those words the Weather-Geats’ leader
turned to his work—no time would he waste
for answering speech—the spiteful water
swallowed him away. It was wondrously long
before downstrokes bore him to the depth of that mere.
Soon that water-fiend warden of the depths
guardian of fury through fifty murder-years
found an alien creature come to explore
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from the earth above her that bleak hell-home.
She grabbed him then with her great handspurs
clenched him with claws—the covering mailcoat
linked corselet-rings locked with steelmesh
stopped those talons from stabbing his heart—
those loathsome fingers failed against smith-hands.
The black she-wolf bore him away
tugged through the water that warrior from above
to her deep cavern-den—caught in that grasp
he could wield no weapons—wondrous creatures
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pressed around him reached for his life
crunched with nail-teeth gnashed at his breast-coat
greedy for his blood. Then that grim wolf-woman
dragged him to her cave cold rock-chamber—
no roiling water could reach to that den
roofed against flood-water far beneath the earth—
firelight shimmered there on the floor of that dungeon
restless flame-shadows flickered on the wall.
Now he could see her sorrowful blood-fiend
great mere-monster—he grabbed his sword then
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swung high with it swept it down at her
struck at the head with a sounding blade-tone
steel-song ringing. He soon discovered
that his bright swordedge could not bite that flesh
strike to that life—that strong treasure-sword
failed him at need. Those file-hard edges
had cut through battle-mail in countless shield-fights
sheared through mask-helmets—that marvelous war-weapon
had never forfeited the fame of its past.
Beowulf remembered boastwords in Heorot
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Hygelac’s hearth-thane held to his promise—
Beowulf Page 9
