Wiglaf tucks the daggers back into his cape and shakes his head. “Nay, I’m not in the mood for merrymaking. I’ll ride down to the mooring, to prepare the boat,” and then Wiglaf looks out from beneath his rain-soaked hood at Beowulf. “We still leave tomorrow, on the tide? Do we not?”
Above them, thunder rumbles off toward the beach.
Beowulf nods. “Aye,” he says. “We do.”
A rainy morning gives way to a drear and windy afternoon and a sky gone almost the same the color as the muddy earth. But in Heorot Hall, reclaimed from Grendel and once again amenable to celebration and rejoicing, a great number of King Hrothgar’s people have gathered together to see the proof of Beowulf’s heroic deed. Already, news of the monster’s defeat has spread for many leagues up and down the coast of the kingdom and far inland, as well. Already, the scops are composing ballads, based on such hasty and incomplete accounts of the night’s adventures as they have been told by the king’s herald and have scrounged on their own. An evil shadow has at last been lifted from off the realm of the Danes, they sing, that creeping shade that for long months bedeviled the winter nights is finished.
But it is one thing to merely hear good tidings, and it is quite another thing to see with one’s own eyes some undeniable evidence. And so King Hrothgar—son of Healfdene, grandson of Beow, great grandson of Shield Sheafson himself—stands before the arm of the beast, which the Geat has taken care to nail up that all men might look upon it and be assured of their deliverance and, also, of his glory. For what is a man but the sum of his glorious deeds and brave accomplishments? How also might he find his way to Ásgard or even to the scant rewards of this world?
The king stands at the edge of a wide pool of cooled and clotting blood that has over the hours oozed and dripped down to the floor of the hall, accumulating there beneath the graven image of Odin hanging upon the World Ash for the good of all men. Hrothgar has been standing there some time, drinking in the sight of the severed arm, a wound even the demon Grendel could not have long survived, and now he turns to face his subjects and his thanes, his advisors and his queen, the Geat warriors and Beowulf, who is standing close beside the king. Hrothgar stands as straight as his age and health will allow, and though even now his heart is not untroubled, his smile and the relief in his eyes are true and honest.
“Long did I suffer the harrowing of Grendel,” he says. “Only a few days ago, I still believed that I would not ever again be granted release from torment or again find consolation. And, of course,”—and here Hrothgar pauses and motions to all those assembled before him—“of course, this burden was never mine alone. Few were the houses of my kingdom not stained with the blood spilled by Grendel. This has been a curse that has touched us all.”
And there’s a low murmur of agreement from the men and women. Hrothgar nods and waits a moment or two before continuing.
“But this is a new day. And before you, with your own eyes, you see the proof that there has come at last an end to our sorrow and our troubles with the demon Grendel. Today, the monster’s reign has ended, thanks be to a man who has come among us from far across the sea, one man who has done what even the greatest among us could not manage. If the mother of this hero still draws breath, may she be evermore blessed for the fruit of her birth labor. Beowulf—” And now Hrothgar turns to Beowulf and puts an arm about him, pulling him close and speaking directly to him.
“I want everyone here, and everyone who might in time hear of this assembly, to know that in my heart I will love you like a son. With Grendel dead, you are a son to me.”
Until now, Beowulf has kept his eyes trained on the floor of Heorot, listening to the words of the King of the Danes. They have worked some magic upon him, he thinks, for the grief that has dogged him since the funeral pyre has vanished. He looks up into the faces watching him, and he feels pride, for has he not earned this praise and whatever reward may yet await him?
I might never have come here, he thinks. I might have left the lot of you to fend for yourselves against the fiend. It was not my trouble, but I made it mine. And he remembers the things he said to Wiglaf during the funeral, and asks himself what other prize a man might ever seek, but the glory of his accomplishments. But for the capricious skein of life, the weave of the Fates, he, too, would rightly ride the fields of Idavoll this day.
At the least, I have made good upon my boast, he thinks, staring directly at Unferth, and the king’s advisor immediately looks away.
“I have adopted you, my son, here, in my heart,” says Hrothgar, and thumps himself upon the chest. “You shall not now want for anything. If there is something you desire, you have but to ask, and I shall make it so. Many times in my life I have honored warriors who were surely far less deserving, for achievements that must surely seem insignificant when placed next to what you consummated here last night. By those actions, you have made yourself immortal, and I say, may Odin always keep you near at hand and give what bounty is due a hero of men!”
And now there is a hearty cheer from the crowd, and when it has at last subsided, Beowulf takes a step forward and speaks.
“I do not have the words due such an honor,” he says, smiling at Hrothgar, then turning back to all the others. “I am only a warrior, not a scop or a poet. I have given my life to the sword and shield, not to spinning pretty words. But I will say that here, beneath the roof of Hrothgar, my men and I have been greatly favored in our clash with Grendel. I may tell the tale, but I would prefer that you might all have been here, you who have suffered his vile depredations, to see for yourselves the brute in the moment of his defeat. Aye, I would have been better pleased could that have been the case, that you might have heard his pain as recompense for the pain he visited upon you and yours.” And Beowulf turns and stares up at the severed arm nailed upon the beam above him. He points to it, then turns back to the crowd.
“I was sleeping when he came,” says Beowulf, “wishing to take him unawares. I’d hoped to leap upon the beast and wrestle him to the floor, to wring from him with naught but my bare hands whatever sinister life animates such a being and leave his whole corpse here as the wergild due you all for the lives he had greedily stolen. But at the last he slipped from out my grasp, for slick was his slimy hide. He broke from my hold and made a dash for the door. And yet, I will have you know, what a dear price did cruel Grendel pay for his flight,” and again Beowulf points to the bloody, severed arm. “By this token may you know the truth of my words. If he is not yet dead, he is dying. That wound will be the last of him. Never again will he walk among you, good people of Heorot, and never again will you need fear the coming of night.”
And for a third time a wild cheer rises up from the grateful crowd, and this time only the repeated shouts of Hrothgar are sufficient to quiet them again. Two of the king’s thanes have brought forth a wooden chest and placed it in Hrothgar’s hands. He opens the box and draws out the golden drinking horn, the treasure he wrested long ago from the fyrweorm Fafnir, his greatest treasure, and the king holds it up for all to see. Then he turns to his queen and places the horn in her hands.
“Why don’t you do the honors, my queen?” And Beowulf catches the needle’s prick of sarcasm in his voice. But Wealthow takes the horn, her reluctance hardly disguised, and she presents it to Beowulf.
“For you, my lord,” she says. “You have earned it,” and with a quick glance at her husband, she adds, “and anything else which my good King Hrothgar might yet claim as his own.”
The gilded horn is even more beautiful than Beowulf remembers, and it glints wondrously in the light of the hall. He grins, betraying his delight at so mighty a gift, then holds it up, as Hrothgar has done, for all the hall to look upon. This time they do not cheer, but a murmur of awe washes through Heorot, at the sight of the horn and at their king’s generosity.
Queen Wealthow, her part in this finished, withdraws and stands with two of her maidens, Yrsa and Gitte, gazing up at Grendel’s arm. Though withered in death, it is s
till a fearsome thing. The warty, scaly flesh glimmers dully, like the skin of some awful fish or sea monster, and the claws are as sharp as daggers.
Yrsa leans close to the queen’s ear and whispers, “They say Beowulf ripped it off with his bare hands.”
“Mmmm,” sighs Gitte thoughtfully. “I wonder if his strength is only in his arms, or in his legs as well…all three of them.”
Yrsa laughs, and Gitte grins at her own jest.
“Well,” says Wealthow, wishing only to return to her quarters and escape the noise and the crowd and the sight of that awful thing nailed upon the beam. “After the feasting tonight, perhaps you may have the opportunity to make a gift of yourself to good Lord Beowulf and find out the strength of his legs.”
“Me?” asks Gitte, raising her eyebrows in a doubtful sort of way. “It is not me he wants, my queen.”
And Wealthow looks from Gitte to Yrsa, then from Yrsa back to Gitte. They nod together, and she feels the hot, embarrassed blush on her cheeks, but says nothing. She glances back toward Beowulf and sees that her husband has placed a heavy golden chain around his throat. The Geat is talking about Grendel again and all are listening with rapt attention. Wealthow turns and slips away through the press of bodies, leaving Yrsa and Gitte giggling behind her.
Outside and across the muddy stockade, Wiglaf sits astride one of the strong Danish ponies, still watching the funeral pyre. It has been burning for many hours now, fresh wood fed to the flames from time to time to keep it stoked and hot. But already no recognizable signs remain of the bodies of the four thanes slain the night before nor of the scaffolding that held them, and it might be mistaken for any bonfire that was not built to ferry the souls of the dead to the span of Bilröst, the Rainbow Bridge between this world and the gods’ judgment seat at Urdarbrunn. Wiglaf can clearly hear Beowulf’s words, carried along on the north wind, as though Hrothgar’s craftsmen have somehow designed the structure to project the words of anyone speaking within out across the compound.
He broke from my hold and made a dash for the door. And yet, I will have you know, what a dear price did cruel Grendel pay for his flight…
Wiglaf scratches the pony’s shaggy, matted mane, and it shifts uneasily from foot to foot.
“Will their wives and children be comforted with thoughts of valiant deaths and glorious Ásgard?” asks Wiglaf, turning away from the fire and looking toward the open doors of the horned hall. The pony snorts loudly. “I wasn’t asking you,” says Wiglaf, and he goes back to watching the fire. Hrothgar has promised that the ashes will be buried out along the King’s Road and marked by a tall menhir, with runes to tell how they fell in battle against the fiend Grendel.
“Perhaps that will comfort the grieving widows?” he sighs. “To know their husbands lie in fine graves so far across the sea.”
…but I would prefer that you might all have been here, you who have suffered his vile depredations, to see for yourselves the brute in the moment of his defeat.
“He’s right, you know,” Wiglaf tells the pony, leaning forward and whispering in one of its twitching ears. “I am beginning to sound like an old woman.” But then he sits up and glances once more toward Heorot and Beowulf’s booming voice. “Be merciful, good Beowulf, and do not talk us straightaway into yet more glory. I would have mine in some other season.”
The fire crackles and pops as the charred logs shift and crumble, sending another swirl of glowing brands skyward. And Wiglaf digs his heels into the pony’s flanks, tightens his grip on the reins, and gallops away toward the stockade gates and the bridge beyond.
Long hours pass, and the chariot of Sól rolls once again into the west. The gray day dims, and after nightfall the clouds break apart at last to let the moon and stars shine coldly down upon the land. Inside the mead hall of King Hrothgar, his people and the Geats celebrate Beowulf’s victory. After so many months of terror, Heorot is awash in the joyful noise and revelry of those who believe they have no just cause to fear the dark. Though damaged by the battle, the hall is fit enough for merrymaking; there will be time later to repair shattered timbers and smashed tables. This is why the hall was built, Hrothgar’s gift to his kingdom, that men might drink and feast and fuck and forget the hardships of their lives, the cold breath of winter, the nearness of the grave.
Beowulf sits alone on the king’s throne dais, drinking cup after cup of the king’s potent mead and admiring the beautiful golden horn taken long ago from the hoard of the dragon Fafnir. It is his now, his hard-earned reward for a job no other man could do, and it gleams brightly by the flickering light of the fire pit. From time to time, he looks up, gazing contentedly about the hall for familiar faces. His men are all enjoying rewards of their own, as well they should. But he does not see Lord Hrothgar anywhere and thinks that the old man has probably been carried away to bed by now, either to sleep off his drunkenness or to busy himself with some maiden who is not his wife. Nor does he see the king’s herald, Wulfgar, nor Unferth Kinslayer, nor Queen Wealthow. It would be easy enough to imagine himself crowned lord of this hall, a fit king to rule the Danes instead of a fat old man, too sick and more concerned with farm girls and mead than the welfare of his homeland.
The air in the hall has grown smoky and thick with too many odors, and so Beowulf takes the golden horn and leaves the dais, moving as quickly as he may through the crowd. He is waylaid many times by men who want to grasp the hand of the warrior who killed the monster, or by women who want to thank him for the salvation of their homes. But he comes, eventually, to a short passageway leading out onto a balcony overlooking the sea.
“You are not celebrating?” asks Wealthow, standing there with the moonlight spilling down upon her pale skin and golden hair. She is swaddled against the freezing wind in a heavy coat sewn from seal and bear pelts, and he is surprised to find her unescorted.
Beowulf glances down at the golden horn, and he might almost believe that the moonlight has worked some sorcery upon it, for it seems even more radiant than before. He stares at it a moment, then looks back up at Wealthow.
“I’ll never let it go,” he says, and raises the horn to her. “I’ll die with this cup of yours at my side.”
“It is nothing of mine,” she replies. “It never was. That was only ever some gaudy bauble of my husband’s pride. He murdered a dragon for it, they say.”
Beowulf lowers the horn, feeling suddenly uncomfortable and oddly foolish. His fingers slide lovingly about its cold, glimmering curves. “My lady does not hold with the murder of dragons?” he asks the queen.
“I didn’t say that,” she replies. “Though one might wonder if perhaps a live dragon is worth something more than the self-importance of the son of Healfdene.”
“Men must seek their glory,” Beowulf says, trying to recall the authority and assurance with which he addressed the hall only a few hours before. “They must ever strive to find their way to Ásgard…and protect the lives and honor of those they cherish.”
“I admit, it has always seemed an unjust arrangement to me,” the queen says, and moves nearer the edge of the balcony. Below them the sea pounds itself against sand and shingle, the whitecaps tumbling in the moonlight.
“My lady?” asks Beowulf, uncertain what she means.
“That a man—like my husband—may in his youth slay a fearsome dragon, which most would count a glorious deed. Even the gods, I should think. And yet, if he is unlucky and survives that encounter, he may yet grow old and feeble and die in his bed. So—dragon or no—the bravest man may find himself before the gates of Hel. Or, in your own case, Lord Beowulf…” And here she trails off, shivering and hugging herself against the chill, staring down at the sea far below.
Beowulf waits a moment, then asks, “In my own case?”
She turns and looks at him, and at first her eyes seem distant and lost, like the eyes of a sleeper awakened from some frightful dream.
“Well,” she says. “You are alive, though by your bravery Grendel is slain. You are not
in Valhalla with your fallen warriors. You have, instead, what? A golden horn?”
“Perhaps I will find my luck, as you name it, on some other battlefield,” Beowulf tells her, then glances back down at the horn. “And it is a fine and wondrous thing, this gaudy bauble of your husband’s pride.”
Wealthow takes a deep breath. “Nothing that is gold ever stays long. Is that all you wanted, Beowulf? A drinking horn that once belong to a worm? Would you have none of my husbands other treasures?”
And now he looks her directly in the eyes, those violet eyes that might seem almost as icy as the whale’s-road on a long winter’s night, as icy and as beautiful.
“My lord Hrothgar,” he says, “has declared I shall not now want for anything.” And he moves across the balcony to stand nearer to Wealthow. “I recall nothing he held exempt from that decree. Steal away from your husband. Come to me.”
Wealthow smiles and laughs softly, a gentle sound almost lost beneath the noise of the wind and the breakers.
“I wonder,” she says, “if my husband even begins to guess what thing he has let into his house? First driven by greed…now by lust,” and she turns away from the sea to face Beowulf. “You may indeed be most beautiful, Lord Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, and you may be brave, but I fear you have the heart of a monster.” And then she smiles and kisses him lightly on the cheek. Their eyes meet again, briefly, and her bright gaze seems to rob him of words, and Beowulf’s still searching for some reply after she’s departed the balcony and returned once more to the noisy mead hall, and he’s standing alone in the moonlight.
12
The Merewife
Beyond the moorlands and the forest and the bogs, in the cave below the cave, this deeper, more ancient abscess in the thin granite skin of the world, the mother of Grendel mourns alone. She has carried her son’s mutilated body from the pool, the pool below the pool above, and has gently laid him out on a stone ledge near a wall of the immense cavern. Once, the ledge was an altar, a shrine built by men to honor a forgotten goddess of a forgotten people, and the charcoal-colored slate is encrusted with the refuse of long-ago offerings—jewels and bits of gold, silver, and bronze, the bones of animals and men. Whatever it might have been, now it is only her dead son’s final bed. She bends low, her lips brushing his lifeless skin, her long claws caressing his withered corpse. She is old, even as the mountains and the seas mark time, even as the Æsir and Vanir and the giants of Jötunheimr count the passing of the ages, but the weight of time has not hardened her to loss. It has, if anything, made her more keenly aware of the emptiness left behind by that which has been taken away.
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