Back the good that we’ve given him here,
The joy and honor he’s had since childhood.” 1185
Then she turned to the bench where her sons sat,
Hrethric and Hrothmund, with other brave boys,
Next to the good man, Beowulf the Geat.
Beowulf was brought the welcome cup
Of words and wine, feasting and friendship, 1190
And twisted gold, arm-bands and rings,
Chain-mail and the world’s greatest
War-collar worn by any man on earth—
No finer treasure, no greater gift
Under heaven since Hama carried off 1195
The neck-ring of the Brosings to that bright city,
The beautiful jewel and its rich setting.
He wanted silver instead of strife, gold not gore.
He fled from the killing craft of Eormenric
And found in the feud his last reward. 1200
This collar was the one that Hygelac wore,
Grandson of Swerting, when he rallied his troops
Under his war-banner to protect his hoard
And bring back booty, the spoils of slaughter.
Fate took him for his pride in provoking 1205
A feud with the Frisians and the savage Franks.
He wore that neck-gem with precious stones
Over the bowl of the sea. His body fell
Beneath his shield, a king in the clutch
Of the dreaded Franks, his chain-mail, 1210
His neck-ring and life in their last embrace.
Then common warriors plundered the bodies,
Harvesting gain from the ground of slaughter,
Reaping treasure in the field of corpses.
The hall resounded. Then Wealhtheow rose 1215
And spoke to the company: “Enjoy this collar,
My beloved Beowulf, this beautiful neck-ring,
My lucky young warrior, the mail-coat
And treasures, war-shirts for strength.
Be crafty, courageous—be proud and prosper— 1220
Be kind in counsel to my precious sons.
I’ll reward you for that. You’ve earned the praise
Of generations across windy seas and cliff-walls.
May you thrive and enjoy these treasures.
Be gentle to my sons, bringer of joy— 1225
Here warriors hold true to each other in the hall,
Loyal to the lord, devoted to duty,
Gracious in heart, their minds on mead.
Downing their drink, they do as I ask.”
Wealhtheow went back to sit by her lord 1230
At this best of banquets. Warriors drank wine
Which tasted finer than the dark fate
Destined again to stalk the hall
At the end of evening when King Hrothgar
Retired to his rest in a separate room. 1235
Countless men cleared the benches,
Spread out their pillows and padded bedding,
Just as before. One beer-drinker,
Unsuspecting, sank into bedrest,
Doomed to die. Each sleeper set at his head 1240
His war-shield, bright battle-wood,
And above on the bench, his high-ridged helmet,
His ring-mail shirt woven with iron,
And his sharp-shafted war-wood.
Their custom was clear: be ready to strike 1245
In bed or in battle, at home or away,
Whenever their lord looked in dire need—
That was a loyal band, a trusted troop.
So they sank into sleep. One paid a high price
For his night’s rest, a monstrous replay 1250
Of times when Grendel haunted the gold-hall,
Unleashing evil until his end,
Crushed in sin. Too soon it was clear
He had an avenger bent on killing—
Her hatred teeming at the loss of her son— 1255
Grendel’s mother, a monster-woman,
Awesome, appalling, a walking dread,
Who lived in the lake’s liquid terror,
In the cold currents after Cain killed
His only brother, the sword-slayer 1260
Of his father’s son. So Cain was outlawed,
Marked for murder, fleeing from joy,
Wandering the wasteland. Then monsters woke
From that demon seed, ghosts and ghouls—
Grendel was one, a savage outcast, 1265
A fierce foe, who found in Heorot
A waking warrior, watchful, warlike,
Waiting for battle. Each reached out
With a savage grip. One was ready
With his yawning strength, a gift from God. 1270
He trusted the Lord, his Maker’s mercy,
And his powerful grip. He finished the fiend,
Humbled the hall-guest, the hell-ghost.
Grendel fled, separated from joy,
Seeking his death-home, the bane of men. 1275
His greedy mother, grim as the gallows,
Rushed ravenous to avenge her son.
She came to Heorot where the Ring-Danes slept,
Handing twisted fate to trusting warriors.
Grendel’s mother made her way in. 1280
Her terror was only less than Grendel’s
By this much—as the terror of a woman-warrior
Might be less than a man’s, the shock of a war-wife
As her hammer-forged blade stained with blood,
The red-sweat of battle, severs the ridge 1285
Of a man’s boar-helmet and splits his head.
Suddenly in the hall, hard swords were drawn,
Shields grabbed with hands, too late for helmets,
Too late for corselets. She snatched a man!
She was in and out, quick on the take, 1290
In a rush to revenge and return home.
She fled to the fen. He was Hrothgar’s man,
His favorite retainer between the seas,
A beloved shield-warrior. She savored him too,
A man ripped from bed, stripped of his sleep. 1295
She touched his heart, feeding on his fame.
Beowulf, the honored Geat, was gone.
After the great feast and the gift-giving,
He had been offered another lodging.
Cries rent the hall, an uproar in Heorot. 1300
She had seized her son’s claw, his blood-crusty hand—
That was no slaking of sorrow but a bad exchange
With brutal payment of kith and kin on both sides.
Then the grizzled king, a once-great warrior,
Was fiercely troubled, torn by grief, 1305
When he heard his chief thane, his dearest friend,
Was dead. Beowulf was brought to the high hall
For vengeance and valor. In the dawn light
He and his seafarers came to the hall,
Where the wise king waited, wondering 1310
Whether God Almighty would ever grant
A better fortune, a chance at peace,
After he heard the wail, reliving old woe.
Beowulf the worthy warrior walked across
The bloody floor with his band of men. 1315
The hall-slats resounded, the boards shook.
He approached the wise king, asking
If he’d had a restful night with pleasant dreams.
Hrothgar responded, protector of the Scyldings:
“Don’t talk of dreams. My life’s a nightmare! 1320
Sorrow haunts this hall again, stalking the Danes.
Æschere is dead, Yrmenlaf’s brother,
My rune-reader, wise counselor,
Shield-warrior, and shoulder-companion.
We guarded each other’s back in battle 1325
When troops clashed, blade against boar-crest.
He was all an earl should be, from st
art to finish,
Always good. Now some unsteady spirit,
Some restless, ravenous hall-beast
Has been his slayer. Who knows 1330
Where the savage feeder has taken his body,
Feasting on flesh. She’s avenged her son,
Finished the feud you started with your grip,
Hard hands on the monster who’d winnowed
My people too long. His life languished 1335
In your hands. Now another has come,
The second night-stalker, hall-wrecker,
Borne by feud, bent on vengeance,
And many may feel who grieve for their king,
Their generous gift-giver, and mourn his counselor, 1340
That her coming follows hard upon your killing—
It galls our hearts. She’s stolen my right-hand man
Who supported your coming and sustained your dreams.
I’ve heard rumors, what land-dwellers
And hall-counselors say, that they’ve seen 1345
Two monsters on the moors, wasteland wanderers,
Ghastly spirits or grim beasts,
And one has a shape most like a woman,
While the other’s like a man, a miserable wretch,
Outlawed in exile, except bigger than a man— 1350
That one they’ve called Grendel from distant days.
No one knows of his father, if some man-dark shape
Begot the fiend, the spore and sport
Of savage lust. The two roam a remote land,
A cruel country, wolf-slopes, wild headlands, 1355
Windswept roads, fen-paths in the marsh,
Where a mountain stream slithers under hills,
Not many miles from here where the mere
Hunkers down under trees, under frost-covered wood,
With roots snaking down in dark water. 1360
There you can see a stark wonder each night—
Fire walks on water, flame on the flood.
No wise man living can fathom its depths,
Sound its source. Though the heath-stepper,
A stag with strong horns, is harried by hounds 1365
To flee through that forest, he would rather die,
Lay his life on the shore, than plunge in that lake
To protect his head. That’s no gentle place,
No shielding strand. Surging waves
Roust black, ravenous storms, 1370
Raising dark waters to the heavens,
When the wind howls, stirs up evil,
Marsh-mist, and the sky weeps.
You’re the only help for this horror,
Our hope and protection. It’s a dread land 1375
Beyond your knowing, a place of peril
Where you might find our evil enemy
Who stalks in sin. Seek her if you dare.
I will give you a reward for revenge,
Fair recompense for the feud, twisted gold 1380
From the treasure-hoard, if you return.”
Beowulf spoke, son of Ecgtheow:
“Grieve not, wise warrior and good king.
It’s better to avenge a friend than endure
Headlong mourning. Each man must discover 1385
His own death someday. A good man gathers
Glory before he’s gone, a warrior’s tribute.
Arise great guardian of the Danes’ kingdom—
Let’s go look at the tracks of Grendel’s kin.
I promise you this: she can’t hide 1390
In the earth’s embrace, a deadly den,
In mountain-woods, or ocean caves,
Wherever she flees. Have patience,
Bide time, and bear sorrow as a man should.”
Then the old Danish lord leapt up, 1395
Thanking God for that great speech.
Hrothgar’s horse, his braided steed,
Was saddled and bridled. The wise prince rode
In stately splendor with a band of shield-warriors
Marching behind. The monster’s tracks were plain 1400
On the forest paths; they followed her going
On the marked ground. Over the murky moor,
She carried the corpse of Hrothgar’s thane,
The lifeless counselor, the best retainer
Who shared with Hrothgar home and hall. 1405
The noble prince rode over rocky slopes,
Steep stone-paths, narrow one-man roads,
Into the unknown moor-homes, marsh-lairs
Of water-monsters and sea-snakes.
He went with his counselors, crafty men, 1410
Scouted the land till they found some trees,
A stunted grove leaning over gray cliffs,
A joyless wood. Water was below,
Bloody and roiling, a turmoil of gore;
To the Danes it was terror and torment, 1415
A goad in the mind, a grief in the heart,
When they found Æschere’s head
Sitting on the sea-cliff. The lake boiled with blood,
Surged with hot gore as the warriors looked on.
The war-horn sounded a surging battle-song; 1420
The foot-troops sat down, gazing in wonder.
They watched in the water strange worm-shapes,
Sea-serpents swimming, exploring the lake,
And water-monsters lying on the headland shores
Like beasts of the deep who wake in the morning 1425
And wander the sea-roads, sorrowing ships,
A wilding of worms. The fierce ones fled,
Thrashing with rage at the bright, sudden sound
Of the battle-horn. A bow-bearing Geat
Cut one of them off from his life with a shot— 1430
A stitch of iron in his monstrous heart.
He swam a little slower as death stroked by—
Shortly he was hard-pressed and hampered by spears,
By barbed boar-shafts, like a pig in the waves,
Riding the pikes, assailed by enemies, 1435
Hauled to the shore—that wave-walking worm,
Alien beast, wonder of the water.
Men gazed at that guest, that grim horror.
Then Beowulf put on his battle-clothes
Without fuss, without fear of losing his life. 1440
His chain-mail—hard, broad, hand-woven—
Would breach the sea—it knew how to keep
His bone-house whole so his fierce foe’s
Hand-crush could not reach his heart,
Or the anger of enemies tear out his life. 1445
A shining helmet guarded his head—
It could slice dark water, strike the depths,
Lunge for the lake-floor. It was cunningly made,
Crafted by smiths, adorned with gold,
Encrusted with gems, with emblematic boars, 1450
So no sword or blade could bite through its iron.
Not the least of his strengths, his battle-aids,
Was what Unferth gave him in his time of need—
Hrunting was the name of that ancient sword,
That iron-edged blade and heirloom treasure— 1455
It was engraved with waves, serpentine swirls
Like deadly snakes, tempered with gore.
Never had it failed any warrior wielding it
Who greeted terror with his battle-hand
In a meeting of monsters in their unholy home. 1460
This was not the first time it carried courage.
Surely Unferth, Ecglaf’s son, crafty and strong,
When he lent this sword to a better warrior,
Beowulf the Geat, was not thinking much
Of what he had said, boasting in the hall 1465
And drunk on wine, a cowardly slanderer.
Unferth was a taunter who took no risks.
He never wanted to walk under water.
He never thought to brave broiling wav
es.
He gave up glory for loathing at the lake, 1470
Unlike the other who carried courage to the edge.
Beowulf spoke, son of Ecgtheow:
“Remember great Hrothgar, son of Healfdene,
Wise king, gold-friend of men,
What we agreed, now that I’m ready to go: 1475
If I should leave life, discover death in this dive,
You would stand as my father, guardian and shield
Of my thanes and retainers, if slaughter takes me.
The gifts you’ve given me, gracious Hrothgar,
Rewards for the hall-strife, send on to Hygelac, 1480
So the lord of the Geats, son of Hrethel,
Will know from that gathering of gold and wealth
That I found here a good ring-giver
Whose favor I enjoyed. And let Unferth,
Known for sharp words, take home my sword, 1485
The hard-edged heirloom with its serpentine stain,
Its wave-patterned blade. With his sword Hrunting,
I will gather glory or die in death’s clutch.”
After these words, the man of the Geats,
Without waiting for an answer, dove down— 1490
The sea-surge welcomed the warrior,
Seized and swallowed the brave swimmer.
He drifted down, the daylight fading
As he touched lake-bottom. Soon that sea-creature
Who ruled the realm for a hundred years, 1495
Grim and greedy, ravenous for slaughter,
Saw that warrior winding through water,
Pushing down from the land-light above,
Seeking her strange home. She seized the intruder
With her fierce claws, but she broke no bones, 1500
Pierced no hide—the warrior was whole,
Protected by mail from the monster’s hand,
Shielded by rings from those savage fingers.
No claw could cut that coat. When Beowulf came
To the murky floor, the sea-wolf seized him, 1505
Dragging him home to her desperate lair,
So despite his courage, he could not swing his sword,
Wield his weapon. He was battered by sea-beasts
Who tore at his mail-coat with terrible tusks,
Attacking the alien warrior. Then Beowulf saw 1510
He was in a hall-cavern which held back water;
The cave-roof held up the floor of the sea
So the warrior would not suffocate in the waves,
The fierce grip of the flood. He saw a fire-light,
Pale and blazing, both bleak and bright. 1515
Then the good man greeted the mere-woman,
Monstrous, mighty, outlaw of the deep.
He gave her a sword-gift, thrust and stroke,
Held nothing back from his sharp greeting,
So that ring-patterned blade was swinging 1520
The Complete Old English Poems Page 74
