Beowulf (11 page)

—XXII
—

Then Beowulf spoke, the son of Ecgtheow:
“Consider now, famous kinsman of Healfdene,
wise prince, and gold-giving friend to the people,
I am eager for this exploit that we two spoke of—
if in relieving your need I should lose my life,
I ask you ever after to assume the place
of devoted father when I have departed.
May you keep watch over my young warriors,
my comrades in arms, if in combat I perish.
Also, dear Hrothgar, send on to Hygelac
the trove of treasures that you gave to me.
Thus may the king of the Geats, the kin of Hrethel,
see in that gold, when he stares on the treasures,
that I met here a great munificent ruler,
a giver of gold rings, and took joy while I could.
And do let Unferth, that widely known warrior,
have the ancient heirloom, the wave-patterned sword,
with its sharp blade. Meanwhile with Hrunting,
I will seek glory, or death will sweep me away!”

After these words, the prince of the Weder-Geats
hastened away with courage, not waiting at all
for any reply. Roiling waters enveloped
the battle-brave man. Then some time passed
before he might make out the bottom of the mere. At once the one who was thirsting for war,
who ruled over these waters a hundred half-years,
grim and blood-greedy, saw that a man
sought from above this world of strange monsters.
She stretched out to attack him, seizing the hero
in horrible grasp, yet she did not do harm
to his sturdy body, for ringed-mail surrounded him,
so that she might not pierce through that protection,
between the locked rings, with her loathsome talons.
The sea-wolf wrestled this prince in ringed-armor,
bore him down to the bottom, to her own hall,
so he could not—though his courage was strong—
wield any weapons. There he was hard-pressed
by strange beasts in the water; many sea-monsters
tore at his mail-shirt with their savage tusks,
pursuing their prey Then the hero discovered
that he was inside some enemy hall
where he was not threatened by water at all,
nor might he be touched by sudden surgings of flood
because of the hall-roof. He saw light of a fire,
a brilliant gleaming, brightly shining.

The hero saw clearly the demon of the deep,
the mighty mere-woman. He repaid her fierce attack
with his battle-blade, not holding back his stroke,
so the ring-adorned sword sang out on her head
a war-song greedy for blood. Then the Geat found
that the battle-flasher had lost power to bite,
to slash away life, for the sword-edge failed
the prince in his need. Till now it prevailed
in hand-to-hand fighting, shearing through the helmet
and the mail of a fated man. This was the first time
the great treasure had failed to live up to its fame.
Then Hygelac’s kinsman thought only one thought:
not to give up his courage, be mindful of glory.
The angry warrior threw down the patterned weapon,
adorned with art, where it lay on the ground,
strong and steel-edged: he put trust in his strength,
the might of his hand-grip. Thus shall a man do
when he seeks to gain long-lived glory
in furious combat, not caring for his life.
Not flinching from the feud, the prince of the War-Geats
grasped hold of the shoulder of the mother of Grendel,
and bulging with rage, fighting hard in the battle,
he swung her around till she fell on the floor.
Right away after that she repaid his tactic
and crushed him against her in brutal embrace.
She wrestled to throw her spirit-weary foe,
the strongest of warriors, till he slipped and fell down.
She sat on her hall-guest and drew out her dagger,
broad and bright-edged, hoping to avenge her son,
her only offspring. Across his shoulders lay
the woven mail-shirt watching over his life,
guarding against both knife-point and blade.
Then the son of Ecgtheow, stout hero of the Geats,
would have journeyed to death, under wide earth,
except that the battle-shirt, the mail made for war,
provided protection—and the holy God
decreed which was the victor. For the wise lord,
the Ruler of Heaven, decided according to right,
so the hero of the Geats easily got to his feet.

Then he saw among war-gear a victory-blessed sword,
an old blade made by giants with edges strong and sharp,
the glory of warriors. That was the greatest of weapons,
though its size was so large that no other man
might bear it out to the play of battle—
it was huge and heroic, the work of giants.
The champion for the Danes,
^s
in a dreadful fury,
despairing of life, seized the hilt of the sword,
swung its great blade and angrily struck
so that it dug deep in the neck of the monster,
breaking the bone-rings, slicing all the way through
her body doomed by fate, and she fell dead on the floor.
The sword sweat blood, while the warrior rejoiced.

The light was gleaming, glowing from within,
as bright as the shining up high in the heavens,
the candle of the sky. The hero searched the hall.
The thane of Hygelac, raging and resolute,
turned by the wall, and heaved up the weapon
high by the hilt. That sword was not useless
to the battle-hardened warrior, and he wished
right then to repay Grendel for the many attacks
which he had delivered against the West-Danes—
far more often than one time only,
when he slew in their sleep Hrothgar’s companions,
gorging on fifteen of the folk of the Danes,
as they lay in their beds asleep and unwary,
and bore away with him as many more men,
as gruesome spoils. So the grim champion repaid
him for those horrors, as he saw Grendel lying,
wearied by war, in his last place of rest,
long without life, since his arm was ripped off
in their clash at Heorot. The corpse burst open
when even after death it was struck by the sword,
a vicious battle-blow, and the hero cut off its head.

The wise warriors with Hrothgar then saw,
as they gazed out over the waters,
that the tossing of the waves grew troubled,
as blood stained the mere. Gray-haired old men
spoke to each other about the great champion,
saying they had no hope for that hero’s return—
that he could come back, triumphant in war,
seeking their famous lord. For the group agreed
that the wolf of the waters
^t
had put him to death.
By mid-afternoon, no man had remained
of the brave Scyldings. The gold-giving king
had departed for home. The Geats sat still,
sick in spirit, and stared at the mere.
They wished to see their war-lord himself,
but had given up hope.

Then the blade of the mere-sword,
drenched in battle-blood, began to dissolve
into icicles of gore—a great wonder to tell,
that the weapon was melting much like the ice
when the Father loosens the bond of the frost,
unfastens fetters on the waters, wielding power
over seasons and times. That is the true Ruler.
The prince of the Weder-Geats took no
more treasures
away from that hall, though he saw many more—
except for Grendel’s head along with the hilt
of the much-adorned weapon, whose blade had melted,
the wave-marked iron burning, for the blood was so hot
from the poisonous demon who had died in that place.
Then the one who survived the deadly struggle,
the fall of his foes, swam up through the water,
and waves tossing together throughout that expanse
were entirely cleansed, when the alien creature
took leave of his life-days and this transitory world.

The chief of the sea-men then swam to the shore,
a brave-hearted hero. He rejoiced in the booty,
the mighty burden he brought from beneath the waters.
The bold war-band rushed toward him, all in a crowd,
giving thanks to God, and shouting with joy
that they now could see their prince safe and sound.
Then off of that hero the helmet and mail-shirt
were quickly taken. The mere grew calm,
the water under clouds, stained with slaughter-blood.
Then they went forth along the foot-paths,
joyful in mood, marching along dirt-trails,
on the well-known way. Bold noble warriors
carried Grendel’s head down from the headlands,
a long hard labor for each of the bearers,
all high-spirited men. No fewer than four
were needed to hold up the head of Grendel
on the shaft of a spear, going to the gold-hall,
till presently they came, brave and battle-bold,
all fourteen Geats going together as they marched
to Hrothgar’s great hall. The valiant chieftain
strode among his men through the plain by the mead-hall.
The leader of these loyal thanes, renowned for deeds,
honored with fame as a battle-brave hero,
went into the hall to salute King Hrothgar.
The Geats bore Grendel’s head by the hair
out onto the floor where the Danes were drinking—
a terror to those nobles, and Wealhtheow too,
was that awesome spectacle, for all looking on.

Then Beowulf spoke, the son of Ecgtheow:
“Hail, son of Healfdene, King of the Scyldings,
gladly have we brought you spoils from the sea,
as a token of glory for you to gaze on here.
I barely survived the battle under water,
to return still alive, having done brave deeds
under great stress. The deadly struggle at the start
would have ended, if God had not watched over me.
I was powerless to prove my strength with Hrunting,
in the fearsome fighting, though the weapon was worthy.
Yet the Ruler over men then granted to me
to see a wondrous weapon hanging on the wall,
a mighty old sword—as God has often guided
one without help from friends—so I heaved it up.
Then I slew in the struggle, when I saw my chance,
the guards of that dwelling. And the blade burned up
on the patterned sword, as blood sprang forth,
the hottest of battle-gore. Then I carried the hilt
away from those fiends, having fittingly avenged
the wicked deeds that brought death to the Danes.
I promise you now, that you may sleep safely
here in Heorot with your band of warriors,
and all of the thanes from among your people,
both youths and veterans. You need not feel fear,
O King of the Danes, that your deadly enemies
will tear life from your friends, as you feared till now.”
Then was the golden hilt, the ancient work of giants,
given over to the hand of the old warrior,
the hoary battle-chief: the work of wonder-smiths
passed into possession of the lord of the Danes
after the death of the demons, and the hostile creature
the enemy of God, guilty of murder,
gave up life in this world along with his mother.
It came into the power of the best of princes,
of those who hold sway in this world between seas,
giving rich gifts in the realm of the Danes.

Then Hrothgar spoke, as he looked on the hilt,
the old heirloom, engraved with its tale of origins
of ancient strife, when the surging of the sea
rushed in a flood, sweeping to slaughter
the kinship of giants, of creatures estranged
from the eternal Lord—through the whelming waters
the Ruler dealt them their final retribution.
The name was made known, clearly marked out,
in the shapes of runes
^u
shining with gold,
on the sword-guards, for whom the smith first
wrought that best of weapons, with twisted grip,
and patterns of serpents. Thus the wise king spoke,
the son of Healfdene—and all fell silent—
“Truly a man may announce, who acts according to right
among his own people, as an old guardian of the land,
recalling past deeds, that this noble hero here
was born the best in history. Your fame is renowned
wherever men journey, my dear friend Beowulf,
among all the peoples. You hold power with balance,
with wisdom of mind. Now I shall fulfill our friendship
as we earlier agreed. And you shall bring
peace to your people for a long time to come,
a source of strength to the heroes. Not so was Heremod
^v
to the sons of Ecgwela, the honorable Scyldings.
He did not bring them success, but slaughter instead
and destruction for the people of the Danes.
Carried away with rage, he killed table-companions,
his close loyal comrades, till this ill-famed prince
journeyed all alone from the world of men’s joys.
Although mighty God had given him power,
the pleasures of strength, and raised him in ruling
over all other men—yet there grew in his heart
a bloodthirsty breast-hoard. He gave out no treasures,
to earn glory among Danes, but he dwelt without joy,
forced to suffer the rewards of the strife that he caused,
the long-lasting evil to his people. Then learn from this,
understand proper virtue! I have told you this tale
from the wisdom of many winters. For it is wondrous to say
how the mighty God, through magnanimous spirit,
gives out as gifts to the kin of men their wisdom,
lands and rulership. He is lord of all things.
At times God allows the thoughts of a man
of a famous family to turn to what he loves,
giving such a man joy in his homeland,
while holding sway over his stronghold of men.
God renders him rulership over such regions,
a wide-spread kingdom, yet the man cannot see,
because of his folly, an end to his fortune.
He lives his life in the joy of feasting, not at all
hindered by sickness or age, his spirit not darkened
by sorrow over evil, nor does strife from enemies
display sword-hatred, but fulfilling his desires
the world goes on—he knows nothing worse.

—XXV
—

“Until arrogant pride sprouts in his spirit
and grows large within, while the guardian of his soul
falls off to sleep—a sleep far too sound,
beset by cares, with a killer quite near
who wickedly shoots an arrow from his bow.
Then hit in the breast under his helmet
by the piercing arrow, he cannot protect himself
against the sinister commands of the evil spirit.
His long-held treasures he thinks too little,
and grasps them grimly, not proudly giving
rings graced with gold, forgetting and neglecting
that the Ruler of Glory, God had formerly given him
prosperous destiny, his great portion of honors.
Thereafter in the end, it ever comes to pass
that man’s short-lived flesh proves itself frail,
fated to fall. Then another comes to power,
who gives out great gifts without any care,
sharing with the nobles without fear of loss.
Defend yourself against malice, dear Beowulf,
the best of men, and choose the better course,
everlasting profits. Do not foster pride,
glorious warrior! The great fame of your might
lasts but a little while. Then soon enough
will sickness or the sword deprive you of strength—
or the grasp of flames, or the surging flood,
or the slashing blade, or the flight of a spear,
or horrid old age. The brightness of your eyes
will diminish and grow dark, and then even you,
great hero among men, will go down in defeat to death.