Beowulf (15 page)

First Wiglaf spoke, said to his comrades
many words of truth, while he mourned in spirit:
“I remember the day, when we were drinking mead,
and we pledged loyalty to our prince
in the beer-hall, while he was giving us gifts,
that if ever he were driven to such distress as this,
we would repay him for our war-gear,
our helmets and strong swords. So for this venture
by his own will he chose us, from all his war-band,
thought us worthy of glory, and gave me these treasures,
for he considered us steadfast spear-warriors,
bold in our helmets—though our brave lord
had planned to perform, all by himself,
this great work of courage, as protector of his people,
since he among men had done the most daring of deeds,
winning the greatest glory. Now has the day come
that our dear lord is in desperate need of the strength
of good men in battle. Let us then go to him,
provide help to our war-prince, while there is still
fierce fire-terror! God knows this about me,
that I would much rather that my own body
be embraced by the flames standing with my gold-giver.
It does not seem to me brave that we bear our shields
back to our home, unless we first use our strength
to protect the life of the prince of the Weders,
and destroy the dragon. For I know that Beowulf,
with his past deeds of glory, does not deserve
to suffer such affliction, by himself among the Geats,
and sink down in defeat. Together we shall share
the same sword and helmet, the mail-coat and armor.”
Then Wiglaf strode through the smoke of death,
with his helmet to help his lord, and spoke few words:
“Beloved Beowulf, give this fight your best effort.
As you said in your youth, in days long ago,
you would never allow your fame to fade away,
while you still lived. So now, steadfast leader,
renowned for great deeds, shall you defend your life
with all your strength. I will support you.”

After he spoke, the huge serpent came raging,
the death-dealing terror striking forth once again,
surging with flames, seeking to attack its hated foes,
the much-loathed men. Waves of fire swept Wiglaf’s shield,
burned it up to its boss, nor might the mail-coat
provide needed protection to the young warrior,
but the youth fought on bravely, nonetheless,
under his kinsman’s shield, when his own was consumed,
in the storm of fire. Then once more the famed war-king
was mindful of glory, and with mighty strength,
pressed hard by the evil foe, swung his battle-sword,
so it stuck in the dragon’s head. Yet Naegling shattered,
Beowulf’s great blade, the ancient gray iron,
failed in the fighting. It was not given to him
that he might get help in that hard-fought battle
from the edge of the sword—for his hand was too strong,
so he over-taxed every sword, as I have heard told,
with the power of his swing, when he bore into battle
a wondrously hard weapon. He got nothing from that!

Then for the third time, the threatening monster,
the frightful fire-dragon, mindful of their feud,
rushed on the famed ruler when he saw an opening,
seething and battle-grim, surrounding his neck
with fierce sharp fangs, digging into his flesh
to drain life from his body, as the blood streamed out.

When the prince of the people had greatest need,
I have heard that his comrade displayed great courage,
great skill and boldness, as befit his nature.
Brave Wiglaf did not strike at the head of the beast,
but his hand was burned in helping his kinsman,
striking the creature somewhat lower down,
so the warrior’s sword, gleaming with gold,
plunged into the dragon, and the deadly flames
began to die down. Then once more the king
gained control of himself, and gripped his short sword,
^ar
sharpened for battle, that he wore at his waist,
and the people’s protector sliced through the serpent.
They had felled their foe, bravely taking its life,
and the two had together brought down the dragon,
as noble kinsmen. Thus should a thane always act
in time of need! That was the last of the triumphs
that the prince accomplished through powerful deeds,
of his works in this world. For soon the wound
that the dragon had dealt him during the struggle
began to burn and to swell. And then he felt
the murderous poison from the monster’s fangs
well up in his breast. Then the bold king went
to sit himself down by the side of the barrow,
thinking deep thoughts, looking on that work of giants—
how stone arches inside that ancient earth-hall
were held firmly in place supported by pillars.
And then the thane, who proved loyal without limits,
took water in his hands to wash away the blood
from his famous prince, his lord and friend,
who was weary from battle, and unfastened his helmet.

Then Beowulf spoke, wounded as he was,
and wretchedly suffering. He clearly realized
that he had gone through the days given to him,
his time of joy on earth. His long life was hastening
to depart, and death was extremely close by—
“Now I would wish to give my war-gear
to my son, if fortune had so favored me
that I would be able to leave arms to an heir,
my own offspring. I have ruled over my people
for fifty winters, and there is no folk-king
of any of the neighboring nations around us
who ever dared to attack me with allies,
threatening with terror. In the time I was given,
I lived in my own land, ruling my people well,
never turning to treachery, or swearing to oaths
contrary to right. In all this I take comfort and joy
when now I am stricken with death-dealing wounds.
The Ruler over mankind has no reason to charge me
with murdering kinsmen, when my life leaves,
departs from my body. Now, dear Wiglaf,
make haste to look upon the hoard in the mound,
under old gray stone, since the dragon lies dead,
sleeps from sore wounds, stripped of the treasure.
Go quickly now, so I may readily gaze
on the long-held riches, look on the gold treasures,
the bright-beaded gems, and thus I may more peacefully,
for winning this wealth, pass on from this life,
leaving behind my people, whom I long have ruled.”

I have heard it said that after Beowulf spoke,
the son of Weohstan quickly obeyed his wounded lord,
weakened from battle, and went under the barrow’s roof,
wearing his mail-coat, the war-shirt woven with rings.
Then the brave young kinsman, exulting in conquest,
saw many precious jewels as he passed by the seat,
glittering gold lying around on the ground,
a wonder on the wall, and the den of the dragon,
old flyer by night. Standing nearby were drinking cups,
vessels from former times, with no one to furbish them,
their ornaments long gone. Here was many a helmet,
ancient and rusty, and piles of arm-rings,
twisted with skill. Such a wealth of treasures,
gold lying in the ground, even if it is hidden,
may easily seduce any man anywhere!
He also saw on high, hanging over the hoard,
a standard sewn with gold, artfully hand-woven
with the greatest of skill. From it came a glow,
so he might make out what lay on the floor,
and inspect all the treasures. For no trace of the dragon
remained by the hoard, since the sword swept him off.

And I have heard it told that the hoard was plundered,
the barrow built by giants, when the man alone
took as he wished, wrapped his arms around riches,
stealing cups and dishes, and also the standard,
the brightest of banners. The sword of Beowulf,
that blade of iron, had earlier injured
the one who protected those precious treasures
for a long time, waging terror with flames,
fighting for the hoard with fierce searing heat,
in the midnight skies, till he met violent death.

Wiglaf the retainer made haste to return,
urged on by the treasures. The true-spirited man
wished to know whether he would find
the prince of the Weders still living though weak,
in the same place where he had left his lord.
Bearing treasures from the barrow, he found Beowulf,
his beloved king, all covered with blood,
near his limit of life-days. He began to splash water
to revive the war-hero, till the vanguard of his words
broke free from his breast-hoard, and the king spoke,
the old man in his suffering, gazing on the gold:
“I wish to give thanks, speaking such words as I may,
to the almighty Ruler, the King crowned with glory,
the eternal Lord, for these riches I look on
here by the barrow, that I have been blessed to acquire
for my dear people, before the time of my passing.
Since I have traded my old life for these treasures,
long held in the hoard, now you must provide for
the care of the people. For I cannot abide here longer.
Order the battle-famed men to build up a mound,
after the funeral pyre, splendid over the sea,
that shall serve as memorial for my people,
towering high on the headland of Hronesness,
^as
so that seafaring men may in seasons to come
call it Beowulf’s Barrow, as they drive their ships
through the darkness of the deep, having come from afar.”
Then the bold-spirited ruler removed from his neck
a golden circlet, and gave it to his loyal thane,
the young spear-warrior-also his gold-gleaming helmet,
ring and coat of mail, commanding him to use them well:
“You are the last man left of all our kin,
the Waegmunding people. Wyrd has swept away
all my family, according to their fates,
all those nobles still in their strength. Now I must follow.”
That was the last word the old war-king spoke,
from the spirit in his breast, before he sought the pyre,
the surging of flames, and then his soul traveled,
forth from his breast, to the fame of the righteous.

Then sorrow came over the youthful kinsman,
as he looked down in grief, and saw on the ground
the one he loved best at the end of his life,
after wretched suffering. His slayer lay dead also,
the terrible earth-dragon, his life torn away,
in a violent death. The dragon in its coils
no longer held power over the hoard of rings,
since the blades of iron, hard and battle-sharp
from the smith’s hammer, severed it from life,
and the monstrous wide-flyer, stilled by its wounds,
was hurled to the ground near the hall of the hoard.
No longer was it seen to be soaring aloft,
mounting up high in the midnight skies,
reveling in riches, but it fell to the earth
through the war-chief’s work in hand-combat.
Truly, as I have heard told, few men of might
who lived in that land have enjoyed success,
however daring they were in dangerous deeds,
rushing to battle against that poisonous breath,
or reaching in hands to take from the ring-hall,
if they found awake that fearsome guardian,
on watch in the barrow. Yet with his death
Beowulf had paid the price for the many treasures,
for both he and the dragon found a bitter end
to this fleeting life. Then it was not long
till those fearful of fighting gave up the woods,
cowardly traitors, ten altogether,
not daring to defy the monster with spears,
proving disloyal to their lord in his need.
They approached in their shame, bearing their shields,
their weapons for war, where the old king lay,
while looking at Wiglaf. He sat there weary,
the brave fighter on foot, near his lord’s shoulders,
tried to wake him with water, but without success.
He did not have the power to hold life in the prince,
here on this earth, though he earnestly wished it,
nor in any way change the will of the Almighty.
For the decree of God ever governs the deeds
of every man, even as it still does today.
Then was it easy for cowards who lost courage
to get a stern speech from the young hero.
So Wiglaf spoke, the son of Weohstan,
sorrowing in spirit, with contempt for those comrades:
“Listen to what truth an honest man may tell,
that the very ruler, who gave you rich gifts,
the war-gear you wear, now standing beside him—
when often the prince offered those on the ale-bench,
sitting around in the hall, both helmet and mail-coat,
as gifts to his thanes, and so great was their splendor
as he could find, from near and from far—
that he had totally wasted those gifts of war-gear,
given how you behaved when battle came on him.
The king of our people had no cause to boast
of his comrades in fighting. Yet God granted him,
the Ruler of victories, that he himself gain vengeance,
alone with his sword, when he had need of strength.
I could do little to protect his life,
giving support in the battle, yet still I began,
well beyond my power, to provide help to my kinsman.
When I struck with my sword the evil enemy,
it gradually grew weaker, and the fire less fiercely
surged from its mouth. Too few men formed around
to defend the prince, when this distress was upon him.
Now the giving of treasures and gold-adorned swords,
and all joy for your kin in your much-loved land,
will come to a halt. Every one of your kindred
will be made to move on, with the rights to his land
stripped away, when war-chieftains from afar
hear the tale told of your flight from your lord,
that deed without glory. Death is better
for all noble men, than a life of shame!”

Then he directed a man to report these deeds
up in the camp over the cliff, where the warriors sat,
in mournful mood, the whole morning long,
shields at their shoulders, expecting one of two things—
either their dear leader’s death, or his coming back
once more. The messenger who rode up the headland
kept little back of the news of the battle,
but he told the tale truthfully to all the warriors:
“Now the giver of gifts to the people of the Weders,
the lord of the Geats, lies fast on his death-bed,
his place of slaughter, through the serpent’s evil.
And likewise beside him lies that death-dealer,
slain by the hip-knife, for Beowulf’s sword
could not cut fatal wounds, in any way,
into the monster. There beside Beowulf,
Wiglaf remains sitting, the son of Weohstan,
one warrior over the other who is now without life,
on guard at the head, holding sorrowful watch,
over both friend and foe. Now may our people
expect a time of war, when the fall of our king
is related far and wide, and cannot be concealed
from Franks and Frisians. Harsh strife with the Hugas
^at
was caused when Hygelac came with ship-warriors,
launching his raid in the land of the Frisians,
where the Hetware
^au
attacked him with ferocious force,
and overpowered the Geats with greater strength,
so the king in his mail-coat had to give way,
and fell among his fighting men. No riches did the king
give to his bold warriors. Ever since that battle,
the Merovingian king
^av
has denied us friendship
and favor.