⚝ ⚝ BEOWULF ⚝ ⚝
It is a great wonder
how Almighty God in His magnificence
favours our race with rank and scope
and the gift of wisdom; His sway is wide.
Sometimes He allows the mind
of a man of distinguished birth to follow its bent,
grants him fulfilment and felicity on earth
and forts to command in his own country.
He permits him to lord it in many lands
until the man in his unthinkingness
forgets that it will ever end for him.
He indulges his desires; illness and old age
mean nothing to him; his mind is untroubled
by envy or malice or the thought of enemies
with their hate-honed swords. The whole world
conforms to his will, he is kept from the worst
until an element of overweening
enters him and takes hold
while the soul’s guard, its sentry, drowses,
grown too distracted. A killer stalks him,
an archer who draws a deadly bow.
And then the man is hit in the heart,
the arrow flies beneath his defences,
the devious promptings of the demon start.
His old possessions seem paltry to him now.
He covets and resents; dishonours custom
and bestows no gold; and because of good things
that the Heavenly Powers gave him in the past
he ignores the shape of things to come.
Then finally the end arrives
when the body he was lent collapses and falls
prey to its death; ancestral possessions
and the goods he hoarded are inherited by another
who lets them go with a liberal hand.
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After nightfall, Grendel set out for Hrothgars lofty house, to see how the Ring-Danes were settling into it after their drink, and there he came upon them, a company of the best asleep from their feasting, insensible to pain and human sorrow. Suddenly the God-cursed brute was creating havoc: greedy and grim, he grabbed thirty men from their resting places and rushed to his lair, flushed up and inflamed from the raid, blundering back with the butchered corpses.
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Then as dawn brightened and the day broke Grendel’s powers of destruction were plain: their wassail was over, they wept to heaven and mourned under morning. Their mighty prince, Hrothgar, the storied leader, sat stricken and helpless, humiliated by the loss of his guard, bewildered and stunned, staring aghast at the demon’s trail, in deep distress.
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So Grendel ruled in defiance of right, one against all, until the greatest house in the world stood empty, a deserted wallstead. For twelve winters, seasons of woe, the lord of the Shieldings suffered under his load of sorrow.
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That troubled time continued, woe that never stopped, steady affliction for Hrothgar, Halfdane’s son, too hard an ordeal. There was panic after dark, people endured raids in the night, riven by terror.
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When heard about Grendel, Beowulf, Hygelac’s thane was on home ground, over in Geatland. There was no one else like him alive, he was the mightiest man on earth, high-born and powerful. He ordered a boat that would ply the waves. He announced his plan: to sail the swan’s road and search out Hrothgar, the famous prince who needed defenders. No elder tried to keep him from going, dear as he was to them. Instead, they inspected the omens and spurred his ambition to go, whilst he moved about like the leader he was, enlisting men, the best he could find; with fourteen others the warrior boarded the boat as captain a canny pilot along coast and currents.
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When Hrothgar’s lookout whose job it was to guard the sea-cliffs, saw shields glittering on the gangplank and battle-equipment being unloaded he had to find out who and what the arrivals were.
He rode to the shore, this horseman of Hrothgar’s, and challenged them, flourishing his spear: ”What kind of men are you who arrive rigged out for combat in coats of mail, sailing here over the sea-lanes in your steep-hulled boat?”
The man whose name was known for courage, the Geat leader, resolute in his helmet, answered in return: ”We are retainers from Hygelac’s band. Beowulf is my name.”
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With that the lookout rode to where Hrothgar sat, an old man among retainers; the valiant follower stood four-square in front of his king: he knew the courtesies. He adressed his dear lord: ”People from Geatland have put ashore. They have sailed far over the wide sea. They call the chief in charge of their band by the name of Beowulf.”
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Standing on the hearth in webbed links, the fine-forged mesh of his gleaming mail-shirt, Beowulf spoke: ”Greetings Hrothgar. I am Hygelac’s kinsman, one of his hall-troop. When I was younger, I had great triumphs. Then the news of Grendel reached me at home: sailor’s brought stories of the plight you suffer in the legendary hall, how it lies deserted.
Every elder and experienced councilman among my people supported my resolve to come to you here, because all knew of my awesome strengths. They had seen me boltered in the blood of enemies when I battled and bound five beasts, raided a troll nest and slaughtered sea-brutes. Now I mean to be a match for Grendel, settle the outcome in single combat.”
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Then Hrothgar, the helmet of Shielding’s, spoke: ”Beowulf, my friend, you have travelled here to favor us with help and to fight for us. It bothers me to have to burden anyone with all the grief Grendel has caused and the havoc he has wreaked upon us in Heorot, our humiliations. My household-guard are on the wane, fate sweeps them away into Grendel’s clutches. Time and again, when the goblets passed and seasoned fighters got flushed with beer they would pledge themselves to protect Heorot and wait for Grendel with whetted swords. But when dawn broke and day crept in over each empty, blood-spattered bench, the floor of the mead-hall where they had feasted would be slick with slaughter. And so they died, and my following dwindled. Now take your place at the table, relish the triumph of heroes to your heart’s content.
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Beowulf, son av Ecgtheow, answered: ”I had a fixed purpose when I put out to sea. As I sat in the boat with my band of men, I meant to the uttermost what your people wanted or perish in the attempt, in the fiend’s clutches. And I shall fulfill that purpose, prove myself with a proud deed or meet my death here in the mead-hall.”
The company stood as the two leaders took leave of each other: Hrothgar wished Beowulf health and good luck and named him hall-warden
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Beowulf began to remove his iron breast-mail, took off the helmet and handed his attendant the patterned sword, a smith’s masterpiece, ordering him to keep the equipment guarded. And before he bedded down, Beowulf, that prince of goodness, proudly asserted:
”When it comes to fighting, I count myself as dangerous any day as Grendel. So it won’t be a cutting edge I’ll wield to mow him down, easily as I might. He has no idea of the arts of war, of shield or sword-play, although he Dows possess a wild strength. No weapon, therefore, for either this night: unarmed he shall face me if face me he dares. And may the Divine Lord in his wisdom grant the glory of victory to whichever side He sees fit.”
Then down the brave man lay with his bolster under his head and his whole company of sea-rovers at rest beside him.
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Now out of the night came the shadow-stalker, stealthy and swift; the hall-guards were slack, asleep at their posts, all except one; Beowulf was in fighting mood, awake and on edge, spoiling for action. In off the moors, down through the mist bands God-cursed Grendel came greedily loping.
The bane of the race of men roamed forth, hunting for a prey in the high hall. Under the cloud-murk he moved towards it until it shone above him, a sheer keep of fortified gold. This was not the first time he had scouted the grounds of Hrothgar’s dwelling. His rage boiled over. he ripped open the mouth of the building, maddening for blood, pacing the length of the patterned floor with his loathsome tread, while a baleful light, flame more than light, flared from his eyes.
He saw many men in the mansion, sleeping, a ranked company of kinsmen and warriors quartered together. And his glee was demonic, picturing the mayhem. The creature did not wait but struck suddenly and started in; he grabbed and mauled a man on his bench, bit into his bone-lappings, bolted down his blood and gorged on him in lumps, leaving the body utterly lifeless, eaten up hand and foot. Venturing closer, his talon was raised to attack Beowulf where he lay on the bed; he was bearing in with open claw when the alert hero’s comeback and armlock forestalled him. The captain of evil discovered himself in a handgrip harder than anything he had ever encountered in any man on the face of the earth.
Grendel was desperate to flee to his den and hide with the devil’s litter, for in all his days he had never been clamped or cornered like this. Then Beowulf recalled his bedtime speech, sprang to his feet and got a firm hold. Fingers were bursting, the monster back-tracking, the man overpowering. The monster’s whole body was in pain, a tremendous wound appeared on his shoulder. Sinews split and the bone-lappings burst.
Beowulf was granted the glory of winning; Grendel was driven under the fen-banks, fatally hurt, to his desolate lair. His days were numbered, the end of his life was coming over him, he knew it for certain; and one bloody clash had fulfilled the dearest wishes of the Danes.
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Beowulf had had healed a huge distress, unremitting humiliations. Clear proof of this could be seen in the hand the hero displayed: the whole of Grendel’s shoulder and arm, his awesome grasp.
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