Free Beowulf by Frederick Rebsamen Page A

warrior
 
fastened in her claws as she fled to the moor.
 
That ill-fated Dane was dearest to Hrothgar
 
of all warriors in that wide kingdom
 
powerful guardian plucked from his rest
 
bountiful thane. Nor was Beowulf there
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who slept through the night in a separate bower
 
champion of the Geats with his great treasures.
 
Sorrow came to Heorot—she snatched from the gable
 
that high-hung monster-arm—horror came back then
 
to the wakening death-hall. It was woeful bargaining
 
each party to pay the price of slaughter
 
with a loved-one’s life.
 
                                   That forlorn treasure-king,
 
sorrow-gripped lord, sang a mourning-song
 
grieved for his heart-thane hearth-friend and warrior
 
a king’s counselor killed in his hall.
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Quickly was Beowulf battle-weary guest
 
called to his bower. At breaking of day
 
he went with his shieldmen walked through the dawn
 
to the king’s rest house—that bereft throne-warden
 
wondered in misery if the Wielder of us all
 
ever would spare them save them from fiendgrief.
 
Then Hygelac’s thane with hand-chosen warriors
 
crossed the floor-planks clinked an armor-song
 
stood before the king sorrowing Dane-lord
 
asked if his night-rest had eased his suffering
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if the breaking of Grendel had brought peace to him.
 
Hrothgar answered helm of the Shield-Danes:
 
“Don’t ask about happiness! Horror has come back
 
to the Danes in Heorot. Dead is Aeschere
 
good Yrmenlaf’s guide and blood-brother
 
my closest adviser counsel to us all
 
shoulder-companion when shields were hoisted
 
defender of my life when foot-warriors clashed
 
and helmets were struck. So should a man be
 
always beside us as Aeschere was!
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He found in Heorot a hell-spawned murderer
 
restless hand-killer. From our high meadhall
 
that slaughter-stained spirit has sought her mere-cave
 
I know not where. She now has avenged
 
the felling of Grendel that feud you began
 
with violent grappling that great handgrip
 
that settled our account for those cold death-years
 
the closing of Heorot. He cringed at your hand
 
went dying through the night and now this she-fiend
 
has avenged her monster-son vicious man-killer—
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too far she has carried this feud over blood-kin
 
it seems to us all aching in our minds
 
weeping for Aeschere warrior of my heart
 
high-minded hall-thane—now his hand is idle
 
that once granted us each wish and command.
 
I have heard evening-tales hearth-talk of scouts
 
of hall-messengers hailing from abroad
 
that they have sighted a solitary pair
 
monstrous moor-walkers moving through shadows
 
sorrowful fen-spirits. They say that one of them
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misshapen exile is most like a woman—
 
the wanderer with her woefully deformed
 
prowled the march-tracks manlike to their eyes
 
yet bigger by far than the best of warriors.
 
In times long past tenders of the land
 
named him Grendel. No one can say
 
what creatures spawned them their kin in this world.
 
They live secretly in a sombre land
 
dwell by wolf-slopes wind-tortured bluffs
 
gloomy fen-hollows where a forested stream
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dives from the bluffs down past earthlight
 
flows underground. Not far from Heorot
 
measured in miles the mere lies hidden—
 
reaching above it with rime-covered branches
 
strong-rooted trees stretch from rock-slopes.
 
At night may be seen a strange wonder-sight—
 
fire on the water. No wiseman lives
 
who knows the bottom of that black monster-home.
 
Though the heath-prancer by hounds labored
 
the strong-antlered hart may seek life-haven
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driven from afar he will die beside it
 
forfeit his life