Beowulf Page 16

  quenched the hate-fire hot terror-breath

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  of that lone mound-miser who measured the land

  belching with flame-waves burning through the night

  searing the darkness till he died of murder.

  Wiglaf hurried then weighted with that bounty

  trembling to learn if his beloved shield-king

  was breathing life-breath as he last saw him

  lord of the Weather-Geats waiting for treasures

  sick with blood-bane bordered in darkness.

  Wrapped in those riches he rushed to his lord

  stricken bounty-king seared and wound-weary

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  at the end of life. He laved him again

  wakened him with water till words came pressing

  broke through his breast. The battle-king spoke then

  gazed at the goldworks that great treasure-pile:

  “For these fine war-trophies I finally must say

  thanks to the Wielder Wonder-King of all

  our glorious Deemer for such dear gold-marvels

  that I now may leave to my beloved Geatfolk

  at this last death-moment darkening of light.

  Now that I’ve bought this bright treasure-mound

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  with my old lifeblood look to my kingdom

  the needs of my Geats—I must now leave you.

  Tell my battle-friends to build me a mound

  high by the balefire on the headland’s point.

  It will signal my name to sons of this nation

  tower to the sky on tall Hronesnaes

  so that sea-travelers in time will call it

  Beowulf’s barrow as they beat through the swells

  sail their prow-ships on the pounding waves.”

  He removed from his throat a marvelous neck-ring

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  gold-gleaming collar gave it to his thane,

  young spear-warrior, yielded his armor

  helmet and mailcoat hailed him farewell:

  “You are the last of our beloved kinsmen

  the Waegmunding clan. Wyrd has guided

  all of my family to fate’s shadowland

  my fine companions—I will follow them now.”

  Those words were the last of that long-loved king

  his final heart-thoughts for the hot balefire

  bone-cracking flames—from his breast at last

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  his soul went seeking safety in praise.

  Young Wiglaf then yearned for his master

  wept within his mind as he watched the old one

  loved throne-warden lay down his earthyears

  moments of his life. The monster sprawled there

  uncoiled earthdragon cut down from flight

  ended by swordswings. That old death-flyer

  no longer wielded his wealthy ringhoard

  but steel blade-edges stopped his life-fire

  hard and battle-sharp smith-hammer’s leaving.

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  That soaring night-flyer stilled by murder-wounds

  fell to the earth near that fire-kept treasure.

  No longer at sunset did he sail with hate-flames

  roaming the night-dark raging for his cup

  scorching the skyways but he sank at last

  hushed by the swordwork of heartstrong warriors.

  Few good battle-men bold though they be

  strongest in warfare swordmen to be feared

  reckless in life-dare ready for deathday

  would stand against the blast of that searing heat-breath

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  touch with their hands the tiniest of gems

  if they found waiting there a waking moundguard

  coiled in his barrow. Beowulf exchanged

  those lordly treasures for his life’s boundary—

  king and enemy earned the end there

  of their loaned earth-days.

  Not long from then

  those safe war-watchers stole from the woods

  cowardly trust-breakers ten sword-shirkers

  who dared not earlier enter with their shields

  in that hard moment of their manlord’s need.

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  They came with their shields shamed war-weapons

  aching with silence where the old one lay.

  They looked then at Wiglaf who watched hopelessly,

  one man alone by his lord’s shoulder,

  bathed him with water—no breath came to him.

  No way could he find no wishful begging

  to lengthen the life of that loved gift-king

  nor change the Measurer’s moment of release—

  the judgment of God would guide the destiny

  of every man-creature as it always does.

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  Then grim welcome-words welled in the heart

  of that young shieldman for those shameful wretches.

  Wiglaf spoke then Weohstan’s offspring

  grief-heavy warrior glared at unloved ones:

  “That he may say who will speak the truth

  that this good manlord who made you such gifts

  rich war-trappings that you wear this moment,

  by bright ale-benches bettered you with swords

  burnished shield-boards byrnies and helmets

  from lord to his thanes, lent you the finest

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  of all steel-swords smith-wrought with care—

  that he then utterly all that battle-gear

  entirely wasted in the time of his need.

  That lonesome folk-king could find no cause

  to boast of his war-thanes but the broad Wielder

  Worldshaper granted that our great manlord

  alone with his sword served that monster.

  Little of life-help could I lend him then

  give him at battle but I gathered my courage

  over my war-strength to aid my kinsman.

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  Always the weaker was that old night-flyer

  when I struck him below—slackened fire-breath

  flamed from his head. Too few warriors

  crowded around him courage was lacking.

  Now shall treasure-gifts the taking of swords

  all homeland joys in the halls of your kinsmen

  all happiness cease. You will sorrowfully wander

  stripped of landrights beloved homesteads

  alone in your exile when other battle-thanes

  learn of your failure your flight to the woods

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  dragging your life-shields. Death will be better

  for each one of you than a wasted life.”

  He sent the news then a solemn messenger

  up by the cliff-edge where the curious Geats

  all morning-long mourningly waited

  shrouded in fear of the Shaper’s will—

  the end of his life or unlikely return

  of their loved hall-king. He lacked no doom-words

  that ready news-speaker who rode to the headland

  but called out clearly to the crowd waiting there:

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  “Now is the goldking of the Geatish landfolk

  friendlord to us all fast in his death-sleep

  dwelling in peace now through that serpent’s teeth.

  Unflaming lies now that lone night-scorcher

  sickened by shortsword. With sharp Naegling

  our war-crafty leader could work no life-wound

  on that venomous head. Hard by Beowulf

  Wiglaf waits for us Weohstan’s blood-son

  young war-champion watching over death

  holds with sorrow a silent head-guard

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  by monster and lord. We will live to see

  dark slaughter-days when the death of our king

  is widely heralded over wave-rolling seas

  to Franks and Frisians. That feud was started

  hard against
Hugas when Hygelac went forth

  sailing with float-troops to Frisian territory

  where the swordstrong Hetware humbled him in battle

  gained victory there with greater force-fighting

  till that best of spear-kings bent down to death

  fell among foot-troops—no fine gold-plunder

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  he brought to our hall. Since that heavy slaughter-day

  no stern Merovingians have sent us peace-tokens.

  Nor will Battle-Swedes bear us good tidings

  wish us good will but it’s widely known

  that stout Ongentheow struck to the life-core

  of Haethcyn Hrethling at Hrefnawudu’s edge

  when eager for power the proud Geat-force

  went seeking with spears the Swedish thane-warriors.

  Soon the old one Ohthere’s father

  taught them battle-lore turned back their forces

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  cut down their leader recaptured his wife

  grand throne-lady of her gold bereft

  Onela’s and Ohthere’s old queen-mother—

  followed them then fugitive invaders

  till they sheltered at last that sorrowful evening

  in dark Hrefnesholt heavy with life-loss.

  He laughed at that army the leavings of swords

  wearied by their wounds. Great woes he promised

  those wretched survivors right through the night

  said that at dawning with swords’ edges

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  he would hew them down hang them on gallows-trees

  for the pleasure of birds. At breaking of day

  the sorrowful Geatmen were consoled once more

  when they heard Hygelac’s horn-song of challenge

  heartlift for survivors when revenge came calling,

  a band of sword-thanes bearing through the woods.

  Great were the bloodtracks of Geats and Swedes there

  loud shield-clashing leapt through the trees

  as two great armies tried for victory.

  Then the old warrior wise in spearways

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  turned back his people took them to shelter,

  lord Ongentheow leading them away—

  he had learned of Hygelac’s hard warrior-ways

  that proud one’s swordcraft—he put no trust

  in open battle-play with the best of Geats

  guarded his hoardwealth held there in safety

  his wife and children—he went to ground then

  shielded by earthwall. Then the old Swede-lord

  was hounded once more—Hygelac’s boar-banner

  sailed above them streamed through the morning

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  when Geats came running rushed the shieldwall.

  Then brave Ongentheow old warrior-king

  was brought down to earth by edges of swords—

  at last he consented to live or die there

  by Eofor’s judgment. In earlier fighting

  Wulf Wonreding wielded his sword

  with such blade-strength that blood sprang in streams

  from that gray hairline. Still game for fighting

  the old Swede-lord swung back at him

  repaid that wound with a worse exchange

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  when that proud folk-king fought for his life.

  Nor could that warrior Wonred’s young son

  give the old one a good counterblow

  for the Swedish war-king slashed through his helmet

  stained him with blood till he bowed at last

  fell down to earth. Yet fate was not ready—

  Wulf soon recovered though cut to the bone.

  Then his helpful blood-brother Hygelac’s thane

  struck with his sword to save his kinsman

  swung his treasure-blade sliced to the grayhead

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  through the king’s helmet—he crumbled then

  Swedefolk’s guardian slipped down from life.

  No lack of blade-friends broke through the shieldwall

  bound Wulf in wrappings when warfare allowed them

  when they ruled the field in the falling of light.

  Then Eofor stripped there the slain warrior-king

  took from Ongentheow his iron corselet

  hilted treasure-sword tall mask-helmet

  bright war-trappings bore them to Hygelac

  who kept all of it clearly promised him

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  ample rewards then afterwards gave them.

  The lord of the Geats great Hrethel’s son

  called to the gift-throne those good thane-brothers

  gave Wulf and Eofor wondrous treasure-gifts

  gave each to hold a hundred thousand