—XVII—
Then the warriors went forth to seek out their
dwellings,
having lost their friends, to look out over Frisia
on their homes and high stronghold. Meanwhile Hengest
dwelled with Finn through the death-stained winter,
without any choice. He thought of his homeland,
though he was unable to sail out on the sea
in his ring-prowed ship—storm surges welled up,
driven by great wind, and winter locked up the waters,
bound fast in the ice—till another year came around,
among dwellings of men, as it does to this day,
forever observing the proper order of seasons,
with wondrous weather. Then winter was gone,
the earth’s bosom fair, the Dane eager to leave,
the guest from his exile. Yet he gave much more thought
to vengeance for treachery than he did to a sea-voyage,
how he might bring about a hostile encounter,
since he bore in his mind the sons of the Jutes.
So he did not refuse the rule of custom
when the son of Hunlaf
o
laid in his lap
a bright shining war-sword, the best of blades—
its edges were already well-known to the Jutes.
Thus did brave-hearted Finn suffer a cruel fate,
struck down in his home, by a death-dealing sword,
when two Danish warriors, Guthlaf and Oslaf,
just come back from the sea, complained of the treachery,
blamed Finn for their woes. Such restless spirit
could not be restrained. Then was the hall reddened
with the blood of foes, even as Finn was cut down,
the king in his troop, and the queen taken safely.
The warriors of the Scyldings then bore to their ships
all the house-goods possessed by the lord of that land,
including all the jewelery and gems owned by Finn
that they could find. Then setting forth on the sea,
they carried noble Hildeburh back to her home
among Danish people.
Thus the lay was performed,
the singer’s sad tale. Then revelry sprang up,
a great noise among benches, as bearers of cups served
wine from great vessels. Then Wealhtheow came forth,
crowned with gold circlet, where the two good men sat,
nephew and uncle, who were then still at peace,
each true to the other. And court-spokesman Unferth
sat at the feet of the Danish king. Each one had faith
that he had great courage, though with his kin Unferth lacked
honor in sword-play. Then the queen of the Scyldings spoke:
“Receive this full cup from me, my own dear lord,
great giver of treasures! May you always have joy,
gold-friend of the people, and speak to the Geats
with gracious words, even as a true man should do!
Be generous with these Geats, mindful of gifts
that you have acquired from near and from far.
Men have said that you would wish to have
this hero as your son. Heorot has been cleansed,
the hall bright with rings. You may enjoy many riches
now while you live, and leave to your kinsmen
the people and kingdom, when you must pass on
as destiny decrees. For myself I am sure
that my gracious Hrothulf will hold sway with honor
over the band of young warriors, if you before him
go forth from this world, O Friend of the Scyldings.
I believe that he will bountifully repay
our own sons, if he remembers all the kindnesses
that we bestowed on him to fulfill his wishes,
and conferred on him honors while he was a child.”
She then turned to the bench where her sons were seated,
Hrethric and Hrothmund, among young warriors’ sons,
youths gathered together. The great hero sat with them,
Beowulf of the Geats, alongside the two brothers.
- XVIII—
The cup was borne to Beowulf and offered to him
with words of friendship, and twisted gold presented
with all good will, two ornamented arm-bands,
a mail-coat and rings, and the greatest of neck-rings
as I have heard told, anywhere on the earth.
Nor beneath the heavens have I heard of better
hoard-treasures of heroes, since Hama
p
carried off
to his bright stronghold the neck-ring of the Brosings,
with jewels in rich settings—fled the battle rage
of Eormenric,
q
and chose eternal good fortune.
Next Hygelac the Geat, the grandson of Swerting,
had that ring with him on his last expedition,
16
when under his banner he fought for his treasure,
his spoils from battle. Wyrd swept him away,
when for foolhardy pride he sought his own doom,
in feud against Frisians. That powerful prince
had borne the neck-ring, with its beautiful stones,
over waves to the land where he fell under his shield.
Then Franks took possession of the corpse of the king,
the mail round his breast and also that ring,
and warriors of less worth plundered his dead body,
cut down in the battle, where the Geatish warriors
occupied the place of corpses.
The hall resounded with clamor.
Then Wealhtheow spoke, saluting the warrior band:
“Have joy of this neck-ring, beloved Beowulf,
with good fortune in youth, and use well this mail-shirt
from our people’s treasures, and savor prosperity,
win fame through your skill, and give my sons here
your friendly counsel. I shall remember to give you reward.
For what you did here, men will forever
sing songs of praise, both near and far-off,
even as far as the sea flows round the headlands,
the home of the winds. Be ever blessed while you live,
a noble lord. I promise to give liberally to you
from our treasure-hoard. O happy man, I ask of you
that you always act kindly toward my sons!
Here each of the earls is true to all others,
in a spirit of friendship, loyal to their lord.
Thanes are mixing together, in peace as a people,
in fellowship of drinking: they do as I ask.”
She went to her seat. Then warriors drank wine,
the most festive of feasting. They did not know Wyrd,
the grim force of destiny, that would fall upon
many of the earls after evening came and went,
and Hrothgar departed to his own dwelling place,
to rest for the night. A countless number of nobles
protected the hall, as they often had done in the past.
The benches were cleared for bedding and bolsters
to spread over the boards. One of those beer-feasters,
one both lively and doomed, lay down in the hall.
They set by their heads their broad battle-shields,
wood rimmed with bright iron. There on the benches,
hard by each hero, arms were easy to see—
a high battle-helmet, a coat of ringed mail,
a mighty spear shaft. For it was their custom
that they were always made ready for war,
both at home and in war-band, so in either of those
they were equally prepared, if the lord of their people
should have need in distress. That was a brave band.
—XIX—
They sank into sleep. One of those sorely paid
for his rest that night, as had occurred often before,
when Grendel had held sway in that hall of gold,
ruled without right, till he came to his end,
dealt death for his sins. Yet it became known,
widely spoken among men, that still an avenger
lived on after that monster, now a long time
since he met his death. The mother of Grendel,
a female monster, was minded to cause misery.
She was doomed to dwell in some fearsome waters,
streams cold as death, since Cain had committed
the brutal murder of his only brother,
both with the same father. He was fated to wander,
marked for the murder, fleeing the joys of men,
to dwell in the wasteland. From him descended
doomed spirits of old—dread Grendel was one,
that much-hated outlaw, who discovered in Heorot
a warrior on watch, all ready for battle.
There the monster had seized ahold of the hero,
but Beowulf bore in mind his marvelous strength,
a wondrous gift which God had given him,
so he counted on aid from the Almighty,
for help and support. Thus he defeated the demon,
laid low hell’s creature, and the wretched one departed,
deprived of joy, to seek out his death-place,
a fallen foe of mankind. And now came his mother,
hungering for men’s death, who desired to go
on a sorrowful journey to avenge her slain son.
She came then to Heorot, where around the hall
the Ring-Danes were sleeping. A reversal of fortune
fell upon those men when the mother of Grendel
penetrated within. The terror of this woman,
her fury in fighting, only seemed any less
when her strength was compared to a weaponed man,
armed with shining sword forged by the smith’s hammer,
adorned with blood, slicing through the boar
on an enemy’s helmet with its battle-proved edges.
Then all over the hall men took up their sharp swords,
their blades from the benches, and many a broad shield
was heaved up by strong hands. They did not even think
of their stout mail-coats when seized by this terror.
She was in haste, wished to escape that hall,
to save her life, now that she had been seen.
Quickly she laid hold of one of those heroes,
held him fast in her grip, then rushed off to the fen.
That doomed man was the dearest to Hrothgar
of his noble retainers anywhere between the seas,
a strong shield-bearer, whom she slew where he slept,
a widely-famed warrior. Nor was Beowulf there,
but he was earlier assigned another resting-place,
after the giving of treasures to the glorious Geat.
Shouts cried out in Heorot: she had taken the famed hand,
covered with gore, and now grief surged once more,
brought again to their homes. It was not a good bargain
that those on both sides were driven to deal
with the lives of loved ones. Then the wise Danish king,
the hoary old warrior, grew heavy in heart
when he learned his chief thane
r
was no longer living,
and came to realize his dear friend was dead.
Quickly Beowulf was fetched, a man blessed with victory,
to the king’s bed-chamber. At the break of day,
he went with his warriors, a noble champion
among his companions, to where the king waited,
longing to know whether the Almighty would ever
bring about change after this long spell of suffering.
The war-worthy man walked across the floor,
with his band of heroes—the hall-wood resounded—
so that he could address the king of the Danes
with formal words, asking if he had enjoyed
an agreeable night after the evening’s feasting.
- XX -
Hrothgar replied, the ruler of the Scyldings:
“Ask not about gladness! Grief is renewed
for the Danish people. Aeschere is dead,
the elder brother of Yrmenlaf the Dane.
Gone is my counselor, my close advisor,
my shoulder-companion when we in warfare
shielded our heads as troops clashed in conflict,
striking boar-helmets. So should a warrior be,
a loyal leader of men, as Aeschere surely was!
Here in Heorot, he was slain by the hand
of a wandering marauder. I know not where
she went from here, exulting in the horrid carcass,
reveling in her feast. Thus she avenged the feud
from your slaughtering her son two nights ago,
in fearsome fighting with your powerful grip,
since he had a long while destroyed and depleted
the numbers of my people. He perished in battle,
forfeited his life, and now comes another
of the mighty evil-doers to avenge her kinsman,
and she has gone far to reach her revenge,
as many a thane may certainly think,
who grieves for Aeschere, his giver of treasure,
in the pain of heart-sorrow. The hand now lies dead
which ever dealt kindly with all you desired.
I have heard my people who live in this land,
my own hall-counselors, relate strange stories
that they themselves saw two of such
great march-dwellers holding sway in the moors,
unearthly creatures. One of that couple was,
as far as they clearly might make out,
the likeness of a woman, while the other wretch
walked the ways of exile in the form of a man,
though much more massive than any other human.
From olden days, those who dwelt in those lands
named that one Grendel. They knew not his father,
or whether that father ever had other offspring,
dark-spirited creatures. They lived in a distant land
of desolate wolf-slopes and of windy headlands,
a dangerous marsh-path. A mountain stream there
departs in dark mist far under the rock walls,
an underground flood. It is not far from here,
measured in miles, where the mere stands.
Great trees hang above it, heavy with frost,
woods held fast by roots overshadow the water.
An omen of evil every night may be seen—
flames on that flood. There is no one so wise
that he can determine its bottomless depth.
Though the heath-stepper, a stag with strong horns,
seeking safety in woods was forced into flight,
pressed hard by hounds, it would rather surrender
its life on the bank before jumping in that water
to protect itself. That is no pleasant place!
Towering waves, surge upward on high,
dark under clouds, when the wind whips up
terrible storms, and the sky blackens with gloom
as the heavens wail.
Our only hope for help
rests with you alone. You have not yet encountered
that place of great peril, where you can find
that creature of sin—seek it if you dare!
I will give you gifts, many ancient treasures,
for your help in this feud, even as I earlier gave
twisted gold rings, when you return a victor.”
—XXI—
Beowulf spoke, the son of Ecgtheow:
“Do not grieve, wise warrior! It is better for each man
that he avenge his friend than to mourn him much.
Each of us must accept the end of life
here in this world—so we must work while we can
to earn fame before death. For a warrior it is best
to live on in memory after life has departed.
Arise, protector of the people, let us quickly go
to look for the tracks left by Grendel’s kinswoman.
I promise you this: she shall not find shelter,
not in the earth’s embrace, nor in mountain woods,
nor the bottom of the sea—go wherever she will!
For today keep patience during all your troubles,
which is what I know to expect of you.”
Then up leapt the old ruler, giving thanks to God,
the mighty Lord, for the words this man spoke.
Then Hrothgar’s horse was saddled and bridled,
a steed with braided mane. The wise king went forth,
fully equipped, with his war-band marching on foot,
shouldering their shields. The tracks of the enemy
were clear to see along paths through the woods,
going over the ground, heading straight toward
the murky moor, where the mother of Grendel
bore the lifeless corpse of the best of chieftains
who ruled with Hrothgar over their homeland.
The noble band of warriors picked their way
over steep stone-slopes, up a narrow path,
going one-by-one on the unknown way,
by high headlands—home to many monsters.
Hrothgar rode ahead with a few advisors,
from among his wise men, to scout the area,
when he abruptly encountered great mountain-trees,
leaning out over masses of old gray stone,
a wood without joy, overhanging the water
stirred up with blood. Then all the Danes suffered,
their spirits in pain, as grief pierced the nobles,
these friends of the Scyldings, for many a thane
felt comrade-loss when they came upon
the head of Aeschere on the cliff by the mere.
Brave warriors looked on waters roiling with blood,
seething with gore. Time and again, the horn sounded
a song eager for battle, as the war-band rested.
They saw in the water a great swarming of serpents,
strange sea-beasts roaming around the mere,
and water-monsters sprawled on the slopes of the cliffs,
which often in mid-morning set out to hunt prey,
bringing sorrow to many along the sail-road,
these dragons and beasts. They slid from the banks,
bulging with bitter hate, when they heard the call
of the war-horn for battle. A Geatish warrior cut off
the life,
the warring in waves, of one such monster
with a bow-shot arrow, so that the strong shaft
sank into its heart. Then was it slower in swimming
through seas, as it was seized in the grip of death.
That wondrous wave-roamer was quickly grappled,
with ferocious force, right there in those waters,
by spears tipped with cruel barbs for attacking boars
and dragged onto shore. There men looked on
that horrible strange beast. Then Beowulf put on
his armor for battle, without fear for his life.
His coat of mail, with hard links forged by hand,
broad and well-fashioned, was sufficiently strong
to safeguard his life while searching the waters,
so no battle-clashing might injure his breast,
nor furious foe’s grasp might rob him of life.
And a gleaming helmet guarded his head,
for whatever he met at the bottom of the mere,
plunging in surging waters wearing that treasure
with splendid bands encircled, as a smith in old times
had fashioned weapons for war, adorned with wonders,
the likenesses of boars, so that no sword or battle-blade
might ever bite through to bring harm to the hero.
Then to aid him in his time of need, Hrothgar’s
hall-speaker
did not lend the Geat the least powerful of weapons—
a great hilted sword by the name of Hrunting,
which was one of the foremost of ancient treasures,
a blade of iron etched with adders entwined,
made strong by battle-blood. Never had it failed
any man
whose hands had wielded it in the heat of battle,
daring to go forth on a venture fraught with terrors
in the homeland of foes. Nor was it the first time
the sword was called on to perform deeds of courage.
It seems that strong Unferth, the son of Ecglaf,
did not bear in mind the taunts he had spoken before,
drunken with wine, when he lent this great weapon
to the better sword-warrior. He would not himself dare
to take a chance with his life under the war of the waves,
doing deeds of bravery. Thus he lost lasting fame,
his reputation for boldness. That was not so for Beowulf,
as he armed himself with war-gear for battle.