Beowulf (20 page)

 

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.