Beowulf (13)

“Nor do I expect peace or pact-keeping

of any sort from the Swedes. Remember:

at Ravenswood, Ongentheow

slaughtered Haethcyn, Hrethel's son, when the Geat people in their arrogance

first attacked the fierce Shylfings.

The return blow was quickly struck

by Ohthere's father. Old and terrible,

he felled the sea-king and saved his own

aged wife, the mother of Onela

and of Ohthere, bereft of her gold rings.

Then he kept hard on the heels of the foe

and drove them, leaderless, lucky to get away,

in a desperate rout into Ravenswood.

His army surrounded the weary remnant

where they nursed their wounds; all through the night

he howled threats at those huddled survivors,

promised to axe their bodies open

when dawn broke, dangle them from gallows

to feed the birds. But at first light

when their spirits were lowest, relief arrived.

They heard the sound of Hygelac's horn, his trumpet calling as he came to find them,

the hero in pursuit, at hand with troops.

“The bloody swathe that Swedes and Geats

cut through each other was everywhere.

No one could miss their murderous feuding.

Then the old man made his move,

pulled back, barred his people in:

Ongentheow withdrew to higher ground.

Hygelac's pride and prowess as a fighter were known to the earl; he had no confidence

that he could hold out against that horde of seamen,

defend wife and the ones he loved

from the shock of the attack. He retreated for shelter

behind the earthwall. Then Hygelac swooped

on the Swedes at bay, his banners swarmed

into their refuge, his Geat forces

drove forward to destroy the camp.

There in his grey hairs, Ongentheow

was cornered, ringed around with swords.

And it came to pass that the king's fate was in Eofor's hands, and in his alone. Wulf, son of Wonred, went for him in anger,

split him open so that blood came spurting

from under his hair. The old hero

still did not flinch, but parried fast,

hit back with a harder stroke:

the king turned and took him on.

Then Wonred's son, the brave Wulf, could land no blow against the aged lord.

Ongentheow divided his helmet

so that he buckled and bowed his bloodied head

and dropped to the ground. But his doom held off.

Though he was cut deep, he recovered again.

“With his brother down, the undaunted Eofor,

Hygelac's thane, hefted his sword and smashed murderously at the massive helmet

past the lifted shield. And the king collapsed,

The shepherd of people was sheared of life.

“Many then hurried to help Wulf,

bandaged and lifted him, now that they were left

masters of the blood-soaked battleground.

One warrior stripped the other,

looted Ongentheow's iron mail-coat, his hard sword-hilt, his helmet too,

and carried the graith to King Hygelac;

he accepted the prize, promised fairly

that reward would come, and kept his word.

For their bravery in action, when they arrived home

Eofor and Wulf were overloaded

by Hrethel's son, Hygelac the Geat, with gifts of land and linked rings

that were worth a fortune. They had won glory,

so there was no gainsaying his generosity.

And he gave Eofor his only daughter

to bide at home with him, an honour and a bond.

“So this bad blood between us and the Swedes,

this vicious feud, I am convinced,

is bound to revive; they will cross our borders

and attack in force when they find out

that Beowulf is dead. In days gone by

when our warriors fell and we were undefended

he kept our coffers and our kingdom safe.

He worked for the people, but as well as that

he behaved like a hero.

We must hurry now

to take a last look at the king

and launch him, lord and lavisher of rings,

on the funeral road. His royal pyre

will melt no small amount of gold:

heaped there in a hoard, it was bought at heavy cost,

and that pile of rings he paid for at the end

with his own life will go up with the flame,

be furled in fire: treasure no follower

will wear in his memory, nor lovely woman

link and attach as a torque around her neck—

but often, repeatedly, in the path of exile

they shall walk bereft, bowed under woe,

now that their leader's laugh is silenced, high spirits quenched. Many a spear

dawn-cold to the touch will be taken down

and waved on high; the swept harp

won't waken warriors, but the raven winging darkly over the doomed will have news,

tidings for the eagle of how he hoked and ate,

how the wolf and he made short work of the dead.”

Such was the drift of the dire report

that gallant man delivered. He got little wrong

in what he told and predicted.

The whole troop

rose in tears, then took their way

to the uncanny scene under Earnaness.

There, on the sand, where his soul had left him,

they found him at rest, their ring-giver

from days gone by. The great man

had breathed his last. Beowulf the king

had indeed met with a marvellous death.

But what they saw first was far stranger:

the serpent on the ground, gruesome and vile,

lying facing him. The fire-dragon

was scaresomely burnt, scorched all colours.

From head to tail, his entire length

was fifty feet. He had shimmered forth

on the night air once, then winged back

down to his den; but death owned him now,

he would never enter his earth-gallery again.

Beside him stood pitchers and piled-up dishes,

silent flagons, precious swords

eaten through with rust, ranged as they had been

while they waited their thousand winters under ground.

That huge cache, gold inherited

from an ancient race, was under a spell—

which meant no one was ever permitted

to enter the ring-hall unless God Himself,

mankind's Keeper, True King of Triumphs, allowed some person pleasing to Him—

and in His eyes worthy—to open the hoard.

What came about brought to nothing

the hopes of the one who had wrongly hidden

riches under the rock-face. First the dragon slew

that man among men, who in turn made fierce amends

and settled the feud. Famous for his deeds

a warrior may be, but it remains a mystery

where his life will end, when he may no longer

dwell in the mead-hall among his own.

So it was with Beowulf, when he faced the cruelty

and cunning of the mound-guard. He himself was ignorant

of how his departure from the world would happen.

The high-born chiefs who had buried the treasure

declared it until doomsday so accursed

that whoever robbed it would be guilty of wrong

and grimly punished for their transgression,

hasped in hell-bonds in heathen shrines.

Yet Beowulf's gaze at the gold treasure when he first saw it had not been selfish.

Wiglaf, son of Weohstan, spoke:

“Often when one man follows his own will

many are hurt. This happened to us.

Nothing we advised could ever convince

the prince we loved, our land's guardian, not to vex the custodian of the gold,

let him lie where he was long accustomed,

lurk there under earth until the end of the world.

He held to his high destiny. The hoard is laid bare,

but at a grave cost; it was too cruel a fate

that forced the king to that encounter.

I have been inside and seen everything

amassed in the vault. I managed to enter

although no great welcome awaited me

under the earthwall. I quickly gathered up

a huge pile of the priceless treasures

handpicked from the hoard and carried them here

where the king could see them. He was still himself,

alive, aware, and in spite of his weakness

he had many requests. He wanted me to greet you

and order the building of a barrow that would crown

the site of his pyre, serve as his memorial,

in a commanding position, since of all men

to have lived and thrived and lorded it on earth

his worth and due as a warrior were the greatest.

Now let us again go quickly

and feast our eyes on that amazing fortune

heaped under the wall. I will show the way

and take you close to those coffers packed with rings

and bars of gold. Let a bier be made

and got ready quickly when we come out

and then let us bring the body of our lord,

the man we loved, to where he will lodge

for a long time in the care of the Almighty.”

Then Weohstan's son, stalwart to the end, had orders given to owners of dwellings,

many people of importance in the land,

to fetch wood from far and wide

for the good man's pyre. “Now shall flame consume

our leader in battle, the blaze darken

round him who stood his ground in the steel-hail,

when the arrow-storm shot from bowstrings

pelted the shield-wall. The shaft hit home.

Feather-fledged, it finned the barb in flight.”

Next the wise son of Weohstan

called from among the king's thanes a group of seven: he selected the best

and entered with them, the eighth of their number,

under the God-cursed roof; one raised

a lighted torch and led the way.

No lots were cast for who should loot the hoard

for it was obvious to them that every bit of it

lay unprotected within the vault,

there for the taking. It was no trouble

to hurry to work and haul out

the priceless store. They pitched the dragon

over the clifftop, let tide's flow and backwash take the treasure-minder.

Then coiled gold was loaded on a cart

in great abundance, and the grey-haired leader,

the prince on his bier, borne to Hronesness.

The Geat people built a pyre for Beowulf,

stacked and decked it until it stood four-square,

hung with helmets, heavy war-shields

and shining armour, just as he had ordered.

Then his warriors laid him in the middle of it,

mourning a lord far-famed and beloved.

On a height they kindled the hugest of all

funeral fires; fumes of woodsmoke

billowed darkly up, the blaze roared

and drowned out their weeping, wind died down

and flames wrought havoc in the hot bone-house,

burning it to the core. They were disconsolate

and wailed aloud for their lord's decease. A Geat woman too sang out in grief;

with hair bound up, she unburdened herself

of her worst fears, a wild litany

of nightmare and lament: her nation invaded,

enemies on the rampage, bodies in piles,

slavery and abasement. Heaven swallowed the smoke.

Then the Geat people began to construct

a mound on a headland, high and imposing,

a marker that sailors could see from far away,

and in ten days they had done the work.

It was their hero's memorial; what remained from the fire they housed inside it, behind a wall

as worthy of him as their workmanship could make it.

And they buried torques in the barrow,

and jewels and a trove of such things as trespassing men

had once dared to drag from the hoard.

They let the ground keep that ancestral treasure,

gold under gravel, gone to earth,

as useless to men now as it ever was.

Then twelve warriors rode around the tomb,

chieftain's sons, champions in battle, all of them distraught, chanting in dirges,

mourning his loss as a man and a king.

They extolled his heroic nature and exploits

and gave thanks for his greatness; which was the proper thing,

for a man should praise a prince whom he holds dear

and cherish his memory when that moment comes

when he has to be convoyed from his bodily home.

So the Geat people, his hearth companions,

sorrowed for the lord who had been laid low.

They said that of all the kings upon the earth

he was the man most gracious and fair-minded,

kindest to his people and keenest to win fame.