Beowulf

1 A Prowler in the Dark

The land of the Danes ends here, at this great wedge of granite cliffs jutting out high above the freezing sea. The foam of icy waves lashes the cruel shingle, narrow beaches of ragged bedrock and fallen boulders, polished cobbles and the stingy strands of ice-and snow-scabbed sand. This is no fit place for men, these barren, wind-scoured shores in this hungry, sun-shunned time of the year. By day, there are few enough wild things—only seals and walrus and the beached and rotting carcass of a whale, only the gulls and eagles soaring against the mottled, leaden sky. During the long nights, the shore becomes an even more forsaken and forbidding realm, unlit but for the furtive glimpses of the moon’s single pale eye as it slips in and out of the clouds and fog.

But even here there is refuge. Perched like a beacon shining out to all those lost and wandering in the cold stands the tower of the Scylding king Hrothgar, son of Healfdene, grandson of Beow, great-grandson of Shield Sheafson. The tower throws specks of warm yellow against the gloom, and tonight, in the shadow of the tower, there is a celebration, revelry even on an evening so bleak as this.

Within the sturdy walls of the king’s new mead hall, which he has named Heorot, the hall of harts, his thanes and their ladies have assembled. The fires burn bright beneath thatch and timber, driving back the chill and filling the air with delicious cooking smells and the comforting aroma of woodsmoke. Here, high above the reach of the angry sea, the king has at last made good his promise, the gift of this mighty hall to his loyal subjects. In all the lands of the Northmen, there is no other to equal its size and grandeur, and on this night it is awash with drunken laughter and the clatter of plates and knives, the rise and fall of a hundred voices speaking all at once, not so very different from the rise and fall of the sea outside, except there is no ice to be found here anywhere, and one might only drown in the endless cups of mead. Above the wide fire pits, pigs and deer, rabbit and geese roast on iron spits, and the flames leap and dance, throwing dizzying shadows across the walls and laughing faces and the massive oak timbers carved with scenes of warfare and the hunt, with the graven images of gods and monsters.

“Have I not kept my oath?” howls fat King Hrothgar from the alcove set into the farther end of the long hall. He is an old man, and his battle days are behind him now, his long beard and the braids in his hair gone white as the winter snow. Wrapped only in a bedsheet, he rises slowly from the cradle of his throne, moving as quickly as age and his considerable girth will permit. “One year ago…I, Hrothgar, your king, swore that we would soon celebrate our victories in a new hall, a hall both mighty and beautiful. Now, you tell me, have I not kept my oath?”

Momentarily distracted from their drink, from their feasting and happy debaucheries, the king’s men raise their cups and raise their voices, too, drunkenly cheering on old Hrothgar, and never mind that only a handful among them are sober enough to know why they are cheering. At the sound of their voices, Hrothgar grins drunkenly and rubs at his belly, then turns to gaze down at his queen, the beautiful lady Wealthow. Though hardly more than a child, this violet-eyed girl adorned in gold and furs and glittering jewels, Wealthow is neither burdened with nor blinded by childish illusions about her husband’s fidelity. She knows, for example, of the two giggling maidens whom he bedded this very night, farm girls or perhaps daughters of his own warriors, with whom the king was still occupied when four thanes came to bear him from his bedchamber out into the crowded hall. Hrothgar has never made the least effort to hide his whores and mistresses, so she has never seen the point in pretending not to see them.

“Ah, mead!” he grunts, and grabs the gilded drinking horn from the queen’s hands. “Thank you, my lovely Wealthow!” She glares up at him, though Hrothgar has already turned away, raising the horn to his lips, spilling mead down his chin and into the tangle of his beard.

The drinking horn is a breathtaking thing, and she has often spoken aloud of her wonder of it. Surely, it was made either in remote and elder days, when such fine craftsmanship was not uncommon to this land, or it was fashioned in some distant kingdom by a people who’d not yet forgotten that artistry. It is a mystery and a marvelous sight, this relic rescued from a dragon’s hoard; even clutched in the meaty hands of a man so crude as her husband, the drinking horn does not cease to please her eyes. The finest gold etched with strange runes the likes of which she’s never seen before, and there are two clawed feet mounted on one side so that the horn may be set down without tipping over and spilling. For the handle, there’s a winged dragon, also of wrought gold, with a single perfect ruby set into its throat. Horns and fangs and the jagged trace of its sinuous, razor spine, a terrible worm summoned from some forgotten tale, or perhaps the artisan meant this dragon to recall the serpent Nidhögg Rootnibbler, who lies coiled in the darkness at the base of the World Ash.

Hrothgar belches, wipes at his mouth, then raises the empty horn as though to toast all those assembled before him. “And in this hall,” he bellows, “we shall divide the spoils of our conquests, all the gold and the treasure. This shall ever be a place of merrymaking and of joy and fornication…from now until the end of time. I name this hall Heorot!”

And again the thanes and their women and everyone else in the hall cheer, and Hrothgar turns once more to face Wealthow. Droplets of mead cling to his mustache and beard like some strange amber dew.

“Let’s hand out some treasure, shall we, my beauty?”

Wealthow shrugs and keeps her seat, as the king dips one hand into a wooden chest that has been placed on the dais between their thrones. It is filled almost to overflowing with gold and silver, with coins minted in a dozen foreign lands and jewel-encrusted brooches. The king tosses a handful out into the waiting crowd. Some of it is snatched directly from the air, and other pieces rain down noisily upon tabletops and dirt floors, prompting a greedy, reckless scramble.

Now the king selects a single gold torque from the chest and holds it above his head, and again the crowd cheers. But this time the king shakes his head and holds the torque still higher.

“No, no, this one is not for you lot. This is for Unferth, my wisest man, unrivaled violator of virgins and boldest of all brave brawlers—where the fuck are you, Unferth, you weasel-faced bastard! Unferth—”

Across the long hall, at the edge of a deep pit dug directly into the floor, so that men will not have to brave the cold wind and risk frostbite just to take a piss, Unferth is busy relieving himself and arguing with another of the king’s advisors, Aesher. Unferth hasn’t yet heard Hrothgar calling out his name, the old man’s voice diminished by the endless clatter and din of the hall, and he stares into the dark pit, a great soggy mouth opening wide to drink its own share of mead, once the thanes have done with it. There is a hardness about this man, something grim and bitter in his gaunt face and braids as black as raven feathers, something calculating in the dull glint of his green eyes.

“Do not be so quick to laugh,” he says to Aesher. “I’m telling you, we have to start taking this matter seriously. I’ve heard the believers now extend from Rome all the way north to the land of the Franks.”

Aesher scowls and stares down at the yellow stream of his own urine. “Well, then answer me this. Who do you think would win a knife fight, Odin or this Christ Jesus?”

“Unferth!” Hrothgar roars again, and this time Unferth does hear him. “Oh, what now?” he sighs. “Can I not even be left in peace long enough to piss?”

Aesher shakes his head and snickers. “Best hurry it up,” he says, laughing. “You’ll not want to keep him waiting. What is a man’s full bladder when placed alongside the will of his king?”

“Unferth, bastard son of that bastard Ecglaf! Where are you, you ungrateful lout!?”

Unferth hastily tucks himself back into his breeches, then turns reluctantly to push his way through the drunken mob. Some of them step aside to let him pass, while others do not even seem to notice him. But soon Unferth has reached the edge of the king’s dais, and he forces a smile onto his face and raises his hand so that Hrothgar will see him standing there.

“I’m here, my king!” he says, and Hrothgar, catching sight of him, grins even wider and leans down, placing the golden torque about Unferth’s thin neck.

“You are too kind, my liege. Your generosity—”

“No, no, no. It’s nothing less than you deserve, nothing less, good and faithful Unferth,” and then Hrothgar gazes out upon his subjects once again. And once again an enthusiastic cheer rises from the crowd. The king’s herald, Wulfgar, steps forward from the shadows of the throne to lead the drunken thanes and their women in a familiar chant, and soon enough most of the hall has joined him. Warriors bang their fists and cups against tabletops or leap onto the tables and stomp their feet as Heorot rings out with song:

Now Hrothgar’s musicians have all joined in, taking up the song with their harps and flutes and drums. Even Unferth sings, but the king’s gift lies cold and heavy about his throat, and there is considerably less enthusiasm and sincerity in his voice.

But the torrents of joyous noise spilling forth from Heorot—the laughter and the fervent songs, the jangle of gold and silver coins—these are not a welcome sound to all things that dwell in this land by the sea. There are creatures in the night that are neither man nor beast, ancient beings descended from giantkind, the trolls and worse things still, who keep themselves always to the watches, to dank fens and forbidding marshlands. Past the mighty walls and pikes of Hrothgar’s fortifications, beyond gate and bridge and chasm, where farmland and pasture turn suddenly to wilderness, there stands a forest older than the memory of man, a wood that has stood since before the coming of the Danes. And in the vales that lie on the far side of these gnarled trees, are frozen bogs and bottomless lakes leading back down to the sea, and there are rocky hillocks riddled with caves, tunnels bored deep into the stone even as maggots bore into the flesh of the dead.

And in one of these caverns something huge and, to the eyes of man, ghastly crouches in the muck and gravel and a bright pool of moonlight leaking in through the cave’s entrance. It moans pitifully and clutches at its diseased and malformed skull, covering misshapen ears in an effort to shut out the torturous sounds of revelry drifting down like a thunderous, hammering snow from Heorot. For even though the mead hall and the tower on the sea cliff are only a distant glow, there is a peculiar magic to the walls and spaces of this cave, a singular quality that magnifies those far-off noises and makes of them a deafening clamor. And so the troll thing’s ears ring and ache, battered mercilessly by the song of Hrothgar’s men even as the shore is battered into sand by the waves.

The creature wails—a keening cry that is at once sorrow and anger, fear and pain—as the ache inside its head becomes almost unbearable. It claws madly at its own face, then snatches in vain at the darkness and moonlight, as if its claws might somehow pluck the noise from out of the air and crush it flat, making of it something silent and broken and dead. Surely, its ears must soon burst, and this agony finally end. But its ears do not burst, and the pain does not end, and the thanes’ song swells and redoubles, becoming even louder than before.

“No more, Mother,” the creature groans, rolling its eyes and grinding its teeth against the song. “Mother, I can’t bear this. Only so much, and I can bear no more!”

The creature clenches its great fists together and gazes up into the frigid night sky from the entrance of the cave, wordlessly begging Máni, the white moon, son of the giant Mundilfæri, to end the awful noise once and for all. “I cannot do it myself,” the creature explains to the sky. “I am forbidden. My mother…she has told me that they are too dangerous.” And then it imagines a hail of stone and silver flame cast down by the moon giant, falling from the sky to obliterate the hateful, taunting voices of the men forever. But the singing continues, and the unresponsive moon seems only to mock the creature’s torment.

“No more,” it says again, knowing now what must be done, what he must do for himself, since none other will ever end this racket—not the giants, not his mother. If there is to be peace again, then he must make it for himself. And gathering all his anger and suffering like a shield, battening it close about him, the monster steps quickly from the safety of shadows, slipping from the cave and out into the shimmering, unhelpful moonlight.

From his place behind the king’s throne, Unferth watches as the mead hall sinks ever deeper into drunken pandemonium. His own cup is empty and has been empty now for some time, and he glances about in vain for the slave who should have long since come to refill it. There is no sign of the boy anywhere, only the faces of the singing, laughing, oblivious thanes. There does not seem to be a single thought remaining anywhere among them, but for the drink and their women, the feasting and the baying of old Hrothgar’s praises.

Wulfgar sits nearby on the edge of the dais, a red-haired maiden camped upon his lap. He lifts his cup to her lips and dribbles mead between her breasts, then she giggles and squeals as he licks it off her chest. Unferth frowns and goes back to scanning the crowd for his slave, that lazy, crippled whelp named Cain. At last he spots the boy limping through the crowd, clutching a large goblet in both hands.

“Boy!” shouts Unferth. “Where’s my mead?!”

“Here, my lord, I have it right here,” the slave replies, then slips in a smear of cooling vomit on the dais steps, and mead sloshes over the rim of the cup and spatters on the floor.

“You’re spilling it!” Unferth growls, and he grabs a walking stick from Aesher, a sturdy, knotted length of birch wood, and strikes Cain hard across the forehead. The boy reels from the blow, almost falls, and spills more mead on the dais steps.

“You clumsy idiot,” sneers Unferth and hits Cain again. “How dare you waste the king’s mead!”

The boy opens his mouth to reply, to apologize, but Unferth continues to beat him viciously with the stick. Some of the thanes have turned to watch, and they chuckle at the slave’s predicament. At last, Cain gives up and drops the goblet, which is empty now, anyway, and he runs away as quickly as his crooked leg will allow, taking shelter beneath one of the long tables.

“Useless worm,” Unferth calls out after him. “I should feed you to the pigs and be done with it!”

Hrothgar has been looking on from his throne, and he leans to one side and farts loudly, earning a smattering of applause from the thanes. “I fear you’d only poison the poor swine,” he says to Unferth, and farts again. “Doesn’t this damned song have an end?” And as if to answer his question, the crowd begins yet another verse.

Hrothgar grunts a very satisfied sort of grunt and smiles, surveying the glorious, wild confusion of Heorot Hall.

“I ask you, are we not now the most powerful men in all the world?” he mumbles, turning toward Aesher. “Are we not the richest? Do we not merrymake with the best of them? Can we not do as we damn well please?”

“We can,” Aesher replies.

“Unferth?” asks King Hrothgar, but Unferth is still peering angrily at the spot where his slave vanished beneath the table, and doesn’t answer.

“Have you gone deaf now, Unferth?”

Unferth sighs and hands the birch walking stick back to Aesher. “We do,” he says halfheartedly. “We do.”

“Damn straight we do,” mutters Hrothgar, as perfectly and completely content in this moment as he has ever dared hope to be, as pleased with himself and with his deeds as he can imagine any living man has ever been. He starts to ask Wealthow—who is seated nearby with her handmaidens—to refill his golden horn, but then his eyelids flutter and close, and only a few seconds later the King of the Danes is fast asleep and snoring loudly.

Through the winter night, the creature comes striding toward Heorot Hall, and all things flee before him, all birds and beasts, all fish and serpents, all other phantoms and the lesser haunters of the darkness. He clambers up from the mire and tangle of the icy bogs, easily hauling his twisted bulk from the peat mud out into the deep shadows of the ancient forest. And though his skull still rings and echoes with the song of the thanes, he’s relieved to be free for a time of the moon’s ceaseless stare, shaded now by those thick, hoary limbs and branches that are almost as good as the roof of his cave.

“I will show them the meaning of silence!” he roars, and with one gigantic fist shatters the trunk of a tree, reducing it in an instant to no more than splinters and sap. How much easier it will be to crush the bones of men, to spill their blood, he thinks. And so another tree falls, and then another, and yet another after that, the violence of each blow only fueling his rage and driving him nearer the true object of his spite. The creature’s long strides carry him quickly through the forest and back out again into the moonlight. Now he races across the moorlands, grinding bracken and shrub underfoot, trampling whatever cannot move quickly enough to get out of his way, flushing grouse and rabbit from their sleeping places. Soon, he has reached the rocky chasm dividing Hrothgar’s battlements from the hinterlands. He pauses here, but only a moment or two, hardly long enough to catch his breath, before spying a lone sentry keeping watch upon the wall. The man sees him, as well, and at once the creature recognizes and relishes the horror and disbelief in the sentry’s eyes.

He does not believe me real, the monster thinks, and yet neither can he doubt the truth of me. And then, before the man can cry out or raise an alarm, the thing from the cave has vaulted across the ravine…

“Did you hear that?” Unferth asks Aesher.

“Did I hear what?”

“Like thunder, almost,” Unferth tells him, and glances down at the fat hound lying on the dais near Hrothgar’s feet. The dog has pricked its ears and is staring intently across the hall at the great wooden door. Its lips curl back to show its teeth, and a low snarl issues from its throat.

“Truth be told, I can’t hear shit but for these damn fools singing,” says Aesher. “Ah, and the snoring of our brave king here.”

Unferth reaches for the hilt of his sword.

“You are serious?” asks Aesher, and his hand goes to his own weapon.

“Listen,” hisses Unferth.

“Listen for what?”

The dog gets up slowly, hackles raised, and begins to back away, putting more distance between itself and the entrance to the hall. Between the throne and the door to Heorot, the thanes and their women continue their drunken revelries—

“Whatever’s gotten into him?” Queen Wealthow asks, pointing to the snarling, retreating dog, its tail tucked between its legs. Unferth only spares her a quick glance before turning back toward the door. He realizes that it isn’t barred.

“Aesher,” he says. “See to the door—”

But then something throws itself against the outside of the mead-hall door, hitting with enough force that the frame groans and splinters with a deafening crack. The huge iron hinges bow and buckle inward, and the door is rent by numerous long splits—but for now it holds.

On his throne, King Hrothgar stirs, and in an instant more he’s sitting up, wide-awake and bewildered. The thanes have stopped singing, and all eyes have turned toward the door. Women and children and some of the slaves begin to move away, backing toward the throne and the far end of the hall, and most of the warriors are reaching for their swords and daggers, their axes and spears. Unferth draws his blade, and Aesher follows suit. And then a terrible, breathless quiet settles over Heorot Hall, like the stunned, hollow space left after lightning strikes a tree.

“Unferth,” whispers Hrothgar. “Are we being attacked?”

And then, before his advisor can reply, the door is assaulted a second time. It holds for barely even another moment, then gives way all at once, thrown free of its hinges, sundered into a thousand razor shards that rain down like deadly arrows across the floor and tabletops and bury themselves in the faces and bodies of those standing closest to the entrance. Some men are crushed to death or lie dying beneath the larger fragments of the broken door as a concussion rolls along the length of the hall, a wave of sound that seems solid as an avalanche, and the air blown out before it snuffs out the cooking fires and every candle burning in Heorot, plunging all into darkness.

Wealthow stands, ordering her handmaidens to seek shelter, then she looks to the doorway and the monstrous thing standing there, silhouetted in silver moonlight. Its chest heaves, and its breath wheezes like steam from its black lips and flaring nostrils. Surely, this must be some ancient terror, she thinks, some elder evil come down from olden times, from the days before the gods bound Loki Skywalker and all his foul children.

“My sire,” she says, but then the creature leans its head back, opens its jaws wide, and screams. And never before has Queen Wealthow or any of Hrothgar’s thanes heard such a foul utterance. The world’s ruin sewn up in that dreadful cry, the fall of kingdoms, death rattles and pain and the very earth opening wide on the last day of all.

The very walls of Heorot shudder from the force and fury of that cry, and the extinguished cooking fires flare suddenly, violently back to life. Rising to the rafters, they have become whirling pillars of white-hot flame, showering bright cinders in all directions. From the throne dais, neither the doorway nor the monster standing there remains visible, the view obscured by the blaze. The hall, which but moments before was filled with song and laughter and the sounds of joyous celebration, erupts with the screams of the terrified and the maimed, with the angry shouts and curses of inebriated warriors as they scramble for their weapons. Behind the wall of fire, the creature advances, roaming freely now beneath the roof of Heorot.

The four thanes nearest to the door charge the beast, and it immediately seizes one of them and uses the man as a living cudgel with which to pummel the other three, sending two of them crashing backward into chairs and tables. The third is flung high, helpless as a doll, and sails the full length of the hall, through the swirling tower of flame and over the heads of those still seated or huddled on the dais before his body smashes limply against the wall behind Hrothgar’s and Wealthow’s thrones.

“My sword!” the king shouts, tottering to his feet. “Bring me my sword!”

Still gripping the fourth warrior by a broken ankle, the monster pauses only long enough to gaze down at his half-conscious, blood-slicked face, only long enough that the man may, in turn, look up into its face and fully comprehend his doom and the grave consequences of his bravery. Then, having no further use of the man, the creature tosses him into the inferno of the fire pit. And the flames shine even brighter than before, seeming grateful as they devour the screaming warrior. Again the monster cries out, assaulting the air and the ears of everyone trapped in Heorot Hall with that booming, doomsday voice.

Aesher takes Queen Wealthow’s hand and leads her quickly from the dais. When they come to an overturned table, he pushes her onto the floor behind it.

“Stay down, my lady,” he says. “Hide here and do not move. Do not look.”

But she does look, as she has never been one to cower or shy away from the countenance of terrible things. As soon as Aesher releases his grip on her, Wealthow peers over the edge of the table, squinting painfully through the glare from the pit. But she cannot see the beast or the thanes struggling against it, only their distorted shadows stretched across the firelit walls. Their forms move to and fro like some grisly parody of the bedtime shadow plays her mother once performed for her. She watches in horror as men are thrown aside and broken like playthings, their bodies ripped apart, skewered, impaled on their own weapons.

“What evil…” she whispers. “What misfortune has brought this upon our house?”

“Stay down,” Aesher says again, but at that moment another body is hurled through the roaring flames, igniting and passing mere inches above the queen’s head. She ducks as the dead and burning man lands in the midst of a group of women crouched together against the wall. The fire leaps eagerly from the corpse to the clothes and hair of the screaming women, and before Aesher can move to stop her, Wealthow grabs a pitcher of mead and hurries over to them, dousing the flames. Aesher curses and shouts her name, but as she turns back toward the sheltering table, a battle-ax slices the air between them, so close she can feel the wind off the blade. The empty pitcher slips from the queen’s fingers and shatters upon the floor. Then Aesher has her by the wrists and is pulling her roughly down, shoving her into the lee of the overturned table.

“Did you see that?” she says. “The ax…”

“Yes, my lady, the ax. I saw that it almost took your damned head off.”

“No, not that. Did you see it hit the monster? It just…it bounced off. How can that be?”

But now the creature has turned toward the table where she and Aesher are hiding, and toward the throne, as well, distracted from its attacks upon the thanes by the hurled ax. In one long stride it steps past the halo of the fire pit, and finally Wealthow can see it clearly, the thing itself and not merely its shadow or silhouette. The monster stops to inspect the unscathed patch of skin where the steel blade struck it, then narrows its furious blue-gray eyes and bares fangs grown almost as long as the tusks of a full-grown bull walrus. It moves with a speed Wealthow would never have thought possible for anything so large, rushing forward and seizing Aesher in its talons, raising him high above its head.

“Run, my lady. Run,” he cries out, but she cannot move, much less run. She can only watch helplessly as the creature sinks its claws deep into Aesher’s body and tears him in two as easily as a child might tear apart a bundle of twigs. His blood falls around her like rain, drenching the head and shoulders of the beast and spattering Queen Wealthow’s upturned face, sizzling and hissing as it spills into the fire pit.

“My sword!” Hrothgar bellows, and at that the monster hurls Aesher’s legs and lower torso at the king. The gruesome missile misses its target and strikes Unferth, instead, knocking him sprawling to the floor. Disappointed, the beast drops the rest of Aesher’s body onto the overturned table, and the lifeless thane’s eyes stare up at Wealthow.

Now I will scream, she thinks. Now I won’t ever be able to stop screaming. But she covers her mouth with both hands, forcing back the shrill voice of her own fear, certain enough that she’ll be the creature’s next victim without screaming and attracting its attention.

And then she sees her husband, stumbling down from his throne, his body wrapped in no more armor than what a bedsheet might offer, his broadsword clenched tightly in his fists and gleaming dully in the firelight. She also sees Unferth, who does not rise to come to the aid of his king, but scrambles away on his hands and knees, fleeing into the shadows beyond the dais.

“No!” Wealthow shouts at her husband, and the monster turns toward her, snatching away the protective barrier of the table with one enormous, knobby hand. The same claws that ripped Aesher apart sink into solid oak as though it were no more substantial than flesh and blood. It lifts the table above her, wielding it like a club.

“Fight me!” howls King Hrothgar, trembling violently and waving his sword at the invader’s back. “Leave her alone, damn you! Fight me!”

And all around them, the hall seems to grow still, no fight left in the surviving thanes, more terror gathered in this hall now than heroes. The beast bares its teeth again and glares triumphantly down at Queen Wealthow, but still she cannot move. Still she can only stand, watching her husband and waiting for the blow that will crush her and release her from this world where such demons may freely roam the night.

“I said fight me, you son of a bitch,” Hrothgar yells, and strikes the creature, but his blade glances harmlessly off and does not even break its skin. “Surely, you did not come all this way to murder women. Fight me!”

And now Wealthow can see that there are tears streaming down Hrothgar’s cheeks, and the monster turns slowly away from her and toward the king. Suddenly, facing Hrothgar, the thing begins to wail and moan, shrieking in pain as its whole body is wracked by some strange convulsion. Its muscles twitch and spasm, and its joints pop loud as the limbs of great trees caught in a fierce Mörsugur gale.

“Yes,” roars Hrothgar. “That’s it. Fight me.”

The creature takes two faltering steps backward, retreating from the king of Heorot Hall, from a fat old man, drunk and tangled in his bedclothes. Now it stands directly over Wealthow, its legs forming an archway high above her head. It whimpers, and drool the color of pus drips from its lips and forms a puddle at her feet. Again the monster roars, but this time there is more hurt and dismay than anything else in that appalling sound.

“Me,” Hrothgar says, brandishing his sword, and he closes half the distance between himself and the monster, between himself and Lady Wealthow.

“NNNNAAAAaaaaaaaaaay!” the beast cries out, its foul breath hurling that one word with enough force that Hrothgar is pushed backward and falls, losing his sheet and landing naked on his ass, his sword clattering to the floor. And then with its right hand, the creature seizes two of the fallen thanes and leaps into the air, vanishing up the chimney above the fire pit. In its wake, there is a terrific gust of wind, and for an instant, the fire flares yet more brightly—a blinding, blistering flash of heat and light—and then the wind snuffs it out, and the hall goes dark, the winter night rushing in to fill the emptiness left behind.

The darkness brings with it a shocked silence, broken only by frightened sobs and the sounds that dying men make. Someone lights a torch, and then another. Soon, the night is broken by flickering pools of yellow light, and Wealthow sees that the mead hall lies in ruin around her. Unferth emerges from the gloom, clutching his sword like someone who is not a coward. The glow of the torches is reflected faintly in the golden torque about his neck. Wealthow goes to her shivering, weeping husband and kneels at his side, gathering up the sheet and covering him with it. She cannot yet quite believe she is still alive and breathing.

“What was that?” she asks Hrothgar, and he shakes his head and stares up at the black hole of the chimney.

“Grendel,” he replies. “That was Grendel.”

2 Alien Spirits

Slick with the drying blood of murdered thanes and grimy with the soot of Heorot’s chimney, Grendel returns to his cave beyond the forest. Standing in the entrance, he feels the moon’s eye watching him, has felt its gaze pricking at his skin since the moment he emerged from the mead hall. It watched him all the way home, following his slow trek back across the moors and through the sleeping forest and over the bogs. He glances over his shoulder and up into the sky. Already, Máni has started sinking toward the western horizon and soon will be lost in the tops of the old trees.

“Did you think I could not do it for myself?” Grendel asks the moon. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

But the moon doesn’t answer him. Grendel did not expect that it would. For all he knows, the son of Mundilfæri is a mute and has never spoken a single word in all his long life, hanging there in the night sky. Grendel sighs and looks down at the two corpses he’s carried all the way back from Heorot, then he slips out of the moonlight and into the comforting darkness of the cave.

He cannot recall a time before this cave was his home. Sometimes he thinks he must have been born here. Not far from its entrance, there is a pool of still, clear water, framed in drooping, dripstone stalactites and sharp stalagmites jutting up from the cave’s floor. They have always seemed to him like teeth, and so the pool is the cave’s throat—maybe the throat of all the earth—and so perhaps he is only something that the world coughed up, some indigestible bit of a bad meal, perhaps.

Grendel drops the dead thanes onto a great mound of bones heaped high in a corner of the cave, not far from the pool’s edge. Here, the bleached bones of men lie jumbled together with the remains of other animals—the antlered skulls of mighty harts, the crumbling skeletons of bears and seals, wolves and wild boar. Whatever he can catch and kill, and in all his life Grendel has not yet encountered anything that he cannot kill. Relieved of his burden, he turns back to the pool and gazes down at his reflection there in the still water. In the darkness, his eyes glitter faintly, his irises flecked with gold.

“Grendel?” his mother asks. “Hwæt oa him weas?”

Surprised and startled by her voice, the melodic crystal music of her words, he turns quickly about, spinning around much too suddenly and almost losing his balance.

“What have you done? Grendel?”

“Mother?” he asks, searching the gloom of the cavern for some evidence of her beyond her voice. “Where are you?” He glances up at the ceiling, thinking her voice might have come from somewhere overhead.

“Men? Grendel…I thought we had an agreement concerning men.”

Yes, she must be on the ceiling, watching from some secret, shadowed spot almost directly above him. But then there’s a loud splash from the pool, and Grendel is drenched with freezing water.

“Fish, Grendel. Fish, and wolves, and bear. Sometimes a sheep or two. But not men.”

He turns slowly back to the pool, and she’s there, waiting for him.

“You like men,” he tells her. “Here…” and he retrieves one of the dead thanes, the least gnawed of the two, and offers it to her.

“No,” she says sternly. “Not these fragile things, my darling. Remember, they will hurt us. They have killed so many of us…of our kind…the giants, the dragonkind. They have hunted us until there are almost none of us left to hunt. They will hunt you, too, if you make a habit of killing them.”

“But they were making so much noise. They were making so much merry…and it hurt me. It hurt my head. I couldn’t even think for the noise and the pain.” And Grendel holds the dead thane out to her again. “Here, Mother, this one is sweet. I have peeled away all the hard metal parts.”

“Just put it down, Grendel.”

And so he does, dropping it into the pool, where it sinks for a moment, then bobs back to the surface. Immediately, blood begins to stain the clear water. Grendel has started crying now, and he wants to turn away, wants to run back out into the night where only the moon can see him.

“Was Hrothgar there?” his mother asks, and now there’s an edge in her voice.

“I did not touch him.”

“You saw him? He saw you?”

“Yes, but I didn’t hurt him.”

His mother blinks her wide, brilliant eyes, then stares at him a few seconds more, and Grendel knows that she’s looking for any sign that he’s lied to her. When she finds none, she slides gracefully up from the pool, moving as easily as water flowing across stone, or as blood spilling over the blade of an ax. She reaches out, her scaly flesh damp and strong and even more soothing than the dark haven of his cave. She wipes away some of the gore and grime from his cheeks and forehead.

“I did not touch him, Mother,” Grendel tells her a third time.

“I know,” she replies. “You’re a good boy.”

“I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

“My poor, sensitive boy,” she purrs. “Promise me you will not go there again,” but Grendel only closes his eyes and tries not to think about shattered trees or the broken bodies, tries not to let his mind linger on the noise of men or his hatred or the beautiful, golden-haired woman he would have killed, there at the last, had Hrothgar not stayed his hand.

3 Raids in the Night

Grendel’s attacks did not end after the first assault upon Heorot. Some hatreds are too old and run far too deep to be satisfied by a single night of bloodshed and terror. Night after night he returned, his hatred and loathing for the Danes driving him from his cave again and again, intent that the noise of Hrothgar’s hall would be silenced once and for all. There would be no more deafening, painful nights. There would be no more merrymaking. And as winter closed ever tighter about the land, until the snow had gone to an icy crust and the warm sun was only a dim memory of summers that might never come again, Hrothgar’s great gift to his people became a haunted, fearful place. But Grendel did not restrict his attacks to the hall alone, taking young and old alike, men and women and children, the weak and the strong, wherever he might come upon them. He held Heorot, coming and going as pleased him and making it the most prized trophy in his lonely war, but he also roamed the old woods and the moors, the farms and homesteads, and took all those who crossed his path.

And word spread, in the songs of skalds, in the whispered tales told by travelers and traders, of the lurking doom that had fallen upon Hrothgar’s kingdom.

On a freezing morning when the frost might as well be steel and the sun has not yet seen fit to show itself, the king lies with his queen on soft pallets of straw bound with woolen cloth and deer hide. Hrothgar opens his eyes, uncertain at first what has awakened him, but then he sees Unferth standing beside the bed.

“My lord?” Unferth asks, whispering so as not to disturb Lady Wealthow. “My lord, it has happened again.”

And Hrothgar would shut his eyes and fight his way back down to sleep, back to dreams of warm sunlight and nights without monsters, but Unferth would still be there when he opened them again. He dresses quickly and as quietly as he might, managing not to wake his wife, and then he follows Unferth to Heorot. Soon, he is standing in the cold with Unferth and Wulfgar and a number of thanes outside the mead-hall doors, the hall’s new doors, reinforced with wide iron bands and easily twice as thick as those that Grendel burst asunder.

“How many this time?” asks Hrothgar, his breath fogging like smoke.

Unferth takes a deep breath and swallows before he replies. “In truth, I could not say. The bodies were not whole. Five. Ten, perhaps. It was Nykvest’s daughter’s wedding feast.”

“Grendel’s coming more frequently,” Hrothgar sighs and tugs at his beard. “Why does not this demon simply make my hall his home and save himself the trouble of stalking back and forth each night across the moorlands?”

Hrothgar looks down and sees the red-pink stain leaking from beneath the door.

“The new door hasn’t even been touched,” he says, and angrily smacks the wood hard with one open palm.

“Nay,” Unferth replies. “The Grendel devil obviously came and went through the skorsten.” And he points up at the chimney vent in the roof of Heorot Hall. Hrothgar sees the blood right away, spattered across the thatched roof, then on the snow below the eaves, dappling the monster’s splayed footprints. The trail leads away across the compound grounds and vanishes in the mist.

Hrothgar takes a deep breath and puffs out more steam, then rubs at his bleary eyes. “When I was young I killed a dragon, in the Northern Moors,” he says, and Unferth hears a hint of sadness or regret in the king’s voice. “But now I am an old man, Unferth. Too old for demon slaying. We need a hero, a cunning young hero, to rid us of this curse upon our hall.”

“I wish you had a son, my lord,” Wulfgar says, and takes a step back from the door and the spreading bloodstain on the threshold. His boots crunch loudly on the frozen ground.

Hrothgar grunts and glares at him. “You can wish in one hand, Wulfgar, and shit into the other—see which fills up first.”

Hrothgar turns his back on the door, on Heorot and this latest butchery, and faces the small group of people that has gathered outside the hall.

“Men,” he says, “build another pyre. There’s dry wood behind the stables. Burn the dead. And then close this hall. Seal the doors and windows. And by the king’s order, there shall be no further music, singing, or merrymaking of any kind.” He takes another gulp of the frigid air and turns away. “This place reeks of death,” he murmurs, then shuffles off through the snow, heading back toward his bed and sleeping Wealthow. After a moment, Unferth and Wulfgar follow him and have soon caught up.

“The scops are singing the shame of Heorot,” Hrothgar says, speaking softly and keeping his eyes on the snow at his feet. “As far south as the middle sea, as far north as the ice-lands. Our cows no longer calf, our fields lie fallow, and the very fish flee from our nets, knowing that we are cursed. I have let it be known that I will give half the gold in my kingdom to any man who can rid us of Grendel.”

Unferth glances at Wulfgar, then back to Hrothgar.

“My king,” he says. “For deliverance our people sacrifice goats and sheep to Odin and Heimdall. With your permission, might we also pray to the new Roman god, Christ Jesus? Maybe…maybe he can lift this affliction.”

“You may pray as it best pleases you, son of Ecglaf. But know you this. The gods will not do for us that we will not do for ourselves. No, Unferth. We need a man to do this thing, a hero.”

“But surely,” persists Unferth, “praying cannot hurt.”

“Yes, well, that which cannot hurt also cannot help us. Where was Odin Hel-binder—or this Christ Jesus of the Romans—when the demon took poor Nykvest’s daughter? Answer that question or bother me no more with this pointless talk of prayers and sacrifices and new gods.”

“Yes, my liege,” Unferth replies, then follows Hrothgar and his herald across the snow.

4 The Coming of Beowulf

The storm-lashed Jótlandshaf heaves and rages around the tiny, dragon-prowed ship as though all the nine daughters of the sea giant Ægir have been given the task this day of building a new range of mountains from mere salt water. Towering waves lift the vessel until its mast might almost scrape the low-slung belly of the sky, only to let go and send it plunging down, down, down into troughs so deep the coils of the World Serpent cannot possibly lie very far below the hull. Overhead are banks of clouds as black as pitch, spilling blinding sheets of rain and lightning, and deafening thunder to rend a man’s soul wide. There are fourteen thanes at the oars, their backs aching as they strain and struggle against the storm, their hands cold and bloodied and pierced with splinters.

A fifteenth man stands braced against the oaken mast, and the wild wind tugs at his cape of heavy black wool and animal skins, and the icy rain stings his face. The ship lurches forward, then back, teetering on the crest of a wave, and he almost loses his footing. He squints into the sheeting rain, unable to turn loose of the mast to shield his eyes, searching the gray blur where the horizon ought to be. But the storm has stolen it away, has sewn sea to sky and sky to sea. The ship lurches violently forward once more and begins racing down the face of the wave. When it’s finally level again, one of the thanes leaves his place at the oars and makes his way slowly along the slippery deck to stand with the man leaning against the mast.

“Can you see the coast?” he asks, shouting to be heard above the din of the storm. “Do you see the Danes’ guide-fire?”

The ship rolls suddenly to port, but rights itself before the sea can rush in and swamp the craft.

“I see nothing, Wiglaf! Unless you count the wind and rain!”

“No fire? No sun or stars by which to navigate? We’re lost, Beowulf! Given to the sea, gifts to the Urdines!”

Beowulf laughs, getting a mouthful of rain and sea spray in the bargain. He spits and wipes his lips, grinning back at Wiglaf. He takes his right hand from the mast beam and thumps his chest hard, pounding at the iron-studded leather armor he wears.

“The sea is my mother! She spat me up years ago and will never take me back into her murky womb!”

Wiglaf scowls and blinks against the rain. “Well,” he says, “that’s fine for you. But my mother’s a fishwife in Uppland, and I was rather hoping to die in battle, as a warrior should—”

The boat rolls again, this time listing sharply to port, and Wiglaf curses and clutches at Beowulf’s cape to keep from falling.

“Beowulf, the men are worried this storm has no end!”

Beowulf nods and wraps his right arm tightly about Wiglaf’s shoulders, helping him to steady himself as the ship begins to climb the next great wave.

“This is no earthly storm! That much we can be sure. But this demon’s tempest won’t hold us out! No, Wiglaf, not if we really want in! There is no power under Midgard that will turn me back!”

“But the gods—” Wiglaf begins.

“The gods be damned and drowned!” Beowulf howls into the storm, sneering up at the low black clouds. “If they have yet to learn I cannot be frightened away with a little wind and water, then they are foolish beings, indeed!”

Wiglaf wants to ask Beowulf if he’s finally lost his mind, a question he’s almost asked a hundred times before. But he knows that the answer hardly matters. He will follow wherever Beowulf leads, even through this storm, and whether he is mad or not. He shrugs free of his captain and kinsman and turns to face his nervous, exhausted companions, still seated wrestling with the oars.

“Who wants to live?” he shouts, and not one among them replies that he does not. “A good thing, then! For we do not die this day!”

And then he glances back at Beowulf, who is still grinning defiantly up at the storm.

“Pull your oars!” Wiglaf commands. “Pull for Beowulf! Pull for gold! Pull for glory! Heave!”

From his post along the sheer granite sea cliffs, the Scylding king’s watch sits alone, save for the company of his horse, tending to his guttering campfire. He has speared a field mouse on a stick and is now busy trying to keep the rain away until dinner’s cooked to his liking.

“What I want to know,” he says, frowning up at the dripping, unhappy-looking horse, “is just who or what old Hrothgar has got himself thinking is going to be about in this foul weather? Have you even stopped to think on that, horse?”

The fire hisses and spits, and the watch goes back to fanning it. But there’s much more smoke than flame, and the mouse is almost as pink as when he skinned it. He’s just about to give up and eat the thing cold and bloody when the gloom is parted by a particularly bright flash of lightning and, glancing down at the beach, he catches signs of movement and the unexpected glint of metal along the shore.

“Did you see that?” he asks the horse, which snorts, but otherwise doesn’t bother to reply. Another flash of lightning follows almost immediately on the heels of the first, and this time there can be no mistake about what he sees on the shore. A tiny ship with bright shields hung along its sides, its carved prow like a sinuous golden serpent rising gracefully from the crashing surf.

The watch curses and reaches for his spear, and a few moments later—the fire and his empty belly forgotten—the horse is carrying him along the steep path leading down to the beach.

When Beowulf and his thanes have finally hauled their ship out of the sea and onto the sand, when the whale’s-road is safe behind them, Wiglaf sighs a relieved sigh and spits into the water lapping at his ankles.

“I’ll wager old Ægir’s gnashing his teeth over that one,” he laughs, and then to Beowulf, “You are sure this is Denmark?”

“Denmark or Hel,” Beowulf replies. “I expect we’ll know which soon enough.”

The rain is still falling hard, and lightning still crackles and jabs at the world, but the worst of the storm seems to have passed them by.

“What’s that then?” Wiglaf asks Beowulf and points down the length of the rocky beach. A man on horseback is galloping swiftly toward them, his mount throwing up a spray of sand and small pebbles as they come. The man holds a long spear gripped at the ready, as though he means to impale them one and all.

“Well, I’m guessing it’s Hel, then,” Wiglaf sighs, and Beowulf nods his head and steps away from Wiglaf and his men, moving out to meet the rider.

“If you get yourself skewered,” Wiglaf shouts after him, “can I have your boots?”

“Aye,” Beowulf calls back. “Take the boat, as well.”

“You know, I think he means it,” Wiglaf says, pointing once more at the approaching rider, but Beowulf only nods and stands his ground. Wiglaf reaches for his sword, but at the last possible moment, the horseman pulls back on the reins. When he stops, the point of his spear is mere inches from Beowulf’s face.

“Who are you?” the rider demands. “By your dress, you are warriors.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Wiglaf replies. “We—”

“Speak!” the rider growls at Beowulf. “Tell me why I should not run you through right now. Who are you? Where do come from?”

“We are Geats,” Beowulf replies calmly, ignoring the spearpoint aimed at the space between his eyes. “I am Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow. We have come seeking your prince, Hrothgar, in friendship. They say you have a monster here. They say your land is cursed.”

The man on the horse narrows his eyes and glances at Wiglaf and the others, but doesn’t lower his spear.

“Is that what they say?” he asks.

“That and worse,” Wiglaf answers. “Bards sing of Hrothgar’s shame from the frozen north to the shores of Vinland.”

The watch sits up a little straighter on his horse and glares defiantly back at Wiglaf. “It is no shame to be accursed by demons,” he says.

Wiglaf takes a step nearer to Beowulf. “And neither is it a shame to accept aid that is freely given.”

Beowulf glances quickly at Wiglaf, then back to the watch and his horse. “I am Beowulf,” he says again. “I have come here to kill your monster.”

“Unless you’d rather we not,” adds Wiglaf, earning a scowl from Beowulf.

“You should ignore him,” Beowulf says. “He was very seasick this morning, and I fear he might have puked his wits overboard.”

The watch lowers his spear, staring past Beowulf and Wiglaf to the other men standing beside the beached ship.

“You’ll need horses,” he says.

The storm has gone, and the terrible, driving wind has died away—the wrath of Hræsvelg Corpse-swallower, the giant eagle whose wings send all winds blowing across the world, choosing some other target for a time. But the sky is hardly any lighter than before, still crowded with portentous clouds that hide the sun and hold the land in perpetual twilight. Beowulf and his men follow close behind the Scylding watch, riding the sturdy, shaggy ponies that have been provided for them. They have left the sea cliffs and the shore and move now along a narrow road paved with dark shale cobbles. The road is lined on either side by tall, craggy standing stones, menhirs engraved with runes and erected to mark the ashes of the dead. Whenever the fog shifts, the thanes catch fleeting glimpses of King Hrothgar’s tower in the distance. When they reach a wooden bridge spanning a deep ravine, the watch reins his horse and turns to Beowulf.

“This is as far as I go,” he says. “I must return to the cliffs. The sea cannot be left unguarded. This stone path is the king’s road.” He smiles then, and adds, “It was built in better times. Follow it to Heorot, where my lord awaits.”

Beowulf nods. “I thank you for your aid,” he says.

“Geat, you should know that our monster is fast and strong.”

“I, too, am fast and strong,” Beowulf tells him.

“Yes, well, so were the others who came to fight it. And they’re all dead. All of them. I thought no more heroes remained who were foolhardy enough to come here and die for our gold.”

Beowulf looks over his shoulder at Wiglaf, then back to the watch. “If we die, then it shall be for glory, not for gold.”

With that, the watch gives his horse a kick and gallops quickly past the Geats, heading back the way they’ve just come, toward his dreary camp above the sea. But then he stops, and calls out to Beowulf, “The creature took my brother. Kill the bastard for me.”

“Your brother will be avenged,” Beowulf calls back. “I swear it.”

And then the Scylding watch turns and rides away, his horse’s iron-shod hooves clopping loudly against the cobblestones, and Beowulf leads his men across the bridge.

This day is the color of the grave, King Hrothgar thinks, gazing miserably out at the angry sea and imagining Hel’s gray robes, the flat gray gleam of her eyes that awaits every man who does not die in battle or by some other brave deed, every man who allows himself to grow weak and waste away in stone towers. For even brave men who slay dragons in their youth may yet die old men and so find themselves guests in Éljudnir, Hel’s rain-damp hall. Behind him, Unferth sits at a table, absorbed in the task of counting gold coins and other pieces of treasure. And Hrothgar wonders which shadowy corner of Niflheim has been prepared for both of them. He has begun to see Hel’s gates in his dreams, nightmares in which he hunts down and faces the monster Grendel time again and time again, but always the fiend refuses to fight him, refusing him even the kindness of a hero’s death.

These cheerless thoughts are interrupted by footsteps and the sound of Wulfgar’s voice, and the king turns away from the window.

“My lord,” Wulfgar says. “There are warriors outside. Geats. For certain, they are no beggars—and their leader, Beowulf, is a—”

“Beowulf?” Hrothgar asks, interrupting his herald. “Ecgtheow’s little boy?”

At the sound of Beowulf’s name, Unferth stops counting the gold coins and glances up at Wulfgar.

“Well, surely not a boy any longer,” Hrothgar continues, hardly believing what he’s heard. “But I knew him when he was a boy. Already strong as a grown man he was, back then. Yes! Beowulf is here! Send him to me! Bring him in, Wulfgar!”

Beowulf and his men wait together, only a little distance inside the gates of Hrothgar’s stockade. None of them have yet dismounted, as Beowulf has not yet bidden them to do so, and their ponies restlessly stamp their hooves in a gummy mire of mud and hay, manure and human filth. The thanes are at least as restless as their mounts, and they watch uneasily as villagers begin to gather around and whisper to one another and gawk at these strange men from the east, these warriors come among them from Geatland far across the sea.

“It may be, Beowulf,” says Wiglaf, “that they really don’t want us to kill their monster.”

The thane to Wiglaf’s left is named Hondshew, an ugly brute of a man almost as imposing as Beowulf himself. Hondshew wears an enormous broadsword sheathed and slung across his wide back—a weapon he’s claimed, in less sober moments, to have stolen from a giant whom he found sleeping in the Tivenden woods. Only, sometimes he says it was a giant, and other times it was merely a troll, and still other times, it was only a drunken Swede.

“Or,” says Hondshew, “perhaps this is what serves as hospitality among these Danes.” Then he notices a beautiful young woman standing close by, eating a piece of ripe red fruit. She’s watching him, too, and when next she bites through the skin of the fruit, purplish nectar runs down her chin and disappears between her ample breasts. The woman, whose name is Yrsa, smiles up at Hondshew.

“Then again,” he says, returning Yrsa’s smile and showing off his wide, uneven teeth, “possibly we should find our own hospitality among these poor, beleaguered people.” Hondshew licks his lips, and Yrsa takes another bite of the fruit, spilling still more juice.

And then the king’s herald arrives, riding up on a large gray mare, accompanied by two of Hrothgar’s guard who have followed behind on foot. The herald silently eyes Beowulf and the thanes for a moment, then clears his throat, and says “Hrothgar, Master of Battles, Lord of the North Danes, bids me say that he knows you, Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow. He knows your ancestry and bids you welcome. You, and your men, will follow me. You may keep your helmets and your armor, but your shields and weapons will remain here until further notice.”

Wiglaf glances apprehensively at Beowulf.

“I assure you, they won’t be disturbed,” says Wulfgar.

Beowulf turns and surveys his fourteen men, catching the wariness in their tired faces, their many hands hovering uncertainly above the hilts of their swords. Then he tosses his own spear to one of the guards standing alongside Wulfgar’s gray mare.

“We are here as guests of King Hrothgar,” he says, staring now directly into the herald’s eyes. “He is our host, even as we seek to serve him, and we will not be disagreeable guests.” And then Beowulf pulls a dagger from his belt and hands it over to Wulfgar, and then his sword, as well. “Let it not be said by the Danes that there is no trust to be found among the warriors of Lord Hygelac.”

Reluctantly, Beowulf’s thanes follow suit, turning their many weapons over to the two royal guards who have accompanied Wulfgar to the gate. Last of all, Hondshew draws his enormous broadsword and drops it to the ground, where the blade buries itself deeply in the muck.

“My, that’s a big one you’ve got there, outlander,” Yrsa smiles and takes another bite of fruit.

“That little thing?” replies Hondshew. “That’s only my spare. Maybe later, when we’ve sorted out our business with this fiend of yours—”

“Hondshew,” Beowulf says firmly, still watching Wulfgar. “Have you already forgotten why we’re here?”

“Didn’t I say after the fiend is slain?”

Yrsa watches and says not another word to Beowulf’s thane. But with a pinkie finger, she wipes a smear of nectar from her left breast and slowly licks it from her finger.

“Woman!” Wiglaf snaps at Yrsa. “Have you naught else to be doing this day but teasing men who’ve not seen womanflesh for many trying days and nights?”

“Come, Wiglaf,” says Beowulf, and together they follow Wulfgar through the narrow, smoky streets and up to Hrothgar’s mead hall.

By the time they reach the steps of Heorot Hall, most of King Hrothgar’s court has gathered there. Overhead, there are a few ragged gaps in the clouds and cold sunlight leaks down and falls upon the queen and her maids, on the assembly of guards and courtiers. The stone steps are dark and damp from the rain, and there are small puddles here and there, twinkling weakly in the day. Beowulf and his thanes have left their ponies behind and stand at the foot of the steps, staring up at the barred and shuttered mead hall that has brought them here.

“Beowulf!” bellows King Hrothgar, as he staggers and weaves his way down the steps to embrace the Geat. “How is your father? How is Ecgtheow?”

“He died in battle with sea-raiders,” Beowulf replies. “Two winters back.”

“Ahhhh, but he was a brave man. He sits now at Odin’s table. Need I ask why you’ve come to us?”

Beowulf nods toward the shuttered hall above them. “I’ve come to kill your monster,” he replies.

A murmur passes through the crowd on the steps, equal parts surprise and incredulity, and even Hrothgar seems uncomfortable at hearing Beowulf’s boast.

“They all think you’re daft,” whispers Wiglaf, and, indeed, Beowulf sees the many shades of chagrin and doubt clouding the faces of the king’s court. He takes a deep breath and smiles, flashing the warmest smile he can muster standing so near the scene of such bloody horrors as he’s heard told of Heorot Hall.

“And, of course,” he says to Hrothgar, “to taste that famous mead of yours, my lord.”

Hrothgar grins, visibly relieved, then laughs a laugh that is almost a roar, laughing the way a bear might laugh. “And indeed you shall taste it, my boy, and soon!” And the crowd on the steps stops murmuring amongst themselves, reassured now by the hearty thunder of Hrothgar’s laughter, and already Beowulf can feel their tension draining away.

But then Queen Wealthow steps forward, descending the stairs, the weak sunlight catching in her honey hair.

“There have been many brave men who have come here,” she says, “and they have all drunk deeply of my lord’s mead, and sworn to rid his hall of our nightmare.”

Hrothgar frowns and glances from his wife to Beowulf, but doesn’t speak.

“And the next morning,” Queen Wealthow continues, “there was nothing left of any of them but blood and gore to be mopped from the floor…and from the benches…and walls.”

For a long, lingering moment, Beowulf and Wealthow gaze into one another’s eyes. He sees a storm there in her, a storm no less dangerous, perhaps, than the one he has so recently navigated. And he sees fear and grief, as well, and bitterness.

“My lady, I have drunk nothing,” Beowulf tells her, at last. “Not yet. But I will kill your monster.”

And again Hrothgar laughs, but this time it seems hollow, forced, somehow insincere. “Hear that? He will kill the monster!” Hrothgar roars. “The demon Grendel will die and at this brave young man’s hands!”

“Grendel?” Beowulf asks, still watching the queen.

“What? Did you not know our monster has a name?” asks Wealthow. “The scops who sing of our shame and defeat, have they left that part out?”

“Yes, the monster is called Grendel,” Hrothgar says, speaking much more quietly now, and he begins wringing his hands together. “Yes, yes. It is called Grendel.”

“Then I shall kill your Grendel,” says Beowulf, speaking directly to Wealthow. “It does not seem so very daunting a task. I slew a tribe of giants in the Orkneys. I have crushed the skulls of mighty sea serpents. So what’s one troll? Soon, my lady, he shall trouble you no longer.”

The queen starts to reply, opens her mouth, and Beowulf can feel the awful weight of the words lying there on her tongue. But Hrothgar is already speaking again, addressing his court, filled once more with false bravado.

“A hero!” shouts the king. “I knew that the sea would bring to us a hero! Unferth, have I not said to look ever to the sea for our salvation?”

There’s a halfhearted cheer from the people on the steps, then, but Wealthow does not join in, and Unferth glares suspiciously at Beowulf and does not answer his king.

Then Hrothgar leans near to Beowulf and cocks an eyebrow. “Will you go up to the moors, then, and through the forest to the cave by the dark mere?” he asks Beowulf. “Will you fight the monster there in its den?”

Beowulf nods toward Wiglaf and Hondshew and his other thanes. “I have fourteen brave men with me,” he says. “But we have been long at sea. I think, my lord, that it is high time to break open your golden mead—famed across the world—and to feast together in your legendary hall”

At this, Unferth steps forward, past Lady Wealthow, to stand before Beowulf.

“Do you not know, great Beowulf, Geat lord and son of Ecgtheow? The hall has been sealed…by order of the king. Merrymaking in the hall always brings the devil Grendel down upon us.”

“And has closing the hall stopped the slaughter?” Beowulf asks him.

“Nay,” Hrothgar replies. “It has not. The demon-murderer killed three horses and a slave in the stables, not a fortnight past.”

Beowulf glances beyond Unferth and Wealthow, looking to the high, barred doors of Heorot. “Well then,” he says, and smiles at Hrothgar, who nods and grins back at him.

“If closing the hall has not so profited my lord,” Beowulf continues, “and if, regardless of this wise precaution, the beast still comes to do his wicked murder, it seems a pity to waste such a magnificent hall, does it not?”

“Oh, it does, indeed,” Hrothgar agrees. “It seems a most terrible waste. It seems a pity.”

Unferth exchanges glances with Wealthow, then, turning to Hrothgar, says, “But, my liege…by your own command—”

“Exactly,” Hrothgar interrupts. “By my own command. A command which I do hereby rescind, loyal Unferth. So, open the mead hall. Open it now.”

By dusk—which seems hardly more than a gentle deepening of the gloom that loitered above the land in the wake of the storm—Heorot Hall has been reopened. The doors and windows have all been thrown wide to draw in fresh, clean air. New hay covers the floors, and the feasting tables have all been scrubbed clean. Old women clear away cobwebs and tend to embers that will soon enough become cooking fires to roast venison and fowl and fat hogs. And in the midst of all this, Beowulf’s men sit together at a round table in one corner of the hall. Wulfgar, true to his word, has returned their weapons to them, and now they are busy sharpening steel blades, tightening straps and harnesses, oiling leather sheaths and scabbards. Beowulf wanders through the hall, examining its architecture with a warrior’s keen eye, sizing up its strengths and weaknesses. Here and there are signs of the monster’s handiwork—deep gouges in the wooden beams, claw marks in tabletops, a patch of wood so bloodstained that water cannot ever wipe it clean again. Beowulf pauses before the huge door, inspecting its massive bar and the wide reinforcing bands of iron.

Hondshew glances up from the blade of his broadsword and sees Yrsa, the girl from the gate, who’s busy scrubbing a table not too far from where the thanes are seated.

“Ah, now there’s a beast I’d love to slay this very night,” he snickers, then stands and jabs his sword in her direction. “Not with this blade, mind you. I’ve another, better suited to that pricking.”

Wiglaf kicks him in the rump, and Hondshew stumbles and almost falls.

“Listen to me,” Wiglaf says, addressing all the thanes. “We don’t want any trouble with the locals, you hear. So, just for tonight, no fighting, and no swifan. Do you understand me?”

Hondshew rubs at his backside but hasn’t stopped staring at Yrsa, who looks up, sees him watching her, and sticks out her tongue at him. Another of the thanes, Olaf, a lean but muscle-bound man with a wide white scar across his left cheek, draws his dagger and brandishes it at all the shadows lurking in all the corners of Heorot Hall.

“I wa…wa…wasn’t p…p…planning on doing any swi…swi…swi…swifan,” he stutters.

Hondshew sits down again and goes back to sharpening his sword. “Well, I wa…wa…was!” he declares, mocking Olaf.

Wiglaf frowns and tries not to notice the way that Yrsa’s breasts strain the fabric of her dress when she bends over the table she’s cleaning. “Hondshew,” he says. “Just this once, make me feel like you’re pretending to listen to me. It’s only been five days since you waved your wife good-bye.”

“Five days!” exclaims Hondshew. “By Odin’s swollen testicles…no wonder my loins are burning!”

The thanes laugh loudly, and Yrsa pauses in her work to listen to them. To her ears, the bawdy laughter of men is a welcome sound, here beneath the roof timbers of Heorot Hall, and it gives her strength and cause to hope. She steals a quick look at Beowulf, who’s still inspecting the door, and Yrsa prays that even half the bold, fantastic stories she’s heard told about him are true and that, soon now, Grendel’s grip upon the night will be at an end.

5 Misbegotten

And far across the moorlands, shrouded now with evening mist, out behind the forest’s ancient palisade, the creature Grendel crouches at the edge of the black pool inside his cave. The rotting corpse of one of Hrothgar’s slaughtered thanes lies nearby, and Grendel carefully picks choice scraps of flesh from the body and drops them into the water. There are many strange things that dwell within the lightless depths of the pool, and sometimes when Grendel is lonely, he lures hungry mouths to the surface with bits of his kills. Tonight, the water teems with a school of blind albino eels, each of them easily as long as a grown man is tall—or longer still—and big around as fence posts. Their long jaws are lined with needle-sharp teeth, and they greedily devour the morsels Grendel has given up to the pool and fight among themselves for the largest pieces. Grendel watches the foaming water and the snow-colored eels, comforted by their company, amused at their ferocity. He rocks backward and forward, absently humming a slow, sad, tuneless sort of song to himself, something he either made up or has heard men singing on some night or another. He can’t remember which.

In his left hand, the creature clutches a broken lance, and impaled upon its spiked tip is the decomposing head of yet another fallen thane. The eyes have been eaten away by such worms and maggots as thrive in dung and decay and the muddy earth of the cave. The jaw bone hangs crookedly from the thane’s skull, and most of his front teeth are broken out. Grendel leans the decapitated head out over the frothing pool and pitches his voice high, imitating the speech of men.

“Da-dee-da!” he cries out. “Da-dee-da! Oh, such horrible, horrible things! They’ll eat me all up, they will!”

And then Grendel chuckles to himself and leans close to the dead thane’s right ear. “Who’s laughing now?” he asks to head. “Eh? Just who’s laughing now? Me—Grendel—that’s who.”

Suddenly, one of the huge eels leaps free of the pool; hissing like a serpent, it strikes at the head, tearing away the crooked jaw and much of what was left of the thane’s face before falling back into the water with a loud plop. Grendel cackles with delight and shakes the mutilated head back and forth above the pool. The cave echoes with the creature’s laughter.

“Oh me, oh my!” he wails. “It has eaten my poor, pretty face all up! What ever shall I do now? The beautiful women will not love me now!”

Another of the eels leaps for the head, but this time Grendel yanks it quickly away before the fish’s jaws can latch on.

“No more,” he scolds the eels. “No more tonight. You’ll get fat. Fat fish sink all the way down to the bottom and get eaten by other fish. More tomorrow.”

Abruptly, the dark water seethes with some new and far more terrible presence, and all the eels slither away quietly into their holes. There is a wheezing, wet sound, like spray blown out from the spout of a whale, and the water bubbles.

Startled, Grendel jumps to his feet, and in his panic, his body begins to change—his nails suddenly becoming long and curving claws, claws to shame the mightiest bear. The bones and muscles of his twisted, deformed frame begin to shift and expand, and his round, rheumy eyes start to narrow, sparking now with a predatory glint. Where only a moment before the eels fought viciously over mouthfuls of putrid flesh, now Grendel’s mother watches him from the surface of the pool. Her full, wet lips shimmer, their golden scales gleaming with some secret, inner fire that is all her own.

“Grrrrendelllllll,” she purls.

Recognizing her voice, Grendel grows calmer. Talons become only ragged fingernails again. His expanding, shifting skeleton begins to reverse its violent metamorphosis so that he seems to draw back into himself. He looks into his mother’s bright reptilian eyes and sees himself reflected there.

“Modor?” he asks softly, falling back upon the old tongue. “Is something wrong?”

She rises slowly from the pool, then, her long, webbed fingers gripping the travertine edges and pulling herself nearer to her son.

“I had an evil dream, my child,” she says, and the beauty of her voice soothes Grendel, and he wishes she would never leave him. “You were hurt,” she continues. “I dreamed you were calling out for me, and I could not come to you. And then, Grendel, then they butchered you.”

Grendel watches her, floating there, half-submerged, then he smiles and laughs and shakes the lance and the thane’s head staked upon it.

“I am not dead. See? I am happy. Look, Modor. Happy Grendel,” and in an effort to convince his mother that his words are true, Grendel does an awkward sort of shuffling dance about his cave, a clumsy parody of the dancing he’s glimpsed in the mead hall of King Hrothgar. From time to time, he stops to shake the thane’s head at the sky, hidden beyond the cavern’s roof, and to hoot and howl in the most carefree, joyous way he can manage.

From the pool, his mother whispers, “You must not go to them tonight. You have killed too many of them.”

“But I am strong, Mother. I am big, and I am strong. None of them are a match for me. I will eat their flesh and drink their sweet blood and grind their frail bones between my teeth.”

“Please, my son,” his mother implores. “Do not go to them.”

Grendel stops dancing and lets the thane’s head and the broken spear clatter to the floor of the cave. He shuts his eyes and makes a disappointed, whining sound.

“Please,” his mother says from the pool. “Please promise me this one thing. Not this night, Grendel. Stay here with me this night. Stay by the pool and be content to feed your pets.”

Grendel sits down on the ground a few feet from the edge of the water. He doesn’t meet his mother’s eyes, but stares disconsolately at the dirt and rocks and his own bare feet.

“I swear,” he sulks. “I shall not go to them.”

“Even if they make the noises? Even if the noises make your poor head ache?”

Grendel hesitates, considering her question, remembering the pain, but then he nods reluctantly.

“Gut. Man medo,” she whispers, satisfied, then slips once more beneath the surface of the black pool. Ripples spread out across it, and small waves lap against its stony edges.

“They are only men,” Grendel whispers sullenly to himself and also to the head of the dead thane. “They are only men, and it was only a dream she had. Many times have I had bad dreams. But they were all only dreams.”

In his cave, Grendel watches the water in the pool grow calm once more, and he thinks about the concealing night and the conspiring fog waiting outside the cave, and he tries not to remember the hurting noise of men.

6 Light from the East

By sunset, the clouds above Heorot Hall have broken apart, becoming only scattered, burning islands in a wide winter sky. The goddess Sól, sister of the moon, is sinking low in the west, rolling away toward the sea in her chariot as the hungry wolf Skoll pursues close behind. Her light glimmers on the water and paints the world orange.

In Hrothgar’s mead hall, his people are gathering for a feast in honor of Beowulf, who has promised to deliver them from the fiend Grendel. An enormous copper vat, filled to the brim with mead, is carried in, and a cheer rises from Beowulf’s thanes. But the others, the king’s men and women, those who have seen too many nights haunted by the monster, do not join in the cheer. From the cast of their faces, the gathering might seem more a funeral than a feast, more mourning than a reception for the Geats, who have promised to deliver them from their plight. But there is music, and soon enough the mead begins to flow.

Beowulf stands on the steps of the throne dais with Queen Wealthow, examining a curious carving set into the wall there, a circular design that reminds Beowulf of a wagon wheel. A mirror, placed some distance away in Hrothgar’s anteroom, redirects the fading sunlight from a window onto the wall and the carving.

“It can measure the length of the day,” Wealthow explains, and she points at the sundial. “When the sun touches the lowest line, soon the day will be finished.”

“And Grendel will arrive?” asks Beowulf, turning from the carving to look into the queen’s face, her violet eyes, the likes of which he has never seen before. Indeed, Beowulf doubts he has ever seen a woman half so beautiful as the bride of Hrothgar, and he silently marvels at her.

Wealthow sighs. “I hope that Odin and Heimdall are kind to you, Beowulf. It would be a great shame on this house to have one so brave and noble die beneath its roof.”

Beowulf shakes his head, trying to concentrate more on what she’s saying to him than on the sight of her.

“There is no shame to die in battle with evil,” he tells her. “Only honor and a seat in Valhalla.”

“And if you die?”

“Then there will be no corpse to weep over, my lady, no funeral pyre to prepare, and none to mourn me. Grendel will dispose of my carcass in a bloody animal feast, cracking my bones and sucking the flesh from them, swallowing me down.”

“I would mourn you, my lord. Your men would mourn you, also.”

“Nay, my men would join me in the monster’s belly,” Beowulf laughs.

“You shouldn’t jest about such things,” Queen Wealthow says, frowning now. “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Afraid? And where’s the reason in that? The three Norns sit at the foot of Yggdrasil, spinning all our lives. I am but another string in their loom, as are you, my Lady Wealthow. Our fates were already woven into that tapestry when the world was young. There’s nothing to be gained in worrying over that which we cannot change.”

“You are so sure this is the way of things?” she asks him, still frowning and glancing down at the dais steps.

“I’ve heard no better story,” he replies. “Have you?”

She looks back up at him but doesn’t answer.

“Ah, Beowulf…there you are!” And Wealthow and Beowulf turn to see four thanes bearing King Hrothgar toward the dais. Straining, they carefully set his litter onto the floor of the hall. “I was thinking about your father,” says the king, as one of the thanes helps him from his seat upon the litter.

“My father?” asks Beowulf.

“Yes. Your father. Good Ecgtheow. There was a feud, I believe. He came here fleeing the Wylfings. As I recall, he’d killed one of them with his bare hands.”

“Heatholaf,” Beowulf says. “That was the name of the Wylfing my father slew.”

“Yes! That was him!” exclaims Hrothgar, starting up the steps toward Beowulf and Wealthow. The thanes have already carried the litter away, and the king’s court is assembling behind him. “I paid the blood debt for your father, and so he swore an oath to me. Long ago, that was. My kingship was still in its youth. Heorogar—my elder brother and the better man, I’d wager—had died. And here comes Ecgtheow, on the run, and so I sent wergeld to the Wylfings and ended the feud then and there. Ah…but no good deed goes unrewarded. I saved his skin, and now you’re here to save ours, eh?” He slaps Beowulf on the back, and Wealthow flinches.

“I am thankful for the kindness you showed my father,” Beowulf replies. “And thankful too for this opportunity to repay his debt to my lord.”

“Well,” says Hrothgar, “truth be told, it weighs heavy on my old heart, having to burden another with the grief this beast Grendel has visited upon my house. But the guards of Heorot—the demon has carried the best of them away. My following, those loyal to me, has dwindled, Beowulf. But you are here now. You will kill this monster. I have no doubt of it.”

And now there is the sound of laughter, low and bitter, from the shadows behind the king’s throne. Unferth emerges from the gloom, slowly clapping his hands.

“All hail the great Beowulf!” he sneers. “Here to save our pathetic Danish skins, yes? And we are so damned…ah, now what is the word?…grateful? Yes. We are so damned grateful, mighty Beowulf. But might I now ask a question, speaking as a great admirer of yours.”

Beowulf does not reply but only stares, unblinking, back at Unferth’s green eyes.

“Yes, then? Very good. For you see, there was another Beowulf I heard tell of, who challenged Brecca the Mighty to a swimming race, out on the open sea. Is it possible, was that man the same as you?”

Beowulf nods. “Aye, I swam against Brecca,” he says.

Unferth scowls and scratches at his black beard a moment. “I thought surely it must have been a different Beowulf,” he says, furrowing his brow. “For, you see,” and now Unferth raises his voice so it will be heard beyond the dais, “the Beowulf I heard of swam against Brecca and lost. He risked his life and Brecca’s on the whale’s-road, to serve his own vanity and pride. A boastful fool. And he lost. So, you see the source of my confusion. I thought it had to be someone else, surely.”

Beowulf climbs the last few steps, approaching Unferth, and now the mead hall falls silent.

“I swam against Brecca,” he tells Unferth again.

“Yes, so you’ve said. But the victory was his, not yours. You swam for seven nights, but in the end he outswam you. He reached the shore early one morning, cast up among the Heathoreams. He returned to the country of the Bronding clan, and boasted of his victory—as was his right. But you, Beowulf…a mighty warrior who cannot even win a swimming match?” Unferth pauses long enough to accept a cup of mead from his slave boy, Cain. He takes a long drink, wipes his mouth, then continues.

“Speaking only for myself, of course, I not only doubt that you will be able to stand for one moment against Grendel—I doubt that you’ll even have the nerve to stay in the hall the full night. No one has yet lasted a night against Grendel.” Unferth grins and takes another drink from his cup.

“I find it difficult to argue with a drunk,” Beowulf tells him.

“My lord,” says Queen Wealthow, glaring at Unferth. “You do not have to bandy words with the son of Ecglaf—”

“And it is true,” Beowulf continues, “that I did not win the race with Brecca,” and he closes his eyes, so vivid are the memories of the contest, carrying him at once back to that day—he against Brecca, both of them pitted against the sea…

…the freezing swells of Gandvik, the Bay of Serpents, rise and fall, bearing the two swimmers aloft so that they might, from time to time, glimpse the rugged, distant coastline of the land of the Finns. But then the water falls suddenly away beneath them, and the men can hardly even see the sky for the towering walls of the sea. The currents here are deadly, feared by fishermen and sailors alike, but Beowulf and Brecca are strong, stronger even than the cold fingers of the Urdines that would drag them under, stronger than the will of Ægir Wavefather. They are making slow but steady progress toward the eastern shore, swimming neck and neck, seeming an even match. And so it has been for the last five days, neither man holding a lead over the other for very long. Brecca carries a dagger gripped between his teeth, while Beowulf swims with a sword held tight in his right hand. One does not venture unarmed out upon the Gandvik. To the north, there are purple-black clouds tinged with gray, and lightning has begun to lick at the waves.

“You look tired!” Brecca calls out to Beowulf, then gets a mouthful of salt water.

“Funny…I was only just now…thinking the same of you!” Beowulf shouts back. Then a wave pushes them farther apart, raising Beowulf up even as Brecca slips into its yawning trough. And finally the Geat presses his advantage, for he is the stronger man, truly, and the better swimmer, and he has waited these five long days, conserving his strength for this last stretch before land. With only a little effort, he pulls ahead of Brecca.

But it may yet be that the sea giant and his daughters will have the final say, proving neither man a fit match for their domain. For the approaching storm brings more than wind and rain and lightning. It stirs the very depths, reaching down into the abyss where fearful creatures dwell, great snakes and unnameable brutes that crawl the slimy bottom and may live out their entire lives without once breaching or coming near to the surface. But angered by these gales and by the cracking hammer falls of Thor Giantkiller, they are distracted and drawn upward from their burrows in the mud of secret trenches and grottoes, moving swiftly through forests of kelp and midnight, and soon enough they find the swimmers. These are serpents beside which even mighty whales would seem as mackerel, the ravenous children of great Jörmungand, who holds all Midgard in his coils. The spawn of matings between Loki’s dragon child and all manner of eels and sharks and hideous sea worms, these monsters, and no man gazes upon their faces and lives to tell another.

From his vantage point high atop the wave, Beowulf looks back down toward Brecca, spotting him there amid the chop and spray in the same instant that one of the monstrous serpents bursts forth from the sea. At first, Brecca does not seem to see it, looming there above him, its vast jaws dripping with brine and ooze and weeds, its single red eye peering down at the swimmer. Beowulf glances longingly toward the shore, and he knows it is within his grasp, surely, both dry land and victory. A lesser man might have looked upon the arrival of this beast as a blessing from the gods, but Brecca has been Beowulf’s friend since their childhood, and so he sets his back to the shore. He shouts a warning, but already there are dark tentacles winding themselves about Brecca’s body, driving the breath from his lungs and threatening to crush his ribs. He gasps, and the dagger slips from his teeth and vanishes in the sea.

“No!” Beowulf screams. “You will not have him!” And he swims as quickly as he can, moving against the current, back to the place where his friend struggles with the serpent. Distracted, the creature turns toward Beowulf, who slashes at its face with his sword, plunging the blade through the crimson eye and deep into its skull. Blood the color of the angry, storm-wracked sky gushes from the wound and stains the sea. But already a second serpent is rising from the water, and a third follows close behind it.

Brecca escapes from the dying monster’s coils, and Beowulf tells him to go, go now, to swim if he’s still able. Then something below twines itself about Beowulf’s legs and hauls him under. Air rushes from his mouth and nostrils, silver bubbles trailing about his face as he hacks madly at the tentacle with his sword, severing it and wriggling free of its loosening grip. He breaks the surface a second later, only to find another of the creatures bearing down on him, its jaws open wide and bristling with teeth as long a warrior’s lance. But Beowulf takes its head off with a single blow, slicing through scaly hide, through sinew and bone, cleaving its spine in two. And the third beast, sensing its imminent fate at the hands of the Geat, only watches him for a moment—hissing and leering hungrily—before it sinks once more beneath the sea, returning to whatever foul black pit birthed it.

Exhausted, bleeding, still clutching his heavy sword, Beowulf turns and begins to swim again and has soon caught up with Brecca. The waves have carried them much nearer the shoreline than before, and now Beowulf spies men scattered out along the rocky beach, all of them cheering the brave swimmers on. His spirits buoyed by the shouts and glad noise of the Geats and Finns, and also by the sight of Brecca alive and well and by his own victory over the serpents, Beowulf forgets his pain and pushes on. He passes Brecca and is ahead by a full length, and how much sweeter will be his victory, that it will have been gained despite the decision to go to Brecca aid, despite the Ægir’s hounds.

“A good race!” he calls back to Brecca. “A shame that one of us must lose it,” but then Beowulf is seized about the waist and pulled underwater for a second time. Again, wreathed in the shimmer of his own escaping breath, he whirls about to confront his attacker, his sword held at the ready…but then he sees clearly what has dragged him down. And this time it is no serpent, not one of the sea giant’s fiends nor some other nameless abomination come stealing up from the lightless plains of silt and shipwrecks.

Instead, it is a being so beautiful that he might almost believe he has died defending Brecca and now this is some strange, fair herald of the Valkyries. Not a woman, no, not a human woman, but so alike in form that he at first makes that mistake. As his breath leaks away, Beowulf can only believe that he has been haled by an impossibly beautiful maiden, or some elf spirit that has taken the form of such a maiden. Her long hair, streaming about her face, is like the warm sun of a summer’s afternoon falling across still waters, then flashing back twice as bright, and he squints at its brilliance. Her skin might be sunlight as well, or newly minted gold, the way it glints and shines.

So, perhaps this is a hero’s death, and so a hero’s reward, as well. He stops struggling and lowers his weapon, ready to follow this vision on to paradise and whatever banquet Odin has already prepared in his honor. And then Beowulf glances down, past the fullness of her breasts, and where the gentle curves of her belly and hips ought be, the golden skin is replaced by golden scales and by chitinous plates like the shell of a gilded crab. Worse still, where her legs should be, there is a long and tapering tail ending in a broad lancet fin. She smiles and clutches at him, and now Beowulf sees the webbing between her fingers and the hooked claws where a human woman would have nails. She does not speak, but he can plainly hear her voice inside his mind, beckoning him to follow her deeper. An image comes to him, then, of the two of them locked together in a lover’s embrace, her lips pressed to his as they drift farther from the sun’s rays and all the world above.

And he kicks free…

…“I killed the monster with my own blade,” Beowulf tells Unferth and anyone else there beneath the roof of Heorot who is listening to his tale. “Plunging it again and again into its heart, I killed it. But I did not win the race.”

“You do not have to prove yourself to him,” Wealthow says, drawing a smirk from Unferth.

But Beowulf continues. “They sing of my battle with the sea monsters to this day, my friend. And they sing no such songs about Brecca. But I braved their hot jaws, making those lanes safe for seamen. And I survived the nightmare.”

“Of course,” Unferth says, and fakes a tremendous yawn. “The sea monsters. And you killed, what, twenty was it?”

“Three, all told. But…will you do me the honor of telling me your name.”

Unferth shrugs and passes his empty cup back to his slave. “I am Unferth, son of Ecglaf, son of—”

“Unferth?” Beowulf asks, and before Hrothgar’s man can reply, the Geat has turned to address his own thanes. “Unferth, son of Ecglaf? Well, then your fame has crossed the ocean ahead of you. I know who you are…”

Unferth manages to look both proud of himself and uncertain at the same time.

“Let’s see,” Beowulf says. “They say that you are clever. Not wise, mind you, but sharp. And they say, too, that you killed your brothers when you caught them bedding your own mother. In Geatland, they name you ‘Unferth Kinslayer,’ I believe,” and Beowulf laughs.

Unferth stares back at him, speechless, his mossy eyes burning bright with hatred and spite. And then he lunges at Beowulf, growling like a dog. The Geat steps to one side, and Unferth trips, landing in a drunken heap at Beowulf’s feet. The Geat crouches beside him, grinning.

“I’ll tell you another true thing, Unferth Kinslayer. If your strength and heart had been as strong and as fierce as your words, then Grendel would never feel free to murder and gorge on your people, with no fear of retaliation. But tonight, friend, tonight will be different. Tonight he will find the Geats waiting for him. Not frightened sheep, like you.”

Suddenly, several of the Danish thanes advance and draw their weapons, rushing to the aid of their king’s most favored and trusted advisor. Seeing this, Beowulf’s own men reach for their swords and daggers—

“Well done!” shouts King Hrothgar. “That’s the spirit, young Beowulf!” and he begins clapping his hands together enthusiastically. The thanes on either side look confused, but slowly they begin to return blades to sheaths and back away from one another.

“Yes,” continues Hrothgar. “That’s the spirit we need! You’ll kill my Grendel for me. Let us all drink and make merry celebration for the kill to come! Eh?”

The slave, Cain, helps Unferth to his feet and begins dusting off his clothes. “Get away from me,” Unferth snaps, and pushes the boy roughly aside.

Beowulf smiles a bold, victorious smile, his eyes still on Unferth as he places a hand on old Hrothgar’s frail shoulder.

“Yes, my lord,” says Beowulf. “I will drink and make merry, and then I will show this Grendel of yours how the Geats do battle with our enemies. How we kill. When we’re done here, before the sun rises again, the Danes will no longer have cause to fear the comforts of your hall or any lurking demon come skulking from the moorland mists.”

And now that those assembled in the hall have seen Beowulf’s confidence and heard for themselves his pledge to slay Grendel this very night, their dampened spirits are at last revived. Soon, all Heorot is awash in the joyful, unfettered sounds of celebration and revelry.

“My king,” says Queen Wealthow, as she offers him a large cup of mead, “drink deeply tonight and enjoy the fruits and bounty of your land. And know that you are dear to us.” And when he has finished, she refills the cup, and the Helming maiden moves among the ranks—both Dane and Geat, the members of the royal household and the fighting men—offering it to each in his turn. Only Unferth refuses her hospitality. At the last, she offers the cup to Beowulf, welcoming him and offering thanks to the gods that her wish for deliverance has been granted. He accepts the cup gladly, still enchanted by the beauty of her. When he has finished drinking and the cup is empty, he bows before Hrothgar and his lady.

“When I left my homeland and put to sea with my men, I had but one purpose before me—to come to the aid of your people or die in the attempt. Before you, I vow once more that I shall fulfill that purpose. I will slay Grendel and prove myself, or I will find my undoing here tonight in Heorot.”

Wealthow smiles a grateful smile for him, then leaves the dais and moves again through the crowded mead hall, until she comes to the corner where the musicians have gathered. One of the harpists stands, surrendering his instrument, and she takes his place. Her long, graceful fingers pluck the strings, beginning a ballad that is both lovely and melancholy, a song of elder days, of great deeds and of loss. Her voice rises clearly above the din, and the other musicians accompany her.

Hrothgar sits up straight on his throne and points to his wife. “Is she not a wonder?” he asks Beowulf.

“Oh, she is indeed,” Beowulf replies. “I have never gazed upon anything half so wondrous.” He thinks that perhaps the king is near to tears, the way his old eyes sparkle wetly in the firelight.

Then Beowulf raises his cup to toast Wealthow, who, seeing the gesture, smiles warmly and nods to him from her place at the harp. And it seems to the Geat that there is something much more to her smile than mere gratitude, something not so very far removed from desire and invitation. But if Hrothgar sees it, too, he makes no sign that he has seen it. Instead, he orders Unferth to stand and give up his seat to Beowulf, and Hrothgar pulls the empty chair next to his throne and tells Beowulf to sit. He motions to his herald, Wulfgar, who leaves and soon returns with an elaborately carved and decorated wooden box.

“Beowulf,” says Hrothgar. “Son of Ecgtheow…I want to show you something.” And with that the king opens the wooden box, and the Geat beholds the golden horn inside.

“Here is another of my wonders for you to admire,” the king tells him, and Hrothgar removes the horn from its cradle and carefully hands it to Beowulf.

“It’s beautiful,” Beowulf says, holding the horn up and marveling at its splendor, at its jewels and the bright luster of its gold.

“Isn’t she magnificent? The prize of my treasury. I claimed it long ago, after my battle with old Fafnir, the dragon of the Northern Moors. It nearly cost me my life,” and he leans closer to Beowulf, whispering loudly. “There’s a soft spot just under the neck, you know.” And Hrothgar jabs a finger at his own throat, then points out the large ruby set into the throat of the dragon on the horn. “You go in close with a knife or a dagger…it’s the only way you can kill one of the bastards. I wonder, how many man have died for love of this beauty.”

“Could you blame them?” asks Beowulf, passing the horn back to Hrothgar.

“If you take care of Grendel, she’s yours forever.”

“You do me a great honor,” Beowulf says.

“As well I should. I only wish that I possessed an even greater prize to offer you as reward for such a mighty deed.”

Beowulf turns then from Hrothgar and the splendid golden horn and listens as Queen Wealthow finishes her song. For the first time since his journey began, he feels an unwelcome twinge of doubt—that he might not vanquish this beast Grendel, that he may indeed find his death here in the shadows of Heorot. And watching Wealthow, hearing her, he knows that the dragon’s horn is not the only thing precious to the king that he would have for his own. When she’s finished and has returned the harp to the harpist, he stands and clambers from the dais onto the top of one of the long feasting tables. Wealthow watches, and Beowulf feels her eyes following him. He takes a goblet from one of his thanes and raises it high above his head.

“My lord! My lady! The people of Heorot!” he shouts, commanding the attention of everyone in the hall, and they all stop and look up at him. “Tonight, my men and I, we shall live forever in greatness and courage, or, forgotten and despised, we shall die!”

And a great and deafening cheer rises from his men and from the crowd, and Beowulf looks out across the hall, directly at Queen Wealthow. She smiles again, but this time there is uncertainty and sadness there, and a moment later she turns away.

7 The Walker in Darkness

In his dream, Grendel is sitting outside his cave watching the sunset. It isn’t winter, in his dream, but midsummer, and the air is warm and smells sweet and green. And the sky above him is all ablaze with Sól’s retreat, and to the east the dark shadows of a sky wolf chasing after her. And Grendel is trying to recall the names of the two horses who, each day, draw the chariot of the sun across the heavens, the names his mother taught him long ago. There is a terrible, burning pain inside his head, as though he has died in his sleep and his skull has filled with hungry maggots and gnawing beetles, as though gore crows pick greedily at his eyes and plunge sharp beaks into his ears. But he knows, even through the veil of this dream, that the pain is not the pain of biting worms and stabbing beaks.

No, this pain comes drifting across the land from the open windows and doors of Heorot Hall, fouling the wind and casting even deeper shadows than those that lie between the trees in the old forest. It is the hateful song sung by a cruel woman, a song he knows has been fashioned just so to burrow deep inside his head and hurt him and ruin the simple joy of a beautiful summer’s evening. And Grendel knows, too, that it is not the slavering jaws of the wolf Skoll that the sun flees this day, but rather that song. That song which might yet break the sky apart and rend the stones and boil away the seas.

No greater calamity in all the world than the thoughtless, merry sounds that men and women make, no greater pain to prick at his soul than their joyful music and the fishhook voices of their delight. Grendel does not know why this should be so, only that it is. And he calls out for his mother, who is watching from the entrance of the cave, safe from the fading sunlight.

“Please, Modor,” he asks her, “make them stop. Make her be quiet.”

“How would I ever do that?” she replies and blinks at him with her golden eyes.

“Oh, I could show you,” he says. “It is not so very hard to silence them. It is a simple thing. They break—”

“You promised,” she hisses softly.

“To endure this agony, is that what I promised?”

“You promised,” she says again, louder than before.

So, Grendel dreams that he shuts his eyes, hoping to find some deeper twilight there, a peaceful, painless dusk that cannot be ruined by the voice of a woman, by harps and flutes and drums, by the shouts of drunken men and the shrieks of drunken women. He shuts his eyes tightly as he can and drifts down to some time before this sunset outside his cave, a silent time, and he pretends that the ache in his ears and the din banging about inside his brain have yet to begin. Heorot Hall has not been built, and the king has not found his queen. Grendel is yet a child, playing alone in the murk of the cave, making some secret game from a handful of seashells and the backbone of a seal. Not a day he actually remembers, but a day that might have been, nonetheless.

“I will never let him find you,” his mother whispers from her pool.

And Grendel stops playing and stares for a moment into the cold water, the uneasy, swirling place where she lies just beneath the surface.

“Who?” he asks. “Who will you not let find me?”

She answers him with a loud splash from the pool, and Grendel looks back down at the shells cupped in his right hand. A mussel shell, four sea snails, two cockles, and he tries hard to remember what that means by the rules of his secret game. He knew only a moment before.

“Is that a question I should not have asked, Modor?”

“I cannot always keep you safe,” she tells him, and there’s regret and a sort of sadness in her voice, and it doesn’t suit her. “They are weak, yes, these men. But still they slay dragons, and they kill trolls, and they make wars and hold the fate of all the world in their small, soft hands, even as you hold those stray bits of shell in yours.”

“Then I will stay away from them,” he assures her. “I will hide here…with you. I won’t let them see me. I won’t ever let them see me.”

“That is not the truth,” she tells him. “Even in dreams, we should not lie to ourselves. You are a curious boy, and you will go to see them, and they will see you.”

Grendel lays the shells down on the dirt and travertine floor of the cave next to the seal vertebra. He’s forgotten the game now, because it’s something he never invented.

“Why do they kill dragons?” he asks his mother, and she sighs and slithers about at the edge of her pool.

“Because they are not dragons themselves,” she replies.

“And is this why they kill trolls, as well?”

“They are not trolls,” she answers. “They have neither the fiery breath nor the wings of dragons, nor have they the strength of trolls. And they are ever jealous of those things, and fearful. They destroy, Grendel. They despoil. They destroy for glory, and from jealousy and fear, to make the world safe for themselves. And I cannot hide you always, child. Your father—”

“Mé fædyr?” Grendel asks her, surprised, having never much dwelled upon the subject of his absent father and, perhaps, thinking himself somehow genuinely fæderleás—born somehow only of woman.

“He has slain a dragon,” she hisses from the pool.

“That weorm, Modor, maybe it did not know to hide,” Grendel insists, and he crushes the seal bone to white-gray dust between his fingers. “I will stay always here with you. They will not find me,” he says again. “Not ever.”

“That is a promise,” she says, and the words float up from the icy water like a threat. “But we break our promises all too soon.”

Grendel opens his eyes, tumbling back up and up from the cave and that lost, imagined day that never was, tumbling back to the place where his dream began—sitting outside his cave, watching the vanishing, wolf-harrowed sun, his ears aching with the song of King Hrothgar’s keening, yellow-haired bitch.

“Why can I not bear these sounds, Modor?” Grendel moans and stares up at the burning sky. “They are only songs, yes? Only frivolities and merrymaking, not swords and axes and spears. They are only the thin voices of weak creatures crying out in the dark to hear themselves. How is it that such things do me harm?”

From the entrance of the cave, his mother grinds bones in her teeth, sucking out the marrow, and does not reply.

And the harp of Heorot Hall has become a cacophony, the tumult as the very walls of Midgard collapse on that last day of all. Sól has gone from the sky now, leaving it to night and the pursuing wolf, and Grendel digs his claws deep into the rocky soil. Blood drips from his nostrils and stains the ground at his feet.

“Árvak,” he mutters, recalling finally the names of the horses leashed to the sun’s chariot, the answer to a riddle no one has asked. “Árvak and Alsvin are their names.” He grates his jaws against the song. But he is only Grendel, and he has never slain a dragon, and the song fells great trees and causes the earth beneath him to shudder. The song has frightened away even his mother, the merewife, giant-daughter and pool-haunter. In only another moment, his teeth will shatter and fall like dust from his mouth.

“I will wake up now,” he growls through blood and crumbling fangs. I am only dreaming this pain. I am only dreaming the noise…

And when next Grendel opens his eyes, he is awake, awake and alone in his cave at sunset, curled into a corner beneath the hides of deer and bears. His mother is not with him, but the pain is, and the flood of those voices rushing over the land, crashing upon his ears like breakers at the edge of a stormy sea. And the flood will drown him. Grendel opens his jaws wide and howls, vomiting rage and torment and confusion into that hollow space beneath the hills. But his voice, even in this wild frenzy, seems hardly a whimper raised against the flood. He turns toward the pool, wishing she were there, wishing he could find his way down through the depths to her, where she would hold him to her bosom and calm him and soothe away the hurt and fear swallowing him alive.

Standing, shaking off the sleeping pelts, he howls again, and if his mother were there, she would hear the words lost and tangled within that animal scream. She would hear the grief and the despair at a promise soon to be broken. But she would also hear relief in equal measure, that shortly he will crush and squeeze and pound the life from these clamorous fools, and they will taste sweet on his tongue. And then, when he is done, the night will be silent again, save those comforting sounds which come from the old forest and the marshlands and the beach. Save the soft dripping of his cave, and the splash of white eels in his mother’s pool.

8 Nightfall

“So, would that be your demon?” Beowulf asks the king, as the ghastly shriek from the moorlands quickly fades away and a sudden hush falls over Heorot Hall. The musicians have all stopped playing, and the Danes and their ladies sit or stand, frozen by the voice of Grendel, each one among them waiting to see if there will be another cry to split the twilight. Hrothgar rubs at his forehead, draws a deep breath and frowns. Glancing toward the sundial carved into the wall, he finds it gone completely dark. The day has ended.

“Indeed,” the king sighs. “I see that the dreaded hour is come upon us once again.” And he motions toward the sundial.

“We should clear the hall,” Beowulf says, but already Heorot has begun to empty on its own, the evening’s revelry cut short by those two cries from the direction of the approaching night, and the king rises weary and drunken from his throne.

“Well, it’s just as well. This old man needs his rest,” he says, and looks about until he sets eyes upon his queen standing not far away, watching Beowulf. “My beauty,” he says to her. “Will you be so kind as to help me find my way down to sleep? Sometimes, I think I have almost forgotten the path.” And he holds out a withered, trembling hand to his young wife. She hesitates a moment, still looking at Beowulf.

“My dear?” the king asks her, thinking that perhaps she has not heard him. “Come along. I do not believe I am yet either so drunk or infirm that we might not take some small scrap of pleasure beneath the sheets.”

“A moment more, please,” she says. “You go along without me. I promise, I shall not be very far behind.”

“She promises…” Hrothgar mutters, only half to himself. Then, speaking to the Geat, he says, “I hope to see you in the morning, Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow…Odin willing. It is a great service you do me and my household this night. Be sure your men secure the door.”

“It will be done, my lord,” Beowulf assures him. “We will take all possible precautions.”

Four of the Danish thanes come bearing Hrothgar’s litter, having threaded their way through the thinning, nervous crowd. When they’ve lowered it to the floor, the old king steps down from the throne dais—aided by Unferth—and he climbs into the seat mounted there upon the sturdy platform. The thanes groan and heave and lift him into the air, supporting his weight and the weight of the litter upon their strong shoulders, and Beowulf bows respectfully to the Lord of Heorot Hall.

“Good night, brave warrior, Hygelac’s heir,” the king says to Beowulf. “Show the fiend no mercy. Give no quarter. Remember all those he has so callously murdered.”

“No mercy,” answers Beowulf, and the king smiles and orders the thanes to bear him away to his bedchamber.

“Yes. Good night, brave Beowulf.” Unferth sneers. “And I trust you’ll keep a weather eye peeled for sea monsters. I’m sure that imagination of yours is fair teeming with them.”

“I am disappointed, Unferth, that you will not be joining us tonight in our vigil,” Beowulf replies, looking the Dane straight in his green eyes. “Surely Odin Allfather has prepared a place in his great hall for you, as well.”

“I already have my duties,” Unferth replies curtly. “You see to yours,” and then he turns and follows the thanes as they ferry King Hrothgar from the hall.

“It’s a grievous responsibility,” says Wealthow, when Unferth has gone. She’s still standing there beside Beowulf at the edge of the dais. “Cowering in the shadows and cleaning up after a sick old man. But at least it’s a duty to which he’s well suited.”

“Your song was beautiful,” Beowulf tells her, changing the subject, not wishing to speak any more of Unferth. “But you need to go now.”

“Of course. Grendel. That demon is my husband’s shame.”

“Not a shame,” Beowulf tells her, and he begins loosening the leather straps and buckles on his breastplate. “A curse.”

“No, my lord, a shame,” Wealthow says, and she furrows her brow and looks down at her feet “My husband has no…” but then she pauses, glancing back up at Beowulf. “He has no sons to fight this evil, no Danish son to restore honor to our house. And he will have none, for all his talk of bedding me.”

Beowulf removes his heavy iron breastplate and lets it fall, clanging to the floor between them, and then he begins unfastening his belt. Behind him, Hondshew enters the hall, though Beowulf had not noticed his absence. Olaf and another of the Geats begin to laugh, making some joke at Hondshew’s expense, and soon the hall rings with their shouts and profanity. Hondshew hurls himself at Olaf, and the two tumble over a table and onto the floor, where they roll about, wrestling and trading blows and curses and insults.

“Why don’t you stop them?” Wealthow asks, and Beowulf looks over his shoulder at the commotion. The other thanes are cheering them on, some rooting for Hondshew, others for Olaf. Beowulf sees that all the Danes have gone, and only his men remain in the mead hall.

“They’re only letting off steam,” he tells the queen. “They’ve a long night ahead of them. It is good to laugh before a battle.”

“But if they knock themselves senseless—”

“You really do need to go now, Your Majesty,” and at that he tugs his tunic off over his head and drops it on the floor atop his breastplate.

“What exactly are you doing?” the queen asks, staring perplexed at the pile of clothing and armor. Beowulf has already begun shrugging off his chain mail.

“When Grendel comes, we will fight as equals,” he tells her, and continues to undress. “As I understand it, the creature has no sword, no shield, no helmet. He does not know strategy nor the art of war. And I have been assured that I have no weapon capable of slaying this monster. But I have my teeth, and sinews of my own.”

“But…my Lord Beowulf,” Wealthow protests, and she stoops to retrieve his discarded breastplate. “Your armor.”

“Armor forged of man will only slow me. No. We will fight tonight as equals, this Grendel and I. The Fates will decide. The Norns have already woven their skein, and I cannot undo it, not with leather or cold iron. Let the demon face me unarmed, if he so dares.”

“Do not be foolish. Do not throw your life away, Beowulf. You may be our last hope in all the world.”

“Go now, good queen,” he tells her. “Go to your husband’s bed, before I have my men remove you. Or before I am forced to do it myself.” And now the Geat’s long mail shirt falls nosily to the floor, and he stands before Wealthow, naked save the modesty of a loincloth.

“You would not!” she gasps.

“Aye, it would be my pleasure, though I doubt the king would much approve.”

“Are all the men of your country so brazen?” she asks, and takes a step backward, putting more distance between herself and Beowulf.

“They do their best, though I am generally held to be the worst of the lot.” And now Beowulf can see that Wealthow is blushing, though whether it is at the sight of him unclothed or at his words, he cannot say. “This is my final warning,” he says, and takes a step toward her.

“Very well then, son of Ecgtheow. Do as you will, as I’m quite sure you ever have,” and she hurries away, disappearing through the anteroom door, which she slams shut behind her. He listens while she bolts it from the other side.

And finally Beowulf stands alone, gazing down at the dull glint of his broadsword and mail lying discarded upon the floor of Heorot, thinking more on the queen’s violet eyes than on the beast Grendel or his weapons or the trials awaiting him and his thanes. It is good, he thinks, to face the coming fray with such a beauty yet so fresh in one’s mind. All good men fight for honor and to prove themselves worthy of a seat in Valhalla, but they might also justly fight to keep safe those too few beautiful sights that lie here beneath the wall of Midgard, below the path of sun and moon. And then there’s a loud crash somewhere in the hall behind him, the sound of shattering wood, and Beowulf turns to see Hondshew helping a stunned Olaf to his feet, hauling him from the ruins of one of Hrothgar’s banquet tables.

“Here now. Take care you do not break him entirely,” Beowulf shouts at Hondshew. “It would be a shame to rob the poor beast of that simple pleasure.”

“It’s not going to hold,” Wiglaf says, watching and shaking his head as the other thanes labor to secure the great main door of Heorot. “Right off, I can tell you that for nothing.” He turns and finds Beowulf standing directly behind him, naked save his breechclout.

“You’re mad, you know that?”

“Yes, Wiglaf,” Beowulf replies. “You’ve brought it to my attention on more than one occasion.”

“And this door here, then you know I’m right about that as well?”

Beowulf bites thoughtfully at his lower lip and watches as four of his men set the immense crossbar into its black iron brackets, barricading the door. Then he nods and spares a smile for Wiglaf.

“Of course you’re right about the door,” he says. “If this door, or any other, would keep our fiend at bay, do you think the Danes would have any need of us?”

“Then why bother with the blasted thing at all,” Wiglaf sighs, squinting up into the gloom near the ceiling at the clumsy system of pulleys and chains that has been rigged to raise and lower the heavy crossbar. “Why not just leave it standing wide open as an invitation to the bastard and get this over with?”

“If we’re lucky, it’ll buy us a little time,” Beowulf replies. “Think of it as an alarm.”

“An alarm.”

“Sure. Hrothgar’s door here might not keep this Grendel beast out, Wiglaf, but it’s bound to make an awful racket coming through, don’t you think?”

“An alarm,” Wiglaf says again and scratches at his beard, the worried expression not leaving his face.

“Something vexes you, Wiglaf.”

“Aye, it does. I don’t like the smell of this one, my lord. Look at them,” and Wiglaf motions toward the thanes, Hondshew and Olaf and the rest.

“I admit,” Beowulf says, “they’ve smelled better. Then again, on occasion they’ve smelled worse.”

“Fine. Jest if it pleases you,” Wiglaf frowns, and he kicks halfheartedly at the door with the toe of his right boot. “But the men are not prepared. They’re still tired from the sea. They’re distracted. Too many untended women about this place, and I do not have to tell you that abstinence prior to battle is essential. A warrior’s mind must be unblurred…focused.”

“Olaf!” Beowulf shouts, startling Wiglaf. “Tell me, Olaf, are you ready for this battle?”

The fat thane stops tugging at a thick length of rope reinforcing the mead-hall door and turns toward Beowulf. Olaf’s left eye is already swelling shut from his brawl with Hondshew. He blinks and looks confused.

“Good choice,” Wiglaf mutters.

Beowulf ignores him and points at Olaf. “I asked you a question, man. Are you ready, right now, to face the murderous demon that haunts this hall?”

Olaf tugs at an earlobe and glances toward Hondshew. “Huh-huh-huh,” he starts, then stops and starts over again. “Hondshew, huh-huh-he started it.”

Hondshew stops what he’s doing and points a grubby finger at Olaf. “Wot? You implied that I have intimate relations with sheep and other livestock, so how do you figure I started it? Maybe you need another poke in the—”

“I’m not asking about the fight,” Beowulf interrupts. “I’m asking Olaf here if he’s ready for the night’s battle. Wiglaf here, he’s worried you’re not focused, Olaf.”

Olaf continues to tug at his earlobe, but looks considerably more confused than he did a moment earlier. He blinks both his eyes, one right after the other.

“I can see juh-juh-just fuh-fuh-fine, if that’s what you muh-muh-mean,” he tells Beowulf. “It’s just a shuh-shuh-shiner, that’s all. I can see just fuh-fuh-fine.”

“And what about you, Hondshew?” Beowulf asks.

“Beowulf, that fat idjit there, he said I been off swifan sheeps and pigs and what not. You’d have hit him, too. Don’t tell me you would have done different, ’cause I know better.”

“I duh-duh-didn’t say nuh-nuh-nothing about Beowulf swifan with puh-pigs,” Olaf grumbles defensively, and tugs his ear.

“I think you just proved my point,” Wiglaf says to Beowulf, and turns his back on the door, gazing out across the wide, deserted expanse of Heorot Hall. One of the big cooking fires is still burning brightly, and it throws strange, restless shadows across the high walls.

“You worry too much, Wiglaf,” says Beowulf.

“Of course I do. That’s my job, isn’t it?” and then he looks over his shoulder to see Hondshew glaring menacingly at Olaf and the other thanes still milling about the door. “That’s good,” he tells them. “Now, tie it off with more chain. Hondshew, Olaf, you two ladies stop frican about and help them!”

“More chain?” asks Beowulf. “But you just said it’s not going to hold.”

“Aye, and you just agreed, but more chain means more noise. If it’s an alarm you want, then we’ll have a proper one.”

“Where would I be without you, Wiglaf.”

“Lost, my lord. Lost and wandering across the ice somewhere.”

“Undoubtedly,” Beowulf laughs and then strips away his breechclout.

“I already said you’re mad, didn’t I?”

“That you did,” and now Beowulf retrieves his woolen cape from a nearby tabletop and wraps it into a tight bundle, then sits down on the floor, not too far distant from the door. He lies down, positioning the rolled-up cape beneath his head for a pillow. “Good night, dear Wiglaf,” he says, and shuts his eyes.

“And while you’re lying there sleeping, what are we meant to do?”

Beowulf opens his eyes again. Above him, the firelight dances ominously across the rafters of Heorot Hall. It’s not hard to imagine the twisted form of something demonic in that interplay of flame and darkness. He glances at Wiglaf, still waiting for an answer. “While I sleep, you sing,” says Beowulf.

“Sing?” asks Wiglaf, and he makes a show of digging about in his ears, as if they might be filled with dirt or fluff and he hasn’t heard correctly.

“Sing loudly,” adds Beowulf. “Sing as though you mean to shame the noise of Thor’s hammer.”

“Yuh-yuh-you want us to suh-sing?” stutters Olaf, who’s standing just behind Wiglaf. “You mean a suh-song?”

“Yes, Olaf,” replies Beowulf. “I think a song will probably do just fine.”

Wiglaf looks from Beowulf to the barred entryway, then back to Beowulf again. “Okay,” he says. “This is like that other business, with the door being an alarm, isn’t it?”

“Do you not recall,” asks Beowulf, “what that ferret Unferth said this afternoon?” And Beowulf pitches his voice up an octave or so, imitating Unferth. “‘Merrymaking in the hall always brings the devil Grendel down upon us.’ That’s what he said.”

“Ahhhh,” laughs Wiglaf and taps at his left temple with an index finger. “Of course. We sing, and the doom that plagues Hrothgar’s hall will be drawn out of whatever dank hole it calls home.”

Beowulf nods and closes his eyes again. “Wiglaf, I do not yet comprehend the meaning of it, but the sound of merrymaking, it harrows this unhappy fiend. It causes him pain somehow, like salt poured into an open wound.”

“I had a wife like that once,” Hondshew says. He’s finished with the winch that lifts and lowers the crossbar and sits down on the floor near Beowulf. “But then a bear carried her off.”

“I thuh-thought it wuh-was a wuh-wuh-wolf,” says Olaf. “You suh-suh-”

“Yeah, fine. Wolf, bear, whichever. This woman, I tell you, she hated to hear anyone having a good time, singing, what have you. Used to put her in the foulest mood. Still, she was good in the sack. I have to give her that much. I think she was a Vandal.”

Beowulf opens one eye and glares doubtfully at Hondshew. “You freely admit to swifan about with some Vandal wildcat, and yet you get offended when poor old Olaf brings up the matter of sheep?”

“She might have been a Swede,” shrugs Hondshew.

“So,” says Wiglaf, “you lie there on the floor, naked as the day you were born, and we lot, we serenade this bastard Grendel, right, ’cause he hates the sound of merrymaking. And then he comes for us.”

“Absolutely,” says Beowulf. “Unless I’m wrong.”

“We won’t hold it against you, should that prove to be the case,” and then Wiglaf turns to face the other men. “You heard him. He wants us to sing.”

Thirteen sets of thoroughly confused eyes stare blankly back at Wiglaf, and nobody moves a muscle or says a word.

“So…sing!” shouts Wiglaf.

“And sound happy, while you’re at it,” says Beowulf. “Like you mean it. And remember, all of you, sing loud.”

“Right,” replies Wiglaf, “loudly enough to shame the clang of Thor’s hammer.” Wiglaf clears his throat and spits out a yellowish glob of snot onto the floor of the mead hall. “I’ll get it started then,” he says.

Beowulf shuts his eyes a third time and shifts about on the hard floorboards, trying to get comfortable should they be in for a long wait. The image of Lady Wealthow is waiting there behind his eyelids, unbidden, her milky skin and golden hair, the haughtiness of a queen and the careless beauty of a girl.

So, what would Wiglaf make of my focus? he wonders. But the singing has already begun, some horrid bit of doggerel of Hondshew’s invention, and Beowulf decides it’s better if Wiglaf believes there’s naught on his mind this night but gore and valor and slain monsters.

Olaf is busy murdering the first verse, but at least, thinks Beowulf, he doesn’t stutter when he sings.

And now all the thanes join in for the chorus, making up in sheer volume all that they lack in pitch and melodiousness.

“Damn good thing you can fight, Hondshew,” mumbles Beowulf, smiling at the awful lyrics and the memory of Lady Wealthow. “Because, by Odin’s long gray beard, you’d have starved by now as a scop.” And he lies there, listening to the rowdy rise and fall of the song, to the comforting crackle from the fire pit, and alert to every night sound beyond the walls of the horned hall.

“Well, come on,” he whispers, half to the luminous ghost of Wealthow floating there behind his eyes and half to unseen Grendel. “I don’t mean to wait all night…”

9 The Coming of Grendel

Grendel sits alone at the place where the old forest ends and the scrubby land slopes away toward the deep, rocky chasm dividing the moors from the walls and gates of Hrothgar’s fortifications. Overhead, the moon is playing a game of tag with stray shreds of cloud, but the creature has learned not to look to Máni for aid. There may yet be giant blood flowing somewhere in Grendel’s veins, but he is a gnarled and mongrel thing, a curse, impure, and time and again the Jötnar have shown they have no love for him. Never have they spoken to him or answered his pleas, never once have they deigned to offer the smallest deliverance from his torment. He crouches beneath the trees, clutching his aching head, his pounding ears, wishing there were any way to drive the ruinous noise of men from his skull and yet not break the covenant with his mother. But he has come this far already, pain-wracked and driven from the safety of his cave beyond the fell marches. He has come so near the mead hall and the homes of men that he can smell them, can almost taste them, and so has he not already broken his promise?

And here below boughs and boles grown as rough and knotted as himself, the change begins again. And perhaps this is all he’ll ever get from the giants, this hideous transformation that overtakes him when rage and hurt and hate are at last more than he can bear. No vow between mother and son the equal to a fury so great it can dissolve his will and warp muscle and reshape bone, so complete that it can finally make of him something yet more monstrous. A grotesque parody of his giant-kin, perhaps, some trollish joke between the gods who have warred always with the Jötnar.

“I would keep my word,” he groans, wishing his mother were there to hear, wishing she were there to help and lead him safely back to the cave and the edge of her pool. “I would be true, Modor. I would…” but then the pain has become so great he can no longer think clearly enough to fashion words. And still their song jabs and cuts and mocks him from that mismatched scatter of stone and thatch perched upon the high sea cliffs.

At the edge of the forest, Grendel gnashes his teeth and covers his ears as his skeleton creaks and his joints pop. The pain and rage fester inside him like pus beneath infected skin, and like an infection, his body bloats and swells, growing quickly to more than twice its size. Some magic he will never understand, some secret of his curse, and soon his head is scraping against the limbs that only a few minutes before hung so far above his head. If only it would not stop here, if only he might keep on growing until he stood so tall that he could snatch the disinterested moon from out the night sky and hurl it down upon the roof of Heorot. There would be silence then, silence that might last forever, as much of forever as he needs, and never again would the bright eye of the moon taunt him from its road between the clouds.

Very soon, the change is done with him, having made of Grendel something worthy of the fears and nightmares of the Danes, and he stands up straight, bruised and bleeding from the speed and violence with which he has assumed these new dimensions. He glances back toward home, his gray-blue eyes gone now all to a simmering, molten gold, and he peers through the highest branches and across the tops of trees. From this distance and through the mists, he cannot make out the entrance of his cave, but he knows well enough where it lies, where his mother sits coiled in her watery bed with eels and kelp to keep her company. And then Grendel turns back toward Heorot and the voices of the men and makes his way swiftly across the moors.

“Doesn’t someone know some other song?” asks Hondshew, wishing now he’d bothered to think up a few more verses. He’s seated at a bench with the other Geats, and though the singing has finally stopped, they’re all still smacking their fists or empty cups against the tabletop, making as much racket as they can.

“Huh-how can huh-he suh-suh-sleep through this?” asks Olaf, and nods toward Beowulf, who hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor.

“I don’t think he’s really asleep,” whispers Hondshew.

Wiglaf stops banging his cup against the table. “Why don’t you go ask him and see?” he asks Hondshew.

“You’re not singing,” mutters Beowulf. “And I don’t recollect complaining that I’d had my fill of your pretty voices.”

“We’ve been through the whole thing three times now,” says Hondshew. “Maybe this Grendel beast, maybe he don’t mind Geat singing as much as he minds Dane singing, eh?”

Wiglaf grins and points a finger at a wiry, gray-haired thane named Afvaldr, though no one ever calls him anything but Afi. “Don’t you know a ballad or three?” he asks, and Afi shrugs his bony shoulders and keeps whacking his fist against the table.

“Not a one,” answers Afi. “You must be thinking of Gunnlaugr. Now, he had a pair of lungs on him, old Laugi did. You could hear him all the way from Bornholm clear across the sea to the Fårö-strait when the mood struck him. Why, once I—”

“A shame the dumb bastard went and drowned in Iceland last winter,” sighs Hondshew.

“Aye,” says Afi. “A shame, that.”

“Beowulf, I do not think the frican beast is falling for it,” Wiglaf says. “Maybe—”

“—that’s because you’ve stopped singing,” replies Beowulf, not bothering to open his eyes.

“I think I’ve strained my damned windpipe already,” says Hondshew. “What if Wiglaf’s right? What if this Grendel demon’s decided to sit this one out, eh? Here we sit, howling like a pack of she-wolves in heat, making complete asses of ourselves—”

“Shut up,” Beowulf says, and he opens his eyes. “It’s coming.”

“Wot? I don’t hear—” begins Hondshew, but then there’s a deafening thud, and the great door of Heorot Hall shudders in its frame. And for a long moment, the Geats sit still and quiet, and there’s no sound but the fire and the wind around the corners of the hall. All of them are watching the door now, and Wiglaf reaches for his sword.

“It’s here,” whispers Beowulf. “Draw your weapons.”

But the silence continues, the stillness, the crackling from the fire pit.

“What the hell is he waiting for?” hisses Hondshew.

And then the mead-hall door is hammered thrice more in quick succession—Thud! Thud! Thud! Dust sifts down from the rafters, and chains rattle.

“Guh-guh-Grendel,” stammers Olaf. “He nuh-nuh-knocks.”

There’s a smattering of nervous laughter at Olaf’s grim joke. Beowulf is sitting upright now, watching the door intently, his entire world shrunk down to that great slab of wood and rope and iron.

“Ah, that is no monster,” snorts Hondshew, getting to his feet and drawing his enormous broadsword from its scabbard on his back. “That must be my plum, Yrsa! She’s ready for me to taste her sweet fruit!”

There is more laughter from the thanes, bolder than before, and Hondshew bows, then turns and stumbles across the hall until he is leaning against the barred door.

“Hondshew,” says Beowulf, rising to one knee. “That might not be the wisest course of action.”

“Ah, you’ll see,” laughs Hondshew, and then he calls out through the door, “Patience, my lovely! Give a poor fellow a chance to find his pecker!”

Now Wiglaf stands, his own sword drawn, and he looks anxiously from Beowulf to the door. “Hondshew. No—”

“You drunken idiot,” mutters Beowulf.

“Nah, you just don’t know her the way I do,” chuckles Hondshew and then he raps three times on the door with his knuckles. “She’s a demon all right. I’ll grant you that. One of Loki’s own whelps, I’d wager.” And Hondshew presses one ear against the door. “Are you listening, my plum? Are you ready for another go?”

The thanes have all stopped laughing, and the hall of King Hrothgar has fallen silent and still again. There is a faint scrambling noise from the other side of the door, and then the wood creaks and pops and the hinges strain, and the whole thing bulges slowly inward as some titanic force presses upon it from without.

Beowulf is about to order Hondshew to move away from the doors, when the huge crossbar snaps like a twig. A rain of splinters and deadly shards of the fractured iron brackets are blown out into the hall, and Hondshew is thrown high into the air and sails by over Beowulf’s head to land in a heap on the far side of the room. But there’s no time to see whether or not he’s been killed. The doors of Heorot have swung open wide and hang crooked now on buckled hinges, all those chains dangling broken and useless from their pulleys. Beowulf stares awestruck at the hideous thing standing in the doorway, framed by the night, its scarred hide glistening a wet and greenish gold in the firelight.

“Wiglaf,” he says calmly, though his heart is racing in his chest.

“I suppose,” says Wiglaf, “this means the old man wasn’t exaggerating. Right about now, I bet you’re wishing you’d left your armor on.”

The monster roars and takes another step into the mead hall, advancing on the thanes. Steaming drool leaks from its mouth and spatters the floor. It swipes at the air with taloned hands and glares directly at Beowulf.

“I think it fancies you,” Wiglaf says.

“Save your wit,” Beowulf replies without taking his eyes off the beast. “I fear we’ll have need of it when this is over.”

And then Már, the thane standing on Wiglaf’s left and the youngest in the party, lets out a piercing howl, a crazy whoop that comes out more terror than battle cry, and he charges the creature. Wiglaf grabs for his cape, but the boy is too fast for him. So is Grendel. Before Már’s ax can land even a single blow, the creature is upon him, plucking Már up in one fist like a child’s toy. The beast snarls, its thin lips folding back to expose sickly black gums and yellowed eyeteeth long as a man’s forearm; Már barely has time to scream before he’s bitten in two. There’s a sudden spray of blood and gore, and the severed body falls twitching at Grendel’s feet.

Meanwhile, Beowulf has climbed atop one of the long banquet tables and is moving very slowly and deliberately toward the creature. Wiglaf is shouting commands, and other thanes have begun to close in on the monster. But Grendel only sneers and laughs at them, a gurgling throaty laugh like the sea rushing in between two stones, then drawing quickly back again. It lunges forward and grabs hold of another of Beowulf’s men, a heavyset Geat named Humli, clutching him in both its clawed hands. Humli makes to slash at its face with his sword, but Grendel slams him headfirst into one of the ceiling beams, then tosses the lifeless body into the fire pit. A third thane charges, but is simply swatted away with the back of Grendel’s left hand and sent crashing into the mead vat. The vat spills and pours out into the fire pit, hissing violently and sending up a dense plume of steam and ash. The air stinks of mead and smoke and charred flesh.

And now Hondshew rushes screaming from the shadows of Heorot, bloody and battered, his armor hanging askew and his eyes bright and frenzied. He rushes toward Grendel, his heavy broadsword raised above his head. Hondshew vaults easily over one of the overturned tables, and the monster growls and stoops to meet its attacker. Hondshew’s blade finds its mark, plunging into the creature’s skull, but Grendel only snarls and grins furiously back at the Geat, still holding tight to the hilt of his sword and dangling several feet above the floor.

“Screw you, you ugly bastard,” Hondshew snarls back. “Here I was expecting to meet a proper demon, and all we get is a wee hedge troll.”

Then the monster seizes him about the chest with one hand and with its other reaches up and snaps the broadsword’s blade cleanly in half, leaving seven or eight inches of steel embedded in its cranium. The broken sword clatters uselessly to the floor.

Hondshew gasps and spits in Grendel’s face.

The beast laughs at him again, then squeezes, and the green-branch snap of Hondshew’s collapsing rib cage is very loud in the hall. Then Grendel’s jaws open and snap shut again, decapitating the thane.

“That’s four good men you’ve killed this night,” whispers Beowulf, still moving silent and unnoticed toward the monster. “By Heimdall, you’ll not have another.”

But Grendel is too busy gnawing at Hondshew’s mangled, headless corpse to notice that the Geat stands now but an arm’s length away. Beowulf glances at Wiglaf and points to the monster’s groin, then makes a stabbing motion. Wiglaf nods, and Beowulf turns back toward Grendel.

“Enough!” Beowulf shouts, and Grendel looks up at him, its chin smeared dark and sticky with Hondshew’s blood. It blinks and narrows its golden eyes, surprised to find that one of the men has managed to get so close.

“That one’s dead,” Beowulf says. “Put him down and have a go at me now.”

Grendel casts aside what remains of Hondshew and, bellowing angrily, slams one gory fist down upon the table where Beowulf is standing. The Geat is fast and sidesteps the attack, but the impact sends him catapulting up into the rafters. Cheated and confused, Grendel roars and hurls the ruined table toward the smoldering, half-extinguished fire pit.

“My turn now,” says Wiglaf, who has crept in close behind Grendel, and he slides quickly between the monster’s legs and slashes at its groin with his sword. But the blade shatters harmlessly against the brute’s leathery hide.

“Beowulf, the bastard has no bollocks!” exclaims Wiglaf, staring up at the jagged scar where a scrotum ought to be. “He’s a fucking gelding!”

Now Grendel growls and pivots about, swatting at Wiglaf. But the thane manages to get his shield up in time to block the blow and is only sent tumbling backward across the floor toward the open doors of Heorot Hall and the cold, black night waiting beyond. The beast grunts and rubs at its crotch, then charges toward Wiglaf.

“So, is that why you’re such an arsehole,” Beowulf shouts down at Grendel from somewhere among the rafters. When the monster pauses to peer up into the gloom, Beowulf drops onto its back and immediately slips an arm around Grendel’s throat and beneath its chin. Locked in the stranglehold, the beast shakes its head and gurgles breathlessly, then lurches forward, almost sending Beowulf toppling forward and over its scabrous head. But Beowulf holds on tight, pulling himself up until his face is near to one of Grendel’s enormous deformed ears.

“Oh no!” shouts Beowulf. “No, it’s time I finished what Hondshew started, you filthy fucking cur!”

And now Grendel screams and claws at its head, screaming not in anger but in pain, and Beowulf realizes that at last he’s found the creature’s weakness. Something he should have guessed before, the reason the merrymaking of the Danes never failed to bring its wrath down upon them.

“Oh, was that too loud!” he shouts directly into Grendel’s right ear. “Should I perchance whisper from here on out?”

Grendel wails and shakes its head again in a desperate, futile attempt to dislodge the Geat. The monster spins blindly about and smashes headlong into a support column. But Beowulf hangs on, and with his free hand, he punches viciously at the creature’s aching ear. Beowulf feels his chokehold loosening, and so he squeezes tighter.

“It’s shrinking!” shouts Wiglaf from the doorway. “Beowulf, the bastard’s getting smaller!”

“Full of surprises, aren’t you,” Beowulf growls loudly into Grendel’s ear, then punches it again. And now Beowulf can feel the gigantic body contracting and convulsing beneath him, that throat growing the slightest bit smaller around so that he has to tighten his grip a second time. “Neat trick!” shouts Beowulf. “Do you do somersaults, as well, and juggle cabbages? Can you roll over and sit up and fucking beg?”

“Whatever it is you’re doing,” yells Wiglaf, “keep doing it!”

“Listen to me, Grendel,” Beowulf calls out into the monster’s ear. “Your feud with Hrothgar ends here, this night!”

In a final, frantic attempt to dislodge Beowulf, Grendel hurls itself backward toward the smoky, hot maw of the fire pit. But Beowulf guesses the creature’s intent and jumps clear, catching hold of one of the lengths of iron chain still hanging from the ceiling. Grendel goes down hard on the bed of soggy ash and red-hot embers, and it shrieks and rolls about as putrid clouds of yellow-green smoke rise in thick billows from off its searing skin.

“Guard the door!” Beowulf shouts to Wiglaf and the remaining thanes. “Don’t let it past you!”

“And just how the hell do you propose we do that?” Wiglaf shouts back. “We couldn’t keep it out. How do you think we’re gonna keep it in?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Beowulf says, speaking half to himself now, and he hangs from the chain, watching as Grendel flails and rolls about in the spilled mead and sizzling coals and the stinking, moss-colored smoke. It’s plain to see the creature’s the worse for their encounter, but he knows it might yet escape Heorot alive and slink back through the mists to its den, only to heal and return some other night, and this fight will have served no end but to redouble its hatred and murderous resolve.

Beowulf climbs the chain, pulling himself up hand over hand, then clambers out onto a broad rafter beam and kneels there. Below him, Grendel howls and paws madly at the collapsing edges of the fire pit, managing at last to haul its scorched and blistered bulk free of the wide bed of glowing embers. And to Beowulf’s amazement, he sees that its shrinking body has been so reduced that Grendel now stands not much taller than a very large bear. The beast shakes itself, sending up a sooty cloud of ash and sparks, and then it stops and rubs roughly at its eyes, glancing from the thanes to Wiglaf standing alone and unarmed before the open doors.

“I do apologize for the inconvenience, Sir Grendel,” Wiglaf says nervously, speaking to the monster as he quickly scans the hall for Beowulf. There’s no sign of him anywhere. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to endure our hospitality a bit longer.”

Grendel coughs, then snorts and bares his sharp yellow teeth at Wiglaf.

“My sentiments exactly,” sighs Wiglaf.

And now Beowulf spies another length of chain, only a few feet to his right and swaying to and fro like a pendulum. One end is looped fast about the ceiling beam, and the other is still wrapped about a large section of the shattered crossbar from the doors.

The other thanes have joined Wiglaf at the entrance to Heorot Hall, but Grendel is advancing on them. Even at hardly more than half its former height, the snarling beast remains a formidable adversary.

“You will have to take that up with my master Beowulf,” Wiglaf tells the monster, and accepts a spear from a thane named Oddvarr, replacing his lost sword. “You see, he makes the rules.”

“That’s right,” Beowulf whispers, crawling farther out along the beam. “Just don’t you dare let that fucker escape.” When he reaches the swinging chain, Beowulf lowers his body over the side, grips the metal links, and slides down until he’s standing on the suspended chunk of crossbar. Then he steadies himself and leans forward, setting all his weight against the swaying chain, increasing its arc and aiming it directly at Grendel’s head.

“Over here!” Beowulf shouts, and so the monster turns away from the open doors and the thanes blocking his way, moving more quickly than Beowulf would have expected. It has just enough time to raise one clawed hand and ward off the missile hurtling toward it. When the piece of crossbar makes contact with Grendel’s clenched fist, it explodes, reduced at once to mere slivers, and Beowulf dives for the floor and rolls away to safety.

No longer wrapped about the broken section of crossbar, the loop of chain slips unnoticed like a bracelet sliding over the creature’s knotty wrist. Grendel turns back toward the doorway and its path to safety, roaring as it rushes suddenly toward Wiglaf and the others. But then the chain pulls taut, cinching itself tightly about the beast’s wrist and jerking it backward.

“Glad you could drop in,” Wiglaf says, nodding toward Beowulf. “Will we be keeping it as a pet, then?”

And now Grendel, burned and frightened, weary of this battle that it’s clearly losing, lets out an earsplitting shriek and tugs fiercely at the chain, lashing it side to side like an iron whip. A second later, the ceiling beam splits and the chain pulls free. Grendel turns once more toward the open door, trailing the chain behind it. As the chain rattles past, Beowulf grabs hold of it, and so he too is dragged along by the retreating demon.

“Flank it!” shouts Wiglaf to the other thanes, and they move away to his left and right, leaving only him standing between Grendel and the sanctuary of darkness.

The chain bounces and catches about an iron post set into the floor of the mead hall, and for a second time, Grendel jolts to a stop, now only scant inches from the threshold of Heorot. Seeing their luck, Wiglaf presses his advantage and stabs at its face with his spear, aiming for those glistening golden eyes. But Grendel effortlessly bats the weapon away with his free right hand, knocking it from Wiglaf’s hands.

“You are definitely starting to piss me off,” grumbles Wiglaf. And now the four thanes on either side of the monster attack, but all their weapons prove equally useless against Grendel’s impenetrable hide.

“Hold him there!” calls out Beowulf, pulling against the chain with all his strength.

“I might have been a fishmonger, you know that?” Wiglaf calls back, right before he fails to duck one of the monster’s punches and is sent sprawling out into the night. There’s a loud and sickening pop, then, as Grendel’s left shoulder is dislocated, and it turns back toward Beowulf.

Beowulf swings the free end of the chain up and over another support timber, lashing it fast. The monster roars in agony and clutches at its shoulder. It struggles so savagely against its fetters that the beam is jarred loose, and the roof of the hall groans as thatch and mud fill rain down upon the thanes.

“Beowulf, it’s going to pull the whole place down upon our heads!” cries a thane named Bergr.

“That may well be,” replies Beowulf, “but it’ll not escape this hall! It will not survive another night to plague the Danes.” And now Beowulf sprints past his warriors to the doors of Heorot, where Grendel still strains to cross the threshold. Only the creature’s captured left arm is still trapped beneath King Hrothgar’s roof, and it moans and pulls against the chain encircling its wrist. The Geat gets behind the enormous door and heaves it shut, slamming it with all his might onto Grendel’s dislocated shoulder. The monster’s arm is pinned between the door and the iron doorframe, and its howls of pain echo out across the village and the farmlands beyond.

“Your days of bloodletting are finished, demon,” snarls Beowulf, and he leans hard against the door.

“No,” moans Grendel. “Let…let Grendel…free!”

“It can speak!” gasps an astonished Oddvarr.

“Muh-maybe that wuh-was only Wu-wu-Wiglaf,” says Olaf.

“No! It’s only some new sorcery,” Beowulf snaps back at them. “A demon’s trickery that we might yet take pity on the foul beast.”

“I’m not…I’m not a monster…” comes the coarse, gravelly voice from the other side of the door. “Not the monster here! No man can kill me. No mere man. Who…what thing are you?”

“What am I?” laughs Beowulf and shoves the door hard with his shoulder, eliciting fresh screams of anguish from Grendel. Then Beowulf puts his lips to the door, almost whispering when next he speaks.

“You would know who I am?” he asks. “Well, then. I am ripper and tearer and slasher and I am gouger. I am the teeth of the darkness and the talons of the night. I am all those things you believed yourself to be. My father, Ecgtheow, he named me Beowulf—wolf of the bees—if you like riddles, demon.”

“No,” Grendel pants and whimpers. “You…you are not the wolf…not the wolf of the bees. You are not…not the bear. No bear may stand against me.”

“I’ve heard enough of this devil’s nonsense,” Beowulf says, speaking loudly enough that his men will hear, then hurls his whole body against the door. To his surprise, the iron frame cuts deeply into Grendel’s flesh. “So,” he says. “You do bleed after all.”

Grendel shrieks again, and the tendons joining its shoulder to its arm begin to snap, the bones to crack.

“Fuh-finish it,” says Olaf.

“Think you now, Grendel, on the thanes whose lives you’ve stolen,” says Beowulf, and he slams the door once more and Grendel yelps. Rivulets of greenish black blood ooze down Grendel’s snared arm and drip from its fingertips onto the floor.

“Think of them now…as you die,” and then with all the force he can muster, with the strength that gods may grant mortal men, Beowulf pushes against the door, slamming it shut and severing the monster’s arm. It falls to the floor at his feet, still twitching. The dark blood gushes from the ragged stump, and when Beowulf kicks at it, the hand closes weakly about his ankle. He curses and shakes it loose. The arm flops about on the mead-hall floor, reminding the thanes of nothing so much as some hideous fish drawn up from the sea and battering the deck with its death throes. And suddenly it goes stiff and shudders and is finally still. Beowulf leans against the door, out of breath, sweat and drops of the creature’s thick blood rolling down his face and his bruised and naked body. Later, in the years to come, there will be those in his company who will say that never before or since have they seen such a look of horror on Beowulf’s face. Cautiously, the thanes approach the arm, weapons drawn and at the ready.

And now there’s a dull knock from the other side of the door.

Beowulf takes a deep breath and holds one finger up to his lips, silencing the thanes. Slowly, he turns to face the door. “Have you not had enough?” he asks and is answered by the voice of Wiglaf.

“Enough for this lifetime and the next, thank you very much” replies Wiglaf, and Beowulf leans forward, resting his forehead against the door a moment. He laughs softly to himself, an embarrassed, relieved sort of laugh, and pulls the door open again. There’s a viscous smear of gore streaking the doorframe, and Wiglaf is standing there, shivering and staring back at him.

“It made for the moors,” Wiglaf says, stepping past Beowulf, “but I don’t imagine it will get very far. That was a mortal wound, even for such a demon.” He stands staring down at the severed arm as an exhausted victory cheer rises from the surviving thanes.

“He spoke, Wiglaf,” Beowulf says and steps out into the freezing winter night, wiping Grendel’s blood from his face.

“Aye, I heard,” Wiglaf replies. “There are tales of trolls and dragonkind that can speak. But I never thought I’d hear it for myself. You think old Hrothgar will keep his promise now you’ve slain his beast?” And when some moments have passed and Beowulf does not reply, Wiglaf turns and peers out the open doorway, but there is only the night and a few snow flurries blown about by the wind.

10 The Death of Grendel

The kindly night takes Grendel back, one of its own come wandering, broken and lost, and for a time there is only the pain and confusion. No direction or intent, no destination, but only the need to put distance between himself and the one who called itself a bear, though it was not a bear. The man who is not merely a man and claimed to be the wolf of the bees and so a bear. The one who answered him all in riddles.

For a time, Grendel thinks he might lie down in the mists and die alone on the moors. It would be a soft enough bed for death, and the mists seem to have become some integral part of him, a shroud unwinding from his shriveling soul even as it winds so tightly about him. It would release him, and yet also would it hold him together, these colorless wisps curling soundlessly up from the tall grass and bracken. It would conceal him, should the Bee Wolf come trailing hungrily after, still unsatisfied and following Grendel’s meandering footprints and the blood he dribbles on leaves and stones. He would only be a phantom, there on the moorlands, nothing that could ever be wounded again, for even the sharpest swords pass straight through fog and empty air, doing no damage whatsoever, and no hateful human voice can injure that which cannot hear.

But then Grendel finds himself once more beneath the ancient trees, though he knows at once he is not welcomed by the forest. It wishes no part in his demise or decay and tells him so, muttering from the boughs of towering larches and oaks, beech and ash. If you fall here, say the trees, our roots will not have you. We will not hide your bones. We will not taste you, nor will we offer any peace. And they speak of some long-ago war with the giants, with the dragons, too, and to them Grendel’s blood stinks of both. They remind him of the wood that he has so thoughtlessly splintered on other nights as he raged and made his way down to the dwellings of men. He will not now be forgiven those former violations.

“It is no matter,” Grendel whispers, and he apologizes, and maybe the trees are listening and understand him, and maybe they aren’t and don’t. “I was on the moors and cannot even say how I came to be here. But I will not lie down among you, not if you won’t have me.” And so he stumbles on, grown so weak, so tired, that each step seems to take a lifetime or two, and there are whole hours laid in between his slow heartbeats.

A deer trail leads him away from the mumblesome, resentful trees and out into the wide gray swath of peat bog and still, deep ponds, the fell marches before the sea, this dank land that would never turn away a giant or a dragon or a troll. Or only dying Grendel. He sits down by a frozen tarn and stares at the patterns his blood makes on the ice. It’s snowing harder now, fat wet flakes spiraling lazily from the moonless sky, and Grendel opens his dry mouth and catches a few of them on his tongue. There are mists here, too, but they are thin and steamy and would never hide his ghost. Still, he thinks how easily he might break through the rime and sink, falling slowly through weedy gardens tended by vipers and nicors and fat slate-colored fish. And he would lie there in the comforting slime, forgetting life and forgetting all hurt and, in time, forgetting even himself.

“The Wolf of the Bees, he would never find me down there,” Grendel laughs, then coughs, and his breath fogs in the night. “Let him try, Mother. Let him drown here in the reeds and come to sleep beside my bones. I will gnaw him in dead dreams.”

“You cannot lie down here,” his mother replies, though he cannot see her anywhere. “Come back to me,” she says. “I would have you here with me.”

But Grendel sits a while longer there beside the frozen pool, tracing odd, uncertain shapes in the fresh snow and his cooling blood. The shapes would tell a story, if his thoughts were still clear enough for that, a happy story in which he killed the Beowulf, in which he took the horned hall for his own den and was never again plagued by the noise of men and their harps and flutes and drums. With an index finger, he tries to draw sharp teeth and a broken shield, but the falling snow erases everything almost as quickly as he can trace it on the ice.

It would cover me, too, he thinks, if I only sit here a little longer.

“Come home,” his mother sighs, her voice woven somehow invisibly into the wind. “Come home, my Grendel.”

And so Grendel remembers the cave, then, his mother’s pool and her white eels, and dimly he realizes that he’s been trying to find his way back there all along. But first the pain distracted him, and then the mists, and the spiteful trees, and the dark spatter of his blood across the ice. He gets slowly to his feet, and the unsteady world cracks and shifts beneath him. Grendel stands there clutching the damp stump where his stolen arm used to be, sniffing the familiar air, and he squints into the snowy night, struggling to recall the secret path. Where to tread, where not to tread, the shallow places where there are steppingstones and the places where there are only holes filled with stagnant, tannin-stained water.

They will not have him, these haunted fens. He will not die here, beneath the sky where carrion crows and nibbling fish jaws and the Beowulf might find him. Become more than half a ghost already, Grendel takes a deep, chilling breath, gritting his teeth against the pain, and sets out across the bog.

“Come back,” the mists call, but he ignores them.

“We have reconsidered and will have you, after all,” mutters the old forest, but he ignores it, as well.

“We are the same, you and I,” calls the moorlands from very far away. But Grendel knows he could never find his way back there, even if the jealous trees would deign to let him pass.

And before long he has reached the other side, only losing his way once or twice among the rushes and rotting spruce logs. Soon, there is solid ground beneath him again, and Grendel stumbles over the dry and stony earth and into the mouth of his cave. It does not seem so terribly cold here in the shadows, out of wind, sheltered from the falling snow. He staggers to the edge of his mother’s pool and collapses there, his blood seeping into the water and staining it the way the peat moss stains the marshes. His mother is waiting, and she buoys him up in her strong arms and keeps the hungry eels and crabs at bay.

“Do not cry,” she says, and kisses his fevered brow with cool lips.

“He hurt me, Modor,” sobs Grendel, who had not known he was sobbing until she said so. “Mama, how can that be?”

“I warned you,” she says. “Oh, Grendel, my son. My poor son. I warned you. You must not go to them…”

Grendel opens his eyes, which he’d not realized were shut, and gazes up at the dripstone formations hanging like jagged teeth from the ceiling of the cave.

“He killed me, Modor,” Grendel sobs.

“Who killed you, Grendel my son. Who? Who was it did this awful thing to you?”

Those are the fangs of the world serpent, thinks Grendel, blinking away his tears and staring in wide-eyed wonder at the sparkling stalactites overhead. I am lying now in the maw of the Midgard serpent, Jörmungand Loki-Son, and soon he will swallow me, and I will be finished, forever.

“Who took your arm, Grendel?” asks his mother.

“The Wolf of the Bees,” replies Grendel, and he shuts his eyes again. “He tore my arm away…it hurts so…”

“The Wolf of the Bees?”

“It is a riddle, Mother. Who is the Wolf of the Bees?”

“My son, there isn’t time for riddles,” she tells him, stroking his face with her graceful, long, webbed fingers, her golden nails.

“I am so cold,” Grendel says very quietly.

“I know,” she says.

“He was only a man…but so strong…so very, very strong. He hurt me, Mama.”

“And he shall pay, my darling. Who was this man?”

“He told me his name in a riddle. He said, ‘I am ripper and tearer and slasher and gouger. I’m the teeth of the darkness and talons of the night. I am Beowulf,’ he said.”

“Beowulf,” she says, repeating the kenning. “Wolf of the bees.”

“He was so strong,” Grendel says again, and he wonders if it will be this cold in the serpent’s belly at the bottom of the ocean. “I’m so cold,” he says again.

“I know,” his mother replies. “You are tired, my sweet son. You are so awfully tired. Sleep now,” and she covers his eyes as the last shimmer of life escapes them. “I am here. I will not leave you.”

And now his eyes are as empty as the eyes of any dead thing, and grieving, she bears him down along the roots of mountains and into the depths of her pool. The eels taste his blood, but wisely keep their distance. She drags his body along the spiraling course of that flooded granite throat, that sea tunnel scabbed with barnacles and fleshy anemones, blue starfish and mussels and clusters of blind, wriggling worms. Following some tidal pull ever, ever down into lightless halls where her son was born, chambers that have never known the sun’s chariot nor the moon’s white eye. And she carries the name of his killer on her pale lips, Beowulf, etched there like a scar.

11 The Trophy and the Prize

From the safety of their bedchamber, the king and queen have listened to the battle between the Geats and the monster Grendel. Wealthow standing alone at a window and Hrothgar lying alone in his bed, they have heard such sounds as may pass through wood and stone and thatch. Cries of anger and of pain, the shattering of enormous timbers and the sundering of iron, sudden silences, the shouts of men and the howls of a demon. They have not spoken nor thought of sleep, but have only listened, waiting for that final quiet or some decisive noise, and now they hear the glad voices of weary men—the victory cheer rising from Heorot. King Hrothgar sits up, only half-believing, wondering if perhaps he’s fallen asleep and so is only dreaming these muffled cries from joyous, undefeated warriors.

“Is that a cheer?” he asks his wife. “Could that be a cry of victory?”

She doesn’t make reply, but only stands there at the window, looking out on cold and darkness, anxiously clutching a scarf, nervously wringing the cloth in her hands. It was a gift from the king, a precious scrap of silk from some land far away to the south, some fabled, sun-drenched place where it is always summer and dark-skinned men ride strange animals.

And now the door bursts open, banging loudly against the wall, and the king’s herald, Wulfgar, rushes into the room. Delight and relief glow in his eyes like a fever.

“My lord!” he gasps, winded and panting. “My lord Hrothgar! My lady! It is over! Beowulf has killed the demon! Grendel is dead!”

“Praise Odin.” Hrothgar sighs and clutches at his chest, at his racing heart. “Call the scops, Wulfgar. Spread the word! Tomorrow will be a glorious day of rejoicing, the likes of which this house has never seen!”

“I will, my lord,” answers Wulfgar, and he disappears again, leaving the door standing open.

Hrothgar stares at the empty doorway a moment, still waiting to awaken to the news of Beowulf’s death, to the sight of Grendel crouching there above him. He climbs out of bed and slowly crosses the room to stand with Wealthow. She’s stopped twisting the scarf, and there are tears in her eyes, but she’s still gazing out the window at the night. He places a hand gently on her shoulder, and she flinches.

“Our nightmare is over,” he says, and his hand moves from her shoulder and down toward her breast. “Come to bed, my sweet. Be with me in this hour of triumph.”

“Do not touch me,” she says and roughly pushes his hand aside. “Nothing is changed. Nothing.”

Hrothgar chews impatiently at his lower lip and glances back to their bed. “My kingdom must have an heir. I need a son, Wealthow.” He turns back to her, and Wealthow takes a small step nearer the window. “The terror that haunted us is passed, and it is time to do your duty.”

“My duty?” she scoffs, turning on him and letting the scarf slip through her fingers and fall to the floor between them. “Do not speak to me of duty, my lord. I will not hear it.”

“You are my wife,” Hrothgar begins, but she silences him with the wet glint of her eyes, with a cold smile and an expression of such utter contempt that he looks away again, down at the brightly colored swatch of silk where it has settled on the stone floor.

“You are a wicked old man,” she hisses. “And now that fortune and the deeds of greater men have delivered you from this ordeal, this calamity, you would bed me and have me bear your child?”

Hrothgar walks back to their bed and sits down again, staring at the palms of his hands. “Wealthow, may I not even enjoy this moment, these good tidings after so much sorrow and darkness?”

She turns to the window, setting her back to him.

“You may take whatever joy you can find, my lord, so long as you find it without me.”

“I should never have told you,” he mutters, clenching his fat and wrinkled hands into feeble fists. “It should have ever stayed my secret alone to bear.”

“My Lord Hrothgar is so awfully wise a man,” laughs Wealthow, a sour and derisive laugh. And then there is another, different sort of sound from the direction of Heorot Hall—the heavy pounding of a hammer.

“What are you doing?” asks Wiglaf.

“I would think that’s plain enough for anyone to see, dear Wiglaf,” replies Beowulf, and he goes back to his grisly work. He’s standing atop one of the long mead tables, using a blacksmith’s hammer to nail the monster’s severed arm up high on one of Heorot’s ornately carved columns. An iron spike has been driven through the bones of its wrist, and every time the hammer strikes the spike, it throws orange sparks.

“Fine. Then let me ask you this,” continues Wiglaf. “To what end are you doing it?”

Beowulf pauses and wipes sweat from his face. “They will want proof,” he replies. “And I am giving them proof.”

“Would it not have been proof enough it you’d left it lying on the floor where it fell?”

Beowulf laughs and pounds the nail in deeper. “Are you turning squeamish on me, Wiglaf? You are starting to sound like an old woman.”

“I am only wondering, my lord, if King Hrothgar and Queen Wealthow will be pleased to find you have adorned the walls of their hall with the dismembered claw of that foul creature.”

Beowulf stops hammering and steps back, admiring his handiwork hanging there upon the wooden beam. “I do not find it so unpleasant to look upon. How is it any different from the head of a boar, or the pelt of a bear, or, for that matter, the ivory tusks of a walrus?”

“My lord,” says Wiglaf, exhausted and exasperated. “It is hideous to look upon, so like the arm of a man—”

Beowulf turns and glares down at him from the tabletop. “Wiglaf, you stood against the fiend yourself. It was no man.”

“I did not say it was a man, only that in form it is not unlike the arm of a man.”

Beowulf laughs, then wipes his face again and looks at the hammer in his hand, then back to the arm hanging limply from the beam. “I will have them see what I have done this night. I will have it known to them all, so there can be no mistake. Tonight, heroes fought beneath the eaves of this place…this Heorot…and a great evil was laid low. Four men died—”

“Yes, Beowulf. Four men died,” says Wiglaf, hearing the knife’s edge of indignation in his voice and wishing it were not there. “And still they lie where they fell, because you are too busy with your…your trophy.”

Beowulf laughs again, and this time there’s something odd and brittle in that laugh, something Wiglaf has heard before in the laughter of madmen and warriors who have seen too much horror without the release of death.

“As I said, Wiglaf. You sound like a worrisome old woman. I do not hear Hondshew or Már complaining,” and he uses the hammer to motion toward the corpses on the floor. “We will send them on their way soon enough. Odin Langbard shall not close the doors of his hall to them just yet, nor I have forfeited their seats at Allfather’s table.” And then Beowulf laughs that strange laugh again and goes back to hammering the spike deeper into the column.

The laugh pricks at the hairs on the back on Wiglaf’s neck and arms, and he wonders if perhaps some darkness was released with Grendel’s blood, some spirit or nixie that may now have found purchase in Beowulf’s mind. Thick blood still leaks like pitch from the monster’s arm, and who can say what poison might lie therein? What taint? The blood flows downward, tracing its way along the grooves and lines carved into the wood. Wiglaf recognizes the scene depicted in the carving—Odin hanging from the boughs of the World Ash, Yggdrasil, pierced through by his own lance. Nine nights and nine days of pain, to win the wisdom of nine songs that would grant him power throughout the nine realms, and the gift of the eighteen runes and a swallow of the precious mead of the giants. The blood of Grendel winds its way slowly about the limbs of the tree and the shoulders of a god.

“So be it. You have always known best,” he tells Beowulf, and Beowulf nods and strikes the nail again, causing the entire arm to shudder and spit another gout of that lifeless ichor.

“You are tired, Wiglaf,” says Beowulf. “And maybe you are disappointed that you have not this night found your own hero’s death.

“As you say,” Wiglaf replies and turns away from his lord’s awful trophy to look instead upon the mutilated corpses of his four fallen countrymen. Olaf and the others have laid each man out on his shield and covered him over with his cape. And, in truth, he feels no disappointment at all that he is still among the living, and if he is ever to find his path to Valhalla, it will have to be upon some other battlefield. He glances back at Beowulf, busy with his hammering and still laughing to himself, and sees that Grendel’s blood has reached all the way to the gnarled and twisted roots of Yggdrasil.

In the last hour before sunrise the snow changed to rain, a steady, drenching rain to turn the thoroughfares and commons of Hrothgar’s stockade from thick and frozen muck to gray lakes and gray rivers divided one from another by stretches of even grayer mud. The water pours from off rooftops and gurgles through rainspouts, as though the sky has found some reason of its own to mourn this day. But Wiglaf and Beowulf and the other Geats built the funeral pyre before the rain began, stacking cords of cured pine soaked in pitch and drenched in whale oil, and the fire burns high and bright and hot despite the downpour. A white column of smoke rises up to meet the falling rain, and the wood crackles loudly, and the puddles hiss and steam where they meet the edges of the pyre. Beowulf and his ten remaining thanes, the survivors of their battle with Grendel, stand in the shadow of the blaze, the rain dripping from their woolen capes. A handful of curious villagers loiter farther out, watching as the flames consume the corpses of Hondshew and the others.

“They were great warriors,” says Beowulf, and Wiglaf nods.

“And they suffered a most foul death,” Wiglaf replies. His eyes have begun to tear, and he squints and pretends it’s only from the smoke or only rain that’s gotten into his eyes.

Beowulf doesn’t look away from the pyre. “They have found the deaths that all brave men seek, and now they are einherjar. Together they have passed as heroes through Valgrind, welcomed by Bragi and the Valkyries. Today, they will ride the wide green plains of Ásgard, readying themselves for that time when they will join the gods and do battle against the giants in Ragnarök. And this night, while we are yet cold and weary and wet, they will feast at Odin’s table in Valhalla, and on the morrow wake gladly to the call of the rooster Gullinkambi, then once more will they ride the fields of Idavoll. They will not die old men, sick and bedridden.”

“Is that what you believe?” asks Wiglaf, glancing at his lord.

“It is what I know, Wiglaf,” replies Beowulf. “I have heard no better story. Have you?”

Wiglaf watches the fire. The funeral scaffold collapses in a flurry of red-hot embers, and whatever remains of the dead men tumbles into the heart of the pyre. “I have not,” he says.

“Then mourn the living,” sighs Beowulf. “Mourn old men who cannot fight their own battles, not the glorious dead who have fallen victorious against so terrible a foe.” And Beowulf glances toward the open door of the horned hall, still stained with Grendel’s dark blood.

“I’ve got their knives,” says Wiglaf, and he takes four daggers from his cloak. “We’ll carry them home…for their widows.”

Beowulf clenches his teeth together, looking for words that aren’t there, remembering again the sound of the creature’s voice, that it asked him to spare it.

“They will not be forgotten,” he tells Wiglaf, and takes him by the shoulder. “The scops will sing their glory forever. Come, before we catch our death. Let us drink to their memory. I want you to raise the first cup.”

Wiglaf tucks the daggers back into his cape and shakes his head. “Nay, I’m not in the mood for merrymaking. I’ll ride down to the mooring, to prepare the boat,” and then Wiglaf looks out from beneath his rain-soaked hood at Beowulf. “We still leave tomorrow, on the tide? Do we not?”

Above them, thunder rumbles off toward the beach.

Beowulf nods. “Aye,” he says. “We do.”

A rainy morning gives way to a drear and windy afternoon and a sky gone almost the same the color as the muddy earth. But in Heorot Hall, reclaimed from Grendel and once again amenable to celebration and rejoicing, a great number of King Hrothgar’s people have gathered together to see the proof of Beowulf’s heroic deed. Already, news of the monster’s defeat has spread for many leagues up and down the coast of the kingdom and far inland, as well. Already, the scops are composing ballads, based on such hasty and incomplete accounts of the night’s adventures as they have been told by the king’s herald and have scrounged on their own. An evil shadow has at last been lifted from off the realm of the Danes, they sing, that creeping shade that for long months bedeviled the winter nights is finished.

But it is one thing to merely hear good tidings, and it is quite another thing to see with one’s own eyes some undeniable evidence. And so King Hrothgar—son of Healfdene, grandson of Beow, great grandson of Shield Sheafson himself—stands before the arm of the beast, which the Geat has taken care to nail up that all men might look upon it and be assured of their deliverance and, also, of his glory. For what is a man but the sum of his glorious deeds and brave accomplishments? How also might he find his way to Ásgard or even to the scant rewards of this world?

The king stands at the edge of a wide pool of cooled and clotting blood that has over the hours oozed and dripped down to the floor of the hall, accumulating there beneath the graven image of Odin hanging upon the World Ash for the good of all men. Hrothgar has been standing there some time, drinking in the sight of the severed arm, a wound even the demon Grendel could not have long survived, and now he turns to face his subjects and his thanes, his advisors and his queen, the Geat warriors and Beowulf, who is standing close beside the king. Hrothgar stands as straight as his age and health will allow, and though even now his heart is not untroubled, his smile and the relief in his eyes are true and honest.

“Long did I suffer the harrowing of Grendel,” he says. “Only a few days ago, I still believed that I would not ever again be granted release from torment or again find consolation. And, of course,”—and here Hrothgar pauses and motions to all those assembled before him—“of course, this burden was never mine alone. Few were the houses of my kingdom not stained with the blood spilled by Grendel. This has been a curse that has touched us all.”

And there’s a low murmur of agreement from the men and women. Hrothgar nods and waits a moment or two before continuing.

“But this is a new day. And before you, with your own eyes, you see the proof that there has come at last an end to our sorrow and our troubles with the demon Grendel. Today, the monster’s reign has ended, thanks be to a man who has come among us from far across the sea, one man who has done what even the greatest among us could not manage. If the mother of this hero still draws breath, may she be evermore blessed for the fruit of her birth labor. Beowulf—” And now Hrothgar turns to Beowulf and puts an arm about him, pulling him close and speaking directly to him.

“I want everyone here, and everyone who might in time hear of this assembly, to know that in my heart I will love you like a son. With Grendel dead, you are a son to me.”

Until now, Beowulf has kept his eyes trained on the floor of Heorot, listening to the words of the King of the Danes. They have worked some magic upon him, he thinks, for the grief that has dogged him since the funeral pyre has vanished. He looks up into the faces watching him, and he feels pride, for has he not earned this praise and whatever reward may yet await him?

I might never have come here, he thinks. I might have left the lot of you to fend for yourselves against the fiend. It was not my trouble, but I made it mine. And he remembers the things he said to Wiglaf during the funeral, and asks himself what other prize a man might ever seek, but the glory of his accomplishments. But for the capricious skein of life, the weave of the Fates, he, too, would rightly ride the fields of Idavoll this day.

At the least, I have made good upon my boast, he thinks, staring directly at Unferth, and the king’s advisor immediately looks away.

“I have adopted you, my son, here, in my heart,” says Hrothgar, and thumps himself upon the chest. “You shall not now want for anything. If there is something you desire, you have but to ask, and I shall make it so. Many times in my life I have honored warriors who were surely far less deserving, for achievements that must surely seem insignificant when placed next to what you consummated here last night. By those actions, you have made yourself immortal, and I say, may Odin always keep you near at hand and give what bounty is due a hero of men!”

And now there is a hearty cheer from the crowd, and when it has at last subsided, Beowulf takes a step forward and speaks.

“I do not have the words due such an honor,” he says, smiling at Hrothgar, then turning back to all the others. “I am only a warrior, not a scop or a poet. I have given my life to the sword and shield, not to spinning pretty words. But I will say that here, beneath the roof of Hrothgar, my men and I have been greatly favored in our clash with Grendel. I may tell the tale, but I would prefer that you might all have been here, you who have suffered his vile depredations, to see for yourselves the brute in the moment of his defeat. Aye, I would have been better pleased could that have been the case, that you might have heard his pain as recompense for the pain he visited upon you and yours.” And Beowulf turns and stares up at the severed arm nailed upon the beam above him. He points to it, then turns back to the crowd.

“I was sleeping when he came,” says Beowulf, “wishing to take him unawares. I’d hoped to leap upon the beast and wrestle him to the floor, to wring from him with naught but my bare hands whatever sinister life animates such a being and leave his whole corpse here as the wergild due you all for the lives he had greedily stolen. But at the last he slipped from out my grasp, for slick was his slimy hide. He broke from my hold and made a dash for the door. And yet, I will have you know, what a dear price did cruel Grendel pay for his flight,” and again Beowulf points to the bloody, severed arm. “By this token may you know the truth of my words. If he is not yet dead, he is dying. That wound will be the last of him. Never again will he walk among you, good people of Heorot, and never again will you need fear the coming of night.”

And for a third time a wild cheer rises up from the grateful crowd, and this time only the repeated shouts of Hrothgar are sufficient to quiet them again. Two of the king’s thanes have brought forth a wooden chest and placed it in Hrothgar’s hands. He opens the box and draws out the golden drinking horn, the treasure he wrested long ago from the fyrweorm Fafnir, his greatest treasure, and the king holds it up for all to see. Then he turns to his queen and places the horn in her hands.

“Why don’t you do the honors, my queen?” And Beowulf catches the needle’s prick of sarcasm in his voice. But Wealthow takes the horn, her reluctance hardly disguised, and she presents it to Beowulf.

“For you, my lord,” she says. “You have earned it,” and with a quick glance at her husband, she adds, “and anything else which my good King Hrothgar might yet claim as his own.”

The gilded horn is even more beautiful than Beowulf remembers, and it glints wondrously in the light of the hall. He grins, betraying his delight at so mighty a gift, then holds it up, as Hrothgar has done, for all the hall to look upon. This time they do not cheer, but a murmur of awe washes through Heorot, at the sight of the horn and at their king’s generosity.

Queen Wealthow, her part in this finished, withdraws and stands with two of her maidens, Yrsa and Gitte, gazing up at Grendel’s arm. Though withered in death, it is still a fearsome thing. The warty, scaly flesh glimmers dully, like the skin of some awful fish or sea monster, and the claws are as sharp as daggers.

Yrsa leans close to the queen’s ear and whispers, “They say Beowulf ripped it off with his bare hands.”

“Mmmm,” sighs Gitte thoughtfully. “I wonder if his strength is only in his arms, or in his legs as well…all three of them.”

Yrsa laughs, and Gitte grins at her own jest.

“Well,” says Wealthow, wishing only to return to her quarters and escape the noise and the crowd and the sight of that awful thing nailed upon the beam. “After the feasting tonight, perhaps you may have the opportunity to make a gift of yourself to good Lord Beowulf and find out the strength of his legs.”

“Me?” asks Gitte, raising her eyebrows in a doubtful sort of way. “It is not me he wants, my queen.”

And Wealthow looks from Gitte to Yrsa, then from Yrsa back to Gitte. They nod together, and she feels the hot, embarrassed blush on her cheeks, but says nothing. She glances back toward Beowulf and sees that her husband has placed a heavy golden chain around his throat. The Geat is talking about Grendel again and all are listening with rapt attention. Wealthow turns and slips away through the press of bodies, leaving Yrsa and Gitte giggling behind her.

Outside and across the muddy stockade, Wiglaf sits astride one of the strong Danish ponies, still watching the funeral pyre. It has been burning for many hours now, fresh wood fed to the flames from time to time to keep it stoked and hot. But already no recognizable signs remain of the bodies of the four thanes slain the night before nor of the scaffolding that held them, and it might be mistaken for any bonfire that was not built to ferry the souls of the dead to the span of Bilröst, the Rainbow Bridge between this world and the gods’ judgment seat at Urdarbrunn. Wiglaf can clearly hear Beowulf’s words, carried along on the north wind, as though Hrothgar’s craftsmen have somehow designed the structure to project the words of anyone speaking within out across the compound.

He broke from my hold and made a dash for the door. And yet, I will have you know, what a dear price did cruel Grendel pay for his flight…

Wiglaf scratches the pony’s shaggy, matted mane, and it shifts uneasily from foot to foot.

“Will their wives and children be comforted with thoughts of valiant deaths and glorious Ásgard?” asks Wiglaf, turning away from the fire and looking toward the open doors of the horned hall. The pony snorts loudly. “I wasn’t asking you,” says Wiglaf, and he goes back to watching the fire. Hrothgar has promised that the ashes will be buried out along the King’s Road and marked by a tall menhir, with runes to tell how they fell in battle against the fiend Grendel.

“Perhaps that will comfort the grieving widows?” he sighs. “To know their husbands lie in fine graves so far across the sea.”

…but I would prefer that you might all have been here, you who have suffered his vile depredations, to see for yourselves the brute in the moment of his defeat.

“He’s right, you know,” Wiglaf tells the pony, leaning forward and whispering in one of its twitching ears. “I am beginning to sound like an old woman.” But then he sits up and glances once more toward Heorot and Beowulf’s booming voice. “Be merciful, good Beowulf, and do not talk us straightaway into yet more glory. I would have mine in some other season.”

The fire crackles and pops as the charred logs shift and crumble, sending another swirl of glowing brands skyward. And Wiglaf digs his heels into the pony’s flanks, tightens his grip on the reins, and gallops away toward the stockade gates and the bridge beyond.

Long hours pass, and the chariot of Sól rolls once again into the west. The gray day dims, and after nightfall the clouds break apart at last to let the moon and stars shine coldly down upon the land. Inside the mead hall of King Hrothgar, his people and the Geats celebrate Beowulf’s victory. After so many months of terror, Heorot is awash in the joyful noise and revelry of those who believe they have no just cause to fear the dark. Though damaged by the battle, the hall is fit enough for merrymaking; there will be time later to repair shattered timbers and smashed tables. This is why the hall was built, Hrothgar’s gift to his kingdom, that men might drink and feast and fuck and forget the hardships of their lives, the cold breath of winter, the nearness of the grave.

Beowulf sits alone on the king’s throne dais, drinking cup after cup of the king’s potent mead and admiring the beautiful golden horn taken long ago from the hoard of the dragon Fafnir. It is his now, his hard-earned reward for a job no other man could do, and it gleams brightly by the flickering light of the fire pit. From time to time, he looks up, gazing contentedly about the hall for familiar faces. His men are all enjoying rewards of their own, as well they should. But he does not see Lord Hrothgar anywhere and thinks that the old man has probably been carried away to bed by now, either to sleep off his drunkenness or to busy himself with some maiden who is not his wife. Nor does he see the king’s herald, Wulfgar, nor Unferth Kinslayer, nor Queen Wealthow. It would be easy enough to imagine himself crowned lord of this hall, a fit king to rule the Danes instead of a fat old man, too sick and more concerned with farm girls and mead than the welfare of his homeland.

The air in the hall has grown smoky and thick with too many odors, and so Beowulf takes the golden horn and leaves the dais, moving as quickly as he may through the crowd. He is waylaid many times by men who want to grasp the hand of the warrior who killed the monster, or by women who want to thank him for the salvation of their homes. But he comes, eventually, to a short passageway leading out onto a balcony overlooking the sea.

“You are not celebrating?” asks Wealthow, standing there with the moonlight spilling down upon her pale skin and golden hair. She is swaddled against the freezing wind in a heavy coat sewn from seal and bear pelts, and he is surprised to find her unescorted.

Beowulf glances down at the golden horn, and he might almost believe that the moonlight has worked some sorcery upon it, for it seems even more radiant than before. He stares at it a moment, then looks back up at Wealthow.

“I’ll never let it go,” he says, and raises the horn to her. “I’ll die with this cup of yours at my side.”

“It is nothing of mine,” she replies. “It never was. That was only ever some gaudy bauble of my husband’s pride. He murdered a dragon for it, they say.”

Beowulf lowers the horn, feeling suddenly uncomfortable and oddly foolish. His fingers slide lovingly about its cold, glimmering curves. “My lady does not hold with the murder of dragons?” he asks the queen.

“I didn’t say that,” she replies. “Though one might wonder if perhaps a live dragon is worth something more than the self-importance of the son of Healfdene.”

“Men must seek their glory,” Beowulf says, trying to recall the authority and assurance with which he addressed the hall only a few hours before. “They must ever strive to find their way to Ásgard…and protect the lives and honor of those they cherish.”

“I admit, it has always seemed an unjust arrangement to me,” the queen says, and moves nearer the edge of the balcony. Below them the sea pounds itself against sand and shingle, the whitecaps tumbling in the moonlight.

“My lady?” asks Beowulf, uncertain what she means.

“That a man—like my husband—may in his youth slay a fearsome dragon, which most would count a glorious deed. Even the gods, I should think. And yet, if he is unlucky and survives that encounter, he may yet grow old and feeble and die in his bed. So—dragon or no—the bravest man may find himself before the gates of Hel. Or, in your own case, Lord Beowulf…” And here she trails off, shivering and hugging herself against the chill, staring down at the sea far below.

Beowulf waits a moment, then asks, “In my own case?”

She turns and looks at him, and at first her eyes seem distant and lost, like the eyes of a sleeper awakened from some frightful dream.

“Well,” she says. “You are alive, though by your bravery Grendel is slain. You are not in Valhalla with your fallen warriors. You have, instead, what? A golden horn?”

“Perhaps I will find my luck, as you name it, on some other battlefield,” Beowulf tells her, then glances back down at the horn. “And it is a fine and wondrous thing, this gaudy bauble of your husband’s pride.”

Wealthow takes a deep breath. “Nothing that is gold ever stays long. Is that all you wanted, Beowulf? A drinking horn that once belong to a worm? Would you have none of my husbands other treasures?”

And now he looks her directly in the eyes, those violet eyes that might seem almost as icy as the whale’s-road on a long winter’s night, as icy and as beautiful.

“My lord Hrothgar,” he says, “has declared I shall not now want for anything.” And he moves across the balcony to stand nearer to Wealthow. “I recall nothing he held exempt from that decree. Steal away from your husband. Come to me.”

Wealthow smiles and laughs softly, a gentle sound almost lost beneath the noise of the wind and the breakers.

“I wonder,” she says, “if my husband even begins to guess what thing he has let into his house? First driven by greed…now by lust,” and she turns away from the sea to face Beowulf. “You may indeed be most beautiful, Lord Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, and you may be brave, but I fear you have the heart of a monster.” And then she smiles and kisses him lightly on the cheek. Their eyes meet again, briefly, and her bright gaze seems to rob him of words, and Beowulf’s still searching for some reply after she’s departed the balcony and returned once more to the noisy mead hall, and he’s standing alone in the moonlight.

12 The Merewife

Beyond the moorlands and the forest and the bogs, in the cave below the cave, this deeper, more ancient abscess in the thin granite skin of the world, the mother of Grendel mourns alone. She has carried her son’s mutilated body from the pool, the pool below the pool above, and has gently laid him out on a stone ledge near a wall of the immense cavern. Once, the ledge was an altar, a shrine built by men to honor a forgotten goddess of a forgotten people, and the charcoal-colored slate is encrusted with the refuse of long-ago offerings—jewels and bits of gold, silver, and bronze, the bones of animals and men. Whatever it might have been, now it is only her dead son’s final bed. She bends low, her lips brushing his lifeless skin, her long claws caressing his withered corpse. She is old, even as the mountains and the seas mark time, even as the Æsir and Vanir and the giants of Jötunheimr count the passing of the ages, but the weight of time has not hardened her to loss. It has, if anything, made her more keenly aware of the emptiness left behind by that which has been taken away.

“Oh, my poor lost son,” she whispers. “I asked you not to go. I warned you they were dangerous. And you promised…”

If any others of her race remain in all the wide, wide world, she does not know of them and so believes herself to be the last. Neither troll nor giant nor dragon-kin, and yet perhaps something of all three, some night race spawned in the first days of creation, when Midgard was still new, and then hunted, driven over uncountable millennia to the brink of oblivion. She had a mother, whom she almost remembers from time to time, waking from a dream or drifting down toward sleep. If she ever had a father, the memory of him has faded away forever.

Long before the coming of the Danes, there were men in this land who named her Hertha and Nerthus, and they worshipped her in sacred groves and still lakes and secret grottoes as the Earth’s mother, as Nerpuz and sometimes as Njördr of the Ásynja, wife of Njörd and goddess of the sea. And always she welcomed their prayers and offerings, their tributes and their fear of her. For fear kept her safe, but never was she a goddess, only some thing more terrible and beautiful than mere men.

She is legend now, half-glimpsed by unfortunate travelers on stormy nights. Sailors and fisherman up and down the Danish coast trade fearful whispers of mermaids and sea trolls and sahagin. Those passing by the bog on midsummer nights may have glimpsed for themselves the aglaec-wif, aeglaeca, the merewif or demon wife. But she and all her vanished forebears would have surely long passed completely and permanently beyond the recollection of mankind, if not for Grendel.

In the cave below the cave, crouching there before the cold altar stone, she sings a song she might have first heard from her own mother, for she does not recall where and when she learned it. A dirge, a mourning song to give some dim voice to the inconsolable ache welling up inside her.

But the song buckles and breaks apart in her throat, becoming suddenly a far more genuine expression of her grief, a wild and bestial wail to transcend any mournful poetry. It spills like fire from out her throat, and the walls of the cavern shudder with the force of it.

And then for a time she lies weeping at the foot of the altar stone, her long, webbed fingers gouging muddy furrows into the soft earth, scraping at the stone beneath, snapping dry bones.

“I will avenge you, my poor son,” she sobs. “He will come to me. I will see to it. He will come, and I will turn his own strength against him. He will pay, and dearly will he pay…” but then the capacity for speech deserts her again.

The merewife rises, coiling and uncoiling, her scales shining in the ghostly light of these moldering, phosphorescent walls, and she leans down over the altar and cradles her dead son in her arms again. Her long and spiny tail whips furiously about, madly lashing at thin air and stone and the treasures that have lain here undisturbed for a thousand years, and it crushes everything it strikes to dust and splinters. She holds the name of her son’s murderer in her mind, the bold riddler of Hrothgar’s hall, the champion of men and the wolf of the bees. And her sobs become a wail, and then her wail becomes a shriek that rises up and up, leaking out through every minute crevice and fissure, slithering finally from the gaping mouth of the cavern—the cave above her cave—and cracking apart the gaunt ribs of the night.

Something awakens Beowulf, who lies where he fell asleep hours before, wrapped in furs, on the floor not far from the fire pit. He opens his eyes and lies listening to the soft noises of the sleeping mead hall—a woman sighing in her dreams, the ragged snores of drunken men, the warm crackle of embers, someone rolling over in slumber. The faint creaking sound of settling timbers. All the lamps are out, and the hall is dark save a faint red glow from the dying fire. Nothing is out of place, no sound that should not be here. Outside the walls of Heorot, there is the chilling whistle of wind about the eaves, and far away, the faint thunder of waves falling against the shore. He thinks of Wiglaf, alone on the beach with the ship, and wonders if he’s sleeping.

Beowulf peers into the gloom and spies Olaf lying nearby, snuggling with Yrsa beneath heavy sheepskins, a satisfied smile on his sleeping face.

“Are you awake, Beowulf?” and he looks up, startled, to find Wealthow smiling down at him. She stoops, then sits on the floor beside him.

“My queen…” he begins, but she places an index finger firmly across his lips.

“Shhhhhh,” she whispers. “You’ll wake the others,” and then she moves her finger.

“I was dreaming of you,” he says quietly, only just now remembering that he was. In the dream, Wealthow was traveling with him back across the sea to Geatland, and they were watching the gray-black backs of great whales breaking the surface of the sea, their misty spouts rising high into the winter sky.

“How sweet,” she whispers, and Beowulf thinks there’s something different about her voice, the barest hint of an unfamiliar accent he’d not noticed earlier. “I hope it was a pleasant dream.”

“Of course it was,” he smiles. “What other sort could you ever inspire?”

“I love you,” Wealthow whispers, leaning closer to Beowulf, close enough that he can feel her breath warm against his face. “I want you, Beowulf Demon-feller, son of Ecgtheow. Only you, my king, my hero, and my love.”

Wealthow puts her arms about his neck, drawing him close to her breasts, and she kisses him lightly on the cheek.

“Do you not think your husband might have something to say in the matter?” he asks, looking nervously past her at the others, still asleep.

“My husband,” sighs Wealthow. “Do not trouble yourself over Hrothgar. He is dead. This very night, I have done it myself, as I should have done long ago.”

Beowulf says nothing for a moment, confused and baffled at what he’s hearing. Wealthow smiles wider and kisses him on the forehead.

“Surely you have heard of his infidelities,” she says. “They certainly were no secret. Hrothgar never tried to hide his whores…or I should say he never tried very hard.

“Why would you say these things to me?”

She has slipped her hands beneath his tunic, and they are cold against his chest and belly. He feels her nails rasping almost painfully at his skin.

“My poor sleepy Beowulf,” she smiles. “Too much mead, too little rest. You are exhausted and confused.” And now she presses herself against him, straddling him, her strength taking him by surprise as she bears him flat against the floor.

“First greed,” she says. “Then lust. Is this not what you would have, my lord? Is this not everything you yet desire?” And she kisses him again, and this time she tastes like the sea, like salt water rushing into the throat of a drowning man, like beached and rotting fish stranded under a summer sun. He gags and tries to push her away.

“Give me a child, Beowulf. Enter me, and give me a beautiful, beautiful son.”

And the air around Wealthow seems to shimmer and bend back upon itself somehow. Beowulf blinks, trying hard to will himself awake from this nightmare, terrified he may not be sleeping. She smiles again, and now her lips pull back to reveal the razor teeth of hungry ocean things, and her eyes flash gold and green in the darkness of the hall. Her gown has become a tattered mat of kelp and sea moss entangling a sinuous, scaly body, and Beowulf opens his mouth to scream…

…and he gasps—one breath he cannot quite seem to draw, the space of a heartbeat that seems to go on forever, his pulse loud in his ears, the sea and all its horrors dragging him down—then he opens his eyes. And Beowulf knows that this time he is truly awake. His chest aches, and he squints into the brilliant morning sunlight pouring in through the open door of Heorot Hall, then shields his eyes with his right hand. He blinks, trying to clear his vision.

The frigid air around him smells like slaughter, like a battlefield when the fighting is done or a place where many animals have been butchered and bled. The drone of buzzing flies is very loud, and there’s a steady dripping from all directions, as though the storm returned in the night and the roof has sprung many leaks.

And now there’s a scream, the shrill and piercing scream of a frightened woman. Beowulf peers out from behind the shelter of his fingers, and Yrsa is sitting nearby, pointing one trembling hand up toward the ceiling. Dark blood streaks her upturned face. Beowulf’s eyes follow her fingertips, and he sees that there are many dark shapes hanging from the rafters, indistinct silhouettes weeping a thick red rain.

And then he realizes what those dreadful, dangling forms are.

The bodies of Beowulf’s men hang head down from the roof beams of Heorot—gutted, defiled in unspeakable ways, each and every one torn almost beyond recognition. Their blood drips steadily down upon the tabletops and floor and the upturned faces of horrified women. Beowulf gets slowly to his feet, drawing his sword as he stands, fighting nausea and the dizzying sense that he is yet dreaming.

If only I am, he thinks. If this might be naught but some new and appalling apparition, only a phantasm of my weary mind…

He moves slowly through the hall, and now there are other screams and gasps as other women come awake around him and look upon what hangs there bleeding out above them. Soon the entire hall is filled with the sobs and curses of terrified women. And soon, too, Beowulf can see that every man who slept there has been slain, that among the men, he alone has been spared the massacre.

There are footsteps at the doorway, and Beowulf swings about, raising his sword and bracing himself for the attack. But it’s only Wiglaf, returned from the beach. He stands framed in winter sunlight, gazing up at the ragged bodies. He has also drawn his sword.

“In the name of Odin…” he gasps.

“Wiglaf, what dismal misdeed is this?” Beowulf asks, and a fat drop of blood splashes at his feet.

Yrsa has gotten to her feet, and she’s pointing toward Beowulf instead of the murdered men.

“Liar,” she hisses. “You told us it was dead. You told us you had killed it.”

“What? Is Grendel not dead?” asks Wiglaf, taking a hesitant step into the mead hall. “Has the fiend grown his arm anew?”

Beowulf does not answer them, but turns about to look at the place where he nailed up Grendel’s severed arm. Nothing hangs there now, and his eyes find only the naked iron spike and the monster’s black blood dried to a crust upon the wooden column and the floor below.

“He took it back, didn’t he?” asks Yrsa, her voice becoming brittle and hysterical. “He came here in the night and took it back! He walked among us while we slept. The demon is not dead. You lied—”

“Shut up, woman!” growls Beowulf, watching a fat drop of blood that has landed on the blade of his sword as it runs slowly down toward the hilt.

“Are you not thinking the same damn thing?” asks Wiglaf from the doorway. “The men are dead, and the arm is gone, and we did not see the creature die.”

“We did not ever say we saw it die,” replies Beowulf, and he shuts his eyes, trying to think, trying to blot out all these atrocities, all the sights and sounds and smells. But she is still there in his head, waiting behind his eyelids, the grinning phantom from his dream, the thing that came disguised as Wealthow…

Give me a child, Beowulf. Enter me now and give me a beautiful, beautiful son.

A cold spatter of blood strikes Beowulf’s forehead, and he opens his eyes again, then wipes it away and stands staring at the crimson smear on his palm.

“Find Hrothgar,” he says. “If he still breathes.”

“It was not Grendel,” Hrothgar sighs heavily. He sits alone on the edge of his bed, wrapped in deer skins and frowning down at his bare feet, his crooked yellow toenails. His sword is gripped uselessly in both hands, the tip of the blade resting against the stone floor. There are four guards standing at the entrance to the bedchamber, and Queen Wealthow, wrapped in her bearskins, stands alone at the window, looking out on the stockade.

“How do you know that?” Wiglaf asks the king, and Hrothgar sighs again and looks up at him.

“I know it, young man, because I have lived in this land all my life and know its ways. I know it because it is something that I know.”

“Fine,” says Wiglaf, glancing toward Beowulf. “But if it is not Grendel, then who is it? What is it, if not Grendel?”

Hrothgar taps the end of his sword lightly against the stone and grimaces.

“We would have an answer, old man,” Beowulf says. “They are carrying the bodies of my men from your mead hall, and I would know why.”

“Grendel’s mother,” replies Hrothgar. “It was the son you killed. I had…I had hoped that she had left this land long ago.”

Wiglaf laughs a hollow, bitter sort of laugh and turns away. Beowulf frowns and kicks at the floor.

“How many monsters am I to slay?” he asks Hrothgar. “Grendel’s mother? Father? Grendel’s fucking uncle? Will I have to hack down an entire family tree of these demons before I am done?”

“No,” says Hrothgar unconvincingly, and taps his sword against the floor a second time. “She is the last. I swear it. With her gone, that demonkind will finally slip into faerie lore forever.”

“And you neglected to mention her before now because…?”

“I have already said, I believed that she had deserted these hills and gone back down to trouble the sea from whence she came. I did not know, Beowulf. I did not know.”

“Listen,” says Wiglaf to Beowulf. “Let us take our dead and take our leave and have no more part in these evil doings. If he is not lying,” and Wiglaf pauses to glare at Hrothgar, “then Grendel’s dam has claimed her wergild and has no further grievance or claim upon this hall. We can sail on the next tide.”

“And what of her mate?” Beowulf asks Hrothgar, ignoring Wiglaf. “Where is Grendel’s father?”

And now Wealthow turns away from the window, her hands clasped so tightly together that her knuckles have gone white. “Yes, my dear husband,” she says. “Pray tell, where is Grendel’s sire?” But as she speaks, her eyes go to Beowulf, not King Hrothgar.

“Gone,” says the king, then wipes at his mouth and glances up at Beowulf. “Grendel’s father is gone, faded like twilight, not even a ghost. He can do no harm to man.”

“Beowulf, he has already lied to us once.”

“I never lied to you,” snaps Hrothgar, his face gone red, his cloudy eyes suddenly livid, and he raises his sword. But Wiglaf easily bats the blade aside, and it clatters to the floor.

“Nay, I suppose you did not,” he says. “You merely neglected to mention that once we’d slain her son—”

“Stop,” Beowulf says, and he lays a firm hand on Wiglaf’s shoulder. “You will not speak this way to the King of the Danes.”

Exasperated, Wiglaf motions toward the window, toward the sea beyond. “Beowulf, please. Think about this. It is time we took our leave of these cursed shores. We have done what we came here to do.”

Before Beowulf can reply, there are loud footsteps in the hallway outside the bedchamber, and Unferth enters the room. “Beowulf,” he says.

“What now?” Wiglaf asks Hrothgar’s advisor. “Have you come here to gloat, Ferret Kinslayer?”

Unferth takes a deep breath, disregarding Wiglaf’s taunt. “I was wrong,” he says. “I was wrong to doubt you before, Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow. And I shall not do so again. For truly yours is the blood of courage. I beg your forgiveness.”

“Clearly, there is to be no end to this farce,” sneers Wiglaf, and he turns his back on Unferth.

“Then I accept your apology,” Beowulf says quietly, and Wiglaf laughs to himself. “And you must forgive my man Wiglaf, as we have seen many terrible things this morning, and it has sickened our hearts.”

“If you will take it,” Unferth says, “then I have a gift,” and he turns to his slave, Cain, who has been standing just behind him. The boy is holding a great sword, which Unferth takes from him.

“This is Hrunting,” Unferth says, and holds the weapon up for Beowulf to see. “It belonged to my father Ecglaf and to my father’s father before him.” The blade glints in the dim lights of the bedchamber, and Beowulf can see that it is an old and noble weapon. Unferth holds it out to him.

“Please,” he says. “It is my gift to you. Take my sword, Beowulf.”

Beowulf nods and accepts the blade, inspecting the ornate grip and pommel, gilded and jeweled and graven with scenes of battle. A prominent fuller runs the length of the sword, lightening the weapon. “It is fine, and I am grateful for your gift. But a sword like this…it will be no fit match for demon magic.”

“Still,” says Unferth, “Hrunting may be more than it seems. My father told me the blade was tempered in blood, and he boasted it had never failed anyone who carried it into battle.”

“A shame he cannot speak of its might from personal experience,” Wiglaf says, and Beowulf tells him to be quiet.

“Something given with a good heart,” Beowulf says to Unferth, “that has its own magic. And it has a good weight to it, friend Unferth”

“I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

“And I am sorry I mentioned that you murdered your brothers…they were hasty words.”

Wiglaf snorts. “The truth spoken in haste remains the truth.”

Beowulf holds the sword Hrunting up before him, admiring the ancient weapon, the runes worked into its iron blade.

“You know, Unferth,” he says, “if I track Grendel’s dam to her lair, I may not return. Your ancestral sword might be lost with me.”

Unferth nods once and folds his arms. “As long as it is with you, it will never be lost.”

And now Beowulf turns to face Wiglaf. “And you, mighty Wiglaf. Are you still with me?”

“You are a damned fool to follow this creature back to whatever fetid hole serves as its burrow,” he says, instead of answering the question put to him.

“Undoubtedly,” replies Beowulf. “But are you with me.”

Wiglaf laughs again, a laugh with no joy or hope to it. “To the bloody end,” he says.

“And where are we to seek the demon?” Beowulf asks the king. At first Hrothgar only shrugs and scrapes the blade of his sword across the floor, but then he clears his throat and raises his head to look Beowulf in the eyes.

“There is perhaps one living who knows,” says Hrothgar. “A man from the uplands. I have heard him speak of them, Grendel and its mother, and he has told stories of the places where they dwell. Unferth, he can take you to speak with this man.”

“Will you stay behind, my king?” asks Wealthow, still standing at the window, speaking with her back to the room and all assembled there. “While Lord Beowulf once more seeks his death that your kingdom might be saved, will you stay behind with the women and children and the old men?”

Hrothgar coughs and wipes his mouth on the back of his right hand. “I am an old man,” he says. “I would be no more to Beowulf than a burden. And I doubt there remains a horse in all my lands with the heart and strong back needed to bear me across the moorlands. I am sorry, Beowulf—”

“Do not apologize,” says Beowulf, holding up a hand and interrupting Hrothgar before he can finish. “It is not necessary, my lord. In your day, you fought wars, and you slew dragons. Now your place is here, with your people. With your queen.”

At this, Wealthow shakes her head and mumbles something under her breath but does not turn from the window.

“For my part,” continues Beowulf, “I’d rather die avenging my thanes than live only to grieve the loss of them. If the Fates decree that I shall ever return to my homeland, better I can assure my kinsmen that I sought vengeance against this murderer than left that work to other men.”

“A fool throws his life away,” says Wealthow very softly, and Hrothgar sighs, shaking his head.

“All those who live await the moment of their death,” Beowulf says, turning toward the Queen of Heorot Hall, wishing that she would likewise turn to face him, wanting to see her violet eyes once more before he takes his leave. “That is the meaning of this life. The long wait for death to claim us. A warrior’s only solace is that he might find glory before death finds him. When I am gone, what else shall remain of me, my lady, except the stories men tell of my deeds?”

But she does not make reply, and she does not turn to look at Beowulf.

“We should not tarry,” says Wiglaf. “I’d rather do this thing by daylight than by dark.”

So Hrothgar bids them farewell and promises new riches upon their return, coffers of silver and gold. And then Beowulf and Wiglaf follow Unferth from the bedchamber and back down to the muddy stockade.

13 The Pact

They find the uplander of whom Hrothgar spoke tending to his horse in the stables, not far from the village gates. He is named Agnarr, tall and wiry and old enough to be Beowulf’s own father, and his beard is almost as white as freshly fallen snow. Only by the sheerest happenstance did he escape the slaughter of the previous evening, having business elsewhere in the village, and now he is readying for the hard ride back to his farm. At first, when Unferth asks him to tell all he knows of the monsters and the whereabouts of their lair, the man is suspicious and reluctant to speak of the matter.

“Are these days not evil enough without such talk?” he asks, and lays a heavy wool blanket across the back of his piebald mare. The horse is nervous and snorts and stamps her hooves in the hay. “You see? She knows what visited us in the night.”

“If these days be evil,” says Beowulf, handing Agnarr his saddle, a heavy contraption of leather and wood, “then is it not our place to make them less so?”

The old man takes the saddle from Beowulf and stands staring indecisively back at Unferth and the two Geats. “Have you seen the tracks?” he asks. “They are everywhere this morning. I do not doubt the spoor would be easy enough to follow back across the moors.”

“There is the forest,” Unferth says, “and bogs, and many stony places where we might lose the trail.”

“Are you Beowulf?” asks Agnarr. “The one who took the monster Grendel’s arm?”

“One and the same,” replies Beowulf. “But it seems I did not finish the job I came here to do. Tell me what you know, and I may yet put an end to this terror.”

Agnarr stares at the Geat a very long while, his hesitancy plain to see, but at last he takes a deep breath and then begins to speak.

“It is an ancient terror,” the old man sighs, then saddles the mare. “In my day, I have glimpsed them from afar, the pair of them, if indeed they be what troubles the King’s hall. They might be trolls, I have supposed, or they might be something that has no proper name. The one you fought, Grendel, and another, which looked almost like a woman. It moved like a woman moves. It had breasts—”

“We know what they are,” says Unferth impatiently, and he glances toward the stable doors. “We would have you tell us where we might find them.”

“As I have said, I cannot say for certain that it was she who visited Heorot last night and did this murder. I only know what I have seen.”

“Where?” asks Beowulf a second time, more brusquely than before.

“I am coming to that,” replies Agnarr, and he ties a heavy cloth sack onto the saddle, looping it through an iron ring. “I just wanted to be clear what I know and what I do not know.”

The old man pauses, stroking his horse’s mane, then continues. “These two you ask after,” he says, “they do not live together, I think. Not many leagues from here, east, then north toward the coast, and past the forest, there is a tarn. Deep, it is. So deep that no man has ever sounded its bottom. But you will know it by three gnarled trees—three oaks—that grow above it, clustered upon an overhanging bank, their roots intertwined.” The old man tangles his fingers tightly together to demonstrate.

“A tarn beneath three oak trees,” says Beowulf.

“Aye, and the roots of those trees, they all but hide the entrance to a grotto. The tarn flows into that fell hole in the earth. I could not tell you where it reemerges, if indeed it ever does. For all I know, it flows to the sea or all the way down to Niflheim. And another thing, I have heard it told that at night something strange happens here. They say the water burns.”

“The water burns,” says Wiglaf skeptically. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It is only what I have heard told,” replies Agnarr, shaking his head. He frowns and glares at Wiglaf. “I have not ever seen that fire for myself, nor have I any wish to do so. This is a foul place of which you have me speak. Such tales I have heard, and the things I’ve seen with my own eyes. Once, I stalked a hart across the bog, a mighty stag,” and the old man holds his hands above his head, fingers out in imitation of the rack of a stag’s antlers.

“Three of my arrows in him, three, and yet still he led me from the forest and right out into the marches. With my hounds, I tracked him as far as the tarn and those oaks. It was winter, you see, and we had great need of the meat, or I never would have followed him to that place. The hart, it might have escaped me then. It had only to plunge into those waters, where I could not follow it across to the other side. But it dared not. It knew about that place, whatever dwells there. Rather than face the tarn, it turned back toward my dogs and me and so found its death.”

“You spin a good yarn, uplander,” mutters Unferth, and he gives the man two pieces of gold. “Perhaps you should have sought your fortune as a scop instead of a farmer.”

“Do not mock me.” Agnarr frowns and pockets the gold. “You ask, so I tell you what I know. Seek you the merewife if you dare, if you think her your killer, seek her in her hall below the tarn. Perhaps she’ll even come out, to meet you,” and the man points at Beowulf. “The foreign hero who slew her son.”

“You have told us what we need to know,” says Unferth. “Now be on about your way.”

“So I shall, my good lord,” replies Agnarr. “But you take care, Geat. That one, Grendel’s dam, the merewife, they say her son was never more than her pale shadow.” And then he goes back to loading bags onto his saddle, and his piebald horse whinnies and shuffles about in its narrow stall.

“He’s mad as a drunken crow,” mutters Wiglaf, as the three men leave the stables, leading their own ponies out into the dim winter sunlight. “And you’re mad as well, Beowulf, if you still mean to go through with this.”

“You will never tire of reminding me of that, will you?” says Beowulf.

“Nay,” replies Wiglaf, forcing a smile. “The painfully obvious amuses me no end.”

“The tarn the old man spoke of,” says Unferth, mounting his pony. “I think I know this place.”

“You’ve seen it?” ask Beowulf.

“No, but I have heard stories. Since I was a child. I have heard there is a lake, somewhere on the far side of the wood, which was once known as Weormgræf, the dragon’s tomb.”

“I hope we’re not off hunting a dragon now,” says Wiglaf, gripping the saddlebow and pulling himself up. “I should have thought an ordinary sea troll was nuisance enough for one day.”

“There is a story,” continues Wiglaf. “It is said that Hrothgar’s grandfather, Beow, was plagued by a fyrweorm, and that he tracked it to a bottomless lake across the moors, where he wounded it mortally with a golden spear. The dying dragon sank into the lake, which steamed and bubbled from its flames, and was never seen again. The story says that the waters still burn at night, poisoned by the fyrweorm’s blood.”

Beowulf is still leading his pony by the reins. They are not far from the gates and guardhouse now. “You think Agnarr’s tarn is Weormgræf?” he asks Unferth.

“Fire on water,” replies Unferth, and shrugs. “You think perhaps that’s a coincidence? Or maybe these lands are fair teeming with combustible tarns?”

“We shall see for ourselves soon enough,” says Beowulf, and before long they are outside the gates of Heorot and riding swiftly across the moors toward a dark and distant line of trees.

It is late day by the time the three riders at last find their way out of the shadow of the old forest beyond the moorlands and begin searching for some way across the bog. A low mist lies over everything, and the air here stinks of marsh gas and pungent herbs and the stagnant, brackish water. The ponies, which gave them no trouble either on the moors or beneath those ominous trees, have become skittish and timid, flaring their nostrils and shying away from many of the pools.

There are flocks of crows here, and Beowulf wonders if they are perhaps the merewife’s spies. She might have other spies, as well, he thinks, for there must surely be some vile magic about her. No doubt she may command lesser beasts to do her bidding. The crows circle overhead and caw loudly, or they watch from the limbs and stumps of blighted trees that have sunk in the mire.

“It is hopeless,” despairs Wiglaf. “We will not find a way across, not on horseback. The ground here is too soft.”

“What ground,” says Beowulf, looking out across the marches. “There is hardly a solid hillock to be seen. I fear you are right, Wiglaf. From here we will have to continue on foot.”

“I am not so great a swimmer as you,” Wiglaf reminds him. “I’m no sort of swimmer at all.”

“Don’t worry. I will not let you drown,” says Beowulf, who then turns to Unferth. “Someone should stay behind with the horses. There are wolves about, and bears, too. I’ve seen their tracks.”

“I’m actually very good with horses,” says Wiglaf, and Beowulf ignores him.

Unferth gazes out across the bog, then back toward the dark forest, not yet so very far behind them. Beowulf can see the indecision in his eyes, the fear and also the relief that he has gone this far and will be expected to go no farther.

“I would not have it said I was a coward,” Unferth tells Beowulf. “But I agree it’s no use trying to force our mounts across that dismal morass. They might bolt. They could become mired and drown.”

“I could drown,” says Wiglaf.

“Then you will wait for us, Unferth,” says Beowulf, as he slides off the back of his pony and sinks up past his ankles in the bog. “Ride back to where the forest ends and wait there. Do not let the ponies wander or be eaten, as I do not fancy walking all the way back to Heorot.”

Unferth takes the reins of Beowulf’s pony. “If you think that the wisest course,” he says.

“I do. I will carry Hrunting, and so men will say it was the sword of Unferth that cut the demon’s head from off her shoulders.”

“Aye,” mutters Wiglaf, dismounting with a loud splash. “His sword, if not his hands.”

“I think there’s already a fish in my boot,” moans Wiglaf, and kicks at a thick tuft of weeds.

“If you do not return—” begins Unferth.

“Give us until the morning,” says Beowulf, frowning at Wiglaf. “If we have not returned by first light, ride back to Hrothgar and prepare what defenses you may against the return of Grendel’s mother. If we fail to kill her, we may yet succeed in doubling her wrath.”

“And there’s a cheery thought,” adds Wiglaf.

And without another word, Unferth pulls back on his pony’s reins, and soon he is leading the three ponies back the way they’ve come, toward the western edge of the bog. Beowulf and Wiglaf do not linger to watch him go, but press on eastward, locating what few substantial footholds they can among the thickets of bracken and the tall clumps of grass. Often their feet drop straight through what had seemed like firm earth, swallowed up to the knees by the mud and muck. Then much effort is required to struggle free of the sucking, squelching peat, only to find themselves hip deep a few steps later.

To take his mind off the possibility of drowning or the slimy things that might be waiting in the wide, still pools, Wiglaf talks, as much to himself as to Beowulf. He first relates what he can recall of a saga he heard from one of Hrothgar’s scops—how a Danish princess, Hildeburh, married Finn, a Frisian king, and how much grief and bloodshed inevitably followed. But then Wiglaf forgets exactly how the tale ends—though he knows it has something or another to do with Jutland—and so switches to the daring feats of Sigurd Dragonslayer and his sword, Gram, and how, by tasting the heart’s blood of a slain fyrweorm, Sigurd came to know the language of birds.

“If I but had the heart of a dragon,” says Beowulf, “then perhaps I could learn what all these blasted crows are squawking about.” And he points at three of them perched on a flat stone at the center of one of the pools.

“Oh, that’s easy,” replies Wiglaf. “They’re only telling us we are imbeciles and fools, and that we will taste very good, once the maggots find us and we’ve ripened a day or three.”

“You speak birdish?” asks Beowulf, stopping and peering ahead into the fog.

“No,” says Wiglaf. “Only crow. And a little raven. It is a skill peculiar to the doomed sons of fishwives.”

At that moment there is a sudden gust of sea-scented wind, one of the few the two Geats have felt since beginning their long slog across the marches, and it briefly opens up a gap in the mists before them.

“Look there,” says Wiglaf, pointing north. Only fifty yards or so in that direction, the bog breaks off, as the land grows abruptly higher. And there is a steep bank at the edge of a steaming tarn, and atop the bank grow three enormous oaks, their gnarled roots tangled together like serpents slithering down to meet the water’s edge. There is a dark gap in the roots, and even from this distance, Beowulf can see that the water is flowing sluggishly into the gap and vanishing under the bank. Before much longer, they’ve reached the nearer shore of the tarn and can see that there is an oily scum floating on its surface, an iridescent sheen that seems to twist and writhe in the fading daylight.

“Dragon’s blood?” asks Wiglaf.

“The old man spoke true,” Beowulf replies and then begins picking his way along the edge of the pool toward the bank and the opening in the tree roots.

“A damn shame, that,” sighs Wiglaf. “I was starting to hope he’d made the whole thing up.”

Beowulf is the first to gain solid ground, a barren hump of rocky soil near the entrance of the cave. There is still a patch of snow here, blackened by frozen blood. The corpse of one of Hrothgar’s men lies half-in the tarn, half-out, mauled and stiff. It has attracted a hungry swarm of fish and crabs, and one of the crows is perched on its broken back.

“This must be the place,” says Beowulf, and he curses and throws a stone at the crow. He misses, but the bird caws and flies away. Beowulf draws Hrunting from its scabbard and turns away from the dead man, toward the entrance to the merewife’s den.

“Poor bastard,” says Wiglaf, when he sees the corpse. “Beowulf, you do not want to meet this water demon in her own element.”

“I know.”

“Do you want me to go in with you?”

“No,” Beowulf replies. “I should do this alone. That’s how she wants it.”

“Yes,” says Wiglaf, drawing his own sword and coming to stand at Beowulf’s side. “Which seems to me ample reason for me to go with you. You know that I will. You have but to ask.”

“I know,” Beowulf tells him.

Then neither of them says anything more for a time. They stand there watching the constantly shifting rainbow patterns playing across the dark water flowing into the cave, its entrance starkly framed by a snarl of oaken roots. Almost anything might be waiting for me in there, thinks Beowulf. Almost anything at all.

“It’s getting dark,” Wiglaf says finally. “You’ll need a torch. I wouldn’t mind having one of my own, to tell you the gods’ own truth.”

“Do you still have your tinderbox?” asks Beowulf. “Is it still dry?”

Wiglaf fumbles about inside his cloak and pulls a small bronze box from one pocket. The lid is engraved with a single rune, Sôwilô, the sun’s rune. He opens the box, inspecting the flint and tiny bundle of straw tucked inside. “Seems that way,” he tells Beowulf.

“The farmer, he said the water burns,” and Beowulf nods toward the oily tarn.

“Well, old Agnarr’s been right about everything else. Let me find a dry bough and we’ll see.” And Wiglaf climbs the bank to higher ground and hunts about beneath the oaks, returning with a sturdy bit of branch about as long as his forearm. Next he tears a strip of wool from the inside of his cloak and squats down beside the pool to soak it in the water.

“You’re a handy fellow,” says Beowulf.

“So they tell me,” laughs Wiglaf, but then there’s a loud splash from the tarn, and by the time he and Beowulf look up, there are only ripples spreading out across the surface. Wiglaf glances up at Beowulf. “Care for a swim?” he asks.

“A funny handy fellow,” Beowulf replies, keeping both his eyes on the pool. “Grendel’s dam is not the only monster haunting this lake,” he says, for now he can see sinuous forms moving about just beneath the surface, the coils of something like an eel, but grown almost large as a whale. Wiglaf sees it, too, and he takes the strip of wool from the water and scrambles quickly away from the shore.

One of the coils rises slowly from the water, its green-black hide glistening in the twilight before it slips back into the deep.

“Maybe Hrothgar’s grandfather lied about killing the dragon,” says Wiglaf. “Could be he only wounded it.”

“Finish the torch,” Beowulf tells him.

“Could be it had babies.”

“Finish the torch,” Beowulf says again, and he reaches for the golden horn of Hrothgar, still dangling from a loop on his belt. “You can keep the wee dragons busy while I take care of the she-troll.”

“I’ll make a lovely morsel,” snorts Wiglaf, tying the damp wool securely about one end of the branch. Soon, with a few sparks from his flint, the bough has become a roaring torch. “The water burns,” he says, and forces a smile, passing the brand to Beowulf.

“I will see you again, my friend Wiglaf, and soon,” Beowulf tells him, then, before Wiglaf can reply, Beowulf wades into the pool and disappears through the opening in the tangle of roots. Briefly, the hollow place beneath the trees glows yellow-orange with the torch’s light. When the entrance has grown dark again, Wiglaf moves farther away from the tarn, climbing back up the bank to sit out of the wind among the oaks. He lays his sword across his lap and watches the water and the things moving about just beneath it, and tries to remember the end of the story of Hildeburh and the Frisian king.

The passage below the trees is narrow, and Beowulf stands near the entrance for a time, the cold water from the tarn flowing slowly about his knees. The ceiling of the tunnel is high enough that he does not have to stoop or worry about striking his head. He holds the brand in his left hand, Hrunting in his right, and the torchlight causes the walls of the cave to glitter and gleam brilliantly. Never before has he seen stone quite like this, neither granite nor limestone, something the color of slate, yet pocked with clusters of quartz crystals, and where the roots of the trees have pushed through from above, they have been covered over the countless centuries with a glossy coating of dripstone, entombed though they might yet be alive.

Don’t tarry here, he thinks. Do this thing quick as you can, and be done with it. And so Beowulf follows the glittering tunnel deeper into the hillside, and when he has gone only a hundred or so steps, it opens out into a great chamber or cavern. Here the water spilling in from the tarn has formed an underground lake. He can only guess at its dimensions, as the torchlight is insufficient to penetrate very far into that gloom there below the earth. But he thinks it must be very wide, and he tries not to consider what creatures might lurk within its secret depths. The waters are black and still, and rimmed all about with elaborate stalactite and stalagmite formations.

The teeth of the dragon, thinks Beowulf, but he pushes the unpleasant thought aside. They are only stone, and he has seen the likes of them before. He takes a few steps into the cavern, playing the torchlight out across the pool, when suddenly it gutters and goes out, as though it has been snuffed by a breath both unseen and unfelt. The blackness rushes in about him, and it’s little consolation that a lesser man might now retreat and relight the torch.

The oil from the tarn has burned out, he tells himself. It was no more than that. I am alone in the dark, but it is only the dark of any cave.

But then, suddenly, an eldritch glow comes to take the place of the extinguished torch, a bright chartreuse light like the shine of a thousand fireflies sparking all at once. And Beowulf realizes that this new illumination is coming from Hrothgar’s golden horn, hanging on his belt. He reaches for it cautiously, for surely anything that shines with such radiance must be hot to the touch. But the metal is as cool as ever. Cold, in fact. He tosses the useless torch aside and unhooks the horn from his belt. There is nothing healthy in this new light, nothing natural, though he cannot deny it holds a fascination and that there is some unnerving beauty about it.

“So the demon shuns the light of the world,” he says, speaking only half to himself, captivated by the horn’s unearthly splendor. “But it also knows I cannot find my way down to it without some lamp to guide me, so I am given this, a ghostly beacon fit only for dwarves, that I may arrive and yet not offend her eyes.”

For a moment, he stares out across the lake, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but the steady drip of water from the cavern’s roof and the indistinct babble of the stream from the tunnel flowing gently about his legs into the pool.

“Show yourself, aeglaeca!” he shouts, expecting if not her answer at least the company of his own echo. But there comes neither. Only the sounds of water, which seem to make the silence that much more absolute.

“This is not like you!” Beowulf shouts, much louder than before. “You were bold enough when you stole into Heorot to murder sleeping men! Have you now lost your nerve, she-troll?” But once again there is no reply and no echo.

“Then I shall come down to you!” he bellows as loudly as he can. And Beowulf begins to undress, for his iron breastplate and mail are heavy and would surely drag him straight to the muddy bottom of the subterranean lake. “We will meet in whatever dank place you now cower,” he cries out across the water, “if that is how you would have it!”

Does she hear me? Is she listening? Is she crouched out there somewhere, biding her time, laughing at me?

Beowulf leaves his armor and belt, his tunic and breeches and boots, bundled together and lying in a dry place at the edge of the pool. Carrying only Hrunting and the golden horn, which is glowing even more brightly than before, he wades out into the icy water. The floor of the lake is slimy underneath his bare feet, and once or twice he slips, almost losing his balance. When the water has risen as high as his chest, Beowulf draws as deep a breath as he may and slips below the surface. Holding the horn out before him like a lantern, he swims along the bottom. The pool is stained with peat from the tarn and by silt, and the glow of Hrothgar’s horn reaches only a few feet into the red-brown murk. But soon he can see the bottom, strewn with the bones of men and many sorts of animals jumbled together—horses and wild boars, deer and auroch, the toothsome skulls of great bears and the wide, pronged antlers of bull moose. Her dining hall, then, this lake below the hill, and for long ages must she have returned to this place with her victims, feeding where none will disturb her.

Nestled in among the bones are gigantic white crayfish, their spiny shells gone as pale as milk down here in the eternal night, and they wave their huge pincers menacingly as Beowulf passes. There are other things, as well, eels as white as the crayfish and large as sharks, their long jaws armed with row upon row of needle-sharp teeth. Whenever they come too near, he fends them off with Unferth’s sword. Only once does the blade find its mark, carving a long gash in a serpentine body and sending the eel slithering away to safety. Blood clouds the water, making it still harder for Beowulf to find his way.

He rises for another gulp of air, only to discover that this far out the ceiling of the cave has grown unexpectedly low, now mere inches above the pool. He can see that it slopes down to meet the water only a few feet ahead, so this will be his last breath unless he chooses to turn back.

“If the Norns decree I should survive this ordeal,” he says, wiping water from his eyes, “then by the gods, I will teach you to swim, Wiglaf.” And then he takes another breath and submerges again.

Below him, the grisly carpet of bones has thinned out, and Beowulf soon comes upon an immense cleft in the lake’s floor, a wide black chasm beckoning him on to still-greater and more terrible depths. A weak but persistent current flowing into the hole tugs at him, and he hesitates only a moment, sensing this must surely be the path that will lead him to Grendel’s mother. There is no knowing how far it might extend, if it will ever come to another pocket of air, but he pushes on, regardless.

And before Beowulf has gone very far, the current has grown markedly stronger, so that he hardly has to swim at all. The chasm narrows, becoming another tunnel, and the current sucks him helplessly along its moss-slicked course. The golden horn glows more brightly than ever, but it is cold comfort indeed that he will not die in utter darkness. The spent air filling his lungs is aching to escape, and his heart pounds loudly in his ears. The tunnel becomes narrower still, so that he is dragged roughly along this stone gullet, his flesh cut and battered by the pockets of quartz crystals and by every irregularity in the rock. And still the tunnel grows narrower. Soon, he thinks, he will be able to go no farther, so constricted will be this passageway, and as he lacks the strength and air to fight his way back against the current, he will drown here. This will be his grave, and the mother of the demon Grendel will have won. He feels his grip on Hrunting growing slack, and the golden horn almost slips from his fingers. Oblivion begins to press in at the edges of his mind, and Beowulf closes his eyes and waits to die.

But then the tunnel releases its hold on him, and he is buoyed suddenly upward, and Beowulf finds himself gasping at the surface of another underground pool. The current carries him onto a rocky shore, where he lies coughing and vomiting gouts of salty water, coming slowly back to himself. He opens his stinging eyes, blinking and squinting, trying to force them into focus.

“Where have you brought me to, demon?” he croaks, then begins to cough again.

“To me,” replies a voice from somewhere overhead, a voice that is at once beautiful and loathsome and fearsome to hear. “Is that not where you wished to find yourself, here with me?”

Beowulf rises slowly onto hands and knees, rough bits of gravel biting into his exposed skin. “You are the mother of the monster Grendel?” he asks the voice, then coughs up more water.

“He was my son,” the voice says. “But, I assure you, he was no monster.”

“Your voice,” says Beowulf, rolling over onto his back, turning to face the voice and brandishing Hrunting. “Your voice…it’s not what I would have expected of a sea hag and the mother of a troll.”

“He was no troll,” the voice replies, and now Beowulf thinks that there’s a hint of anger there.

“Show yourself, beast!” Beowulf calls out as best he can, his voice still raw from having swallowed, then spat up so much of the pool. “Let me see you.”

“In time. Do not hurry so to meet your doom.”

“Bitch,” he hisses and spits into the mud. Sitting upright, fighting back dizziness and nausea, his vision begins to clear. And at last Beowulf looks for the first time upon the strange realm into which the current has delivered him. At once he knows this can be no ordinary cavern, but instead the belly of some colossus. The fyrweorm slain by Beow, perhaps, just as Unferth said, and now its calcified ribs rise toward the ceiling like the arches of Hel’s own hall. They glow blue-green with an unearthly phosphorescence, as do the walls, and Beowulf sees that there is a mighty hoard of treasure heaped all about the floor and banked high along the walls. In some places, the stones and those titan ribs are encrusted with a dazzling mantle of gold and gemstones.

Slowly, he gets to his feet, clutching Hrunting and holding Hrothgar’s horn out before him. Its shine illuminates more of the cavern floor before him, and Beowulf can see one corner heaped high with the rotting corpses of recently dead thanes, their armor ripped apart as though it had been no more than birch bark, their bellies gutted, their faces obliterated by claws and teeth. And Beowulf also sees the stone slab where the body of Grendel now rests. The monster’s severed arm lies propped in place against its mangled shoulder. The corpse is a shriveled, pitiable thing, a gray husk devoid of any of its former threat, and Beowulf finds it hard to believe this could be the same creature he battled two nights before. Above the corpse and the slab hangs a broadsword, sheathed and mounted on iron brackets, a sword so large and heavy no mortal man could ever hope to lift it, a sword that might well have been forged in the furnaces of the Frost Giants.

“Does it pain you,” Beowulf says, taking a single cautious step toward the altar, “to see him dead? To see him lying broken and so diminished?”

“You do not yet know pain,” the voice says. “As yet, that word means nothing to you, little man.” And then there’s a scrabbling, scratching sound from somewhere close behind him, and Beowulf turns quickly about, peering into the shadows and the eerie blue-green light of the cavern for its source. But there’s no sign of whatever might have made the noise, no evidence except the taunting voice to say he’s not alone. Beowulf holds the golden horn still higher.

“I see you brought me treasure,” the voice says.

“I have brought you nothing but death,” he replies.

And now Beowulf catches sight of something there amongst the hoarded riches, what appears to be a golden statue, though a statue of what he cannot say. Perhaps it was an idol, long ago, for he has heard stories of ancient cults and the old religion once practiced by the Danes, of blood sacrifices made by men and women who did not hold Odin as the highest among the Æsir. Sacrifices to goddesses said to inhabit especially deep lakes, though this statue surely resembles no goddess. It is a grotesque thing, as though its creators had in mind some hideous amalgam of a lizard and a sea beast. Its eyes are lapis lazuli, and its coarse mane seems to have been woven from a golden thread. Beowulf turns back toward the altar, and he gazes in awe at the giant sword hanging there above Grendel’s body.

“Your beautiful horn,” the voice says. “It glows so…delightfully.”

And once again he hears that scurrying from somewhere close behind him, and this time Beowulf does not turn, but only glances back over his shoulder. Light reflecting off the pool dances across the walls of the cave and across the statue. Something seems different about it, as though it subtly shifted position—the angle of its head, the arrangement of its reptilian limbs—when he looked away. But this must be only some trick of the cave’s peculiar lighting, some deceit his eyes have played upon his mind.

“Show yourself,” he says. “I have not come so far, through flood and muck, to bandy words with a shade.”

“You have come because I have called for you,” the voice replies, and now Beowulf does turn to face the statue once again. But it is vanished, gone. Before he can long ponder its disappearance, there’s a loud splash from the pool, as though something has fallen from the wall into the water. Only a loose stone, perhaps, but he raises Hrunting and watches the pool.

“I have come to avenge those who were slain while they slept,” he says. “I have come to seek justice for the thirteen good men who sailed the whale’s-road and fought with me.”

Ripples begin spreading out across the surface, creating small waves that lap against the shore, and from the shimmering water rises the likeness of a woman, entirely naked and more beautiful than any Beowulf has ever before beheld or imagined. There is an odd metallic glint to her complexion, as though her skin has been dusted with gold, and all about her there is a glow like the rising sun after a long and bitter night. Her flaxen hair is pulled back into a single braid, so long that it reaches almost to her feet. Her pale blue eyes shine bright and pure, as though blazing with some inner fire. And then she speaks, and it is the same voice that has mocked him since he entered the dragon’s belly.

“Are you the one they call Beowulf?” she asks. “The wolf of the bees? The bear? Such a strong man you are. A man with the strength of a king in him. The king you will one day become.”

“What do you want of me, demon?”

She moves gracefully, fearlessly, toward him, somehow treading on the surface of the water. Her long braid swings from side to side, seeming almost to undulate with a life all its own, flicking like a serpent or the tail of an excited animal.

“I know that underneath your glamour you’re as much a monster as my son Grendel. Perhaps more so.”

Beowulf takes a step back from the edge of the pool.

“My glamour?” he asks.

“One needs a glamour to become a king,” she replies. “That men will follow you. That they will fear you.”

And now, in hardly the time it takes to draw a breath, she has reached the shore and is standing before him, her lustrous skin and twitching braid dripping onto the stones at her feet.

“You will not bewitch me,” he growls, and slashes at her throat with Hrunting, expecting to see her head parted cleanly from her shoulders and toppling back into the pool from whence she has risen. But she grabs the blade, moving more quickly than his eyes can follow. She holds it fast, and try though he might, Beowulf cannot wrest it from her grip. She smiles, and dark blood oozes from her palm, flowing onto the blade of Unferth’s ancestral sword.

“And I know,” she says, gazing directly into Beowulf’s eyes. “A man like you could own the greatest tale ever sung. The story of your bravery, your greatness, would live on when everything now alive is gone to dust.”

And now Beowulf sees that where her blood has touched the iron blade it has begun to steam and dissolve, the way icicles melt in bright sunshine.

“Beowulf,” she says, “it has been a long time since a man has come to visit me.”

And then she pushes hard against Hrunting, shedding more of her corrosive blood, and the entire blade is liquefied in an instant, spilling onto the ground between them in dull spatters of silver. The hilt falls from Beowulf’s hand and clatters loudly against the rocks, and his fingers have begun to tingle. And he feels her inside his head, her thoughts moving in amongst his own. He gasps and shakes his head, trying to force her out.

“I don’t need…a sword…to kill you.”

“Of course you don’t, my love.”

“I slew your son…without a sword.”

“I know,” she purrs. “You are so very strong.”

She reaches out, her fingertips brushing gently, lovingly, against his cheek, and already the gash in her palm has healed. Beowulf can see himself reflected in her blue eyes, and his pupils have swollen until his own eyes seem almost black.

“You took a son from me,” she says, and she leans forward, whispering into his ear. “Give me a son, brave thane, wolf of the bees, first born of Ecgtheow. Stay with me. Love me.”

“I know what you are,” mumbles Beowulf breathlessly, lost and wandering in her now. Somehow, she has swallowed him alive, and like Hrunting, he is melting, undone by magic and the acid flowing in her demon’s veins.

“Shhhhh,” she whispers, and strokes his face. “Do not be afraid. There is no need to fear me. Love me…and I shall weave you riches beyond imagination. I shall make you the greatest king of men who has ever lived.”

“You lie,” says Beowulf, and it requires all his strength to manage those two words. They are only a wisp passing across his lips, a death rattle, an ill-defined echo of himself. He struggles to remember what has brought him to this devil’s lair. He tries to recall Wiglaf’s voice, the sight of dead men dangling from the rafters of Heorot and the screams of women, the sea hag that visited him in a dream, disguised as Queen Wealthow. But they are all flimsy, fading scraps, those memories, nothing so urgent they could ever distract him from her.

The merewife reaches down and runs her fingers along the golden horn, Hrothgar’s prize, Beowulf’s reward, then she slips her arms around Beowulf’s waist and draws him nearer to her. She kisses his bare chest and the soft flesh of his throat.

“To you I swear, as long as this golden horn remains in my keeping, you will forever be King of the Danes. I do not lie. I have ever kept my promises and I ever shall.”

And then she takes the horn from him. He doesn’t try to stop her. And she holds him tighter still.

“Forever strong, mighty…and all-powerful. Men will bow before you and serve you loyally, even unto death. This I promise.”

Her skin is sweating gold, and her eyes gnaw their way deeper into his soul, and Beowulf remembers when he swam against Brecca and something he first mistook for a herald of the Valkyries pulled him under the waves…

“This I swear,” the merewife whispers.

“I remember you,” he says.

“Yes,” she replies. “You do.” And her lips find his, and all he has ever desired in all his life is for this kiss to never end.

14 Hero

It is only an hour or so past dawn when Beowulf reemerges from the tangled curtain of roots and the tunnel below the three oaks growing there on the high bank beside the tarn. There is a gentle but persistent tug about his legs from the languid current, all that water draining away, flowing down the dragon’s throat, gurgling down to its innards. He stands watching the white morning mists rising lazily from the tarn, this dark lake so long ago named Weormgræf by people who had heard the lay of Beow’s triumph here or by travelers who had glimpsed for themselves its awful inhabitants. And at first, Beowulf thinks that he’s alone, that Wiglaf has given him up for dead, that Wiglaf and Unferth have ridden together back to Heorot to give the king and queen the news of his demise beneath the hill and to prepare for the merewife’s inevitable return. But then he hears footsteps and sees Wiglaf coming quickly across the rocky shore toward him.

“You bastard!” shouts Wiglaf happily, and there is relief in his voice and sleepless exhaustion in his eyes. “I thought you’d swum away home without me!”

“The thought crossed my mind but briefly,” Beowulf calls back, and then he splashes to the muddy edge of the tarn and hauls himself out of the oily water. He drops the heavy wool sack at his feet, the obscene lading he’s carried all the way back up from the merewife’s hall, and sits down beside it. It’s colder above ground than it was below, and there is the raw wind, as well, and he rubs his hands together for warmth.

“I thought sure you had drowned,” Wiglaf says, standing over him. “The trees said no, you’d been eaten. There was a crow who swore you’d only lost your way and died of fright.”

“And here I’ve disappointed the lot of you.”

“I’m sure it couldn’t be helped.”

Wiglaf squats in front of Beowulf, eyeing the woolen sack, which has begun to leak some sticky black substance onto the stones.

“Is it done, then?” he asks.

“It’s done,” Beowulf replies, and Wiglaf, yet more relieved, nods his head.

“We’re going to have to walk back, you know,” Wiglaf sighs and turns to gaze out across the bog toward the distant forest. “You told him to wait until first light and no longer.”

“A slight miscalculation,” says Beowulf. “Ah, well. Likely, it will not kill us. And think how surprised they will be to see us, after Unferth has told them we have perished in the night.”

“Aye,” replies Unferth. “But I’ll not be carrying that,” and he points at the leaking sack.

“You’ve become an old woman, Wiglaf,” Beowulf tells him. “But I think we’d already established that.”

“There are no more of them? No more monsters?”

“It is done,” Beowulf says again, and rubs at his eyes. “Heorot Hall is safe.”

“And we can sail for home?”

“Unless you’ve a better idea,” says Beowulf, and he gets to his feet again. Staring out over the still, black lake and its rainbow shimmer, he wonders if Wiglaf could get another fire going, and if the water truly would burn, as Agnarr said it has in times past, and if the flames might find the path down to the belly of the beast.

“We should get going,” Wiglaf says. “With luck, we can make it back before nightfall.”

“With luck,” Beowulf agrees, and soon they have left the tarn far behind and are picking their way back across the bog toward the ancient forest and the wide moorlands beyond.

And, indeed, the sun has not yet set when the two Geats step wearily across the threshold of Hrothgar’s mead hall. They find Hrothgar there with his queen and Unferth and the small number of able-bodied men who yet remain in the king’s service. The corpses have been taken down from the rafters, and some of the blood has been scrubbed away. But the hall still stinks of the slaughter.

“It is a miracle!” bellows the old man on his throne. “Unferth, he said—”

“—only what he was bidden to tell you, my lord,” says Beowulf, and he unties the wool sack and dumps its contents out upon the floor. The head of Grendel thuds loudly against the flagstones and rolls a few feet, coming to a stop at the edge of the dais. Its eyes bulge from their sockets, clouded and empty, and its mouth is agape, the swollen tongue lolling from withered lips and cracked yellow fangs. Wealthow gasps and turns her face away.

“It is dead, my lady,” says Beowulf. “Do not fear to look upon the face of Grendel, for it will bring no more harm to you or your people. When I’d finished with the demon’s mother, I cut off the brute’s head that none here could doubt his undoing.”

“It is over,” says Wiglaf, standing directly behind Beowulf. “True to his word, my lord has slain the fiends.”

Hrothgar’s disbelieving eyes dart from Wealthow to Unferth, then to Beowulf and back to the severed head, his face betraying equal parts astonishment and horror, awe and joy at the gruesome prize the Geat has laid at his feet.

“Our curse…it has been lifted?” he asks, and glances back to Wealthow again.

“You see here before you the unquestionable proof,” answers Beowulf, and he nudges Grendel’s head with the toe of his boot. “I tracked the mother of Grendel to her filthy burrow, far below earth and water, and there we fought. All night we struggled. She was ferocious, and it might easily have gone another way. She might have emerged the victor, for such was her fury. But the Fates weaving their skein beneath the roots of the World Ash decreed otherwise, that I should triumph and return to you this day with these glad tidings.”

And now a cheer rises from those few of Hrothgar’s thanes there in the hall who have survived the attacks, and also from the women who have come to clean away the blood.

“Son of Healfdene,” continues Beowulf, raising his voice to be heard, “Lord of the Scyldings, I pledge that you may now sleep safe with your warriors here beneath the roof of Heorot Hall. There is no more need of fear, no more threat of harm to you or your people. It is over.”

“I see,” says Hrothgar, speaking hardly above a whisper. “Yes, I can see this.” But to Beowulf, the king seems lost in some secret inner turmoil, and the happiness on the old man’s face appears little more than a poorly constructed mask. There is a madness in his eyes, and Beowulf looks to Queen Wealthow, but she has turned away.

“For fifty years,” says Hrothgar, “did I rule this country, the Ring-Danes’ land. I have defended it in time of war…and I have fought with the sword and with ax and spear against many invading tribes. Indeed…I had come to believe that all my foes were vanquished. But then Grendel struck…and I believed at last there had come among us an enemy that no man would ever defeat.” And Hrothgar leans forward in his seat and raises his voice.

“I despaired…and my heart…my savaged heart abandoned all hope. And now I praise Odin Allfather that I have lived to see this head, torn from off that hateful demon and dripping gore…and to hear that his foul dam has been slain as well.” And then he turns to Unferth. “Take it from my sight, Unferth! Nail it up high, that all will see—”

“No,” says Wealthow, turning to face her husband once more. “No, not again. Once already has this hall been profaned by such a hideous trophy, and I will not see it done again.”

“Wealthow, my love—” Hrothgar begins, but she cuts him off a second time.

“No. I will not invite some new horror into our midst by flaunting Lord Beowulf’s victory over the fiends. No one among us can say that there may not yet be others, watching and waiting their turn, and we will not provoke them. I will not have it, husband.”

Hrothgar frowns and furrows his brow, running his fingers through his gray beard. He stares deep into the dead eyes of Grendel, as if seeking there some hindmost spark of life, some ghost that might yet linger, undetected by the others. But then the king takes a deep breath and nods, conceding to the will of his queen.

“So be it.” He sighs and leans back on his throne. “Take it away…hurl it into the sea. Let us be done with it. Never let us look upon that face again.”

Unferth nods to two of his thanes, and soon the severed head has been speared on long pikes and carried off to a balcony. Another cheer rises from the hall when the head of Grendel is flung over the railing to tumble and bounce down the cliff face and at last be swallowed by the sea.

And the next evening, though the blood of those slain by Grendel’s dam has not yet been washed completely from the walls and floors and roof beams of Heorot Hall—and likely it never shall be—the feasting begins. The world has been rid of monsters, and finally the horned hall can serve the purpose for which it was built. Finally, the men of Hrothgar’s land can feast and drink there and forget the hardships and dangers of the hard world beyond those walls. And the feast honors Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, and Wiglaf and the thirteen Geats who have died that this might be so. A long table has been carried onto the throne dais, and there the two men who braved the marches to slay the merewife and return with the head of Grendel sit in a place of distinction. The hall is alive with the boisterous din of merrymaking, with laughter and bawdy jokes and drunken curses, with song and the harpestry, with carefree, blissful celebration untainted by dread or trepidation. The cooking fire sends smoke and delicious smells up the chimney and out into the cold night. The fattest hog that could be found is hefted onto the king’s table, its skin steaming and crisp.

Unferth is seated on Beowulf’s left, and he leans close, summoning the confidence to ask a question that has been on his mind since the Geat’s return from the wilderness, for the mead has given him courage.

“Beowulf, mighty monster-killer. There is something I must ask. Hrunting, my father’s sword, did it help you to destroy the hag?”

Beowulf lifts his mead cup, surprised only the question did not come sooner. “It…it did,” he replies, faltering but a little as he shapes the story he will tell Unferth. “Indeed, I believe the demon hag would not be dead without it.”

Unferth looks pleased, so Beowulf takes up the knife from his plate and continues.

“I plunged Hrunting into the chest of Grendel’s mother,” and he demonstrates by sticking his knife deeply into the ribs of the roast pig. “When I drew it free from her corpse”—and here he pulls the knife from the pig—“the creature sprang back to life…so I plunged it once more into the she-troll’s chest…” Again Beowulf stabs the roast pig. “And there it will stay, friend Unferth, even until Ragnarök.”

“Until Ragnarök,” whispers Unferth, a note of awe in his voice, and he nods his head, then takes Beowulf’s hand and kisses it. “Our people shall be grateful until the end of time,” he says.

Beowulf finishes off the mead in his cup; Unferth’s gratitude at his easy, convincing lie has provoked a sudden and unexpected pang of guilt, an emotion with which Beowulf is more or less unfamiliar.

Better to tell them what they need to hear, he thinks, then catches Wiglaf watching him from across the table. And now Queen Wealthow is refilling his cup, and he smiles for her. She is seated at his right, and pours from a large wooden jug carved to resemble a boar.

“I thought you might need some more drink,” she says.

“Aye,” replies Beowulf. “Always.”

“And the golden drinking horn. Do you still have it?”

So now there’s need of another lie, but this time he has it at the ready and doesn’t miss a beat.

“No,” he tells her. “I knew the greedy witch desired it, so I threw the horn into the bog, and she followed after it. And that’s where I struck…” Unferth is still watching him, and Beowulf nods in his direction. “…with the mighty sword Hrunting,” he adds, then takes a deep breath. “Once she was dead, I searched for it, but it was gone forever.”

There is a faint glint of uncertainty in the queen’s violet eyes, and Beowulf sees that she is perhaps not so eager to believe as Unferth, that she might have ideas of her own about what happened at the tarn. But then Hrothgar is on his feet, coming suddenly up behind Beowulf and snatching away his plain cup, dashing its contents to the floor. He seizes Beowulf by the arm.

“Then, my good wife,” bellows Hrothgar, “find our hero another cup, one befitting so great a man. Meanwhile, the hero and I must talk.”

Hrothgar, already drunken and slurring his speech, guides Beowulf away from the table and into the anteroom behind the dais. He shuts the door behind him and locks it, then drains his cup and wipes his lips on his sleeve.

“Tell me,” he begins, then pauses to belch. He wipes at his mouth again and continues. “You brought back the head of Grendel. But what about the head of the mother?”

Beowulf scowls and plays at looking confused. “With her dead and cold, lying at the bottom on the tarn. Is it not enough to return with one monster’s head?”

Hrothgar stares discontentedly into his empty mead cup, then tosses it aside. It bounces across the floor and rolls to a stop against the double doors leading out to the balcony overlooking the sea.

“Did you kill her?” he asks Beowulf. “And speak true, for I will know if you lie.”

“My lord, would you like to hear the story again, how I struggled with that monstrous hag—”

“She is no hag, Beowulf. A demon, yes, yes, to be sure, but not a hag. We both know that. Now, answer me, damn you! Did you kill her?”

And Beowulf takes a step back, wishing he were anywhere but this small room, facing anyone but the King of the Danes.

I know that underneath your glamour you’re as much a monster as my son Grendel, the merewife purred.

One needs a glamour to become a king…

“I would have an answer now,” says Hrothgar.

“Would I have been allowed to escape her had I not?” asks Beowulf, answering with a question, and he suspects that Hrothgar knows the answer—the true answer. The old man backs away, hugging himself now and shuddering. Hrothgar wrings his hands and glances at Beowulf.

“Grendel is dead, and with my own eyes have I seen the proof,” he says, and shudders again. “Not even that fiend could live on without his head. Yes, Grendel is dead. That’s all that matters to me. Grendel will trouble me no more. The hag, she is not my curse. Not anymore.”

To Beowulf, these are the words of a man fighting to convince himself of something he knows to be otherwise. They stare at each other in silence for a long moment, then Hrothgar takes the golden circlet from off his head and frowns down at it.

“They think this band of gold is all there is to being king. They think because I wear this, I am somehow wiser than they. Braver. Better. Is that what you believe?” he asks Beowulf.

“I could not say, my lord.”

“One day,” says Hrothgar, placing the crown once more on his head, “one day you will, I think. One day, you will understand the price—the terrible price—to be paid for her favors, and for the throne. You will know how a puppet feels, dangling on its strings…” Then he trails off and chews at his lower lip.

“My Lord Hrothgar—” Beowulf begins, but the king raises a hand to silence him. There’s a mad gleam shining in the old man’s eyes, and it frightens Beowulf more than the sight of any terror that might yet lurk in bogs or over foggy moors.

“No, I will speak no more of this,” Hrothgar says, and he turns and unlocks the door and steps back out into the mead hall, and Beowulf follows him. When Hrothgar reaches the feasting table on the dais, he takes a place behind Wealthow’s chair, and at the top of his voice, he addresses the hall.

“Listen!” he roars. “Listen to me, all of you! Because Lord Beowulf is a mighty hero. Because he killed the demon Grendel, and laid its mother in her grave. Because he lifted the curse from off this accursed, beleaguered land. And because I have no heir…”

Hrothgar pauses to take a breath, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. The harpist has stopped playing, and the scop has stopped singing. Most of the hall has fallen silent and turned toward the dais. Beowulf glances at Wealthow, and she wears the mien of a frightened woman.

“Because…” continues Hrothgar, even louder than before. “Because all these things are true—and no one here among you may dare to say otherwise—I declare that on my death I leave all that I possess—my kingdom, my riches, my hall…and even my queen…It all goes to Beowulf.”

Unferth rises, confused, and he glances nervously from Beowulf to Hrothgar. “But,” he stammers, “my lord, surely you—”

“I have spoken!” bellows Hrothgar, and Unferth sits down again. “There will be no argument. When I am gone, Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, shall be your king!”

And then, for the space occupied by no more than half a dozen heartbeats, a shocked silence lies heavy over the hall, a silence like storm clouds, but then it breaks apart and all those assembled under Heorot begin to cheer.

“My husband,” says Queen Wealthow, her voice almost lost in the throng’s hurrahs and hoorays, the cries of “Long live Hrothgar” and “All hail Beowulf,” the whistling and clapping of hands. “Are you sure you know what it is you’ve done?”

But the king of the horned hall does not reply, only winks knowingly at her as though they share some secret. And so she glances to Unferth, who sits, hands folded on the table before him, silent, his jaw set, his teeth clenched. She knows that in earlier times, before Grendel and the coming of the Geats, that Unferth, son of Ecglaf, had believed with good cause that he would one day wear the crown and rule the kingdom of the Ring-Danes. She, too, had believed he would be Hrothgar’s successor to the throne.

Hrothgar bends down and whispers in his lady’s ear. His voice is thin, like high mountain air or old paper.

“I have had my days in the sun,” he tells Wealthow. “I have had my nights with you, sweet queen, and taken my pleasures. Now, I would see another in my stead. And in my bed, as well. One who is truly worthy of these honors. One you may find both more suitable and less loathsome.”

Many of the people in the hall have begun to climb onto the dais, crowding in around Beowulf, offering their congratulations and generous tributes to his bravery and future reign. He smiles, but it’s an uneasy, uncertain smile, too filled up with the dizzying shock one feels when events turn too quickly, when dreams seem as real as waking thought. He glances to Wiglaf, but Wiglaf is staring deep into his mead cup, some peculiar sadness on his face, and he does not see Beowulf. And now the merewife’s promises come back to him again, and might not that have only been a dream? Her hands upon him, her lips so cold against his?

Love me, and I shall weave you riches beyond imagination. I shall make you the greatest king of men who has ever lived.

And now Hrothgar, son of Healfdene, grandson of Beow, turns to face him, and the old king bows, but only very slightly, and there is another deafening cheer from the hall. Then Hrothgar turns away and walks back toward the door leading to the anteroom behind the dais and then to the balcony beyond.

Queen Wealthow, feeling a sudden chill, a peculiar unease, turns to watch her husband as he takes his leave of the celebration. But she tells herself that whatever disquiet she feels is only a natural reaction to Hrothgar’s startling abdication and nothing more. She watches him pass through the fire-lit anteroom and out onto the balcony, and Wealthow tells herself he needs some time alone, and so she keeps her seat and does not follow him.

Out on the balcony, the north gale whips at the old man’s beard and at his robes, the breath of a giant to fuel high white waves. He faces the sea, and at his back lies his home and wife, all his lands, his kingdom and everything that he has ever done. All brave deeds and every act of cowardice, all his strengths and weaknesses, his victories and defeats. All he has loved and hated.

“Enough,” he says. “I will go no farther.” But the wind takes the words away and scatters them like ash. Hrothgar reaches up, removing the circlet from his head, that crown of hammered gold first worn by his great-grandfather, Shield Sheafson. He sets it safely in the lee of the low balustrade, so the wind will not carry it away.

“I will not see Ásgard,” he says. “It is not meant for the eyes of men like me,” and then Hrothgar steps over the balustrade and lets the abyss take him. Perhaps he hears Wealthow screaming and perhaps it is only the wind in his ears.

And in the instant before the fall has ended and he strikes the rocks, Hrothgar glimpses with watering eyes something slithering about beneath the fast-approaching waves, something plated round with glittering scales, a gilded woman with the sinuous tail of an eel, the unmistakable form of the merewife.

And only seconds later, Wealthow stands at the edge of the balcony, staring down at his body shattered there on the sea-licked granite boulders far below. By the time Beowulf reaches her side, by the time Unferth and Wiglaf and others from the hall have seen for themselves that Hrothgar is gone, she’s stopped screaming. She has stuffed the knuckles of one fist into her mouth and is biting down on them to choke the sound in her throat.

And then all the sea appears to draw back, gathering itself into a towering, whitecapped surge, a wave high enough to reach the fallen king’s body. It rushes forward, a crashing, frothing shroud for a broken corpse, and when it retreats, it takes Hrothgar away with it, and he passes forever from the eyes of man. Then the waves are only waves again, and the wind is only wind.

Wealthow takes her hand from her mouth. There’s blood on her knuckles, tiny wounds born of her own teeth. The wind is freezing her tears upon her cheeks. “He must have fallen,” she says, knowing it’s a lie. “He was drunk, and he must have fallen.”

Unferth has put one arm protectively about her shoulders, as though he fears she will follow her husband over the ledge. But now he sees the circlet lying where Hrothgar set it, and he releases her and stoops to pick it up. It seems unnaturally heavy in his hands, this dull ring of gold that might have been his, that he might have worn had Grendel’s assault upon Heorot never begun. If he had been the man who slew the monster and its mother. But it is so very heavy, heavier than it has any right to be. Unferth turns to Beowulf and Wiglaf and the thanes who have shoved their way through the anteroom and out onto the balcony. They are all watching him, wide-eyed and silent. Unferth holds the crown up so all can see, and he looks Beowulf in the eye.

“All hail,” he says, and swallows, the words sticking like dust in his throat. “All hail King Beowulf!”

And he places the golden circlet on Beowulf’s head, glad to be rid of the crown. In years to come, he will recall the way it felt in his fingers, the weight of it, the peculiar sense that it was somehow unclean. For a time there is only the howling of the winter wind, the waves battering themselves against the rocky shore. But then Wealthow turns and looks upon her new king.

“You wear it well, my lord,” she says, forcing a smile, and she pushes her way through the crowd, back toward the shelter of Heorot Hall. By the time she’s reached the throne dais, the thanes have begun to cheer.