A Book of Myths
In Denmark, so goes the story, when the people were longing for a
king, to their shores there drifted, on a day when the white birds
were screaming over the sea-tangle and wreckage that a stormy sea, now
sinking to rest, was sweeping up on the shore, a little boat in which,
on a sheaf of ripe wheat and surrounded by priceless weapons and
jewels, there lay a most beautiful babe, who smiled in his sleep. That
he was the son of Odin they had no doubt, and they made him their
king, and served him faithfully and loyally for the rest of his life.
A worthy and a noble king was King Scyld Scefing, a ruler on land and
on the sea, of which even as an infant he had had no fear. But when
many years had come and gone, and when Scyld Scefing felt that death
drew near, he called his nobles to him and told them in what manner he
fain would pass. So they did as he said, and in a ship they built a
funeral pyre, and round it placed much gold and jewels, and on it laid
a sheaf of wheat. Then with very great pain and labour, for he was old
and Death's hand lay heavy upon him, the king climbed into the ship
and stretched out his limbs on the pyre, and said farewell to all his
faithful people. And the ship drifted out with the tide, and the
hearts of the watchers were heavy as they saw the sails of the vessel
that bore him vanish into the grey, and knew that their king had gone
back to the place from whence he came, and that they should look on
his face no more.
Behind him Scyld left descendants, and one after the other reigned
over Denmark. It was in the reign of his great-grandson, Hrothgar,
that there took place those things that are told in the story of
Beowulf.
A mighty king and warrior was Hrothgar, and far across the northern
seas his fame spread wide, so that all the warriors of the land that
he ruled were proud to serve under him in peace, and in war to die for
him. During his long life he and his men never went forth in their
black-prowed ships without returning with the joyous shouts of the
victor, with for cargo the rich spoil they had won from their enemies.
As he grew old, Hrothgar determined to raise for himself a mighty
monument to the magnificence of his reign, and so there was builded
for him a vast hall with majestic towers and lofty pinnacles--the
finest banqueting-hall that his skilled artificers could dream of. And
when at length the hall was completed, Hrothgar gave a feast to all
his thanes, and for days and for nights on end the great rafters of
Heorot--as his palace was named--echoed the shouts and laughter of the
mighty warriors, and the music of the minstrels and the songs that
they sang. A proud man was Hrothgar on the night that the banquet was
ended amidst the acclamations of his people, and a proud and happy man
he lay down to rest, while his bodyguard of mighty warriors stretched
themselves on the rush-strewn floor of the great room where they had
feasted, and deeply slumbered there.
Now, in the dark fens of that land there dwelt a monster--fierce,
noisome, and cruel, a thing that loved evil and hated all that was
joyous and good. To its ears came the ring of the laughter and the
shouts of King Hrothgar's revellers, and the sweet song of the gleemen
and the melody of harps filled it with fierce hatred. From its wallow
in the marshes, where the pestilent grey fog hung round its dwelling,
the monster, known to all men as the Grendel, came forth, to kill and
to devour. Through the dark night, across the lonely moorland, it made
its way, and the birds of the moor flew screaming in terror before it,
and the wild creatures of the desolate country over which it padded
clapped down in their coverts and trembled as it passed. It came at
length to the great hall where
"A fair troop of warrior thanes guarding it found he;
Heedlessly sleeping, they recked not of sorrow."
Never a thought did they give to the Grendel,--
"A haunter of marshes, a holder of moors,
... Secret
The land he inhabits; dark, wolf-haunted ways
Of the windy hillside, by the treacherous tarn;
Or where, covered up in its mist, the hill stream
Downward flows."
Soundly slept Hrothgar, nor opened eye until, in the bright light of
the morning, he was roused by terrified servants, forgetful of his
august royalty, impelled by terror, crying aloud their terrible tale.
They had come, they said, to lay on the floor of the banqueting-hall,
sweet, fresh rushes from the meadows, and to clear away all trace of
the feasting overnight. But the two-and-thirty knights who, in full
armour, had lain down to sleep were all gone, and on the floor was
the spoor of something foul and noisome, and on the walls and on the
trampled rushes were great and terrible smears of human blood.
They tracked the Grendel back to the marsh from whence he had come,
and shuddered at the sight of bestial footprints that left
blood-stains behind.
Terrible indeed was the grief of Hrothgar, but still more terrible was
his anger. He offered a royal reward to any man who would slay the
Grendel, and full gladly ten of his warriors pledged themselves to
sleep that night in the great hall and to slay the Grendel ere morning
came.
But dawn showed once more a piteous sight. Again there were only
trampled and blood-stained rushes, with the loathsome smell of unclean
flesh. Again the foul tracks of the monster were found where it had
padded softly back to its noisome fens.
There were many brave men in the kingdom of Hrothgar the Dane, and yet
again did they strive to maintain the dignity of the great hall,
Heorot, and to uphold the honour of their king. But through twelve
dismal years the Grendel took its toll of the bravest in the realm,
and to sleep in the place that Hrothgar had built as monument to his
magnificent supremacy, ever meant, for the sleeper, shameful death.
Well content was the Grendel, that grew fat and lusty amongst the grey
mists of the black marshes, unknowing that in the land of the Goths
there was growing to manhood one whose feet already should be echoing
along that path from which Death was to come.
In the realm of the Goths, Hygelac was king, and no greater hero
lived in his kingdom than Beowulf, his own sister's son. From the age
of seven Beowulf was brought up at the court of his uncle.
A great, fair, blue-eyed lad was Beowulf, lazy, and very slow to
wrath. When he had at last become a yellow-haired giant, of wondrous
good-temper, and leisurely in movement, the other young warriors of
Gothland had mocked at him as at one who was only a very huge, very
amiable child. But, like others of the same descent, Beowulf's anger,
if slow to kindle, was a terrible fire once it began to flame. A few
of those flares-up had shown the folk of his uncle's kingdom that no
mean nor evil deed might lightly be done, nor evil word spoken in the
presence of Beowulf. In battle against the Swedes, no sword had hewn
down more men than the sword of Beowulf. And when the champion swimmer
of the land of the Goths challenged the young giant Beowulf to swim a
match with him, for five whole days they swam together. A tempest
driving down from the twilight land of the ice and snow parted them
then, and he who had been champion was driven ashore and thankfully
struggled on to the beach of his own dear country once again. But the
foaming seas cast Beowulf on some jagged cliffs, and would fain have
battered his body into broken fragments against them, and as he fought
and struggled to resist their raging cruelty, mermaids and nixies and
many monsters of the deep joined forces with the waves and strove to
wrest his life from him. And while with one hand he held on to a sharp
rock, with the other he dealt with his sword stark blows on those
children of the deep who would fain have devoured him. Their bodies,
deep-gashed and dead, floated down to the coast of Gothland, and the
king and all those who looked for the corpse of Beowulf saw them,
amazed. Then at length came Beowulf himself, and with great gladness
was he welcomed, and the king, his uncle, gave him his treasured
sword, Naegeling, in token of his valour.
In the court of Hrothgar, the number of brave warriors ever grew
smaller. One man only had witnessed the terrible slaughter of one of
those black nights and yet had kept his life. He was a bard--a
scald--and from the land where he had seen such grim horror, he fled
to the land of the Goths, and there, in the court of the king, he sang
the gloomy tale of the never-ending slaughter of noble warriors by the
foul Grendel of the fens and moors.
Beowulf listened, enthralled, to his song. But those who knew him saw
his eyes gleam as the good steel blade of a sword gleams when it is
drawn for battle, and when he asked his uncle to allow him to go to
the land of the Danes and slay this filthy thing, his uncle smiled,
with no surprise, and was very well content.
So it came to pass that Beowulf, in his black-prowed ship, with
fourteen trusty followers, set sail from Gothland for the kingdom of
Hrothgar.
The warden of the Danish coast was riding his rounds one morning when
he beheld from the white cliffs a strange war-vessel making for the
shore. Skilfully the men on board her ran her through the surf, and
beached her in a little creek between the cliffs, and made her fast to
a rock by stout cables. Only for a little time the valiant warden
watched them from afar, and then, one man against fifteen, he rode
quickly down and challenged the warriors.
"What are ye warlike men wielding bright weapons,
Wearing grey corselets and boar-adorned helmets,
Who o'er the water-paths come with your foaming keel
Ploughing the ocean surge? I was appointed
Warden of Denmark's shores; watch hold I by the wave
That on this Danish coast no deadly enemy
Leading troops over sea should land to injure.
None have here landed yet more frankly coming
Than this fair company: and yet ye answer not
The password of warriors, and customs of kinsmen.
Ne'er have mine eyes beheld a mightier warrior,
An earl more lordly than is he the chief of you;
He is no common man; if looks belie him not,
He is a hero bold, worthily weaponed.
Anon must I know of you kindred and country,
Lest ye of spies should go free on our Danish soil.
Now ye men from afar, sailing the surging sea,
Have heard my earnest thought: best is a quick reply,
That I may swiftly know whence ye have hither come."
Then Beowulf, with fearless eyes, gazed in the face of the warden and
told him simply and unboastfully who he was, from whence he came, and
what was his errand. He had come as the nation's deliverer, to slay
the thing that
"Cometh in dark of night, sateth his secret hate,
Worketh through fearsome awe, slaughter and shame."
With joy the warden heard his noble words.
"My men shall beach your ship," he said, "and make her fast with a
barrier of oars against the greedy tide. Come with me to the king."
It was a gallant band that strode into Heorot, where sat the old
king, gloom overshadowing his soul. And fit leader for a band of
heroes was Beowulf, a giant figure in ring-mail, spear and shield
gleaming in his hand, and by his side the mighty sword, Naegeling. To
Hrothgar, as to the warden, Beowulf told the reason of his coming, and
hope began again to live in the heart of the king.
That night the warriors from the land of the Goths were feasted in the
great banqueting-hall where, for twelve unhappy years, voices had
never rung out so bravely and so merrily. The queen herself poured out
the mead with which the king and the men from Gothland pledged each