Beowulf Page 9

  “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.