The adventures of Beowulf, Episode 11

He saw by the cave,

he who had many virtues,

he who had survived many times

the battle flashes

when troops rush together,

a stream running

from the stone arch--

a stream of fire.

He could not enter

for the dragon's flame.

Beowulf was angry,

the lord of the Geats,

he who stormed in battle.

He yelled into the cave.

The hoard-keeper perceived

a man's voice and

didn't plan to ask

for friendship.

Flames shot out

from among the stones,

hot battle-sweat.

The ground dinned.

The hero raised his shield

against the dreadful stranger.

Then the coiled thing

sought battle.

The war king drew his sword,

an ancient heirloom

with edges unblunt.

Each of them intended

horror to the other.

Stouthearted stood that war-prince

with his shield upraised,

waited in his war-gear.

The dragon coiled together,

went forth burning,

gliding toward his fate.

His shield protected

life and body

for a shorter time

than the prince had hoped.

That was the first day

he was not granted

glory in battle.

The lord of the Geats

raised his arm,

struck the horrible thing

with his ancestral sword,

but the edge gave way:

that bright sword

bit less on the bone

than the war-king needed.

After that stroke

the cave-guardian

was in a savage mood.

He threw death-fire--

widely sprayed

battle flashes.

The gold-friend of the Geats

wasn't boasting of victory.

His war-sword had failed,

not bitten home

as it should have,

that iron which had

always been trustworthy.

This wasn't a pleasant trip:

that famous king, Beowulf,

would have to leave this earth,

would have, against his will,

to move elsewhere.

(So must every man

give up

these transitory days.)

It wasn't long before

the terrible ones

met again--

The hoard-keeper took heart,

heaved his fire anew.

He who once ruled a nation

was encircled by fire;

no troop of friends,

strong princes,

stood around him:

they ran to the woods

to save their lives.

Yet in one of them

welled a sorrowful heart.

That true-minded one

didn't forget kinship.

Wiglaf he was called,

the son of Woehstan,

a beloved shield-warrior,

a lord of the Scylfings,

a kinsman of Aelthere.

He saw his lord

suffering from heat

under his helmet.

He remembered the gifts,

a rich home among

the Waegmundings,

the rich inheritance,

that his father had had.

Wiglaf could not refrain,

but grabbed his shield,

drew his ancient sword

that among men was known

as the heirloom of Eanmund,

the son of Othere.

(Eanmund, after a quarrel,

was killed by Weohstan

with the sword's edge.

Weohstan became

a friendless exile.

To Eanmund's own kinsmen

he bore the burnished helmet,

the ring-locked mail,

the old sword made by giants.

Onela had given Eanmund that,

the war-equipment,

and did not mention

the feud, though his

brother's child was killed.

Weohstan held the treasure

many years,

the sword and mail,

until his son could

do heroic deeds

as his father had done.

He gave the war-dress to Wiglaf

and a great many treasures,

then departed this earth

old on his journey.

But this was the first time

the young champion

had gone into the war-storm.)

His spirit did not fail,

nor his heirloom: that

the dragon discovered

when they met in battle.

Wiglaf spoke words about duty,

said in sorrow to his companions:

"I remember the times

we drank mead and how

we promised our lord

there in the beer-hall,

he who gave us gifts,

that we would repay

all his largess,

the helmets and hard swords,

if the need

should ever befall.

He chose his best men

for this expedition,

gave us honor and

these treasures because

he considered us best

among spear fighters,

though he proposed to

do the job alone because

he had performed the most

famous deeds among men.

Now has the day come

that our lord

is in need of fighters,

of good warriors.

Let us go to him,

help the war-chief

in this fire-horror.

God knows, to me,

my lord means more

than my skin.

With him I will

embrace the fire.

It isn't proper

that we bare shields

back to our homes

before we can

defend our lord

and kill the enemy.

He doesn't deserve

to suffer alone.

We two shall share

the sword and helmet,

the mail and war-garment."



Then Wiglaf advanced

through the death-fumes,

wore his helmet

to help his lord.



He spoke these words:

"Dear Beowulf, may you

accomplish all well,

as you did in youth,

as I have heard tell.

Don't surrender the glory

of your life. Defend now,

with all your strength,

your brave deeds.

I will help."



After these words

the dragon angrily came;

the terrible spirit

another time attacked

with surging fire.

Fire waves burned

Wiglaf's shield

down to the handle,

his mail could not

protect the young

spear-warrior.

He ducked behind

his kinsman's shield.



Then the war-king

remembered past deeds,

struck mightily with his sword

so that it stuck

in the dragon's head;

Naegling, the great sword of Beowulf,

ancient and shining,

broke, failed in battle.

Fate had not granted that

the iron sword would help.



(I've heard that Beowulf's

swing was too strong

for any sword,

overstrained any blade,

anytime he carried

a blood-hardened sword

into battle.)



Then the terrible dragon

a third time rushed,

hot and battle-grim.

He bit Beowulf's neck

with sharp tusks--Beowulf

was wet with life's blood;

blood gushed in waves.

Then, I've heard,

Wiglaf showed courage,

craft and bravery,

as was his nature--he went

not for the thought-seat,

but struck a little lower,

helped his kinsman

though his hand was burned.

The sword, shining

and ornamented,

drove in so that

the fire abated.

Then the king controlled

his senses, drew his

battle knife, bitter

and battle sharp, which

he carried on his mail,

and cut the dragon

through the middle.

The enemy fell--strength

had driven out life;

the two kinsmen, together,

had cut down the enemy.

So should a warrior do.

That was Beowulf's last victory;

his last work in this world.

end of episode eleven

* * *

In episode twelve Beowulf meets his maker.