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  The eldest children of Mwuetsi called the others together and they formed a great circle in which they cast magical dice, for they did not know how to talk directly with God as their father had done. The dice would have to tell them the will of God.

  “Your father and king, Mwuetsi, is ill and will not recover,” the dice informed them. “You must return him to the lake.”

  Whether by the will of God, a throw of the dice or the plan of his heirs, the outcome was inevitable. They went to where the sick man lay and strangled him, then chose another king to serve in his place.

  Beowulf

  The Anglo-Saxon epic ‘Beowulf’ is thought to have been written around the eighth century by a Northumbrian minstrel, and is the oldest in the English language. The original tale drew much of its inspiration from pagan Scandinavian folk history and also includes Christian elements. The principal enemy of the hero Beowulf is the original creature from the black lagoon.

  Warrior, conqueror and King of the Danes, Hrothgar was famed far and wide for the glory he had won in battle. Many noble fighting men were his kinsmen and countless warriors served loyally in his bodyguard. His power was immense and his courage a byword among men.

  Hrothgar was a descendant of the legendary Scyld, who had arrived on the shores of Denmark as an infant in a boat loaded with gold and jewels. When Scyld had grown up and become king, his conquests for his adoptive land were great. On his death, he was put into a boat again, with treasure surrounding him, and set adrift towards the westward setting sun, from whence he had come.

  Hrothgar was duly proud of his lineage and of his own considerable accomplishments. He longed for a symbol of them to stand after he had gone, as well as to enjoy while he lived. Summoning the help of all his people, he determined that they build an enormous hall where he might hold feasts and banquets, receive distinguished visitors from abroad and entertain his warriors and thanes. It would be a meeting place for men and a monument to his reign.

  Everyone laboured enthusiastically and the vast hall was quickly completed. Glorious were its adornments and lavish its decorations and manly comforts. Towering high and majestic, the walls ended in pinnacles resembling the antlers of a stag, and so the hall was named ‘Heorot’, or The Hart.

  On its completion, Hrothgar, his warriors and people were justly proud of the magnificent structure. The first great feast they held in it was like no other in their history. Hrothgar's heart swelled as he sat on the high seat on the dais and watched his brave thanes and warriors at the long tables eating and drinking merrily beneath the hall's lofty rafters.

  So proud were the Danes of their great hall that the feasting went on for days and the noise of their revels floated far from the hill upon which the mighty building stood, set apart from all others. Perhaps it seemed the loud carousing and tumult would never end, or perhaps the disturbance merely reminded the fen-monster Grendel of his old enmity and bitter resentment of men.

  Roused and angry, the creature conceived a particular hatred for Heorot itself. The great hall became a symbol of his grievance against humanity. The feasting may also have reminded the horrible half-man half-fiend of its fondness for human flesh. It went quickly from pounding its fists in rage to licking its chops in anticipation of savouring this delicacy. Grendel decided to set out from the deep swamp to take his revenge and his dinner.

  Born of a race of giants, sea-monsters and goblins, with the hearts of evil demons, Grendel was of enormous stature, covered in slimy green horn-hard skin on which a sword could not bite. He had unnatural strength even for his great size and no mercy for any creature, not even of his own nearly extinct kind.

  On a night when Heorot was less than a week old, Grendel left the fen by moonlight and stalked the entrance to the now quiet hall. Inside all were now asleep after their revels, outside a guard of thirty men stood, no more alert than peaceful times demanded.

  By stealth, he picked them off in ones and twos and then charged into the midst of the main body, catching everyone by surprise. Before they could call for help from their drunken comrades within, or act with unity, Grendel had dispatched them all. He spent the next few hours carrying back the bodies to his swampy lair and larder.

  In the early morning the men inside the hall staggered out and saw the grizzly evidence of the struggle. Everywhere blood and arms and armour were scattered, and the remains of not a single man could be found. The monster's bloody tracks were plain and none doubted the reality of the danger or suspected human enemies as responsible for the tragedy.

  Hrothgar grieved for his men and kinsmen, lost in this horrible way, and he grieved too for the fact that he himself was too old to track and kill such a monster. The lamentation of all the families of the slain grew as night after night Grendel returned. All their valiant efforts to vanquish the monster were in vain and many good men perished in the attempt and in trying to defend the hall.

  Eventually champions stopped coming forward and, despairing, the Danes deserted the glorious hall they had been so proud of. Heorot stood unused for its original purpose. None now dared to sleep within its walls. For twelve years this went on, with no one going near the hall after darkness, for by night the fiend haunted its spaces and shadows in search of prey. Neither his appetite nor his enmity could be appeased, and careless sleepers paid with their lives.

  As word spread, from far and wide foreign champions arrived to offer King Hrothgar their assistance, but none of them was sufficiently powerful or cunning enough to kill the monster. Many fine heroes were lost in this fashion until finally even the brave adventurers from afar stopped coming. Grendel remained master of the halls. Hrothgar and the Danes, in misery and shame, tried to reconcile themselves to their bondage, while their king grew old in helpless longing for the arrival of someone with the strength to relieve them of this awful oppression.

  As these sad events unfolded, far away in the realm of the Geats, of Gotaland, in the south of Sweden, a remarkable boy was growing up and coming to man's estate. Nephew of Hygelac (a mighty monarch with ambitions to extend his sway into the mainland of Germany), his name was Beowulf. This boy was the son of Hrethal's only daughter and a great nobleman, Ecgtheow, and had from the age of seven been brought up at court. A gentle, even-tempered lad, he seemed out of place at this warlike apex of a warlike race. While King Hrethel had lived he had been disappointed in the boy's lack of aggression, his slowness to anger and his kind-heartedness.

  By the time Hygelac had succeeded to the throne Beowulf was growing ever bigger and stronger and the king began to see the true qualities of his sister's son. For a time he was still sneered at by smaller boys because of his good nature, but Beowulf nevertheless demonstrated imperterbability, resolve and patience. On the rare occasions when he was roused to anger, he fought fiercely and skilfully but never blindly.

  Soon Beowulf's cool head and great strength, particularly his mighty hand-grip, which was said to be equal to that of thirty men, were watchwords among his peers and elders. When all saw his potential greatness he blossomed, excelling at feats of endurance and courage. In an arduous swimming contest he bested the famous champion Breca, and enjoyed the glory it brought him.

  For this and many other victories, he was already widely renowned when he requested of Hygelac permission to offer help to the Danish king against the ravages of Grendel. It was a thing he had secretly dreamt of doing for some time. Selecting fourteen loyal comrades and kinsmen, he took leave of the Geatish royal family and sailed for Denmark.

  So it was that one afternoon the Warden of the Coast, doing his rounds along the Danish shore, spotted in a small stream running between the mountainous cliffs a foreign war-vessel whose banners he did not recognize. A party of fifteen men, all arrayed for battle, disembarked, secured their ship to a large rock with strong cables, and then made ready to march.

  The Warden unhesitatingly rode down into their midst and loudly demanded to know their business on his coast.

  “What are such warlike me
n doing landing here? I am the appointed warden of this coast and hold watch here that no enemy land troops to endanger our folk and property. None has ever landed here more boldly, obviously being no kinsmen of ours and giving no password, than this fair company of yours.”

  Beowulf stepped forward, a broad smile on his open, honest face, strength and strength of character written all over him. The Warden took the big warrior's measure in a glance, and returned the smile. It had been a while since a man such as this had come among them, and none had been the equal of this one. Beowulf's lordly bearing, air of authority, fine armour and weapons singled him out as the chief of the company.

  “Never have I beheld a mightier warrior than this man I perceive as your leader. He is no common man, no common hero, if looks belie him not.”

  Though Beowulf may have thought this compliment only his due, he had the grace to bow his head a little modestly.

  “Now tell me what you're doing here, for we can't have spies running about. Who are your kindred and where is your country?” The old Warden sat on his horse studying the strangers’ faces, but especially watched their leader.

  “We are warriors of the Geats, members of King Hygelac's bodyguard. My father was named Ecgtheow, a wise councillor who died full of years and famous for his wisdom. We come in friendship to meet your noble king, and we place ourselves in your care. Our purpose is to perform an errand for the great Danish King Hrothgar, son of Healfdene, if it still be needful.”

  “I see,” nodded the Warden.

  “Does the monster Grendel yet haunt your great hall by night?”

  “He does.”

  “We have come to help your king to be rid of him, to assure Hrothgar that his troubles are over and that peace and happiness shall be restored.”

  “I have learned to distinguish between talk and action,” the old Warden sighed, “and you look a likely enough band. As I say, you yourself have the look of a most unusual champion. You have my leave to proceed in war-array, and I will see you safely to our king. May your mission be successful.”

  Turning his horse he led them up the steep cliff paths, while the Geats followed resplendent in their shining armour, with boar-crests on their helmets, shields and spears in their hands and mighty swords on their belts. They marched with confidence behind the Warden, eventually coming onto a rough trodden path, which in a while turned into a stone-paved road. This led on to the great hall of Heorot, which they soon saw towering aloft, gleaming white in the sun.

  As they drew nearer, the Geats admired the pinnacled gables and carved beams and rafters. The Warden drew rein and addressed them once more.

  “There stands our king's hall. You can find your way from here. May the All-Father keep you safe in your coming struggle. I must return to my duties on the coast.”

  He turned his horse and rode away as the Geats continued to stare at the great hall. Then Beowulf led the way to the building and up to the enormous doors, where they removed their helmets, lay down their shields and spears and prepared to enter as peaceful guests.

  A nobleman named Wulfgar met them at the entrance and asked them where such a splendid body of well armed and equipped warriors had came from.

  “Your heroic bearing betokens some noble endeavour,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye and a slight quickening in his heart.

  “We are the chosen friends and companions to King Hygelac of Geatland. I am Beowulf. We would like to speak to your master, King Hrothgar, of our mission, if the son of Healfdene will hear us.”

  “I will advise my lord of your presence.” Wulfgar withdrew and went in search of his king. Hrothgar was in his high seat, surrounded by his bodyguard of champions.

  “Sire,” Wulfgar said, bowing respectfully as he approached the dais, “some heroes from far across the sea have come.”

  “From where?” asked Hrothgar, barely stirring from his depression.

  “From Geatland. Beowulf is their leader and it is their prayer to speak with you personally.”

  The king grunted disconsolately.

  “Do not refuse them hastily, Sire. They are worthy, respectable, well equipped men and their chief, Beowulf, is of unusually noble and heroic appearance.”

  “Beowulf?” Hrothgar brightened slightly. “Why, I knew him as a small boy. His father Ecgtheow, who married the sister of the great King Hrethel, was my friend.”

  “Ah yes, Sire,” said Wulfgar, glad to see the change coming over the king.

  Hrothgar, his interest now fully engaged, went on. “His fame has proceeded him. Seafarers report to me that he has the strength of thirty men in his hand-grip alone. Oh, I tell you, Wulfgar, this young man's coming brings me hope, for he may be the one to save us from the horror and oppression of Grendel.” Hrothgar's eyes shone and he stared into space, lapsing into a reverie for a moment. “If it was just the hall it would not matter, though it shames us all. But it blights my old age, harms the nation … So many lives unavenged … If he can kill Grendel I will heap such treasure on him! Hurry, bid Beowulf and his comrades approach and welcome them in the name of the Danish folk.”

  Wulfgar went swiftly back to the entrance of the hall and smiled broadly at the brave little band of Geats before conducting them into the presence of the king.

  Standing before the high seat the well accoutred foreigners were an impressive sight, their leader especially cutting an inspiring figure in his gleaming ring-mail, with his mighty sword at his side. It did the king good just to look upon such a hero. The truth was that though Grendel was not a human enemy, against whom the Danes were fearless, he had undermined the confidence of even the bravest champion in the realm. Danish manhood secretly held itself cheap and it could not but outwardly show.

  The young Geats bowed and Beowulf cleared his throat in preparation for the speech he had rehearsed for this long-dreamt of occasion.

  “Hail to thee, Hrothgar, king of the Danes. I am Beowulf, Hygelac's kinsman and loyal companion. Though still in my youth, I have done great deeds of valour. At home we have heard of your troubles at Grendel's monstrous hand. It is said that this bright hall, noblest of buildings, is idle and useless after the evening light has gone. Therefore Hrothgar, ancient and noble king, my friends, warriors and prudent thanes, having seen my might in battle, have agreed to let me seek you out. I beg of you but one boon, lord of the glorious Danes, Prince of the Scylding race, folk-lord most friendly, Warden of warriors. Please do no deny me, for I have come far. I, with my men alone, asking no other assistance, would cleanse this great hall.”

  The king stared hard at Beowulf, trying to see into his heart. So many had died already.

  “I have often heard,” the young man went on, “that the monster Grendel, in his recklessness, scorns to use weapons. I will forego to bear my sword, my broad yellow shield, armour or spear and with my hand-grip alone strive and struggle for my life.”

  Seeing the pale expression that came over the king's features, Beowulf hurried on with his address.

  “And if he would carry me off, all gory and torn, to eat me in his den, as he has many a good man of Denmark, well, let him try. Should he succeed, then it will save the expense and labour of burying me. Just send my sword home to my uncle and tell him I did my best.”

  “Beowulf, you have sought my court for honour's sake,” old King Hrothgar replied after listening attentively to all the young man had to say, “and for friendship. You have remembered the ancient alliance between Ecgtheow, your father, and myself. You know that I shielded him from the wrath of his enemies, the Wilfings, paid them the due wergild for his crime, and accepted his oath of loyalty to myself.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Beowulf said with bowed head.

  “That time is long ago. Ecgtheow is dead, and I am old and in misery. It would take too long to tell of all the woe that Grendel has brought on this kingdom, or to say how many heroes have stood here and boasted of the great valour they would display in combat with the monster. So often in the past brave men have awaited his
coming in this hall with confidence and courage in their hearts and in the morning there has been no trace of these heroes but for the dark bloodstains on the benches and tables. Nevertheless, let us sit down to the banquet and you may tell me of your plans in greater detail.”

  The room was quickly made ready for feasting. The Geat warriors were seated on the long benches, close to where Beowulf was given place of honour opposite the king. Great respect was shown them all, but particularly to Beowulf, who was looked at in wonder for his apparent willingness to hazard unarmed combat with the terrible Grendel. Huge carved horns brimming with ale were brought to Beowulf and his men and savoury meat placed before them. While they ate and drank, minstrels sang of the deeds of men of old. A rare sense of joy animated the feast, hope renewed by the arrival of the Geat hero and his warriors.

  There was one Dane however, who did not quite share the rejoicing over Beowulf's coming. Indeed, his heart was sad and his brow gloomy, for this thane was urged by jealousy to hate any man more distinguished than himself. Hunferth was his name, King Hrothgar's orator and speechmaker, who with his dramatic and often satirical style, quick wit, and sharp tongue made a bad enemy.

  From his position at Hrothgar's feet he watched Beowulf with scornful and jealous eyes. He bided his time and waited until a lull in the merry-making before speaking. Someone mentioned in passing the famous swimming match between Beowulf and Breca.

  “Why yes,” Hunferth remarked in a cold, contemptuous tone, “it was you who strove against Breca, the son of Beanstan, when you two so rashly risked your lives in the deep water, ignoring the urgings of your friends against such rashness. You would go on the hazardous journey no matter what and plunge in, braving the wintry waves despite a rising storm. Was it not seven days and nights you toiled?”

  “Yes.” Beowulf smiled thinly, not liking the man's tone.