“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.”