And then he glances back at Beowulf, who is still grinning defiantly up at the storm.
“Pull your oars!” Wiglaf commands. “Pull for Beowulf! Pull for gold! Pull for glory! Heave!”
From his post along the sheer granite sea cliffs, the Scylding king’s watch sits alone, save for the company of his horse, tending to his guttering campfire. He has speared a field mouse on a stick and is now busy trying to keep the rain away until dinner’s cooked to his liking.
“What I want to know,” he says, frowning up at the dripping, unhappy-looking horse, “is just who or what old Hrothgar has got himself thinking is going to be about in this foul weather? Have you even stopped to think on that, horse?”
The fire hisses and spits, and the watch goes back to fanning it. But there’s much more smoke than flame, and the mouse is almost as pink as when he skinned it. He’s just about to give up and eat the thing cold and bloody when the gloom is parted by a particularly bright flash of lightning and, glancing down at the beach, he catches signs of movement and the unexpected glint of metal along the shore.
“Did you see that?” he asks the horse, which snorts, but otherwise doesn’t bother to reply. Another flash of lightning follows almost immediately on the heels of the first, and this time there can be no mistake about what he sees on the shore. A tiny ship with bright shields hung along its sides, its carved prow like a sinuous golden serpent rising gracefully from the crashing surf.
The watch curses and reaches for his spear, and a few moments later—the fire and his empty belly forgotten—the horse is carrying him along the steep path leading down to the beach.
When Beowulf and his thanes have finally hauled their ship out of the sea and onto the sand, when the whale’s-road is safe behind them, Wiglaf sighs a relieved sigh and spits into the water lapping at his ankles.
“I’ll wager old Ægir’s gnashing his teeth over that one,” he laughs, and then to Beowulf, “You are sure this is Denmark?”
“Denmark or Hel,” Beowulf replies. “I expect we’ll know which soon enough.”
The rain is still falling hard, and lightning still crackles and jabs at the world, but the worst of the storm seems to have passed them by.
“What’s that then?” Wiglaf asks Beowulf and points down the length of the rocky beach. A man on horseback is galloping swiftly toward them, his mount throwing up a spray of sand and small pebbles as they come. The man holds a long spear gripped at the ready, as though he means to impale them one and all.
“Well, I’m guessing it’s Hel, then,” Wiglaf sighs, and Beowulf nods his head and steps away from Wiglaf and his men, moving out to meet the rider.
“If you get yourself skewered,” Wiglaf shouts after him, “can I have your boots?”
“Aye,” Beowulf calls back. “Take the boat, as well.”
“You know, I think he means it,” Wiglaf says, pointing once more at the approaching rider, but Beowulf only nods and stands his ground. Wiglaf reaches for his sword, but at the last possible moment, the horseman pulls back on the reins. When he stops, the point of his spear is mere inches from Beowulf’s face.
“Who are you?” the rider demands. “By your dress, you are warriors.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Wiglaf replies. “We—”
“Speak!” the rider growls at Beowulf. “Tell me why I should not run you through right now. Who are you? Where do come from?”
“We are Geats,” Beowulf replies calmly, ignoring the spearpoint aimed at the space between his eyes. “I am Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow. We have come seeking your prince, Hrothgar, in friendship. They say you have a monster here. They say your land is cursed.”
The man on the horse narrows his eyes and glances at Wiglaf and the others, but doesn’t lower his spear.
“Is that what they say?” he asks.
“That and worse,” Wiglaf answers. “Bards sing of Hrothgar’s shame from the frozen north to the shores of Vinland.”
The watch sits up a little straighter on his horse and glares defiantly back at Wiglaf. “It is no shame to be accursed by demons,” he says.
Wiglaf takes a step nearer to Beowulf. “And neither is it a shame to accept aid that is freely given.”
Beowulf glances quickly at Wiglaf, then back to the watch and his horse. “I am Beowulf,” he says again. “I have come here to kill your monster.”
“Unless you’d rather we not,” adds Wiglaf, earning a scowl from Beowulf.
“You should ignore him,” Beowulf says. “He was very seasick this morning, and I fear he might have puked his wits overboard.”
The watch lowers his spear, staring past Beowulf and Wiglaf to the other men standing beside the beached ship.
“You’ll need horses,” he says.
The storm has gone, and the terrible, driving wind has died away—the wrath of Hræsvelg Corpse-swallower, the giant eagle whose wings send all winds blowing across the world, choosing some other target for a time. But the sky is hardly any lighter than before, still crowded with portentous clouds that hide the sun and hold the land in perpetual twilight. Beowulf and his men follow close behind the Scylding watch, riding the sturdy, shaggy ponies that have been provided for them. They have left the sea cliffs and the shore and move now along a narrow road paved with dark shale cobbles. The road is lined on either side by tall, craggy standing stones, menhirs engraved with runes and erected to mark the ashes of the dead. Whenever the fog shifts, the thanes catch fleeting glimpses of King Hrothgar’s tower in the distance. When they reach a wooden bridge spanning a deep ravine, the watch reins his horse and turns to Beowulf.
“This is as far as I go,” he says. “I must return to the cliffs. The sea cannot be left unguarded. This stone path is the king’s road.” He smiles then, and adds, “It was built in better times. Follow it to Heorot, where my lord awaits.”
Beowulf nods. “I thank you for your aid,” he says.
“Geat, you should know that our monster is fast and strong.”
“I, too, am fast and strong,” Beowulf tells him.
“Yes, well, so were the others who came to fight it. And they’re all dead. All of them. I thought no more heroes remained who were foolhardy enough to come here and die for our gold.”
Beowulf looks over his shoulder at Wiglaf, then back to the watch. “If we die, then it shall be for glory, not for gold.”
With that, the watch gives his horse a kick and gallops quickly past the Geats, heading back the way they’ve just come, toward his dreary camp above the sea. But then he stops, and calls out to Beowulf, “The creature took my brother. Kill the bastard for me.”
“Your brother will be avenged,” Beowulf calls back. “I swear it.”
And then the Scylding watch turns and rides away, his horse’s iron-shod hooves clopping loudly against the cobblestones, and Beowulf leads his men across the bridge.
This day is the color of the grave, King Hrothgar thinks, gazing miserably out at the angry sea and imagining Hel’s gray robes, the flat gray gleam of her eyes that awaits every man who does not die in battle or by some other brave deed, every man who allows himself to grow weak and waste away in stone towers. For even brave men who slay dragons in their youth may yet die old men and so find themselves guests in Éljudnir, Hel’s rain-damp hall. Behind him, Unferth sits at a table, absorbed in the task of counting gold coins and other pieces of treasure. And Hrothgar wonders which shadowy corner of Niflheim has been prepared for both of them. He has begun to see Hel’s gates in his dreams, nightmares in which he hunts down and faces the monster Grendel time again and time again, but always the fiend refuses to fight him, refusing him even the kindness of a hero’s death.