Beowulf sits alone on the king’s throne dais, drinking cup after cup of the king’s potent mead and admiring the beautiful golden horn taken long ago from the hoard of the dragon Fafnir. It is his now, his hard-earned reward for a job no other man could do, and it gleams brightly by the flickering light of the fire pit. From time to time, he looks up, gazing contentedly about the hall for familiar faces. His men are all enjoying rewards of their own, as well they should. But he does not see Lord Hrothgar anywhere and thinks that the old man has probably been carried away to bed by now, either to sleep off his drunkenness or to busy himself with some maiden who is not his wife. Nor does he see the king’s herald, Wulfgar, nor Unferth Kinslayer, nor Queen Wealthow. It would be easy enough to imagine himself crowned lord of this hall, a fit king to rule the Danes instead of a fat old man, too sick and more concerned with farm girls and mead than the welfare of his homeland.
The air in the hall has grown smoky and thick with too many odors, and so Beowulf takes the golden horn and leaves the dais, moving as quickly as he may through the crowd. He is waylaid many times by men who want to grasp the hand of the warrior who killed the monster, or by women who want to thank him for the salvation of their homes. But he comes, eventually, to a short passageway leading out onto a balcony overlooking the sea.
“You are not celebrating?” asks Wealthow, standing there with the moonlight spilling down upon her pale skin and golden hair. She is swaddled against the freezing wind in a heavy coat sewn from seal and bear pelts, and he is surprised to find her unescorted.
Beowulf glances down at the golden horn, and he might almost believe that the moonlight has worked some sorcery upon it, for it seems even more radiant than before. He stares at it a moment, then looks back up at Wealthow.
“I’ll never let it go,” he says, and raises the horn to her. “I’ll die with this cup of yours at my side.”
“It is nothing of mine,” she replies. “It never was. That was only ever some gaudy bauble of my husband’s pride. He murdered a dragon for it, they say.”
Beowulf lowers the horn, feeling suddenly uncomfortable and oddly foolish. His fingers slide lovingly about its cold, glimmering curves. “My lady does not hold with the murder of dragons?” he asks the queen.
“I didn’t say that,” she replies. “Though one might wonder if perhaps a live dragon is worth something more than the self-importance of the son of Healfdene.”
“Men must seek their glory,” Beowulf says, trying to recall the authority and assurance with which he addressed the hall only a few hours before. “They must ever strive to find their way to Ásgard…and protect the lives and honor of those they cherish.”
“I admit, it has always seemed an unjust arrangement to me,” the queen says, and moves nearer the edge of the balcony. Below them the sea pounds itself against sand and shingle, the whitecaps tumbling in the moonlight.
“My lady?” asks Beowulf, uncertain what she means.
“That a man—like my husband—may in his youth slay a fearsome dragon, which most would count a glorious deed. Even the gods, I should think. And yet, if he is unlucky and survives that encounter, he may yet grow old and feeble and die in his bed. So—dragon or no—the bravest man may find himself before the gates of Hel. Or, in your own case, Lord Beowulf…” And here she trails off, shivering and hugging herself against the chill, staring down at the sea far below.
Beowulf waits a moment, then asks, “In my own case?”
She turns and looks at him, and at first her eyes seem distant and lost, like the eyes of a sleeper awakened from some frightful dream.
“Well,” she says. “You are alive, though by your bravery Grendel is slain. You are not in Valhalla with your fallen warriors. You have, instead, what? A golden horn?”
“Perhaps I will find my luck, as you name it, on some other battlefield,” Beowulf tells her, then glances back down at the horn. “And it is a fine and wondrous thing, this gaudy bauble of your husband’s pride.”
Wealthow takes a deep breath. “Nothing that is gold ever stays long. Is that all you wanted, Beowulf? A drinking horn that once belong to a worm? Would you have none of my husbands other treasures?”
And now he looks her directly in the eyes, those violet eyes that might seem almost as icy as the whale’s-road on a long winter’s night, as icy and as beautiful.
“My lord Hrothgar,” he says, “has declared I shall not now want for anything.” And he moves across the balcony to stand nearer to Wealthow. “I recall nothing he held exempt from that decree. Steal away from your husband. Come to me.”
Wealthow smiles and laughs softly, a gentle sound almost lost beneath the noise of the wind and the breakers.
“I wonder,” she says, “if my husband even begins to guess what thing he has let into his house? First driven by greed…now by lust,” and she turns away from the sea to face Beowulf. “You may indeed be most beautiful, Lord Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, and you may be brave, but I fear you have the heart of a monster.” And then she smiles and kisses him lightly on the cheek. Their eyes meet again, briefly, and her bright gaze seems to rob him of words, and Beowulf’s still searching for some reply after she’s departed the balcony and returned once more to the noisy mead hall, and he’s standing alone in the moonlight.
12
The Merewife
Beyond the moorlands and the forest and the bogs, in the cave below the cave, this deeper, more ancient abscess in the thin granite skin of the world, the mother of Grendel mourns alone. She has carried her son’s mutilated body from the pool, the pool below the pool above, and has gently laid him out on a stone ledge near a wall of the immense cavern. Once, the ledge was an altar, a shrine built by men to honor a forgotten goddess of a forgotten people, and the charcoal-colored slate is encrusted with the refuse of long-ago offerings—jewels and bits of gold, silver, and bronze, the bones of animals and men. Whatever it might have been, now it is only her dead son’s final bed. She bends low, her lips brushing his lifeless skin, her long claws caressing his withered corpse. She is old, even as the mountains and the seas mark time, even as the Æsir and Vanir and the giants of Jötunheimr count the passing of the ages, but the weight of time has not hardened her to loss. It has, if anything, made her more keenly aware of the emptiness left behind by that which has been taken away.
“Oh, my poor lost son,” she whispers. “I asked you not to go. I warned you they were dangerous. And you promised…”
If any others of her race remain in all the wide, wide world, she does not know of them and so believes herself to be the last. Neither troll nor giant nor dragon-kin, and yet perhaps something of all three, some night race spawned in the first days of creation, when Midgard was still new, and then hunted, driven over uncountable millennia to the brink of oblivion. She had a mother, whom she almost remembers from time to time, waking from a dream or drifting down toward sleep. If she ever had a father, the memory of him has faded away forever.
Long before the coming of the Danes, there were men in this land who named her Hertha and Nerthus, and they worshipped her in sacred groves and still lakes and secret grottoes as the Earth’s mother, as Nerpuz and sometimes as Njördr of the Ásynja, wife of Njörd and goddess of the sea. And always she welcomed their prayers and offerings, their tributes and their fear of her. For fear kept her safe, but never was she a goddess, only some thing more terrible and beautiful than mere men.