“It was as large as a hundred houses and filled with brave warriors and shield women. The fire pit alone could hold an entire oak tree. Hrothgar was generous as well. He gave gold rings to his followers and lavish feasts to all who sought shelter under his roof. But the one thing Hrothgar didn’t have was a first-rate bard. Have I told you I was awarded the Golden Mistletoe for outstanding spell-casting?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jack.
“So you see I was the natural choice for this honor. And the thought of traveling didn’t bother me. It’s what we bards do. I sailed to Hrothgar’s kingdom, and it was even better than described. His hall was like a great light in the midst of a wilderness.”
Jack listened breathlessly. The walls of the Roman house trembled in a winter storm, and the stones on the beach far below rattled like an army clashing its shields. No matter how carefully Jack stuffed heather and wool into crevices, the wind still found its way inside. The coals of the fire brightened and light danced on the walls.
But Hrothgar’s hall had allowed no winter. It was as sound as a nut and as warm and friendly as a summer afternoon. Its walls rang with laughter, even more so after the arrival of the Bard.
“I should have known,” mourned the Bard. “I should have guessed.”
“Guessed what?” said Jack, unable to contain himself.
“It’s as I have told you. Life and death are in constant battle. There’s no way in this world for happiness to exist alone. The golden hall was too beautiful, and so, like all bright things, it attracted destruction. In the deeps, in the depths of a murky swamp, lived Grendel, who was a monster.”
“Was he a troll?” gasped Jack.
“Partly,” said the Bard. “His father was an ogre. Anyhow, monsters hate light,” said the Bard. “They cannot bear laughter, and the smell of feasting enrages them. Grendel waited until everyone was asleep. Then he crept into the hall and bit off the heads of ten warriors sleeping near the door. Don’t wince like that, Jack,” said the Bard. “When you retell this story, you’ll have to look confident.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jack.
“Grendel took home the bodies for dinner. I can tell you, that cast a shadow over the fun and games at the hall. The warriors all swore they would avenge their comrades. But that night they discovered a terrible thing. Grendel could not be harmed by weapons. He was protected by a charm. The warriors slashed at him until their swords broke, but they couldn’t make a dent in his scaly hide.
“It went on for weeks,” said the Bard. “Whenever the monster got hungry, he dropped off at Hrothgar’s for a snack. No one asked for songs from me anymore. They were too depressed.”
Jack might have been mistaken, but it seemed the Bard felt insulted. “Weren’t you scared, sir?”
“Of course! But there’s no point giving in to fear. That’s like opening the door and saying, ‘Come right in, Master Grendel, sir. Wouldn’t you like to bite an arm or a leg off me?’ No! Death must be fought with life, and that means courage and that means joy. I can tell you, I was disgusted by the way Hrothgar and his crowd were handling their problem. They hid under the stairs like rabbits. Until Beowulf showed up.”
“Beowulf?” said Jack. The fire had died down. The flaring coals cast weird shadows. As often happened when the light was dim, the painted birds on the walls seemed to open their wings. Their feathers stirred in a breeze that was nothing like the fierce storm outside. Jack hastily got up and put more driftwood on the fire.
“Beowulf. Ah, there was a warrior!” said the Bard, his eyes gleaming. “No hiding under the stairs for him. Hrothgar embraced him. The queen offered him a cup of foaming mead. When midnight came, all had fallen into a weary sleep brought on by fear. All but Beowulf… and me.
“Beowulf sat by the door. When Grendel arrived, the warrior grasped him by the arm. No weapon wrought of steel could harm the monster, but honest human hands could destroy him. Grendel took fright and ran. Beowulf held on so tightly, he tore Grendel’s arm right off.”
This time Jack managed to keep from wincing.
“Shrieking, the monster staggered back to the swamp and plunged into its depths. But before he reached the bottom, he was dead.”
“Hurrah!” cried Jack.
“Wait. There’s more.”
“More?” said Jack. “You mean, where everyone celebrated the victory?”
“Of course they celebrated,” the Bard said. “What they didn’t know, however, was that Grendel had a mother. This is where it gets interesting.”
How can it possibly get more interesting? Jack thought. The earlier story had been so thrilling, Jack’s heart was still pounding.
“Grendel’s mother clawed her way out of the swamp, howling for revenge. She broke down the door, bursting the bars asunder. The warriors felt for their spears, but in a trice she was across the hall. She tore Grendel’s arm off the wall. Hrothgar had nailed it there as a kind of trophy. I did warn him it was a bad idea.”
“Please go on, sir,” said Jack, wriggling in his seat.
“Then the she-monster killed the king’s best friend and went back to the swamp. Beowulf had been sleeping in a back room and had heard nothing.
“In the morning the warriors rode to the lonely mountains where the creatures of the night lived. Toads bleated melancholy cries from slime pits. Trees trailed twisted roots into swamp. Frozen water hung like fallen daggers over the gloomy cliffs. Beowulf blew his battle horn, and all manner of snakes and scaly beings came hissing out. Hrothgar and his warriors fought them with axe and arrow until they were all dead. But one creature remained.”
“Grendel’s mother,” whispered Jack.
“Did I tell you her name was Frothi? Or that she was a half-troll?”
Chapter Six
THE WOLF-HEADED MEN
Jack crept closer to the fire. The driftwood burned green and blue, as driftwood did when it had been at sea a long time. The Bard pulled a goatskin bag from a peg. He took a hearty drink and offered it to Jack. The apple cider was warm from being close to the fire. It reminded Jack of the sunlight that had ripened the apples.
“I didn’t know who Frothi was until later,” the Bard said. “I only knew that a foul monster lived at the bottom of the swamp. Beowulf blew his horn to call her forth to battle. ‘Coward!’ he shouted. But the water only quivered. Nothing stirred, not in the swamp, the trees, or the mountains. ‘If she will not come to me, I shall go to her,’ he announced.
“Beowulf was a fine man,” said the Bard, “but he wasn’t overly furnished with brains. That’s the way it is with great warriors. They’ll rush out to fight a dragon ten times their size. Sometimes they’ll even win, but most of the time the dragon winds up picking its teeth with the sword.
“‘Beowulf,’ I said, ‘you’re going to sink like a stone with all that armor. And what are you planning to use for air down there?’
“‘I care not! This battle will win me fame or death,’ he bellowed.
“‘Old friend,’ I said, ‘let’s not start thinking about death. I think I can help you.’ I sang him a charm for the swiftness of a trout, the suppleness of an eel. I made his sword shine, to light his way in the dark swamp. I gave him the ability to breathe under water.”
“You can do all that?” Jack cried.
“For a short while. I can only bend the laws of the world, not change them.”
Jack was wildly excited. Up till now the Bard had only hinted at the magic he could accomplish. If the old man could do such wonderful things, couldn’t he—wouldn’t he—teach his apprentice how?