Grendel

Hwaet! No doubt you have heard of the Proud Ones?

Heard of their bright fame and stirring deeds?

These sons of Adam and daughters of Eve.

Battle boastful, proud of their lineage.

Their kings, gold bejewelled, leaders of warriors.

Their queens, beautiful, clear eyed, in silken elegance.

To their glory they wrought gems and trinkets of gold.

Smithed swords like dragons teeth, named and old.

Jutes and Scyldings. Wulfings and Geats.

Sagas sung and tales told across the green seas.

That abyssal salty whale road.

Atop its waves their wooden horses ploughed.

But hasten, away from their mortal cares, the world of man.

Before their coming there was always this land.

Harken, can you hear the soft sounds of the night?

The reed beds rustle, tussock stems rattled by sea breeze light?

Salt laden, brine tinged from the waves beyond the marsh

Above the darkened land a field of distant stars.

Before the proud ones, for years uncounted, we dwelt in these lands alone.

Changelings, trollkin, dark dreams made flesh and bone.

Not finely wrought we, but crudely hewn.

Diabolical. Elemental. Flesh grown from stone.

Monsters, shadowstalkers, a dark legend to recite

To gather wayward children as darkness conquers light.

They were always too numerous, and like the wolf pack and bear.

We yielded, retreated, to find us new lairs.

Yet on the wild edge of the realms of men

There we still haunted moor, mountain and fen.

Grendel they named me, ancient fears they had

My dam they cursed as a foul Sea hag.

Forgetful over centuries. Unsated, they intruded once more.

And on the headland, Lord Hrothgar, embarked to build a great hall.

A king of the Scyldings with his young queen Wealhtheow

She the bearer of the King’s mead cup fashioned of gold

Bidding bondsmen to sup, that great deeds be regaled.

But they knew these wilds were ours

Fell moors, fog ragged, salt marsh sour.

Under the sun, that accursed candle, men toil in their work.

Below we hear the hammering carried down through the rock.

Under moon I, the night stalker, emerged from the marsh

Leaving footprints of slime, a trail where I passed.

Tall it stood, the long hall, with carvings of intricate craft.

Above its door, great antlers displayed; Heorot the Hart

Picture by Enthing - deviantArt

Reaching toward the oaken barrier, my claw lightly drawn,

Inside I smelt blood, rich, sweet and warm.

I oozed a cold fear through the dark night air.

As frost spreads, dark dreads, fears laid bare.

Stirring in nightmare ridden sleep, the proud ones, behind their walls of wood

Clutching talismans, recalling fell tales of childhood.

My presence felt, seeds of doubt planted.

As dawn approaches, the demon departed.

But these fears melt with the Suns’ arcing soar.

As did my prints; dispelled with the frosts’ thaw.

My night haunting forgotten as King Hrothgar in glory came.

To open his Heorot hall with a feast of great fame

From his realm and beyond came thanes and bondsmen

With retinue, shield maidens and elegant women.

Wise with age or in youthful vigour flushing.

Warriors of renown bent the knee, oaths of loyalty are given.

Hrothgar, battle famed, wealthy with tribute and spoil, all enemies cast down.

Law maker, ring giver astride the high seat, gold adorning his crown.

Queen Wealtheow, in beauty radiant, her hands clasping the great mead cup

Wrought of gold, she proffers it, from which each to sup.

The fiery drink, the King’s Thanes drink of it deep

In praise of their Liege Lord, their loyalty his to keep.

And so with roasting meats and hearths burning high.

Through the rafters, spark bejewelled smoke swirls into the sky.

Voices are raised in arrogant boasts of enemies bested.

Shouts came in answer, insult or grudging acceptance.

Hrothgar smiled at his warriors bragging, recalling courageous feats.

As each contested, to the winner, first knife set to roasting meat.

A battle of wits, courage drawn with words.

A parry and thrust without shield or swords.

A winner declared he is cheered to the rafters.

Soon all descended into drunken laughter.

Laughing warriors eat and drink and make play for wenches

Voices joined in ribald songs along the benches.

Ale and mead, a heady river flows.

While the sun sinks and the moon rises in a silver glow.

Our sleep is disturbed by the Proud Ones revelry.

My thoughts are consumed, yielded to jealousy.

Intruders, interlopers; that they should hold sway

Over lands that were ours from the dawn of all days

Loving, feasting, their lives blaze bright enriched

While we lurk in the shadows and under trip-trap bridge.

Claiming morsels from their grazing herds.

Or eggs and chicks from cliff nesting birds.

Thieves! Land wasters. Whole forests fallen to their axes.

All that’s left is a sour-land of ashes.

No more. No more, will I bear

To harken to their joyous feasting above our lair.

So thus resolved, blood thirsty, violent of hand

I go forth. Man flesh sought, to tear, to rend.

From shadowed cave through salt watered marsh and rattled reeds

My dam a fog bank magic she weaves.

She raises from the distant sea, around the headland a cloak for me.

I approach in shadows ,clad in mist, my mouth in drooling ecstasy.

I hear voices in lovers’ whispers, hoarse in passion

Rutting, outside the hall, unaware in wild abandon.

My hunger is relentless, their flesh, young and love sweetened

They yield their lives. Their terror silenced by my taloned hand.

Behind the wooden walls, murmured conversation.

Songs sung, riddles posed, a saga oration.

My appetite grown as I approach the antlered door.

Reaching my hand, the wood scored by my claw.

I push and the door yields to open, unlocked in their arrogance.

How proud! So assured! So certain in their dominance.

But now here is a nightmare, dark dreams cast in flesh.

Now the dark, they will learn to fear afresh.

I enter the hall a shadow of dread.

Eyes lifted from meat and cup they turn their heads.

I am death, I crush first one. A madness of screaming.

Tear apart another, his lover left keening.

Wits gathered now, a warrior, loved by Hrothgar, grabs sword from wall.

Advancing, arm raised, he attacks, his voice a loud warriors’ call.

But his sword bites me not. My hide enchanted, turns the blade.

Notched, sword repelled, his arm deadened, my talons reach out and he is slain.

I lick my gore thick fingers, iron rich and madness inducing.

Mind lost, a feeding frenzy fallen. Blood lusting.

A nightmare made real. A fear elemental.

A demon of old days. The troll called Grendel.

Hrothgar called his warriors, mead smitten and drowsy.

Armed for war they advanced, but not so proudly

Wading through the shambles of Hrothgar’s champion.

Spear was turned, their blades parried by dark talons.

One, but short time before, boasted did he; for his right to cut meat with knife.

His bravery unquestioned, he now sought my life.

Diving underneath my arms, he strove to disembowel, my innards to spew.

Battle cry turned to howl to quiet. Tearing his head from shoulders, I slew.

Around me a midden-heap that once were men

Coin-wise Hrothgar; miserly with his warrior’s lives, called them back to him.

They gathered around their lord. No more the proud and boastful.

Mere prey now, fearful, powerless and mortal.

My foot found the champion’s head; I lifted it by its hair

I laughed. Its neck in bloody shreds, eyes locked forever in dread stare.

That he, veteran of deathly combat. Proud and assured of victory

Then death came, swift and sudden. Did the fear of oblivion have he?

Hrothgar looks at me in hate and terror as I clasp the bloody token.

He weeps in horror as I eat it, back teeth crushing, grinding.

I gather limbs, torsos, trophies of meat.

Tonight my dam will partake of Hrothgar’s feast.

Weeping, they watch me, as I gather the tribute they must now pay.

The Proud Ones trouble me no more, keen to see me away.

Then burdened, out into the dark, behind a chorus of weeping and curses.

Proud Hrothgar, king here in name only; this hall a bloody purchase.

They look in terror beyond their door, as dark fog smothers spluttering torchlight.

I am dread. I am Grendel. The death-that-stalks-by-night.

We wandered freely my dam and I; the hall now empty and barred.

Hrothgar, now cursed, withdrew. This land and night were ours.

Long nights all was peace, the quiet of the night once more.

The reed beds rustle, the salt heavy crash, of breaking wave on shore.

Then, picking teeth with gnawed leg bone, I felt a tremor through the headlands’ stone.

Heard a muffled cheer, a drunk’s mead addled song.

In darkest anger I knew we were no longer alone.

Intruders! Interlopers! Hrothgar returned?

Such arrogance, that he should dare, Heorot shall be nought but a cairn.

I will slay and eat, slate my thirst on their blood, like ale.

Sated on their flesh, drunk on their red ichor; Hrothgar’s skull shall be my grail.

Wrapped in a cloak of rancorous shadows, from dark cave lair

Across briny marsh, while tongue and harp give voice through nocturnal air.

Approaching the hall, words plucked from verse, great deeds relayed.

Slaying tusked sea beasts, to one name given praise.

Hrothgar’s new champion then? It matters not.

At the antlered doorway I am come to Heorot.

Inside the door is barred. They seek to deny me?

Timbers split, splinter and yield; as mere straws against my fury.

Grendel by Brian Froud

I burst forth; in expectation a shield wall is formed around me, by warriors clad in mail.

Was I lured? I lash out, at the buckler. Breaking shield, hurling man against wall.

Another seized, I bite in half, blood drunk, a yearning to feast on man-flesh.

A sword sings its song of steel, rings, rebounds off me uselessly; I change wielder to corpse.

The Proud Ones draw back, their trap has failed, yet my hunger grows.

Yet through their ranks proudly the new champion strode.

Casting aside sword, helm and Byrnie; he seeks weapon less combat? I laugh.

The others chant his name, this one they call Beowulf