The sky's candle had been lit, as if in honour. Its flame glowing stronger and brighter as the lamentations grew in number and in strength. Sob and string – a harp - sounded together over those laid fast in their beds. Even a dirge must be performed as ritual demands.
So many women overcome. So many men felled.
And so much mess in the mead-hall.
A hall of rest, now, and perhaps known as such forever more, for last night the benches had been cleared away and the floor covered with beds and bolsters; and littered, too, with the weaponry of war. Guests and warriors, action-ready.
Yet unprepared for what was to come. And for the speed in which this foe came. It stole in, this hideous creature, a man-giant, and snatched up men; picking them up at random and consuming them, or pitched them against stone walls. Some he carried off, bloodied, to his lair, which it is said he shared with another: a partner or a mother.
What a banquet he had!
Whilst those spared, in distant chambers, and in a deep sleep, dreamt, unaware of the carnage unfolding below.
The alarm raised at the break of day, a melancholy cuckoo cry, which in these parts is not the harbinger of spring but of sorrow. The white-haired King, old in winters, heard it first. And knew the worst, long-dreaded, had occurred.
The dirge set up - the string drowned out by sobs - and the candle flamed.
The King, arrayed in robes, raised a shield to call for silence, for the loud laments to cease and made speech:
'We must avenge this loss. Those that have survived must stand against this foe. Boys must pick up their kinsmen's arms. And bring me the giant's head, for only decapitation will prove his death.'
The boys, roused to battle, cried their support, 'to arms, to arms.'
The women trembled, first their men, now their sons. Would there be no end? The guests, sadly departed, had been reluctant to attend. This was their King's folly.
The King turned to his man-servants, those remaining, and addressed them: 'Prepare the war-horses! Build a pyre, the biggest of funeral fires! We'll mourn our losses; perhaps roast this giant on it. Death and battle must this day be joined together.'
The servants scurried away like mice to do their King's bidding.
To the women: 'As you were,' said the King in stiff voice. The harp was struck and a wail once again went up.
The boys, still in the hall, picked up from the floor shields, spears and swords; took off and put on coats of mail and helmets. Soon, war-ready. And eager for the fight.
Some went mounted, some went on foot, but all followed the black trail the giant's victims had left, hoisted as they were over his massive shoulders, up steep screes, along scant tracks, and fearing this might also be the way to their destruction.
Where it led was to a den beside a pool; bones scattered before its entrance. The giant nowhere to be seen...yet there was a stirring from within. With the sound, not sight, of fire. The young fellows drew their weapons and entered, found their finest warrior still alive, resting beside a glowing light. He had, in his weakened state, fought back, with hands, with knife, until the giant, merely scratched from this sport, had tired; had gone somewhere to wreak some other havoc. And would no doubt return when hunger overcame him.
The boys dragged their leader, this battle-bloodied fighter, out. They had not half his strength, nor his war-rage. Saplings, they would be no match for their grisly rival. The survivor, in wearied words, convinced them to turn homewards, to face their King's wrath instead of the giant's. Alas, more blood!
Picture credit: Beowulf wrestles with Grendel, 1933, Lynd Ward (source: WikiArt).
An exercise inspired by Beowulf and old English verse, written December 2020.
