Caitlin Kiernan - Beowulf

There is a loud splash from the pool behind him, but Beowulf does not look away from the grinning dragon thing to see what might have made the sound.

“ Enough ,” the creature snorts, and now it has grown enormous, its horned skull brushing against the stalactites, breaking off bits of the smaller dripstone formations. Its neck is long and ripples with serpentine muscles, and where its arms were but a moment before there are gigantic leathery wings. A spiked and spiny tail lashes from side to side, and with one blow it smashes the altar stone to rubble. The beast is gigantic, the size of a small whale at least, almost as large as the sea monsters Beowulf fought when he swam against Brecca so long ago. It shakes its massive head from side to side, and scalding air washes over Beowulf.

“THERE WILL BE NO MORE TALK!” it bellows. “NOW, FATHER, YOU WILL WATCH AS I BURN YOUR WORLD TO CINDERS!”

And as the dragon opens its jaws wide, belching blinding gouts of liquid fire, Beowulf turns and dives headlong into the deep black pool. The cold water closes around him, soothing his blistered skin, and he lets himself sink to the muddy bottom bathed in the red-orange light from above. He looks back up at the roiling inferno writhing across the surface, wondering how long before the entire pool is turned to steam. Then there is a gentle but insistent tug at his arm, and when Beowulf looks down again, the merewife is floating before him. Even more beautiful than his memories of her, and he thinks if only Wealthow could see her, surely then his wife would understand why he has done the things he has done. Her yellow hair drifts like a wreath about her face, and her blue eyes seem brighter than any dragon’s fire. Her lips do not move, but he plainly hears her voice inside his head.

At last, you have met our son? she asks, and smiles, then raises a hand and lightly brushes his cheek with long, webbed fingers. He is so very much more than my poor idiot Grendel, but then his father…his father is so much more than that fat dullard Hrothgar ever was.

“Stop him,” Beowulf says, mouthing the words, and precious air rushes from his throat, rising in silvery bubbles toward the fire overhead.

Why would I do that? she replies. He is his father’s son, dear Beowulf. He is a willful being, a veritable wolf of the bees.

She drifts forward to kiss him, but now Beowulf can see the jagged, serrate teeth set into her blue-gray gums, the shimmer of scales between her breasts, and the Geat King is gripped by a powerful wave of revulsion. He raises his sword between them.

You will not hurt me, she whispers without speaking. You could not, even if you tried. Now, go and witness the grand deeds our beautiful son has come to work upon this land. He will be disappointed if you are not there to see. And she motions toward the surface of the pool.

On the hill overlooking the tarn, Wiglaf leans against one of the three oaks as the earth continues to shudder and roll beneath him. He has lashed both the horses to one of the lower limbs, and is grateful for having taken that precaution, for they would have fled in terror as soon as these convulsions began. Ripples spread out across the iridescent mirror of Weormgræf , and small waves have begun to lap at the shore. The horses snort and neigh. Their eyes roll, and they buck and pull at their restraints.

“You old fool,” Wiglaf mutters. “What in the name of Odin’s hairy scrotum have you gone and stirred up in there?”

And then Beowulf comes crashing through the tangled curtain of roots where the lake flows away under the hill. He flings himself down flat against the shore, and before Wiglaf can call out to him, the hill itself seems to exhale a white-hot burst of fire that incinerates the roots and then spreads out over the tarn, setting the oily, combustible water aflame. Beowulf rolls away from the edge of the tarn, and Wiglaf scrambles down the slope to help him. But then the earth heaves as though the last day of all has arrived, as though the Midgard serpent itself has awakened, and Fenrir is abroad and loosed upon the world. Wiglaf loses his footing and tumbles over on top of Beowulf.

“What have you done ?” he asks, and the king glances back at the lake, squinting at the intensity of the flames.

“Be patient,” Beowulf tells him. “I fear you will soon enough see that for yourself.”

One last time the hillside heaves and shudders, and there’s a deafening crack as the oak farthest from the reined horses splinters, its roots tearing free of the rocky soil, and it topples over into the tarn with a tremendous splash. Only a moment later, the fallen tree is brushed aside by the horror that comes clawing its way up from the caverns below, and Wiglaf stares speechless at the golden dragon as it erupts from the earth, scattering a fusillade of dirt and stone, mud and glowing embers. It unfurls its mighty wings and sails out across the burning lake.

Beowulf is already on his feet again, moving swiftly up the hill toward the terrified horses.

“It’s a bloody damned dragon,” says Wiglaf, pointing at the beast soaring across the bog.

“And it’s heading for Heorot!” Beowulf shouts back at him. “Now, get up off your arse and stop gawking like you’ve never seen a monster before!”

“I’ve never seen a swifan dragon ,” mutters Wiglaf, standing up, but still watching the fyrweorm as it hammers at the air with its wings, silhouetted against the winter sky and rising ever higher, moving out across the marches toward the old forest and the moorlands beyond.

If Wiglaf hadn’t stopped him, Beowulf would have set out on horseback across the marches. And by now his mount would likely be hopelessly mired, leaving him to make the long, slow crossing on foot. Beowulf thinks it might have been his last idiotic mistake. Instead, he and Wiglaf have ridden back toward the moors by the same route that carried them to the poisoned, haunted tarn, a winding, rocky path skirting the bogs and the edges of the forest. And though they have ridden as fast as the horses can carry them along this craggy, treacherous path, it almost seems to Beowulf that he is back in the cavern again, caught once more in the merewife’s time-bending spell so that each second takes an eternity to come and go. He cannot imagine that they will reach Heorot ahead of the monster, that they will return to find anything remaining but blazing debris where the keep once stood. And then Wiglaf shouts and points to the sky above the ancient trees, and Beowulf sees that the dragon is soaring in wide circles beyond the highest limbs.

“What’s it doing?” asks Wiglaf.

“The bastard’s waiting on me,” replies Beowulf…. what better way might I ever harm you than by harming them? How better to take my vengeance?

Beowulf tugs back hard on the reins, and his horse skids to a stop in a cloud of dust and grit. Wiglaf rides past, then slows his own mount and circles back.

“Ride on to the keep,” Beowulf tells him, not taking his eyes off the dragon. “Warn them. Tell the archers to be ready. I’ll see what I can do to slow it down.”

“No,” Wiglaf says. “I’ll not leave you to face that beast alone, my lord. We’ll face it together. The archers already have their orders.”

“You will do as I have said, Wiglaf. We will not argue. I know what has to happen now.”

“Oh,” snorts Wiglaf. “So, it’s not enough to kill demons and be crowned King of Denmark and bed a queen. Now you’d have me believing you know the weaving of the Norns and have seen their skein for yourself.”