Now was the demon-dragon’s chance, and he took it. Seething with war-hatred he opened his bitter jaws and seized the champion by the neck. The serpent’s fangs bit deep into the flesh, and Beowulf’s lifeblood poured from him. Wiglaf, that young hero, was as good as his word. His courage did not fail him now. He summoned all his strength and sprang forward into the dragon’s fire to defend his lord. His hands and head were burned as he came through it, but he was not to be put off, this brave warrior. He would do his duty. Wiglaf did not aim for the scaly head of the beast but went instead for the soft throat, stabbing deep into it with his sword, a thrust so powerful that the dragon was forced to loosen his grip on Beowulf, so stunning that the fiery flow was suddenly stemmed and stanched forever. Coming again to his senses, the great king seized his moment, whipped out his battle-sharp dagger, and drove it to the hilt into the dragon’s body. So together the two heroes downed the dragon. They did not stop stabbing him till an end was made of him, till his last gasp of life, the last death-breath, was over and the monster was still.
But for Beowulf, this was to be his last victory of so many, and he knew it already. The poison in his wounds was beginning to burn and swell inside him. He sat down heavily on a ledge of rock, knowing that the shadow of his own death was upon him, feeling the fatal pain of it boiling in his chest. Wiglaf, ever attentive to his lord and friend, ever loyal, bathed his bloodied king, unfastened his helmet, did all he could to stanch the bleeding, to relieve his pain. But death he could not stanch. No one can. The fearless leader knew well now that this was the end of his time, of all his earthly happiness.
He had only one wish to fulfill before his life left him. He called Wiglaf closer, for his speech was thin now, his breathing short. “Go now, dear friend,” he said. “Go into the mound and find this dead serpent’s treasure-hoard. I want to see it with my own eyes before I die, those ancient jewels, your golden inheritance. Just once I want to see it.”
Wiglaf did not hesitate to obey his lord. Bloodied and burned as he was, he ran past the dead hoard-guardian and into the barrow, deep into that house of treasures, into the winged serpent’s den of darkness. Many and magnificent were the marvels he found there: old tarnished relics of a vanished ancient race of warriors, piles of drinking cups and heaps of helmets and twisted torcs, all of the most precious gold. No wonder this death-dragon had fought so hard to keep it. And high above the hoard there hung the battle standard of the tribe, woven entirely in glowing gold that shone even in the gloom of the place, brightly enough even to light up the treasure below. Swiftly, for he knew there was little time to waste, Wiglaf gathered all he could carry out, golden cups and flagons, and that ancient battle standard too.
Even burdened by his load of treasures, Wiglaf ran all the way back out of the tunnel. With every eager step he worried that his lord might already have died out there while he was gone. And when the brave thane at last saw his leader, he did seem almost dead, barely breathing still, his eyes closed. Wiglaf sprinkled his face with cooling water, begging him to wake up and live.
Deep in his death-sleep the battle-king heard Wiglaf’s voice calling him back, opened his eyes, and saw the gold that honest Wiglaf had brought to show him. He thanked the youngster for all he had done for him — he was thoughtful even in death, this hero — and then, breathless, spoke these last few words: “I have defended my kingdom these fifty years as best I could, served my people as wisely as I could. For that I thank my God, the King of all Glory. And to him also I give thanks for these treasures I see before my dying eyes, for the opportunity to acquire them for my people on my death-day, to sustain them in all their needs in the future when I am gone. Wiglaf, my beloved friend, I fear I can stay no longer. Tell them — and this is the last command of their king — to build me a tomb high on the cliff overlooking Hronesness. Let it stand always as a towering reminder of me to my people, so that masted ships dipping through the sea-mists may see it and remember it always. Let the place be known forever as Beowulf’s barrow.”
So saying, he unclasped the golden collar from around his neck and gave it to Wiglaf. His helmet, armor, and arm-rings too he handed to the young spearman, reward for his courage and loyalty. “Use these well, good friend,” he said. These were the old man’s last words, spoken with his last breath. At that moment his soul left his body, soaring heavenward on its way to everlasting glory.
How Wiglaf grieved then at the passing of his king, at the suffering of his life’s end. It was no consolation to him that nearby lay the corpse of the terrible death-dragon, no joy to him that the destroyer had been destroyed, that he would no longer fly the night air, no longer terrorize and torment the people. It was no matter either that the beautiful treasure-hoard of unimaginable wealth was theirs.
Not long afterward those ten traitorous battle-shirkers, those cringing cowards who had deserted their leader so shamefully, decided it was safe enough to emerge from the woods. They came now to where the old king lay, and found Wiglaf, weary with battle, weeping at his lord’s shoulder, still trying to wake him with water, still not wanting to believe that the hero would not wake from his death-sleep, would never speak again. But as stillness gripped the old man’s body, he saw and understood there was no life left, nor any hope of life either.
He turned his gaze then and his anger on those craven companions-in-arms gathered around. “Look well upon this lord of men, who made you who you are, gave you all you have and hold. But all his kindnesses to you were wasted, were they not? For when he most needed you, you turned and ran away. He had to face the fire-fury of this death-dragon alone and unaided. I could do little for him on my own, though I tried my best. All the world shall now hear how you deserted your lord and kinsman, turned tail and fled with never a thought for your king in his hour of greatest need. You thought only of your own worthless skins. For this shameful act you will pay a heavy price, I promise you. You will be stripped of all riches and honors, all possessions, even your homes. You and yours will be condemned to wander the world as beasts, homeless and friendless forever.”
News of the great king’s death spread fast, how he had tried all he could to kill the death-dragon, and had indeed achieved it at last, but at a terrible cost. Both lay dead now on their slaughter-bed by the mound, Wiglaf, the young spearman, the only one who had stood by him in the fight, still at his master’s side. On hearing these hateful tidings, the earls in the royal mead-hall, saddened and silent, sat by their shields, fearful now for the safety of their kingdom, for the lord of the Geats, so long their strong protector, so long their guardian against every enemy, was gone from them forever. Still unwilling and unable to believe this dread news, the war-band went heavy-hearted and with welling tears to where Beowulf lay. And so they saw the body for themselves and knew then that the final day had come for their champion, that the warrior-king of the Geats was indeed dead.
They saw too that loathsome dragon stretched out nearby, scorched by his own flames, twisted and coiled in his death-agony. More than fifty feet long he was, this vile creature, once master of darkness, once their terrible tormentor, now laid low and destroyed by brave Beowulf. And they found there too all the treasure-hoard the death-dragon had been guarding. At Wiglaf’s command, they fetched all of it out from inside the mound, bowls and flagons and platters, all in gold, wonderfully worked weapons too, arm-rings and jewels hidden for a thousand years from human eye until this moment. Neither they, as they gazed in awe at this precious pile, nor indeed Beowulf himself could ever have known that the sole survivor of the earls who so long ago had placed the treasure for safekeeping there had laid a curse on it to last till the end of time, that whoever found it and plundered it would bring down upon himself and his people nothing but terror and tragedy. And so it had happened.
Wiglaf lifted his head and spoke to these grief-stricken earls: “Before he died, our dear king asked me to present to you his last orders. We are to raise on the place of the funeral pyre, high on the hill at Hronesness, a bar
row so that his name should never be forgotten. It shall be known always as Beowulf’s barrow. And I say it must be the most magnificent, the most imposing barrow ever built, a place fitting for this most honored and honorable of all warrior-kings that ever lived. But first let us dispose of the remains of this fiend of hell, this death-dragon who has brought us so much suffering. The very sight of him offends my eye and sickens my heart.” So they pushed the death-dragon over the edge of the cliff and watched as his body fell on the rocks below and broke there. The sea took him and covered him.
Then the earls made a bier and carried their beloved king to the hill at Hronesness. Firewood was brought from far and wide to build the funeral pyre. All around it they hung shining war-coats, battle-shields, and helmets, as befitting the great hero they had lost. On the very top they laid him out, just as he had ordered. Wiglaf it was who set the torch to the pyre, kindled the biggest funeral pyre ever seen. Wind-fanned, the flames roared up through the pyre and consumed their cherished lord. As the cloud of black smoke drifted high over the ocean, there could be heard the wailing and weeping of the women, the warriors, and all his people, a song of sorrow that rose with the billowing smoke. Heaven swallowed both.
Then just as Beowulf had commanded, the Geats built for their dead leader a beacon on that headland, so high and huge that all seafarers could see it for miles around. Deep in his tomb they laid the ashes that remained from the fire, and placed there too all the jewels and torcs, all that magnificent treasure-hoard they had recovered from the dragon’s mound. They left it there in the earth’s keeping. And there it is to this day, no more use to men than ever it was before. Then the warriors rode around and around this walled barrow, last resting place of their hero king, and mourned him, told out loud their grief in lavish words praising his name and his prowess, honoring him as their lord and friend. Of all the kings that ever lived, they said, this was the gentlest and kindest to his people, the most gracious and famous the world had known. His life might be over, they said, but his name and his deeds would live on as long as his tale was told.
Which is why, all these years later, I have told this tale.
Michael Morpurgo, Beowulf
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