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On the Whale Road

A New & True Translation of the Poem Known as “Beowulf”

An excerpt from a translation-in-progress of the Old English poem

Ted Morrissey

[The following is the material I read for Lincoln Land Community College’s LitFest 2024, September 27. I subsequently made a video of the reading and uploaded it as “Bonus Episode 3” of the podcast A Lesson before Writing, available for free via YouTube, Spotify and Apple Podcasts. The entire translation, thus far, is available via Kindle Vella here.]

Introduction

I’ll begin in the first section of the poem, describing King Hrothgar’s rise to power in Denmark. The poem is set in about the year 520, but composed, orally, around 200 years after that and finally written down about 300 years after that – in a precursor of modern English we call “Old English,” which is so distant it is practically a foreign language. There are some 350 modern-English translations of “Beowulf,” but each translator feels that they can bring out some aspect of the poem that others may have overlooked or de-emphasized or simply gotten wrong.

I (ll. 64-114)

Then Hrothgar became known for his war-glory and battle-savvy so that his novice followers blossomed into a mighty warrior band. A plan came to mind: he would command that a wondrous hall be built, a marvel to outlive memory for mead-drinking and the division of war booty among young and old alike – everything God had bestowed, save for common ground and men’s lives. I’ve heard that work orders spread widely across the region summoning craftsmen of every skill to build the people’s beautiful hall. As such, it was completed in no time, this grandest of great-halls. He whose words were not questioned anywhere said the hall’s name was Hereot. True to his boasts, at banquet he gave gifts of rings, treasure galore. The hall towered tall, gabled with horns and beckoning the unholy flames of war-wrath. The day of the blade-hate had not yet been born between son- and father-in-law, sown by a long-buried hostility.

A darkness-dwelling demon, powerful with pain, had long endured the din of debauched merrymaking in the meadhall. The harp-strings sang stingingly, as did the song-shaping poet, who could keenly recount the creation of men from long ago. He declaimed how the Almighty made the earth, a lovely land ringed with water and a triumph of design when the sun and moon were set in motion there; and how He ornamented every corner with branches and leaves while animating myriad forms of life.

They lived prosperously, a chosen people, until the hell-born fiend burned with rage, became fixed on their ruin. Grendel, the grim outcast was called, infamous guardian of lonely haunts, fens and forsaken wastes. The mournful monster had dwelt for a time among his kind, all cast out by God, the marked kin of the murderer Cain. For the slaying of Abel, the Lord exacted revenge. Indeed, he extracted no joy from that evil act, only the Lord’s hostility and banishment from humankind. Thereafter were born all manner of monstrous things – ogres and evil-minded elves and ghouls who go among the dead, as well as the giants that waged war against God for ages (an outrage for which they were fully compensated).

II (ll. 115-188)

At nightfall, the Ring-Danes’ foe fell upon the awe-inspiring house, after the beer-drinking was done. Inside he beheld the noble band abed amid their abandoned banquet – their sleep was carefree, with no thoughts of the misery men must sometimes endure. The unclean creature, cruel and ruthless, was ready at once for a savage assault and wrested thirty thanes from their rest. Proud of his plunder, he left for his lair, his hellish home, bearing on his shoulders the bloody slaughter.

In the predawn twilight, Grendel’s war prowess was revealed, and the night’s raucous feasting was replaced by woeful wailing. The famous king, long-known for his nobility, sat stunned by sorrow. The great one grieved for his taken thanes as they beheld the track of that hated haint, that soulless specter. The fight proved fierce, pernicious and persistent. The very next night he resumed his murderous rampage, dedicated as he was to death and devastation, to unmitigated malice, doling out not a morsel of remorse. Many were the men, then, who found sleeping quarters elsewhere, a room removed from the hall and its unwelcome guest, once the unmistakable signs of his savagery were made abundantly clear. To escape the fiend, the deft sought safety via distance. Thus did Grendel ravage right, ruling over all until the hallowed hall was hollow.

The Scyldings’ patriarch suffered the pain of misfortune, the misery of unimaginable woe, for an interminable time, twelve withering winters. Reports of Grendel’s crimes were recited far from the site of his unending war on Hrothgar, so that a generation of children grew up hearing of his wicked and wrathful ways. He sought no substitute for his feud with the Danes – no pact, no price could curtail this deadly curse. Hrothgar’s hall councilors needn’t hope for a radiant reprieve from the death-dealer’s claws. On the contrary, the monster – shadow-cloaked and death-draped – continued to hunt whomever he pleased, from battle-weary warriors to dewy youths, plotting and pouncing from the mist-covered wastes where he presided over a never-ending night. No one can say where hell’s messengers may meet them on their meandering path.

So, mankind’s menace, always alone, committed uncountable crimes, unending acts of evil that caused unbearable anguish. On lead-dark nights he would occupy Heorot’s lonely treasure-laden halls. Unworthy, he avoided the hallowed throne, which was to be occupied by men deemed godlike — and never would he know such adoration. The Scyldings’ heartbroken lord suffered a misery that was acute. Men granted authority debated stratagems by which the courageous could defend against the sudden assaults. Desperate, they would seek out heathen shrines and make pledges to the stealer of souls, soliciting diabolical assistance in hopes of halting the nation’s destruction. 

Such was the heathens’ habit of mind, their misguided hope: they imagined that turning toward hell would be their salvation. They knew nothing of God, the Maker of everything who would judge their deeds. Their ignorance didn’t allow them to ask for the Lord’s protection – He whose glory gilded the world. Woe to those who throw their souls into hatred’s burning embrace, a sacrifice that will effect nothing no matter how desperate their desire. Well, though, will it be for those who find the enfolding arms of the Lord. A protective father’s comfort and security will be theirs!

III (ll. 189-257)

So Healfdene’s son suffered ceaselessly, his sorrow seething without end, the best of princes unable to move past the perpetual grief. Nothing could overturn the trouble that had been wrought, that pernicious night-evil. It clung to him, loathsome and cruel.

In his distant home, a great man among the Geats, Hygelac’s thane, heard of Grendel’s misdeeds. Among men, back then, his might was unmatched, so too his nobility and his strength of character. He commanded that a sturdy seaworthy ship be outfitted for a crossing upon the swan-road to the war-king, the worthy prince who was in need of equally worthy warriors. Clever-headed men declined to dissuade him, though he was dear to them. Rather, they hailed him a hero, confident in the signs they studied. The born-leader selected from among the Geats the best and boldest – fourteen seasoned soldiers – and led his troops to the heavy-timbered ship. The warrior knew the ways of the sea and marched them to the water’s edge.

The time had come, and the boat waited upon the water. Floating just beyond the high beachhead. The eager warriors, noisy in their excited chatter, leaped above the twisting tide onto the boat. Each bore a splendid array of war-gear, stowing it in the bosom of the stout-timbered ship. The glad warriors were launched, then, on their glorious journey.

Wind-driven across the waves, the ship flew like a foam-plumed bird for a full day – until the sea-voyagers sighted land. Before the curved prow rose glimmering cliffs, abrupt bluffs, and fanning forelands. Then their sea-crossing had come to an end. The Weder Geats hastened to the hard ground, tying tight their ship, shaking out their mail-shirts, and gathering their war-gear. The crossing was easy, and, pleased, they thanked God.

From the high seawall, a Scylding watchman, charged with guarding the coast, counted as gleaming shields were carried across the gangway, followed by other worthy war-gear. Worry threatened to wreck him: he must know the minds of these well-armed men. Heavy shaft in hand, Hrothgar’s man boldly rode down to the strand to interrogate this newly arrived band:

Halt and identify yourselves! You chain-mailed men who have steered your ship here along the sea-path, skillfully crossing the deep. Long has it been my duty to dwell at land’s end and monitor the sea for hostile mariners who mean harm to the Danes. No shield-bearing warriors have disembarked so boldly, not without displaying some sign that they’d been granted permission. I have never beheld a man in battle-gear of greater stature – nowhere on earth is there such a fearsome figure. Unless his physique and even his fine face deceive, he is no mere hall hanger-on propped up with battle panoply. Now, before you advance farther into the land of the Danes, I must know where you came from – I must be convinced you are not false-hearted spies. Don’t hesitate, seafaring foreigners, and take me seriously when I say I must know your place of origin. 

IV (ll. 258-285)

Their leader, who was eldest and wisest, unlatched his lockbox of language and answered: We are from Geat-land, hearth-guardians of our lord, Hygelac. My father’s name, Edgtheow, was synonymous with nobility, and known by people of many nations for his bravery in battle. He outlasted many bitter winters, proving their better, before leaving his home deep into old age. His memory lives on among the wisest advisers everywhere. We seek your leader, Healfdane’s son, lord and protector of his people. Our intentions are noble. Provide us your wise advice. We are on an errand of great import to the legendary leader of the Danes; and have nothing to hide, I assure you.

You must confirm if what we have heard is true, that among the Scyldings dwells some sort of destroyer, an enigmatic enemy who reveals his rage in the terror he brings on dark-black nights, unspeakable acts resulting in shame and slaughter. I have advice for Hrothgar that comes from a kindred spirit, a way for he who is wise and good to vanquish this villain and cool his accumulated cares, a remedy that will bring sweet relief. Otherwise he will eternally endure this troubled time, this everlasting season of distress, dwelling there in that high hall, gleaming emblem of his greatness.

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See the translation’s page for more information, including its creeping progress.

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Ted Morrissey’s novel excerpts, short stories, poems, critical articles, reviews, and translations have appeared in more than 120 publications. His most recent books are the novel The Strophes of Job, and Delta of Cassiopeia: Collected Stories and Sonnets. He is the publisher of Twelve Winters and its various entities.

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