Brown-eyed Odysseus stood at the prow of his last ship, listening to the timbers groan as the vessel's curved prow scattered the sea's undulating foam. Her throng of masts formed a forest of winged sail, and like a strong bird she flew her way over the curling tide of the gray Baltic, gliding with the grace of a swan. The wind whipping her over the waves, the ship navigated toward the only visible land her occupants had seen in weeks. A granite sky hung over a panorama of crags and cliffs turreted with rock, and rising up from the precipice was a glowing oasis of civilization.
Soon, the swan-ship beached, and a watchman of the Danes, guardian of the cliffs, spurred his horse and brandished his spear. Over the roaring of the waves and wind he yelled, "Strangers, who are you that dare, unbidden, unheralded, so boldly trespass here? Upon your flashing shields and points of your swords I see the glint of death."
Fatigued, Odysseus spoke, "Oh guardian of the shore, we are but weary travelers, plagued by Poseidon's gales and sent askew of our course. Could you not show us Hestia's hospitality?"
The sentry looked confused for a moment. "Hestia? Poseidon? Are those not Greek gods? Foreigners you are then. You have strayed far, for now you are on the shores of Denmark, land of Odin, Thor, and Loki. But you arrive at a most impeccable time, for the halls of Heorot are always open to the weary, and now is a time of great celebration. Come, for the citadel of Heorot houses the finest mead in all the north."
Odysseus and his men were led to a huge hall that was fortified to withstand the buffet of war. Faithful Wulfgar, herald for the king, entreated them to enter. A long hall lay before them, the floor paved with stone, the roof high raftered. There was thunderous revelry, and jubilant bards and minstrels sang along with the restful voice of the harp and the frivolous clashing of golden goblets.
Wulfgar led them to the throne where gray-haired Hrothgar sat observing the festivities. Having heard of the mighty king, intuitive Odysseus knew he was a man whose subjects pledged adherence for his glory in battle and perpetual generosity. His countenance was like that of the sky after a storm, open and blue in the radiance of the climbing sun, free from the gaping maws of thunderous gales and clashing storms.
"Well met, stranger," greeted the bright-eyed king, "I am Hrothgar, king of the Danes! And this," he continued, gesturing animatedly towards a massive blonde man beside him, "is the strong-armed Beowulf, who hales from the land of the Geats. A youth of valiance abounding, mightiest yet mildest of men, he is the thane of Heorot! And in his honor we celebrate his victories tonight!"
"A pleasure to meet both of you," the traveler replied, "I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, known before all men for my acumen and wit, and my fame goes up to the heavens."
"Odin be praised!" exclaimed Hrothgar, "I am glad to welcome you on this night, Odysseus, for now I have two heroes in my hall! Your fame has spread to us in the north, yet has Beowulf's spread to your fellows in the south?"
Never to be out-done, Odysseus responded contritely, "I don't believe it has."
"Well then," the king bellowed, "I shall relate the tale of Beowulf's victory, so you'll have something to tell your fellow Greeks, eh? Wrapped in malaise, I was before Beowulf's arrival, for my kingdom had been plagued for twelve years by the beast Grendel, and I pay homage to Odin everyday for sending me such a capable warrior. A hideous monster Grendel was, a fiend from hell, misbegotten son of a foul mother, hating the sound of harp, the minstrel's song, the bold merriment of men in whose distorted likeness he was shaped. He was twice six feet tall with arms of a hairy gorilla and red ferocious eyes and ravening jaws. Coming down from the misty moor night after night, he was famished for flesh. But Beowulf, alone, tore Grendel's arm from his shoulder asunder, and wrenched it from the root while the tough sinews cracked. Now, the arm is my grotesque trophy, a reminder to all of the might and glory of Beowulf!"
"A laudable feat to be sure," interjected Odysseus, "but it is no comparison to what I have accomplished on my travels."
Eager Hrothgar clapped his hands in anticipation. "Pray tell, Odysseus! Tell us of your travels so that we may revel in the splendor of two heroes tonight!"
Smiling, Odysseus boasted of his adventures. He related the tale of Troy, stressing how brilliantly he fabricated and executed the plan of the Trojan horse. And later, he told of the insight by which he realized the peril of the Lotus Eaters, how he saved his men from imminent doom. He told them of the Sirens and the wax, how he heard their euphonious songs and lived by tying himself to the mast. Finally, he related the tale of the Cyclopes and how with immense wit he told Polyphemus his name was 'Nobody', how he fashioned a hefty stake to blind him, and how he used the sheep to escape from the cave.
When he had finished his tale, Hrothgar praised Odysseus's deeds and bade everyone sleep, for there would be more festivities tomorrow. But in the deep of night, while the oblivious inhabitants of Heorot slept blissfully unaware, a malicious shadow stole down the desolate hillsides of the misty moors. The figure let out a monstrous cry that continued unabated, like the perpetual cry of the Fenrir wolf, spawn of Loki, incarcerated forever under the eternal gaze of Tyr. The she-beast caused quite a cataclysm within the halls of Heorot, ripping down the arm of Grendel in her vehemence, and pilfering Aeschere, advisor to the king. Leaving a path of devastation in her livid wake, she stole back over the moors and into her watery lair.
Dawn mantled the deserted hillsides, encrimsoning the walls of Heorot in cerise. Odysseus and Beowulf, unaware of the recent calamity, woke to find weary Hrothgar in a state of despair. The loss of yet more men, especially prudent Aeschere, left the king's heart as bleak and desolate as a ruin whose ghosts remained, his mind like their wailing cries, reverberating throughout the barren halls of decrepit buildings where the persistence of memory lingered, lamenting in the lambent shadows of time. In his mournful state he sat brooding upon his throne, slowly raising his leaden, lusterless gaze upon the youths who stood at his feet.
When aged Hrothgar sullenly told them of the tableau the she-monster had caused, belligerent Beowulf turned to Odysseus and said, "We shall propagate our fame and glory further, my friend, and rid Hrothgar of this she-devil. I am no weakling. With my trusty blade I have slain a monster brood and many a foul sea-beast that writhed and twisted in the bounding wave. But whether it be that Hrunting shall win me fame or death devour me, I know not. For secret are the ways of Fate, and her word final."
Odysseus nodded, agreeing, "I snap my fingers in the face of death, for fame is worth seeking. We shall rid the land of this demon who so boldly haunts the shadows of the moors."
The king's eyes lit with hope, like a lamp whose withering, lambent flame had just been replenished by a new supply of oil, burning brightly. "Yes! You must join together, and your glory will be such that bards and minstrels will run their quills dry! Ink will be scarce where ever you go, thanes of Heorot!" he cried.
Having received all the consent needed, Beowulf hastily began preparation for the coming battle, exceedingly pugnacious and fervent. Odysseus hung back, cautious, questioning Hrothgar.
"You are smart to be cautious, concerned Odysseus, for the hag monster is formidable indeed, and the journey rough. Her lair lies in a lonely land where dwell the dark spirits by paths of peril, cloud-haunted hills where wolves hunt, and by windy cliffs where swollen torrents plunge headlong into the misty deep of the grumbling under-water. The trees in all their gloomy splendor rise with plumage feathered with frost, and sea monsters lurk in the depths."
"Worry not, generous Hrothgar, for we will kill Grendel's mother, and she and her kind will never again cross the threshold of Heorot," reassured Odysseus over his shoulder as he departed.
Along with Beowulf, he passed under the castellated walls of Hrothgar's kingdom. Over the misty mires they rode, the hills standing monolithic against the pallid firmament of granite skies. They stole over the dusky moor like panthers in their stealth, shoulders rippling in anticipation of the coming battle, their blades gleaming like the sharpened, glinting teeth of a predator, shadows wavering under the pale moon and the dark vault of heaven.
Arriving at the lair of Grendel's mother, they looked down into the murky water where the silvery tarnish of the half-moon cast a mosaic of light and shadow on the bloodied waters. Dripping scarlet rivulets onto the barren landscape, Aeschere's head sat impaled on a spear, and the acrid smell of corrosion rose from various other cadavers littering the area.
Beowulf raised a horn to his lips. "No," whispered Odysseus, eyeing the water, "we do not yet know what other foul fiends lurk in the depths."
"How else do you propose we draw out the hag?" inquired Beowulf impatiently, brandishing his sword and blowing into the obstreperous instrument. The sound cut through the wind and echoed off the cold cliffs in reply as a myriad of sea monsters rose from the murky depths.
With a fierce battle cry, Beowulf threw himself into the fray in a state of berserk, failing to notice that his lack of evasion caused many a wound to manifest on his person. Odysseus hung back with a bow, salvaging his constitution and strength for Grendel's mother.
The sea monsters dispatched, Beowulf plunged into the gloomy waters, Odysseus at his heels. Leaving a trail of blood, Grendel's mother swam straight for the Swedish warrior, dragging him into the depths of the lake. Odysseus swam fervently in pursuit, spotting just in time to see the hag disappear into an aperture in the lake's bottom.
Surfacing, Odysseus gasped for air, finding himself in a submerged lair with stout, buttressed rafters holding up the weight of the water. It seemed to be a ruined temple of some sort, with dilapidated columns and rocks strewn about. The sporadic sounds of battle reached his ears, and he watched as Hrunting caromed off the hide of the were-wolf of the deep. Brooding on her grief and greedy for revenge, she lashed out at Beowulf. Observing Hrunting barely penetrate her impermeable skin, pensive Odysseus speculated that if a blade was large enough, strong enough, it might be able to wound the seemingly invincible fiend.
Jumping into the ensuing battle, Odysseus employed various hit and run tactics, while Beowulf's wounds accumulated. Using the terrain to his advantage, Odysseus taunted Grendel's mother into a rush, dodging just in time for her to crash into a wall or column. Overconfident and sure in his strength, Beowulf discarded Hrunting, lunging for the demon's neck like a ferocious gale with gaping maws of thunder and jagged teeth of lightning, gnashing in the dark gloom of rain-laden clouds. But death was covetous for the hero's soul, and Grendel's mother seized Beowulf mid-lunge, and crushed him between colossal palms. Blood ran down her hands as the sound of crunching bones filled the lair, and she brought her blood-soaked claws to her lips.
Desperate, resourceful Odysseus climbed up a pile of rocks and pushed a boulder onto the head of Grendel's mother. Occupied as she was, she failed to dodge the rubble and was stunned. Seizing the opportunity, the Greek hero frantically searched for a way to kill her, spotting just in time a tremendous aquiline sword, forged by the giants of olden time in the furnace of the sun. So cumbrous was the sword that only a hero could have wielded it, and Odysseus seized the golden hilt, cleaving her grotesque head from her body in one massive swing.
The crash of steel and crunch of bones against stone walls clamored loudly in those dead hours, the blood of strong Beowulf and Grendel's mother mingling, seeping outward in sinuous paths between the rounded tiles of the lair. Morning dawned red, and bloody, upon the halls of Heorot.