Beowulf by Michael Morpurgo

Author:Michael Morpurgo [Morpurgo, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7636-7687-2
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2006-08-16T04:00:00+00:00

The sea-hag dragged the prince, pinioned and helpless in her grasp, to her cavernous lair. Try as he did, Beowulf could not even draw his sword to defend himself against this water-wolf, nor against the onslaught of twisting sea-monsters now slashing at him with their tearing tusks, which threatened to rip away his life-saving battle-coat. Still held fast in her deadly embrace, Beowulf found himself hauled to the surface into a vaulted cavern lit all around with fires of hell, it seemed, but at least he could breathe again and was free of the pressing weight of water. At least now he would not simply be swept away and drowned. Then he looked up and saw the monstrous size of this hideous sea-hag — he had felt her strength already. Undaunted, he saw his chance. He broke free of her, tore himself away, drew Hrunting, circled it high above him, and brought it screaming down on her head, sure it must be her death stroke. But Hrunting, that battle-hardened, all-powerful sword that had sliced so easily through helmet and mail, could not bite this monster’s hoary hide but simply bounced off, leaving her flesh unharmed, unscathed, unmarked even. Never before had Hrunting failed a warrior in a fight as it had now.

But Beowulf, intent on victory, was not in the least downhearted. Rather his courage was renewed, his ferocity sharpened. Seeing that its blade-edge would be useless, the hero flung Hrunting aside and trusted now, as he had before, to his own strength, to the God-given power in his hands. Now was not the moment to think of saving his life. Now would be his time of testing, his achieving of everlasting glory.

Anger steeled his strength; fury fired his determination, stirred him to action. Beowulf hurled himself at Grendel’s mother, grabbed her by the shoulder, and threw her bodily to the ground. But in a moment she repaid him fully, grasping him with her horrible hand-hooks, so that he stumbled and fell, too weary now to save himself. At once she was astride him. He was at her mercy. She snatched up her dagger. Now she would avenge her boy, her only son. With a scream of triumph she struck, but the mail-shirt shielded him from the sharp-edged blade, from the deadly point. Again and again she stabbed and slashed, but Beowulf’s blessed battle-shirt did not fail him. Without it, the Geat hero would certainly have been slaughtered there and then. But God, looking down, saved him, and gave him the victory.

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