Beowulf by Caitlin R. Kiernan

Author:Caitlin R. Kiernan [Kiernan, Caitlin R.]
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780061341281
Published: 2010-02-19T12:00:00+00:00

The passage below the trees is narrow, and Beowulf stands near the entrance for a time, the cold water

from the tarn flowing slowly about his knees. The ceiling of the tunnel is high enough that he does not

have to stoop or worry about striking his head. He holds the brand in his left hand, Hrunting in his right,

and the torchlight causes the walls of the cave to glitter and gleam brilliantly. Never before has he seen

stone quite like this, neither granite nor limestone, something the color of slate, yet pocked with clusters

of quartz crystals, and where the roots of the trees have pushed through from above, they have been

covered over the countless centuries with a glossy coating of dripstone, entombed though they might yet

be alive.

Don’t tarry here, he thinks. Do this thing quick as you can, and be done with it. And so

Beowulf follows the glittering tunnel deeper into the hillside, and when he has gone only a hundred or so

steps, it opens out into a great chamber or cavern. Here the water spilling in from the tarn has formed an

underground lake. He can only guess at its dimensions, as the torchlight is insufficient to penetrate very far

into that gloom there below the earth. But he thinks it must be very wide, and he tries not to consider

what creatures might lurk within its secret depths. The waters are black and still, and rimmed all about

with elaborate stalactite and stalagmite formations.

The teeth of the dragon, thinks Beowulf, but he pushes the unpleasant thought aside. They are

only stone, and he has seen the likes of them before. He takes a few steps into the cavern, playing the

torchlight out across the pool, when suddenly it gutters and goes out, as though it has been snuffed by a

breath both unseen and unfelt. The blackness rushes in about him, and it’s little consolation that a lesser

man might now retreat and relight the torch.

The oil from the tarn has burned out, he tells himself. It was no more than that. I am alone in

the dark, but it is only the dark of any cave.

But then, suddenly, an eldritch glow comes to take the place of the extinguished torch, a bright

chartreuse light like the shine of a thousand fireflies sparking all at once. And Beowulf realizes that this

new illumination is coming from Hrothgar’s golden horn, hanging on his belt. He reaches for it cautiously,

for surely anything that shines with such radiance must be hot to the touch. But the metal is as cool as

ever. Cold, in fact. He tosses the useless torch aside and unhooks the horn from his belt. There is nothing

healthy in this new light, nothing natural, though he cannot deny it holds a fascination and that there is

some unnerving beauty about it.

“So the demon shuns the light of the world,” he says, speaking only half to himself, captivated by

the horn’s unearthly splendor. “But it also knows I cannot find my way down to it without some lamp to

guide me, so I am given this, a ghostly beacon fit only for dwarves, that I may arrive and yet not offend

her eyes.

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