Not Quite Beowulf

  If Gareth, as was mentioned before, had been a reflective dog, or a dog with even a small degree of self-knowledge: a dog who took any active interest in the structure and meaning of his existence, he would have agreed that he was bored and needed a new challenge, or a different life. He was not, and so had merely experienced these things, however, on that night he was instantly excited as soon as he sensed the strange and dangerous creature that was lurking in the garden.

  He had growled menacingly at the tall creature in the woods. To Gareth’s surprise and delight the creature had growled back and not run away. This was fun! Gareth felt his muscles clinch ready to spring while his heightened perceptions detected the same movements in his opponent. They paused, briefly trying to assess a weakness in each other’s defences. Gareth leapt, sensing that he had the upper hand and would bring down the other creature.

  As Gareth sprang forward, he had the satisfying sensation of knocking his opponent back against the wall, but he then felt momentarily dismayed that his powerful jaws had not found his victim’s throat. Instead he found that the creature had wedged its elbow under his jaw and was using this to lever him up and away. Gareth twisted to try and break the creature’s grip, but he was surprised to find that he was being held. Not only that, the creature was squeezing him, crushing the air from his lungs. Gareth was unused to his attacks not succeeding. His strategy, such as it was, was to knock his opponent down and bite them. This had always worked before and his canine brain was not equipped to come up with a new plan. He recognised a superior opponent and, rather than be completely crushed, he went limp to show he understood who the lead dog was now.

  Grendel understood this gesture and released the dog. Gareth rolled on his back and looked up at Grendel. The Troll towered above him in the night sky. Grendel looked down at Gareth, the Royal Dog, and laughed.

  ‘You belong to me now,’ he said.

  Gareth would have nodded. His new master had spoken.

  Since then, Gareth had lived with Grendel. Now he was jumping around Grendel’s ankles as the tall Troll carried the unconscious body of Thwurp back towards the lake.

  Had he been a thoughtful, analytical dog; a hound used to regularly casting a critical eye over his life choices, he would have observed how much happier he was than when he lived in the Beer Hall. He would have been surprised to find how a world of possibilities had opened up for him. Had he been self conscious at all, he would have realised that a life of freedom and adventure, while being bonded to a powerful hunter, was what suited him best of all. He was none of these things, and so merely rejoiced to be running in the sunlight at the heels of his new master.

  The new master’s mother had returned from her encounter on Troll Ridge in a mood that approximately mirrored the joyful reincarnation of Gareth. She, an old Troll, had fought the enemy and won. If it didn’t make her feel young again it did, at least, make her feel powerful. She felt strong. She was ready to fight again.

  She made her way back to the lake and briskly dived below the surface. She swam through the rock tunnel that led to the cave that was home to her and her son. She climbed out of the water into the main living area, where there was space for a fire and two rough mattresses. Normally she would have slept, but she felt too exhilarated. She wanted to do more to fight the enemy.

  She sat down and thought about what could be done. The problem was that there were many more of the human vermin than there were trolls. Even though trolls were much stronger, in the end, the numbers would win. She considered that the trolls would be most vulnerable if the men could find them and she supposed, that it would only be a matter of time before that happened. A key problem was that there was only the one way out of the cave, and so anyone who watched for long enough would be sure to spot it being used. In order to be effective at fighting the men, she and Grendel would need another way and now that her energy had returned, she thought that it was possible she could create one.

  When Grendel was much younger, she and her husband had blocked up an exit from the cave, as they feared the young troll might explore it and become lost or harmed. She knew this exit lead into a number of passageways and that somewhere in the caves was an underground river. She was not sure if it reached the surface at any point, however, it seemed that it would be a good idea to unblock the exit and explore the possibility. She got up and began to unpick the rocks and stones.

  After some work she had made enough of a gap to squeeze through. She found herself in a long passageway that curved down into the earth. It was narrow and small for her, but she squeezed through. After a while she came to a junction where one fork went up and the other down. She explored the up fork, but it became a dead end quite quickly. She retraced her steps and began to climb down. Somewhere she could hear the trickle of water.

  She climbed further and further down and realised that she had travelled a long way, much deeper than she had intended. She slowed her pace and began to feel a tingle of fear; she also began to feel tired and cursed herself for being a foolish old troll who didn’t know her limits. She was preparing to turn round and climb up, when her foot slipped on a loose stone and she began to slide. Desperately she tried to grab hold of the rock, but more stones slid and she began to roll in a hail of scree; down a slope into the darkness. Her attempts to cling on achieved nothing and she rolled head over heels until the ground levelled out.

  It was very dark where she was and although troll’s can see very well in a little light they have no ability to see in complete darkness. This was where she found herself. She lay still and checked to see that she was unhurt, which she was apart from some scratches and bruises. Then she listened and looked as hard as she could into the dark.

  She could still here a trickle of water, and when she really looked as hard as she could there was some light. It seemed to be a shaft of moonlight, coming from some place high above. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she could see that she was in a large cavern where there was a small pool of water. There seemed to be no way out. The slope she had fallen down was steep and the she could see the tunnel she had come through, high above her. She looked back at the column of moonlight and realised that there was a shaft coming into the cavern from above. It illuminated the far end of the cavern. She picked herself up and began to carefully move around the pool towards the shaft. It was high above her, a strangely perfect circle. It clearly led to outside. When she was nearly beneath it she stopped abruptly. She noticed that, lying in the moonlight, with a crimson ribbon held in its hand, was the body of a human child.

  Chapter Nine

  In which the power of destiny is discussed; and two plans emerge for dealing with the problem of the Trolls. The King demonstrates his obvious and unquestioned superiority in selecting the right course of action.

  Gnosser, the Royal Historian, was a small, wrinkled man; who almost disappeared under the large baggy, green cap he always wore. He was a shrivelled, mediocre, malodorous individual, whose work consisted exclusively of chronicling the magnificent conquests and achievements of the mighty King Lars and comparing him (favourably) to the less exalted monarchs of the past. He was sat in a recess in the Biggest Beer Hall There Has Ever Been scratching away at his long awaited ‘The Conquests and Triumphs of Lars the Strong’

  He was surprised to see the King coming over to join him.

  ‘Don’t get up!’ ordered Lars taking a seat at the parchment and inkpot filled table.

  ‘Majesty!’ Gnosser adopted the submissive, ingratiating, wheedling tone that he believed had secured his position as Royal Historian. In that belief; as with much else, he was mistaken; Gnosser was the only historian Lars had ever met and he was far too impatient to interview candidates for the post.

  ‘It is a rare honour to be visited by your Grace...’ Gnosser trailed off as he saw the King glare into the middle distance. It was true. Since the start of the troll problem, the King had lost all interest in his past glories.

  ‘Am I cursed, Gnosser? The Ki
ng stared directly at the historian, ‘Have I done something wrong that has caused this crisis? Are the Gods perhaps jealous of my accomplishments? Have I done more than man should do? Did I risk the wrath of Heaven by building the Biggest Beer Hall There Has Ever Been?’

  Gnosser eyed the King thoughtfully. This was a question that required careful handling. Lars clearly wanted to be reassured, and so Gnosser would have said that the Gods would not be angry; however, if the establishment of The Biggest Beer Hall There Has Ever Been was not such a mighty feat that the Gods might not be provoked and so feel angry with the perpetrator, then there was a fair chance that the perpetrator of the potential abomination might be quite angry with the reckless Historian who pointed this out. He grimaced, a facial expression he considered expressive of both the quality of his thinking and the pain and effort he endured to sustain such a powerful cerebral process.

  ‘The Gods are inscrutable,’ he croaked, deciding ambiguity and obfuscation were the tactics of the day. ‘Man cannot fathom fully their infinite design. They are shrouded in mystery; they are clad in the incomprehensible miasma of the unknown. They dwell without our sphere; and though we may gain intimations of their limitless luminescence, can we truly say in what light they behold this vast and noble creation…’

  ‘Rubbish!’ interjected Steelstrom, who had crossed the Beer Hall to the recess and now stood at King Lars’ side.

  ‘The Gods love this Beer Hall! It is the zenith of human achievement to imitate our mighty masters, and in erecting so fine an edifice as this, our great King can only be complementing the all-seeing ones with his virtuous and noble effort. It is plain and obvious to all right-thinking men that the this glorious structure could not have been created in the face of opposition from those above and it is therefore self-evident that the Gods themselves willed the creation of The Biggest Beer Hall There Has Ever Been. They bless the great and mighty Lars, ruler (of at least a fair portion) of the Earth!’

  He glared mightily at the historian, his brows furrowing with rage.

  ‘And those that say otherwise are traitors to the King, his state and they are an affront to the very Gods themselves! If those that walk upon the earth as Gods are not meant to rule the Earth as the Gods themselves, then who could be?’

  Gnosser had no reply. He had no intention of being traitorous, blasphemous or anything else that could threaten his comfortable position. Thankfully, he was excused from the need to reply by the appearance of Bjorn the Banker, who had silently slipped across the Beer Hall floor to join the debate.

  ‘It is admirably arranged to be, in essence, exactly as our imperial industrialist has exposited. Worldly wealth is, as it were, a blissful benediction, a godly gift; a divine deposition that deliberately displays the fond favour, or godly grace of those who govern our globe. It is an accurate assurance of the help of heaven.’

  Although all present were sure that they agreed with the banker, they remained silent, being slightly unsure what he had said.

  ‘Then this Troll problem might be a divine judgement.’

  Gnosser, Bjorn and Steelstrom were all taken aback by this logical deduction from the King; who had worked out the possibility that; if worldly success reflected divine pleasure, then it was equally possible that worldly trouble reflected divine anger. None of the courtiers had ever considered him capable of thoughts more complex than ‘Attack!’ and ‘Charge!’ They regarded him curiously and waited for him to continue.

  ‘If all my successes, from the Skirmish at Skane to the Onslaught at Omsk were signs of divine favour, showing that the gods loved and favoured me, then surely the attack of the Troll may be a sign of divine displeasure. How have I offended the Gods?’

  The advisors looked at each other. Steelstrom, as the most devout, was prepared to take this question on. Steelstrom had considerable skills at prevarication. These he had developed over the years to ease his conscience in his chosen profession. His mastery of this skill was so complete that he was able to practice it effortlessly and remain unaware of its employment.

  ‘This is nothing more than a test, your Highness. Surely your Grace has been tested before?’ He chuckled, as if reminiscing about a pleasant happening in the past, ‘For example, at the Multiple Mass Massacres at Munchen things did look a bit black for a time!’

  Gnosser and Bjorn nodded their support.

  ‘The Rout at Rheims was another testing time for your Highness, all appeared lost until…’

  The King laughed, ‘You arrived with reinforcements in Steelstrom improved plate, carrying new axes and things got better straight away. I see what you mean.’

  ‘Exactly,’ continued Steelstrom paternally, ‘From time to time the higher ones test our faith with these setbacks and when we keep our faith, and how can we not when we look at such a splendid edifice as this Beer Hall, we are rewarded with the defeat of our enemies by the grace of the Gods.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Bjorn and Gnosser chorused their approval of these pious sentiments and their admiration of the persuasive power of Steelstrom’s religious interpretation.

  ‘Then who will deliver us from our tormentor?’

  This unwelcome interjection came from the Queen, who had appeared at Bjorn’s elbow during Steelstrom’s speech. There was an uncomfortable silence. All the men looked displeased, except Bjorn the banker, who could not fully suppress a look of admiration. As the silence grew Gnosser ventured,

  ‘It seems, my Lady, that there is no immediate remedy to this problem.’

  ‘Nonsense, ‘shouted Lars, ‘I already have a plan. I am not without resource. I will call for champions to come and slay the beasts. The strongest and best men from the whole of the civilised world will flock to our door to earn the honour of delivering The Biggest Beer Hall Ever Built from the monster. I am sure that you will donate towards a reward,’ he added looking at Bjorn, ‘and that you will find a suitable weapon to offer as well.’

  ‘My services are at your disposal.’ agreed Steelstrom, while making a mental note that they should be charged for, as he had not agreed to help for nothing.

  ‘It will not be necessary,’ replied the Queen.

  The courtiers laughed, with the exception of Bjorn who looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I am the King! I have spoken. I have a plan. It will save the realm.’

  ‘There are numerous precedents for champions slaying monsters,’ agreed Gnosser; who had never considered the importance of women in history, ‘Consider Theseus or Perseus. They were divinely called to slay monsters.’

  ‘I’m sure there will be no need to inundate his Highness with foreigners,’ said Steelstrom, who had not had the benefit of a classical education.

  ‘It seems to be a perfect plan,’ agreed Bjorn cautiously, ‘but what does her highness suggest.’

  ‘She suggests nothing!’ shouted Lars, ‘She is a woman. Women do not suggest things,. They listen to, and agree with, suggestions made by men! I am the King. I have spoken!’ He stood up to draw attention to his fine manly height. The Queen was not intimidated.

  ‘I suggest nothing.’ She agreed. ‘I have merely sent for Beowulf.’

  There was a very long silence. Steelstrom looked hard at the Queen, as if she might change her mind, when nothing came of this, he smiled politely and looked at the King with an air of sympathy. Gnosser looked down at his writing table and Bjorn rubbed his hands together nervously. The King spoke again, this time more quietly, but the anger in his voice was clear to all.

  ‘I have spoken, there will be champions. The champions will come. They will kill the monster. This is how it will be.’

  He turned and walked away to the far corner of the Beer Hall where the royal chambers were located.

  The others stood anxiously, until he had departed. Gnosser began to write notes, so that the great decision of the noble King Lars could be included in his book. Steelstrom decided that there were business matters to attend to in the light of the upcoming tournament. This left the Queen and Bjorn the Ba
nker standing by the historian’s table. They walked a short distance in the direction of the counting house, mostly to get out of the range of Gnosser’s intrusive hearing.

  ‘Beowulf?’ questioned Bjorn, ‘Will he come?’

  ‘I sent for him.’ replied the Queen. Bjorn nodded and replied,

  ‘Then he will come.’

  But it was impossible to tell from his expression whether he was sad or happy. The Queen turned away and began to walk back towards the royal chambers. Bjorn watched her go and then strode off, alone, into the counting house.

  Chapter Ten

  In which two acts of kindness are misinterpreted.

  Despite being terribly afraid, Thwurp was remarkably glad to be alive. He was very surprised that he was alive and also very surprised to be lying on the floor of a large, damp cave. The Troll was in the cave. That was why he was afraid. Gareth the royal dog was also in the cave. He didn’t seem to be afraid. He seemed to like the Troll and the Troll seemed to be treating the dog kindly. He had not harmed Thwurp either, although he had taken his Steelstrom ‘Technology’ Anti-Troll Axe and a number of other weapons that the Captain generally carried. Thwurp was pleased to note that the Troll had somehow missed his Steelstrom ‘dagger in the boot’ stiletto; however the thought of trying to stab the muscular Troll with the concealed weapon was as attractive as the idea of taking on a tiger with a toothpick. Thwurp decided to sit up. This pleased Gareth, who ran over in a friendly way and knocked him down. Thwurp realised he was weak and dizzy. He would need to be patient. The Troll spoke in a surprisingly soft and musical voice. As soon as he spoke the dog went to him.

  ‘Dog, our visitor feels weakness.

  We must allow him time to rest.

  When he has recovered his strength

  We will find why he hates our kind,

  Why he poisons our streams and lakes,

  Why he hunts and kills our people.

  Until that time he must have rest.’

  Thwurp closed his eyes and tried to imagine a way in which this could end well for him.