Beowulf: A New Translation

Anonymous

Edited and Translated by Maria Dahvana Headley

2020

Editor's Preface

The most famous or—for some medievalists—infamous translation since Seamus Heaney’s, Maria Dahvana Headley’s 2020 translation marks the first full text translation of Beowulf done by a woman. (Meghan Purvis, for example, provided an earlier translation but it is not a full text one.) Heralded as feminist and progressive, said to steer medieval literature out of the cliché dark ages, Headley's translation presents an interpretation of Beowulf that is distinctly rooted in twenty-first century America. Her translation and the image of Grendel’s mother which she creates were the original inspiration for The Mere Wife’s Kingdom project. Her translation breaks apart the skeleton of the Beowulf text and then pieces it back together to form the same skeleton but one that is glued together with gold in a kintsugi fashion, the Japanese process of mending broken pottery by using gold dustings to emphasize the imperfections.

In her text, Beowulf is no longer a noble warrior thane as is the common portrayal but instead possesses the humor and habit of an American frat boy. He competes in rap battles and speaks with the same locker room talk that has become a familiar posture in the past years: I snatched / the sword, striking down the bitch [Grendel's mother] that sought / to slay me. Words like daddying and fuck and beer-hall brothers are used frequently, leaving readers to linger on the uncomfortable nature of such crass words. Headley draws out the uncomfortable themes that most translators, including Heaney, would like to gloss over: violence of men against women, the disruption of women's peace by invasion, the entitlement of the wealthy and powerful.

What Headley has done with her translation is tether the text to a specific time and place— twenty-first-century America. Within her translation, she has effectively built a word-hoard of contemporary American English with all its slang and vulgarities. But what is unique to her translation are the themes which she centers her story around: male violence against women and the partnering of destruction and invasion, the danger of elevating these themes uncritically. Before Headley few translators were willing to venture into a feminist interpretation of the text even though one has been sitting there, waiting for it to be unearthed and dusted off and shown to everyone. For ultimately, that is what all translations of Beowulf are no matter how devout the translator is to authorial intent: interpreting fractured text, piecing together old bones of a dead language.

Headley denies Beowulf the elegant language that softens the violence of the titular character and his world. There is no safety for him there in her text. There is still merit in reading previous translations of Beowulf. And while I do not propose that we only engage with Headleywulf in our conversations about the early English period, Headley’s is the translation that comes to us at the right moment in history. It dispels notions about the perfect greatness of the early English and challenges our presentation of it. For that is what Old English translations should do–challenge us to rethink and evaluate tradition.

For more information as to why I have specifically chosen to transcribe the fight between Beowulf and Grendel’s mother instead of the countless other scenes from the original text, please refer to the Editor’s Preface for William Morris’s translation.

In terms of the actual editing process, I have kept the text as close to Headley's original edition as possible.The most important editing aspect that I have added to Headley's text is addition of my own notes and observations regarding her translation decisions which can be found in the footnotes.

To purchase the book from Macmillan, click here.

For viewing of the TEI encoding click here. Please use Google Chrome to access.

Amelia Lehosit, Editor, 2023

The Battle Between Grendel's Mother and Beowulf

There was another chapter. An avenger lay in wait,
counting sworded seconds until the latest hour,
her heart full of hatred. Grendel's mother,
warrior-woman, outlaw, meditated on misery.
She lived, ill-fated, sinking beneath the cold currents
to her kingdom under-country, her line linked
to extinction since Cain crossed swords with Abel
and fled, murder-marked to make his home
in wastelands, solitary and silent. From Cain came
more misery, a legacy of lost souls.
Grendel was one of those, banished and blasted.
He'd found a waker among the dreamers, a battle
amid the beds, and wrestled the warrior who'd
woken into war. Beowulf saw himself as God's gift,1
Grendel as a goner; he used his strength to slay
the intruder, trusting in his Father to protect him,2
as He always had. He bled the hellion, and
Grendel fled piecemeal, no Heaven for him,
no honey, only rushing through a haunted hall to die
in his own mausoleum. Now his mother was here,
carried on the wave of wrath, crazed with sorrow,
looking for someone to slay, someone to pay in pain
for her heart's loss.3 She found the path
and made her way to Heorot.

Ring-Danes were dreaming there, a murdering herdspan4
of sleepers, drooling, drunk, their feast filling them.
They were the cream of the crop, but soon
they'd be chaff, scythed from swordsmen
into skeletons. She was the one to do it.
The horror wasn't muted by the measure
of women's strength against men's brawn.
Both can hold slaying swords, glazed with gore,
and score the boar-crests from war-helmet,
warming them with blood.

In Heorot Hall, hard-honed blades were yanked
from over benches, shields shouldered
to cover blinking sleepers, waking bareheaded,
barechested, stunned by her arrival. She moved
swiftly, knowing she had only moments to sift men
for her vengeance and remain among the living.
She tore a warrior from his bed, and dragged him,
defenseless, to her fen. This was Hrothgar's best friend,
most adored on the land between the two salt seas,
warrior and retainer. She slew him sleeping.

Beowulf was lucky, bedded elsewhere. After the brawl,
gift-quarters had been appointed him like rings.
The Geat was asleep when Grendel's mother struck.
Heorot Hall howled—she'd taken their trophy, too:
Grendel's hand! Man by man, they squalled.
This was just unjust, a bad bargain that both sides should suffer
losses,5 though the war was dealt and done, themselves
the clear winners. The wise king, gray and battle-brittle,
moaned when he knew the news, that hiis closest adviser,
nearest-to-ear, was no more, doornail-dead.6

Beowulf, blood-blessed boy,7 was hauled from sleep,
hustled hungover to the king's bedside.
Boot to boot with his band,
he marched to the room where
Hrothgar waited, grim and gloomy,
wondering if his fate was fucked8 forever,
the Almighty refusing to relent.
Beowulf and his boys threw the doors open
to sunlight and and rattled the floorboards,
no ground given to grief. Beowulf thundered
up to the morose prince and asked:
Had Hrothgar slept well?

Hrothgar had no words. He said something anyway.
"Don't speak to me of happiness! Hard times
have come again! The Danes are in darkness!
Æschere is murdered! Yrmenlaf's big brother,
and my best friend! My battle bro when ranks
were closing and boar-helms bashed
into brainpans! He was there, hand to my heart,
a man like no other, terror-tested, never bested
until tonight, when a slaughterer withdrew him,
and spirited him from Heorot!
Where is she? Who knows!
Glutting on gobbets, after murdering him
unopposed. This is on you. She threw
herself into a blood feud after you slew her son
Grendel last night, tore him and bore him
into the afterlife, never mind years of his own crimes.
You gripped him, held him, and he lost the fight,
fell to the mat, and died. He's followed by another now,
an evil intruder, his mother, fueled by fury, a woman
seeking vengeance for her son. She goes too far,
grieving the loss of his ring-giver.
That hand, which one stretched wide, filled
with golden gifts, now still and cold.

"Well. I've heard my people, those simple citizens
who live out in the muddy country, say they've seen9
these two together, roaming the moor,
wading the mere, heath-rambling and of a height.
One is, as far as they can tell, a woman,
and the other, misshapen, formed like a man,
but larger than any man has a right to be.
He was named Grendel, a fatherless son.
Who knows whether he had other kin.
He was a sin-walker, is all they said,
those who've talked to me of these things.
They say the two stalked the hillsides,
the concealed country. They denned with wolves
and dove in windy rivers, slipped like mist-fish
into the fen and through it, down into the
darkest places underwater and underground,
cliff-bound. It's not far from here, the mere,
but it's a world away, a forest frosted
even in green months, old wood, wicked
and well-rooted. Water reflects trees
like tangled teeth, a gaping maw that, at night,
is lit with flames in the flood. No one's ever
touched the bottom. No one born of man, anyway.
Men can't go in. Even animals, a heath-hopping hart,
held to mere's edge by hounds, would sooner spin
on hooves and fight, lower horns, and ready itself for death
than step upon that stinking sod and dive into the dark.
That is a bad place. Waves roll, and taste the sky's edge,
wind's gust, clouds spit and spark, and when it storms,
mere mixes with mist, geysers up, and Heaven moans.
I'll say it again: this is on you,
Everything depends on a boy10 who knows nothing of this terror,
not least what you might fear when you get there,
the nerves that might make you quake
in horror's homestead. Go in, if you dare.
I'll pay in gold, old and new, heirlooms
and holdings lately wrought, if only
you return having done it."

Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, was open for business:
"No worries, wise one, I've got this. When a friend
needs to be avenged, it's better to fight than cry.
Even when mourning, this is how it goes.
We're all going to die, but most of us won't go out
in glory. Here's what matters, though, for me:11
not living, but living on in legend. I'm not afraid.
Stand up, protector of this place, and let us go together,
following Grendel's mother's tracks. I give you my fist:
she won't get away from Beowulf. There's no asylum,12
no cleavage cracks in Mother Earth, no tree-barrow,
no ocean I can't find her in, wherever she hides.
Live through today, Hrothgar, it's the end of your miseries.
Be as brave as your scops say you are."

The old king stood and thanked God, mighty as ever,
for the promises of this prince. A horse was bridled
for Hrothgar, its mane knitted into war-braids,
and the wise one, master of many, mounted
his sparkling steed, his status visible for miles.
His army followed on foot, shields raised,
pacing murderer's tracks, leaving their own uncovered;
they had no need to hide their hunting from her.13
She'd gone overland, straight through the dark,
carrying the corpse of the comrade she'd killed, best beloved,
right-hand man, second set of eyes for Hrothgar.

The descendants of chieftans rode over razor-edged
rocks, through perilous passageways, places off-map,
paths too slender for company, where sea monsters
sang and cliffs called for suicides. Hrothgar took
the front, his crew behind him, examining
her tracks, unhappily imagining the path ahead.
Finally, the trees learned longingly toward
the stones, their needles bending as if to break,
a grove of ghosts. There was the mere,
water welling up like something wound-wrung,
red as blood. Though they'd known their man
was dead, they suffered afresh to discover
in the mere a dark gift: there, at cliff's edge,
lay Æschere's head.

The company stared as water boiled with blood and bones.
A war-horn sounded, over and over, but the soldiers
sagged and sat down. The mere was full of monsters,
too many to mention: serpentine salt-dragons,
lizards in lethargy, lying on stones, the kinds of creatures
that surface seething in ships' wakes to bare teeth and twist
about an oar, foil fishers and bring bad omens to sailors.
The beasts dove, furious and frightened at the noise,
the bugle and battlers' shouts, the shrillness of seekers
in the secret space. A Geat drew his bow and struck
and thrashed in the water. The other men, invigorated,
sought to join the killing; a second shot, a third,
then they slung themselves into the shallows
and speared it. This monster they could control.14
They cornered it, clubbed it, tugged it on the rocks,
stillbirthed it from its mere-mother, deemed it damned,
and made of it a miscarriage. They examined its entrails,
awed and aggrieved.

Meanwhile, Beowulf gave zero shits.
He dressed himself in glittering gear,
his mail-shirt finely forged, links locked
and loaded. He'd meet this murdering mother
under mere, and amend her existence.
Even if she tried to smother him, his bone-cage
would stay intact. No weakness here. His helmet,
bright against the bleak backdrop, would save his skull
from teh watery substrate, from the black mud
and curious currents—hammered gold for a glamour-god,
made by one long gone, jewels and boar-shaped ornaments
imbued by the smith with power to keep other men from dying.
No battle-teeth could test it, no sword slice that shine.
Gold is good.

Last but not least, Unferth, Hrothgar's left-hand man,
unexpectedly stanned for Beowulf, and handed him
his heirloom, Hrunting, an ancient hilted sword,
written with runes of ruin, iron blade
emblazoned with poison shoots, each bud
reddened with enemy blood. In war, it never failed
to score flesh, had never been wrested from the fist
of him who held it. It was a sublime soldier's sword,
meant to limb enemies, and this wasn't the first time
it urged a hero to perform a feat.

Unferth sent his sword to the more skillful swordsman.
Note: the stone-bold son of Ecglaf had been blackout drunk
when he said that stuff he'd said, the rant decanted
into Beowulf's ear. He wasn't man enough to dive
into the rotten depth seeking someone so savage; he'd forgotten it
now. He sought not to risk his skin, so surrendered
his chance at fame. Why sign up for endless night when
another man is armored, able, and ready to fight?

Beowulf, Ecgtheow's son, laid out his plan:
"My man, king of wisdom, ring-bringer, I'm about
to dive deep. Keep those words in mind,
the pledge we exchanged, that dearly done deal.
To recap: you, Halfdane's son, said that
I'm your son now, adopted and owned,
that if I died in this dive, you'd father me
to a further shore. In short: I end up dead,
you pay my corps—feed them, pour them mead.
Also, adored Hrothgar, you swore
you'd send Hygelac my gold-get,
array for my Geat-lord the treasures I won,
and show him what keys this kingdom's
deeded me, what a generous giver you are,
what a son I was to you while I lived.
And Unferth! To that soldier I bequeath
my father-forged heirloom, my wave-winging
war-blade. I'll gain fame with his Hrunting,
or be harvested by Hell."

The prince of Weather-Geats was done standing on ceremony.
He stepped to the mere's edge, and dove like a stone,
thrown not to skip, but to weight a ship-shrouded corpse.
Darkness drew him down. Most of a day was done
before he could see the contours of the bottom.
She who'd ruled these floodlands proudly for
a hundred seasons, ferocious, tenacious, rapacious,15
yes, she (felt) his presence in her realm, and knew
a man from above was invading the below.
She swam and seized him, but his body was swathed—
boar-helm, war-shirt—she couldn't peel the mail off
to reveal his dread fate, nor imaple him on fingernails.
She dragged him through dregs instead; the sea-wolf
slung the soldier out of the abyss and into her hall.16
He was too tightly held to wield his sword, no matter how
he wished to war against her. As she swam, a shoal
came seeking to school him: a scrimshaw17 selection
of sea monsters, rising out of the dark, tunneling with
tooth and tusk, spearing and jeering. Sharks, seals,
squealing beasts boring through the bog, biting
at his battle-shirt. The warrior squinted
in the shadows and made out the domed walls
of the hall, damning back the damned waters,
the mere made sere by engineering.18
He saw the glow of a fire, brilliant light
flaming up and flaring, and then, at last,
he saw her: the reclusive night-queen,
the mighty mere-wife. Fearless, he heaved
his sword to take her life, swinging it with all
his strength so the edge rang against her skull,
but it was to no avail: his war-torch was dimmed,
his blood-boldness gone. She was imprevious
to his blade. The sword had failed him,
though it'd served many worthy soldiers,
skinned many adversaries, slicing armor,
hacking helmets into hash. This was the first time
the heirloom hadn't overwhelmed an enemy.

Hygelac's heir was bent on blood, thinking
of legacy, of legend. He hurled the sword:
useless hoard-gilt. Let it shatter in the silt.
He'd fight like a man, and take her hand to hand,
his fingertips blueprinting her skin.19 This is what
real men must do, come on, we all know the truth:
if you want to win, you have to forget you're afraid.

The Geat was ready to rumble, pissed now.
He roared a challenge, warmed for war with
Grendel's mother, twisting her hair around the fist,
raging, swinging her by her own skein, flinging
her to crash against the kingdom she'd reigned over.
She rose again, relentless, and turned on him, gripping
and flipping him. The pugilist panicked. His certainty
crumbling, he took flight and fell. He began,
sick-hearted, to hear his death knell, his sure feet
fumbling, his fight-spirit fugitive.

She bent over his breast, held the hall-invader
hard to the stones, and drew a long knife. The mere-wife
meant to avenge her son, her sole heir, but Beowulf's mail
shielded him, his shoulder safe in the sclerite of some
smith's genius, links staying locked to bend her blade.
Ecgtheow's heir would've been filleted, recategorized
as MIA, and left to rot in her cavern, had not his suit
saved him. That, too, was God's work.20
The Lord, maker of miracles, sky-designers,
had no trouble leveling the playing field
when Beowulf beat the count and stood.

He glimpsed it hanging in her hoard, that armory
of heirlooms, somebody's birthright. A sword,
blessed by blood and flood, ancient, dating from
the dawn of things, so tremendous only a hero
could heft it, though all would envy it. Beowulf gripped
the giant's sword at the hilt, and then he, the Scylding's
main man, in desperation, not expecting to exist after this
night, swung it at his enemy with all his might.

It was enough: he cleaved her spine. Those bone-rings
given by God were bitten through, the house of her head
raided, as her hall had been. She bent as though
praying,21
and was spent, sinking to the stones. The sword sweated red;
the swordsman regretted nothing.

The light was strong now, a brilliance
like flame and tallow meeting in a sky
sick of sleep, and Beowulf took the volume
of the vault, itemizing everything,
his sword held high as defense
against any other awfulness that sought
him here. Hygelac's hit man had more
in mind. He sought to repay Grendel
for his wrath, for every night he'd spent
ravening, not just the first evening he'd come
to Heorot, helping himself to fifteen
Danes and holding another fifteen hostage,
dragging them from home into horrors.
Against the far wall, our hero found Grendel,
still as a sleeper, war-riven,
a cadaver, cold and collapsed,
heartless after his time in Heorot,
Beowulf desecrated the dead,
swinging the sword again and again,
and rending the flesh, a heft, a wrench,
removing Grendel's head.

Above, Hrothgar's men surrounded the mere,
holding the fort as best they could. Suddenly,
they saw the waters boil with blood, a roiling of gore,
salt, and sorrow. They lowered silver heads.
"Oh no," said the old men, tightly packed
around their prince. That was a sad day.
They wept for lost wishes, sure they'd never see
Beowulf again, let alone witness him, in triumph,
presenting his kill to their king. The sea-wolf had
savaged him, everyone agreed, and it was lunchtime.
The brave Scyldings forsook the cliff top and took
their gold-giver home, but the visiting Geats, now vagrant,
stayed—hopeless, heartsick, staring into the churning mere,
yearning against all evidence for their lord to reappear.

Below, in Beowulf's hands, the slaying sword
began to melt like ice, just as the world thaws
in May when the Father unlocks the shackles
that've chained frost to the climate, and releases
hostage heat, uses sway over seasons to uncage
His prisoner, Spring, and let her stumble into the sun.22

The Geat's glory got nothing else from the estate,
though he eyeballed the treasures Grendel's mother
had collected. He took only head and hilt, jewel-scabbed
salvaged gilt. The blade itself had bled out,
the inscriptions on it smeared to smut, so scathing
was the blood of the slain stranger. It was done.
The man who'd made it thorugh alive, survivor
of his enemy's annihilation, swam as fast
as he could swim, undoing his dark dive.
The mere ran clear and pure, now
the ruler of the deep had unclapsed her hand
from ephemeral existence, letting loose her life.

Footnotes

1. One interesting theme which Headley emphasizes in her translation is the importance of God's (meaning the Christian God) blessing upon Beowulf. In contrast, Grendel and his mother are rejected by God. The question of "fairness" is then raised as the monstrous figures lack the power of the divine.

2. Pointing out that Grendel will never reach Heaven instills the sense of "otherness" and "outcast" upon Grendel.

3. The attitude toward Grendel's mother is one of sympathy in this translation. Headley establishes from the beginning that Grendel's mother, though Beowulf considers her monstrous, has human emotions such as sorrow for her son's death. The monstrous in form is more human than initially assumed.

4. Note Headley's decision to describe the Geats and Danes with negative connotations. Their act of killing is not honorable but described as "murder" and they are a "herd" which assumes a lack of individual autonomy or thought.

5. For a contemporary audience, the notion that the warriors are complaining that they, too, would suffer losses seems ridiculous. In highlighting the spirit of complaint, Headley is countering the common presentation within translations of the warriors being noble and good.

6. This kenning reflects Headley's modern sensibilities in translating as it is a reference to the phrase "dead as a doornail."

7. This is not the first time that Headley refers to Beowulf as a "boy" which is markedly different that other translations. The use of "boy" creates a sense of immaturity within Beowulf. In the following line she describes him as "hungover" which establishes Beowulf as being more similar to the American stereotype of the "frat-boy."

8. Headley's use of expletives in her translation is one of the most distinct features of her translation.

9. This emphasis on "simple citizens" who live in the "muddy country" is interesting because it holds the implication either that 1) Hrothgar has ignored helping his lower class citizens by offering them protection or 2) Grendel purposefully ignores the lower class and only targets the wealthy.

10. Hrothgar calling Beowulf a boy points to Headley's desire to emphasize the immaturity of Beowulf as a character.

11. The original Old English does not distinguish that this is Beowulf's personal belief about life. Instead, Beowulf states it as a general truth that is accepted by everyone.

12. There are two notes about this line. The first is that Beowulf does not refer to himself in third person in the Old English. In doing so here, it points to an inflated sense of self-worth. Secondly, the use of "asylum" is striking as it conjures images of refugees seeking asylum in many Western countries and the divided response to it.

13. The lack of care in covering their tracks signals the believed superiority of the Danes and the Geats when compared to the Grendels. This emphasis is not as prominent in other translations.

14. Compared to other translators of Beowulf, Headley utilitzes italics for emphasis more so than most.

15. The rhyme within "ferocious," "tenacious," and "rapacious" demonstrates Headley's modern poetry sensibilities and her drawing on a sort of contemporary rap tradition.

16. In using "hall" to describe Grendel's mother's lair, Headley is stating that Grendel's mother is equal to the kings who rule their own halls such as Hrothgar.

17. It is unclear what Headley means here. Scrimshaw refers to "small articles, typically of ivory or bone, decorated with engraved designs" which were originally created from the bones and teeth of sea creatures such as whales.(OED)

18. The use of "engineering" is interesting because, by contemporary Western societal standards, engineering gives an air of intellect. The underlying assumption is that Grendel's mother must have been intelligent to construct such a hall.

19. The word "blueprint" conjurs one of the most visceral images in Headley's translation. It implies an act of violence from a man to a woman. Compared to Heaney’s “he would have to rely / on the might of his arm” (1534-1535) and Tolkien’s “He trusted in his strength and grasp of his own mighty hands” (1282- 3), Headley’s translation situates the text within the conversation of sexual assault and domestic violence against women.

20. The Christian God, according to Headley, has favorites and Grendel and his mother are not amongst them.

21. There is nothing in the Old English that would suggest she dies in a prayer position. This is Headley's addition in order to contrast God's favor toward Beowulf with his rejection of Grendel's mother.

22. Once again, the translation depicts the Christian God as harsh, especially towards women.

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