The existence of monsters, alongside gods and goddesses, is a distinguishing feature of myths, fairy tales, and legends. Defeating a monster is often the test of the hero, the act that makes that individual a hero.
And yet, life is full of challenges and dangers. There are plenty of opportunities for various forms of heroism in this everyday world and ordinary reality, right?
Do we need monsters? Or, are monsters relics of an archaic world view, evidence of a time when people often misunderstood the world around them and feared the boogie man?
Transcript of “Beowulf” and why we need Monsters
Hello, and welcome to Myth Matters, storytelling and conversation about mythology and what myth can offer us today. I’m your host and personal mythologist Dr. Catherine Svehla. Wherever you may be in this wide, beautiful, crazy world of ours, you are part of this story circle.
Do you ever wonder about the presence of monsters in myths and old fairy tales and old legends? The existence of monsters, alongside gods and goddesses, is a distinguishing feature of these stories. The need to grapple with a monster is often the occasion for appearances of the supernatural and encounters with helpful beings from various realms. A battle with a monster requires extraordinary feats of strength, bravery, or consciousness. Defeating a monster is often the test of the hero, the act that makes that individual a hero.
So, in many ways monsters are instrumental to our story forms and favorite plots.
And yet, life is full of challenges and dangers. There are plenty of opportunities for various forms of heroism in this everyday world and ordinary reality, right? Do we need monsters? Or, are monsters relics of an archaic world view, evidence of a time when people often misunderstood the world around them and feared the boogie man? Do they belong, today, to a childish imagination? I mean, when you think about reasons that contemporary people in cultures like mine dismiss the possibility that myths and fairy tales are serious sources of any truth, the presence of gods and monsters deemed unbelievable is at the top of the list.
These thoughts led me to one of the most famous mythic poems–and some of the most famous monsters– in the northern European tradition, the Anglo-Saxon story of the hero Beowulf. I haven’t investigated this story since I was required to read it in high school, an experience that may have operated like a deterrent! That was quite some time ago:). If you feel the same way, I hope you’ll get curious and join me in taking another look at Beowulf today. My investigation has contained some surprises, including the realization that I didn’t remember the whole story and how it ended. I only thought of Grendel and his mother, a selectivity reinforced by fantasy action movies and more recent stories told in the monster’s voice.
The defeat of Grendel and his mother are the core of the story. But not the whole story. And the biography of this story, how it was handled by early 20th century critics in particular, sheds light on contemporary attitudes about myths with monsters and why we might need them.
Stories of all types accumulate a history. They live alongside the people and we–teller, listener, and story– evolve or disappear together. The origin of the story we call “Beowulf” is uncertain. Sometime in the 10th century, perhaps, a poet gathered up bits and pieces of older stories and recorded history to create this poem, which looks back to an earlier time in a couple of Scandinavian kingdoms. This weaving and looking back in time invites comparisons to Homer and Virgil, other poets who also tell the stories of long dead heroes to speak about the evolution of culture and what is remembered.
Today, “Beowulf” is very well known. As I say, I read it in high school as many consider the poem. to be a masterpiece. This story has been translated into dozens of languages, told and retold in print and film, and examined by commentators from a range of disciplines. J.R.R. Tolkien loved the story. He undertook his own translation of it and found inspiration for the Lord of the Rings in Beowulf. I’ll come back to Tolkien later.
Now, given all of this attention, I was shocked to learn that “Beowulf” could easily have disappeared centuries ago. In the 17th century, a single untitled manuscript containing the story was part of a privately held collection of medieval manuscripts. This manuscript was damaged by fire in 1731. Poof. That could have been the end of an already precarious existence for this story. Beowulf wasn’t transcribed until 1786. By some chance or reason, the story made it to the 20th century and was then taken up by hundreds of translators and scholars. Now, it’s considered important.
What is the appeal of this poem? There are many answers to that question. I wonder about the powerful presence of the monsters, a topic I’ll take up after you hear my telling of the story. I’ll tell you the story of “Beowulf” in a greatly condensed prose form, drawing on the translation by poet Seamus Heaney. If you’re interested in the poem, check out Heaney’s translation. There’s also a more contemporary, feminist version by Maria Dahvana Headley. I’ll post links to these in the transcript of this episode.
Now, I invite you to relax and listen. If there is a moment or detail in the story that particularly grabs your attention, make a note of it. I encourage you to reflect on it later. Let it be an opening for you into the story right now.
“Beowulf”
So. The Spear-Danes in days gone by and the kings who ruled them had courage and greatness. We have heard of those princes’ heroic campaigns. There was Shield Sheafson, scourge of many tribes. When he died, his warriors laid him out in his boat with far-fetched treasures piled upon him, and set him out to sea. That was one good king.
Shields had a famous son, Beow, whose name was known throughout the land. He ruled for a long time, and then his heir held sway. This prince had four children and among them was Hrothgar.
The fortunes of war favored King Hrothgar. He had a might army and his people prospered. Hrothgar decided to build a great mead hall where he and his wife and his warriors could gather to drink and sing, exchange gifts, tell stories, and celebrate. This magnificent hall was known as Heorot.
Heorot became the site of many great parties. The people often celebrated far into the night. But. However. The joyous noise angered Grendel. The monster Grendel, a descendant of Cain, Abel’s brother, lived in a nearby swamp. Grendel nursed a hard grievance against Hrothgar.
One night, Grendel came into the hall after the feast. The warriors were deep asleep in a peaceful drunkenness. Grendel grabbed thirty men and carried the bloody corpses back to his lair. When dawn broke the destruction was discovered. The people wept and wailed. King Hrothgar sat stunned and stricken by the loss, consumed with grief and helplessness.
One night later, Grendel struck again. This time, the survivors left the great hall and did not return.
For twelve years the great house stood empty. These were seasons of woe. Sad songs were sung about the king and this hardship. The people lived with fear in the long shadow of the unrelenting monster. Counselors offered advice and prayers were proffered but the troubled times continued. No one was safe after dark.
Beowulf was home in Geatland when he heard about Grendel. In his day, he was the mightiest man on earth, so he ordered a boat and told everyone that he was going to defend Hrothgar against Grendel. It was a fitting challenge.
No one tried to deter him although they loved him. They trusted his strength and the omens were good. Beowulf enlisted fourteen men to go with him and they set sail.
Their passage was swift and easy. When they landed on the shore of Denmark, the watchman saw their shields glittering on the shore. He rode down to see who would land on that shore so boldly, with weapons and without permission. He was impressed by Beowulf’s mighty stature and nobility and demanded to know who they were.
Beowulf identified himself. “My father was a great friend of the earlier king of the Danes,” he told the watchman, “We have arrived here on a great errand and service to Hrothgar. Is it true that there is a monster who haunts the nights and prevents the people the use of the great hall Heorot?” It was clear to the watchman that Beowulf was a great warrior, and that he intended to serve his king. He told Beowulf and his men where to find Hrothgar and wished them luck.
The Geats marched on a paved track toward the king’s hall. Their mail shirts glinted as did their iron weapons. Everyone who saw them was impressed by their strength and stoutness of heart. A message was sent to Hrothgar. Hrothgar had heard of Beowulf and his father. He agreed to meet Beowulf and learn of his errand. He also allowed himself a moment of hope and welcomed them to Denmark.
Beowulf told the king that he had heard of Grendel. He then offered Hrothgar an account of his previous exploits. “This will not be the first brute that I have met,” he told the king. “I believe I can defeat Grendel on your behalf. I have heard that the monster fights without weapons so, I renounce the use of sword and shield. I will meet him in hand-to-hand combat. Fate will go ever as fate must.”
Hrothgar had his doubts, but he allowed for Beowulf’s confidence. They agreed to gather in the splendid mead hall Heorot to celebrate the alliance between the Geats and the Danes. During this feast, one of Hrothgar’s men, Unferth, challenged Beowulf’s account of his past adventures. Unferth suggested that no one could outlast an entire night against Grendel.
Beowulf remained calm in the face of these insults. “I have a different story to tell of that matter,” he said to the other man, “and I take back nothing that I have said. Time and again, foul things have attacked me and I give as good as I get with my sword. As for you, sir,” he continued, “I don’t believe I have heard of any such brave acts in battle on your part.” At this the king hushed Unferth and the party continued.
It was like old times in the echoing hall, with proud talk and happy people until the king needed to leave for his rest. He realized that Grendel was going to descend on the hall and wished Beowulf health and good luck. “I have never given control of this hall to anyone else but you,” Hrothgar said. “Ward and guard it. Keep in mind your fame. There’s nothing you wish for that won’t be yours if you defeat Grendel and come through alive.” Then the king and his entire company departed.
Beowulf and his men bedded down in the hall to wait for the arrival of Grendel. Although they were on edge, sleep came. So did the monster. Grendel crept in from the moors. He had scouted the hall many times and always found it empty. Now there were men inside.
He ripped open the heavy doors, grabbed the man closest and devoured him before any of the others could move. Beowulf’s warriors drew their swords and rushed the monster but their blades couldn’t pierce Grendel’s skin.
Beowulf, who had been feigning sleep, leapt up. He grabbed Grendel’s hand and clenched it with all of his strength. Grendel discovered himself in a grip harder than anything he had ever encountered. Every bone in his body recoiled but he could not escape. He was desperate to flee but Beowulf held on. The two stumbled around the hall, hammering into the walls and smashing the benches. Beowulf’s men tried to assist him but their weapons could not damage the monster and they didn’t know what else to do.
Grendel was terrified. He struggled to free himself and a wound appeared at his shoulder. Sinews split. He violently wrenched himself free, leaving his hand and arm in Beowulf’s grip. Mortally wounded, the monster fled the hall and returned to his lair with the knowledge that his days were numbered. Grendel had been defeated.
When morning came, the Danes cautiously approached Heorot. When they saw that almost everyone was alive, they cheered Beowulf and his men. Nowhere was there anyone better to raise a shield or to rule a kingdom, they declared, with no disrespect or blame to their good king.
The poets began composing songs about Beowulf and the defeat of Grendel. Hrothgar made the warrior an adopted son. Men and women rushed to Heorot to repair the hall and ready it for the celebration. Grendel’s arm was displayed on the wall as a trophy.
All the people gathered later that day. The wine flowed, songs were sung, and there was a greater joy than had been felt for many years. Hrothgar gave Beowulf and his men many gifts and honors. A pledge of lasting friendship was made. At the end of the night, Beowulf and his men were taken to quarters in a nearby hall. For the first time in many years, the Danes bedded down in their great mead hall. Skins and blankets were spread and the warriors laid their heads on the polished timber. Each man kept his spear and armor close at hand for they were warriors.
They went to sleep, but there was another threat lurking in the night. Grendel‘s mother.
She had been forced long ago, into the fearful waters and cold depths of a lake in the midst of the swamp. Grendel’s mother, grief racked and ravenous, came to the Danes desperate for revenge. She was as strong as any man.
She entered the hall quietly, grabbed Aeschere, Hrothgar’s friend and most loyal fighter, and retrieved Grendel’s arm from the wall where it hung. The other warriors grabbed their swords, but she got away before they could harm her. Aeschere was done for. And Beowulf was elsewhere.
Beowulf was quickly brought to Hrothgar’s chambers and told of the latest attack. “Where she is hiding, feeding on the corpse and glorying in her escape,” said Hrothgar, “I cannot tell. She is taking up the feud because of last night. People say that they have seen creatures like Grendel and his mother prowling the moors. Deep in the woods, there is a mere, a lake full of dismal creatures, rotting things, and tree roots. It is not a good place. As far as we know, this is her home. The danger is great. If you seek her out, I will compensate you for settling the feud. If you come back.”
“Wise sir, do not grieve,” said Beowulf. “It is always better to avenge dear ones then indulge in mourning, and a warrior must win glory before death. Let’s set out on the trail of this hideous hag monster. She won’t get away.”
The forest paths were marked with her tracks and the body that she was dragging behind her. Hrothgar, Beowulf, and their men followed them through the woods and along narrow cliffs. They paused at the sight of Aeschere’s head lying in the dirt at the foot of the cliffs and the edge of foul and bloody water.
The lake was infested with all kinds of reptiles and writhing sea-dragons. Beowulf shot one of them with an arrow. The men pulled the creature into the shallows and beat it to death, an awesome and frightening sight.
Then Beowulf put on his armor and helmet and made ready to dive. Unferth gave him a rare and ancient sword named Hrunting. It had never failed the hand that hefted it in battle and had been the instrument of other heroic feats. “If I am killed,” Beowulf told Hrothgar, “Take care of my comrades and send my treasure to my king, Hygelac lord of the Geats. Unferth shall inherit my estate.” Then he plunged into the deep cold water.
It was the better part of the day before he could see the solid bottom. Grendel’s mother sensed the human presence. She lunged out of her cave and caught Beowulf in her talons and pulled him inside. His armor protected him from her sharp claws. He heaved his sword and brought it down singing upon her head with all his strength but the sharp blade bounced off her skin. The famous sword could not harm her.
Beowulf thought of his fame. In a fury, he tossed the sword aside and prepared to fight the monster with his bare hands.
Grendel’s mother grabbed him and he threw her off. She rose quickly and grabbed him again. Beowulf stumbled and fell. She pulled out a sharp knife but did not pierce his chain mail and he managed to get back on his feet. Then he saw another sword hanging on the wall of her cave, one made for giants. An ideal weapon if the man were strong enough to wield it. Beowulf was such a man. He swung the sword in a great arc and cut off the head of Grendel’s mother. She fell.
The light in the cave brightened and Beowulf looked around. In a deeper cavern he discovered Grendel’s corpse and removed its head with the sword. The blade melted; the monster’s blood was so hot.
Far above on the lake shore, Hrothgar and his men watched the water heave up in waves foaming with blood. They bowed their heads. They didn’t expect to see Beowulf again. The king and the Danes began the journey back to the hall. Beowulf’s men remained on the shore, wishing without hope, that he would appear.
Deep in the cave, Beowulf found many treasures. He left them and swam to the surface carrying only Grendel’s massive head and the sword. Overjoyed, his men helped him out of the water and his bloody armor. They put Grendel’s head on a spear and the company left for Hrothgar’s hall.
People stared in horror and awe at the monster’s head when they dragged it into the hall. Beowulf presented the successful sword to the king, who examined the ancient engravings. They told the story of days long past, of the first wars and the flood that covered the world and killed the race of giants. “Beowulf, my friend” he said, ” your fame has gone far and wide. You are even-tempered and resolute in all things, and I honor our friendship. You are a true servant of the people and one day, may be a king. Be generous and modest if that time comes.”
The following day, Beowulf said good bye to the Danes and sailed back to Geatland with his men. There he was well received by his king Hygelac and his queen. Beowulf told them of his adventures. “I received lavish rewards from the lord of the Danes,” Beowulf said, and then gave his lord Hygelac most of his treasure, to honor the Geats.
Some years later, king Hygelac died in battle. When his son also died without an heir, the people made Beowulf king. For fifty years, they lived in peace.
Then one day, a desperate slave stole a golden cup from a dragon’s lair. He didn’t mean to take it. The slave was on the run when he entered that earth house. He saw the treasure, and then the sleeping dragon, and terrified–ran out of the place with the cup in his hand.
Thus disturbed, the dragon surveyed his treasure and discovered the theft. He came out into the wide country in a great rage, breathing streams of fire. He scorched the ground as he searched for the missing cup, burnt homesteads, and nothing was left alive in his wake.
The bad news was delivered to king Beowulf. He knew that even his great timbered halls would burn and yet, he had faced so many other monsters and fought so many other battles. The memories of these moments sustained him and he prepared to meet the dragon. “I risked my life often when I was young,” he told his men.” Now I am old, but as king I will enter and win this fight if I can face the dragon out in the open.” The warriors readied themselves and Beowulf put on his armor and helmet and picked up his sword and spear.
When they got near the dragon’s cave, Beowulf called out and the creature came, provoked by the sound of a human voice. Swaddled in flames, the serpent glided out of the earth. Beowulf told his men that he would battle the dragon alone. He went forward and they waited on the barrow, watching.
The enemies circled each other, looking for opportunity. Beowulf’s shield protected him for a time, from the dragon’s fire and sharp claws.
In the presence of the monster, his troops broke ranks and all but one ran away over the hills. Only Beowulf’s young kinsman Wiglaf, in great distress at Beowulf’s plight, came to his aid. “Go on lord Beowulf,” he said, “do everything you said you would do when you were young and vowed you would never let your fame dim.” Beowulf took heart and the dragon too, roused by these words, showered the two men in sparks and ash.
The dragon came closer, close enough for the men to stab it with their knives, mortal blows. But the dragon caught Beowulf in the neck with his fangs and his life blood ran out, the grieving Wiglaf by his side. In spite of his wounds, Beowulf spoke. He knew death was near. He told Wiglaf to go to the dragon’s treasure horde and bring back an armload of the treasure, so he could see what his adversary had guarded. Then he gave thanks for his long life and instructed Wiglaf on his burial. There was to be a great funeral pyre and his cremated remains were to be buried in a barrow visible from the sea.
The people did these things and mourned the loss of their king Beowulf who was, they said, the most gracious and fair-minded of all kings, and the keenest to win fame.
As I mentioned earlier, interest in this poem surged in the late 19th/early 20th century, part of a broader interest that sprang up in colonial cultures, in ancient history and the evolution of the human species. “Beowulf” was valued as an historical document that offered a glimpse into facts of earlier times. Archeological evidence has confirmed elements of the story and there is record of some of the kings and other figures mentioned, although not Beowulf himself.
The poem was mined for facts, which had to be separated, said the scholars of the time, from the obvious fantasies and fabrications of a more gullible and primitive mind in a much less sophisticated time.
The monsters, for example, were never real. Critics felt that the presence of the monsters trivialized the greatness of the other themes– heroism and death, for example, and undermined the poetry. Thank goodness this story was old and part of a pagan world, still a bit embarrassing perhaps, to find such a story so close in historical time and geographic proximity to the superior, enlightened cultures of Europe. But we, said these scholars, are clearly done with all of that nonsense.
What is a monster? The definition of a “monster” begins with the words ‘”an imaginary creature” followed by a description that has been expanded somewhat, along with the usage of the word, over the centuries. A monster is an imaginary creature. It’s also large, ugly, frightening creature. Unnatural. A marvel. A malformed or deformed creature. Evil. Extraordinary.
In “Beowulf,” the first monsters we meet are Grendel and his mother. We’re not sure what they were. Original source documents are limited to that one damaged text, written in an old language that hasn’t been spoken for centuries. Questions surround the exact nature of these monsters. The words used to describe these two can be translated as “stranger,” “outcast,” or “creature,” in the darkness and swamps, under the water. Given their size, strength, and willingness to eat human flesh, they are commonly imagined as ogres, ancient earth creatures bearing some similarity to humans in form, with an intense dislike of humans.
The dragon is an even older presence, a carrier of chthonic knowledge, revered in some cultures and feared in others. A fire-breathing worm, a snake with wings. One who guards the old treasures, who plucks the gold from among the buried bones.
These monsters are nonhuman, beyond human. They are also of this world and mortal. They can be hunted and killed as we can be hunted and killed. They have a place in the scheme of life.
In an essay titled “The Monster and the Critics,” J.R.R. Tolkien argues that “Beowulf” is a poem, a powerful poem, and should be understood as art. Tolkien is critical of the critics and their narrow, soulless approach to the poem, reducing it to a quest for literal history. He wonders at their imagined superiority over the poet and those times, and notes that much of the criticism and praise bestowed upon Beowulf is due to the belief that the poem is something that it is not; primitive, pagan, Teutonic, or epic, for example.
There’s a great deal of imagining and projecting going on in and around “Beowulf.” The question is: who is doing the imagining and with what degree of consciousness?
What is the purpose of monsters in our stories and why might we need them? A few thoughts come to my mind in this regard.
The Latin root of the word monster means “divine omen” and/or “object of dread.” This is a derivative of monere, meaning “to remind, bring to (one’s) recollection, advise, warn, instruct,” and from moneie, “to make think of.” Monsters are mirrors, mirrors of our imagination, character, and fantasies of self. They are reminders of the mystery of life, of its complexity and evolving possibilities, of all that is here that is unknown to us. Humans are not the whole world, something that can be forgotten, especially today, when we are living in layer upon layer of human culture, obsessed with ourselves and our accomplishments and our impact– real and imagined– on this earth.
The presence of monsters can remind us of the arbitrariness of existence and fragility of human culture. Beowulf’s story is the story of a man who won but that isn’t, wasn’t, always the outcome. Stories of victory are only meaningful against a backdrop of defeat and uncertainty. Grendel, his mother, and the dragon can be understood as autonomous forces in the world that may fight us, as other-than-human intelligences with purpose and power, whose claim to life is as legitimate as our own although it may oppose us.
These monsters are mortal fellows on this earth laying down their own patterns, patterns we might call chaos, patterns that threaten the order we create, that fight against our efforts at containment. And yet, time consumes us all.
This brings to mind the Sumerian myth of the hero Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh and Beowulf are fueled by the desire to do or create or become something that will outlast the mortal body, something that might endure in memory. They want a legacy. This desire is part of the myth of the hero and of our living conversation with death.
We can tell the story of Beowulf as a story about victory over vanquished monsters, and yet, the story begins and ends with the deaths of kings and the rise and fall of their people. In between, a sliver of the possibilities, a quest that is an assertion of the fact of existence– a statement that “I am here and alive” in the face of the inevitable.
I have a Rilke poem to share with you that echoes our themes. First, a big welcome to new email subscribers: Marienne, Dennis, Katherine, Guillermo, Arienne, Gina, and Isabel. Welcome to Myth Matters!
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In closing, “The Man Watching” by Ranier Maria Rilke
“The Man Watching”
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
So many dull days, against my worried windowpanes,
That a storm is coming,
And I can hear the far-off fields say things
I can’t bear without a friend,
I can’t love without a sister.
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on
Across the woods and across time,
And the world looks as if it had no age;
The landscape, like a line in a psalm book,
Is seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights with us is so great!
If only we would let ourselves be dominated,
As things do by some immense storm,
We would grow strong too, and not need names.
When we win it’s with small things,
And the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
Does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel, who appeared
To the wrestlers of the Old Testament;
When the wrestlers’ sinews
Grew long like metal strings,
He felt them under his fingers
Like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by this Angel,
(who often simply declined the fight),
Went away proud and strengthened
And great, from that harsh hand
That kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows, by
Being defeated, decisively,
By constantly greater beings.
—Ranier Maria Rilke
If we have a better understanding of our need for myth, and all that our old stories offer, we can live more satisfying lives. We can inhabit a better story and create a more beautiful, just and sustainable world.
Feel free to email me in response to this episode or post a comment on the Mythic Mojo website. If you have questions about mythology, I’ll do my best to answer them.
And that’s it for me, Catherine Svehla and Myth Matters. Thank you so much for listening. Take good care of yourself and until next time, keep the mystery in your life alive.
Useful Links:
Beowulf, A New Verse Translation by Seamus Heaney
Beowulf: A New Translation by Maria Dahvana Headley
J.R.R. Tolkien. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays
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