Many have read the legend of Beowulf who fought the monster Grendel with his bare hands and courage only. But that man was not the first Beowulf. Far from it…
The last time he saw his father Norwulf, Beowulf stood on Woden’s stony headland watching him push the steer board to turn his dragonship Strake toward open water. Norwulf had looked back and raised one arm in farewell before turning to shout a command to the rowers. Their oars dipped into the green water, biting in to drive the twin-hulled ship forward then rising, dripping from the waves. Beowulf watched his father’s head rise and fall with the ship’s motion on the waves, growing ever smaller until all he could see was the Strake’s sail. The white rectangle floated above the waves for a while longer until at last it too merged with the green sea and disappeared.
Beowulf relived that moment often now. Strake had left in the spring and it was past high summer. His father should have returned with his ship loaded with cloth and grain and metal trinkets. But he had not come back and Beowulf felt very much alone as he stood on the promontory gazing at the white-foamed Dansk Sea.
There was a fresh wind blowing in from the water, carrying the shrieks of summer gulls as they coasted above the waves looking for easy pickings. The wind tousled the flaming hair that framed his serious face. He breathed in the salt-tinged air, trying to release disappointment as he exhaled. This was his favorite time, the one hour that was entirely his own: after he brought in his goat flock but before old Greta’s Lokk song announced the evening meal. Each day he looked forward to coming here to watch the sea, hoping for his father’s return.
He knew the cycles of the tides and seabirds well. With the whale roads empty of any ship they were all he had to observe. Even the island’s fishing boats were in for the evening now. The tide was going out, which meant the shore birds were foraging in the gleaming wet sand, pecking for shellfish and sand hoppers. In a few hours the wind would reverse and the land breeze would blow out to sea, carrying smoke from the cooking fires of the longhouses that lay behind him in the center of the bay.
He turned his attention from the seascape to the axe lying on the ground beside him. The blade side of the head fanned out in a half-moon with faded designs etched near the haft. The other face was a blunt hammerhead. To a man the axe might have been a utility tool but to Beowulf it was the weapon of a mighty warrior, heavy in his hands and deadly sharp when wielded. He called it Thunderhead. It had been in his family for generations and his father had given it to him when he was still very small.
“This is a man’s axe,” Norwulf had said. “The two sides represent a man’s duty to his family. The blunt side is for working and the sharp side is for fighting to protect what you’ve made. It takes as much strength and courage to drive a peg through a wall to anchor it as it does to split a man’s head-sometimes more.”
Those words and the reverence with which his father had placed the hammer into his hands resonated with Beowulf. For all he knew, Thunderhead was a god-blessed weapon, and it was certainly more interesting to imagine it so. Ancient runes were etched on its head, in the same style as the runes that marked the old stones in the high hills. He used Thunderhead for splitting wood and such mundane tasks, but he cleaned and oiled it often to keep sea rust from it and took care to keep its blade keen. When he was alone, here and in the high pastures where he watched his goats, he swung his weapon at imaginary beasts and fought heroic battles against the windblown trees and lichen-covered rocks of Woden.
He picked up Thunderhead and swung the axe through a series of exercises his father had taught him. First a circle-eight swing to the left and then the right, gradually gaining speed until Thunderhead was a blur of wood and metal. Then he executed a series of blocks and parries using both the head and handle. He reached the end of the exercise and began again and again, working until sweat stood on his brow. Then he stopped and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his green jerkin. There were additional routines that added complexity to the exercise, but Beowulf had only learned the first levels.
Until his father returned there was no one to teach him the rest. So he concentrated on perfecting the moves he knew. The greater his skill the better his slim chances were of being accepted into Selig’s crew once the new dragonship was built. There were fewer able men in the village now that his father’s men had disappeared with the Strake. That meant men older and younger than normal would be able to serve.
Selig was not only captain of the dragonship under construction but Woden’s new First Hand. In Norwulf’s absence the grizzled priest Kordin had led a prayer of passing for Norwulf and all his men, which meant Beowulf had no father according to Skarlish law. During the ceremony stinging tears had filled his eyes. The tears came not from mourning his father’s death but from the bitter anger of injustice he felt.
Declaring Norwulf dead was just another way to stab his father in the back. The Skarlish were proud of their honor but there was no honor in declaring a missing man dead so you could take his title and responsibility. He hated Selig for that, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to serve in his crew. Manning an oar for Selig was the only way he’d get off the island to find what truly happened to his father.
Beowulf repeated his training exercise again, his skin glowing with moisture and his face flushed. His breath still came easily; with his complexion it didn’t take much for his face to turn red. He was into the flow of the moves now, giving him time to think about his situation.
Selig was a tall man with golden hair just beginning to be touched with gray. Most said he was a fine leader for Woden now that Norwulf was gone. Some now said Selig should have been their leader all along, although people will often say such things just to please the powerful.
But Beowulf thought differently and every day he kept an eye on the sea. It was too soon to choose a new First Hand. One day his father was sure to return and Beowulf would have the fine new clothes and copper bracers a true man would wear on his wrists.
If Beowulf had been offered the rites of passage and been accepted into manhood he could have served as Woden’s surrogate Hand, administering village affairs until his father returned. But Selig and his supporters wanted to ensure Selig consolidated his power as the new Hand and even as a boy with no status Beowulf was viewed as a threat by them. There was no way the council would cross Selig and offer Beowulf the rites early. Even when he came of age he would probably be the last chosen to cross over.
So he kept to himself and did his chores, checking the sea every evening even though his hope faded a little with each passing day.
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Thus ends part 1 of Beowulf Stormbringer, which is a serialized excerpt of a novel-in-progress. Come back next week for the next installment–but before you go, please vote on this story. Our readers are the final editors on serialtales.com. Vote for one of three options:
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(c) 2009 David C. Lee. All rights reserved.
