It has been a few weeks since my last post, as I was busy gattin’ and moving into a new gaff. Anyway, here we first meet the leading man himself, and are subjected to numerous terms for ships.
Swa ða mælceare maga Healfdenes
singala seað, ne mihte snotor hæleð
wean onwendan; wæs þæt gewin to swyð,
laþ ond longsum, þe on ða leode becom,
nydwracu niþgrim, nihtbealwa mæst.
þæt fram ham gefrægn Higelaces þegn,
god mid Geatum, Grendles dæda;
se wæs moncynnes mægenes strengest
on þæm dæge þysses lifes,
æþele ond eacen. Het him yðlidan
godne gegyrwan, cwæð, hu guðcyning
ofer swanrade secean wolde,
mærne þeoden, þa him wæs manna þearf.
ðone siðfæt him snotere ceorlas
lythwon logon, þeah he him leof wære;
hwetton higerofne, hæl sceawedon.
Hæfde se goda Geata leoda
cempan gecorone þara þe he cenoste
findan mihte; XVna sum
sundwudu sohte; secg wisade,
lagucræftig mon, landgemyrcu.
Fyrst forð gewat. Flota wæs on yðum,
bat under beorge. Beornas gearwe
on stefn stigon; streamas wundon,
sund wið sande; secgas bæron
on bearm nacan beorhte frætwe,
guðsearo geatolic; guman ut scufon,
weras on wilsið, wudu bundenne.
So Healfdane’s son had an awful bloody time of it, and he was constantly mee-awing*; that pure smart feen couldn’t stop thinking of this shitshow for how much of an absolute balls it was, full of hate, and so bloody long – a dire situation, these pure mad nightly attacks that all the locals found themselves in.
At home, one of Hygelac’s lads, fine Geatish man now, heard about this Grendel fella and what he was at. Out of everyone, he was the mightiest of ’em, pure strong fucker like, unlike anything you’ve seen in this life anyway, and from powerful good stock too so he was. He ordered that a boat – a good one now, alright – be prepared, said he wanted to have a word with this feen-king across the pond, pure legend of a man, to whom a time of shite craic was being dealt.
Any of the smart lads, they made very little fuss, dear and all as he was to them. If anything, they urged on this mad feen and kept watch for omens. This absolute lad so, he had some Geatish bais – fightin’ men – picked out, the keenest he could find, One of fifteen he was, and he sought out the boat, the strappin’ sea-crafty lad led the way to the edge of the land, down the docks. ‘Twas time to get going – the ship was on the waves, the boat under the cliffs. The lads anyway, rearin’ to go so they were, lepped onto the prow. The currents churned, the sea plámásing the sand. The lads hauled up a rake of class weapons and some unreal battle-gear, up onto the deck. The bais then gave the boat an old shove and off they set in the wooden yoke of a ship.
*”mee-awwing” is something I’ve heard my mother say a lot, or she would call people a “big mee-aww”, basically meaning a big whinger. I have been informed that it is from the Irish mí ádh, “bad luck”. There ya to now