A modern retelling of the classic English myth,

by the Semester 2, 2012 St Leonards’s College

Year 8 Literature to Life class.

Authors:

Editors:

Carla Russo Rhea Singh

Kate Johnson Courtney Affat

Cover Illustrations:

Grace Williams

Courtney Affat

Sarah Bourke

Esther de Bell

Megan Diplock

Kate Johnson

Brandan Lapeyre

Claire Murphy

Kellie O’Leary

Carla Russo

Paul Sadauskas

Olivia Schenk

Rhea Singh

This story is the combined work of

Mr. McDonald’s Semester Two, 2012

Literature to Life class at St Leonard’s

College.

It is based upon the opening 900 lines of

the epic poem ‘Beowulf’, the oldest

surviving piece of English literature.

This story recounts the famous

adventures of a mighty monster-slaying

hero in medieval Denmark, and his battle

against one of the Devil’s mightiest

minions: the horrific demon Grendel.

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Once upon a time in Medieval

Denmark…

A powerful demon lurked in the swamps and

marshlands, stalking the outskirts of Heorot in the dark

night. Inside the humans inside feasted on rich foods

and fine wine around the flaming hearth, but the din of

the festivities in the great hall haunted the grim monster

and aggrieved him as the glow of fire-light spread

towards him, reaching out into his darkness.

The demon, named Grendel, felt anger and jealousy

spread through him at the thought of the men enjoying

themselves and having pleasant times while he had

been banished to the cold and pitch-black nights. He

was an outcast, a demon, a blood relation of the very

first murderer, Cain. All of Cain’s Clan had been

banished to these desolate and barren lands. Demons,

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ogres, evil phantoms and giants all nursed the same

rage, anger and hate against the kind of man. But no

one harboured a stronger hatred than this particular

monster, Grendel. Again the anger and jealousy swelled

and spread within him at the sound of laughter and

singing, until his body shook and his eyes glowed red at

the injustice of it. He craved revenge for the wrongs that

had been done to him, and he knew how he would

extract it.

The dark and evil demon Grendel prowled through the

forest, creeping towards the mighty castle of Heorot. It

was home to the Danes and their kindly King Hrothgar.

Grendel snickered; a cold, wet sound, like water in a

drain. They were ants beneath his huge feet. Like cattle

to the slaughter. He would feed upon their tender flesh,

tearing the meat from their bones and drinking their

rose-red blood until his hunger was sated. He smiled,

baring his sharp, grimy teeth at this thought. He crept

closer to the castle, glimpsing its flimsy stone walls

between the thin trees. As he grew nearer, never

making a sound, he caught sight of the inattentive

guards manning the drawbridge. His hunger for blood

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and death grew. Tensing his muscles in anticipation. He

was within feet of them. Poised to strike.

With an unearthly roar, Grendel leapt from the trees

and clenched three men in his mighty claws, squeezing

them into mince. The other guards screamed and ran,

panic in their cries. Grendel rounded them up, one by

one. Their puny swords were useless on his thick,

enchanted hide. He soon had thirty or so men dangled

from his fist by their legs, crying out in fear. Grendel

snorted at how pathetic they were, and then ambled off

to his cave. The guards swung like a pendulum with his

every stride. Outside he heard men discovering their

absence, searching for the culprit, organising a search

party. If they found him, the Danes would undoubtedly

try to kill him. Grendel snorted derisively. As if any

mortal man could punish him. Finally he reached his

shelter, and began to feed.

He stripped the men of their skin, leaving them

writhing in bloody heaps whilst he fed. Then he ate

them one by one, slowly, exultantly. He fed on their

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terror, along with their flesh, leaving one untouched in

the process. The stench of fear was a wonderful

appetizer. Finally, he finished. His bloodlust sated, he

nonetheless tore a limb off the surviving guard and

sucked the sweet blood from it. Dessert. Every so often,

he would rip a strip of flesh from the man and eat it

slowly, enjoying the flavour of adrenaline in the blood.

Eventually, all that was left of the guard was a carcass.

Grendel discarded it and the bare bones of the other

guards at the castle for the Danes, then slept. The

following day, Grendel’s hunger returned, and again he

returned to the Heorot Castle to take more men, slaking

his endless thirst for blood.

For twelve years, Grendel fed on the flesh of the Danish

people, who lived in fear of the cruel demon. He

effortlessly fought any resistance he met, winning

constantly and completely. The Danes waged their

impossible war against Grendel, but it was hopeless.

King Hrothgar was stricken by the deaths, defenceless

against Grendel’s dark power. Grendel killed anyone,

for blood, sport or revenge. The Danes were utterly

powerless, and the world wept for the bloodshed.

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So trouble continued in Heorot. There was panic after

dark, there were raids in the night, and terror

surrounded the people. Then one day, a man who was

himself one of Hygelac’s thanes, heard of Grendel when

he was in his home kingdom of Geatland. He was a

man like no other. He was the mightiest man alive,

powerful and brave. He knew that he alone could defeat

Grendel, so he ordered a boat and announced his plan

to sail to Heorot, to seek the besieged king and offer his

help in defeating Grendel. No one tried to stop him; in

fact they encouraged him to go. He moved about like

the leader he was and enlisted fourteen of the best

warriors he could find.

The captain boarded the boat as the men eagerly loaded

it with their gleaming weapons and armour. Over the

waves they sailed, the wind behind them. Time passed

as Hygelac’s thane and his warriors travelled on to

Heorot. Eventually they neared land, the distant

shadows of trees and hills signalling that their long

voyage was nearing its end. As they drew up onto the

rocky shore, the Geats vaulted over the side of the boat,

out onto the sand and moored their ship. They

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unloaded their weapons and thanked God for the ease

of their crossing across the calm waters.

A scout from Heorot was perched on the cliffs

overlooking the sea, and watched intently as these

strange men drew their ship ashore. He saw their

armour, shields and weapons being unloaded along the

gangway, and realised the need to find out who and

what was arriving. He rode to the shore and questioned

these sea-shaken newcomers.

“Where are you from, carrying decorated shields of

hardwood, shirts of ring-laced mail, and close-fitting

helmets?” he asked. “I am Hrothgar’s harbinger and

officer, and I have never seen such an impressive or

large assembly of strangers. Proudness of heart and

valour, not banishment, must have driven your decision

to come before Hrothgar.”

The mighty leader of the group answered, “We are the

decedents of the great people and friends of Lord

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Hygelac. Beowulf is my name. My father was a famous

man, a noble warrior named Ecgtheow. Many wise men

remember him. We come here to find your Lord, the

son of the Halfdanes. Direct us to him. We are here on a

great errand to aid your Lord and his people. We have

been told of this monster murdering the people of this

country. I have come to help defeat this gruesome

enemy.”

The Danish scout grasped the reigns of his horse and

replied, “I shall deliver this message, as you have

directed, to our well-respected king.” With that the

scout left the band of warriors, and hurried the message

to his elderly king. He wasted no time in passing on the

mighty Beowulf’s message. “My king, Geats have

arrived onshore. They have sailed over an abysmal

amount of sea, under the leadership of a warrior they

call Beowulf. They wish to have a formal audience with

you, my Regent. Graceful Hrothgar, please do not

refuse them, and reply to their cause. Their appearance

of mighty presence makes them worthy of respect,

especially the one who has led them this far.”

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Hrothgar replied, “I knew this man when he was a boy.

His Father was the great Ecgtheow, and his offspring is

now here to deliver on an old friendship. I have heard

of Beowulf’s fantastic feats. A thane, they said, with the

strength of thirty men in each hand. Now Holy God,

creator of Heaven and earth, has sent him here in good

will to defend us from the terrors of Grendel. Or at

least, this is my hope. If he can succeed I shall

recompense him with the finest riches in the kingdom.

Go immediately and welcome him and his warriors to

the land of the Danes.”

The scout returned to Beowulf, and led him and his

party along the grey and barren road to Heorot. They

went on their way until a grand hall, erected from

ancient trees and sturdy rocks, rose before them. Their

guide showed them the way towards it and then

hurriedly turned. “It is time for me to go. I must watch

over the sea to spot intruders. May you have luck in

your exploits.” The watchman wished them well and

left. The group of warriors walked up towards the

great oak doors of the magnificent hall. They were still

dressed as if for war, and were weary from their travels.

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Beowulf and his men reached the entrance to the golden

hall, where they were confronted by a band of guards.

“My Jarl, the reigning king of the Danes, wishes me to

announce that he knows your ancestry and that you are

welcome in Heorot,” the lead guard told him. “You are

now permitted to meet Hrothgar in all your splendid

armour, but your shields and weapons are must be left

outside this hall until your intentions are clear.”

Beowulf shrugged off his spear, sword and shield, and

swaggered forth with the grim determination of a calm

yet dangerous predator just before it reaps its prey. A

few men stayed to guard their weapons, while the

remainder followed their leader as he entered the great

hall. “Greetings Hrothgar,” Beowulf said.

Hrothgar, the King of the Danes, was the great leader of

the people of Heorot. The people trusted him and

approved him as King, but Grendel’s attacks had

caused fear among them, and they were in great need of

a hero to defeat Grendel and put a stop to the gruesome,

blood-thirsty slaughter.

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Hrothgar said to the great hero in desperation:

“Beowulf, you have travelled a long way to come and

fight the mighty monster Grendel. We are in great need

of assistance, my friend. Yes, there was hatred between

our two families in our distant past, but that was then,

and this is now. Grendel is the greatest threat we have

ever faced, and we must join forces to defeat this

enemy.” Hrothgar looked straight into Beowulf’s eyes,

and the hero could see the old King’s anxiety and

sorrow.

“Grendel, a ghastly monster, has caused havoc upon us

and has humiliated us. It is unfair that the number of

people of my land are declining because Grendel

sweeps them into his clutches. God could easily stop

these deadly attacks from Grendel, yet he does not. I

almost believe we have been abandoned.” Besides

Hrothgar, the queen’s face mirrored this hatred towards

Grendel, and mourned for the people lost.

“Again and again, many fighters have come to stop this

horrendous Grendel and save us from his atrocious

11

attacks. They pledged themselves to protect Heorot.

They wait for Grendel with their swords at the ready,

but as dawn rises all I can see when I come own the

gilded castle walls is blood splattered on the benches.

The room is empty and the floor is splashed with

slaughter. I can hear voices in my head, the cries of the

fighters, their screams echoing in my mind, but what

can I do? All my finest warriors have fallen before him,

and Grendel will be coming upon us once again, and I

do not know what consequences will follow. I cannot

stand to sit here and do nothing while men, women and

children are massacred by this demonic and revolting

monster. I beg you to help me Beowulf; help my

country! We are in need of a strong fighter like you. I

accept your offer, and leave Grendel in your hands.”

The king’s voice betrayed his pain, each word filled

with as much remorse as hope.

But Beowulf was not daunted by the King’s words, and

wasted no time in giving his response. “Fear not, kind

Hrothgar, for I am here to kill your monster!”

12

With those words Beowulf broke into a huge grin,

shouts from all the soldiers filled the hall, and

celebrations broke out. The benches were cleared in the

banquet hall and the smell of roasted lamb wafted

through the joyful air. Goblets were brought out,

clashing together in celebration. Men and women began

to enter the crowded hall, wearing their finest clothes

and jewellery. Music resonated in the crisp, clear night.

As the night proceeded, the merriment grew and grew

until their heads were muddled with mead. The

celebrations lowered, but for the first time in twelve

years everyone had a reason to hope; hope that Grendel

could be defeated by the almighty Beowulf himself.

A crowd of ogre-like men gathered around in the Great

Hall, swigging alcohol out of extravagant goblets. They

lounged around the stone table, laughing heartily

underneath their impressive facial hair. Their merry

chatter and boastful celebrations could be heard for

many miles around, and raucous laughter rang into the

night. Everyone in the Great Hall was at the height of

manliness, but Beowulf, oh yes, Beowulf, he was the

very definition of power. His muscles protruded

13

underneath his armour. At just one glance, anyone

could sense the many legendary victories he had won.

His very scent reeked of monsters’ blood.

“Ahhhhh, Beowulf. Thank the mighty powers above;

you have arrived to slaughter the deviant monster that

haunts our lives,” one man exclaimed, staring enviously

yet admiringly at Beowulf. Praising such as this filled

the room; everyone was basking in Beowulf’s mighty

and awesome strength. Until Unferth, a great brute of a

man with a beard of bushy orange remarked slyly:

“Although you boast of your many adventures and

slaying of beasts, I happen to know of the legendary

swimming race, in which you lost to Breca. Everyone is

in awe of your strength and yet they fail to recognise

that you arrived at the finish line a weakling. A failure.”

A wave of gasps erupted through the hall and

expressions of disbelief covered the men’s faces. “Yes.

What you speak of is true. I did lose the swimming race,

but only because….” With a triumphant sweep of his

arm and began telling his story.

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“It was a roaring night, the waves tore around us. We

had been swimming for five days and five nights, our

arm sliced through the water, powering us through the

monstrous ocean. I had been conserving my strength, so

when the right time came, I could power ahead and

leave Breca gasping for air far behind me.

“But suddenly, as if work of the Gods, eight thrashing

sea monsters rose up from the dark depths of the salty

pit of water. I latched onto one’s scaly neck, and

punctured its rough skin with my blade, its blood

fouling the water around us. I went on to brutally slay

every beast; one by one I slaughtered them. Their

crimson blood stained my skin and their decapitated

heads were left drifting in the water.” Beowulf paused,

his words suspended in the air, causing his audience to

be drawn even more into the sheer strength of Beowulf

and his grand adventures.

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“All the while, that scoundrel Breca, raced ahead,

leaving me to conquer the monsters. And that is why I

reached the shore last; I would’ve won if the beasts had

not emerged,” Beowulf concluded, leaving all the men,

dizzy with the alcohol, to believe he was descended

from the Gods and the most heroic man to walk the

earth.

The celebration slowly began to disband as the fires

grew low, giving way to the night as shadows returned

to Heorot. Beowulf took his place in the hall and stood

purposefully in the centre of the room. His men stood

before him silently, all eyes on him. Beowulf paused

dramatically, enjoying their attention but preparing

himself for the fight to come.

Then Beowulf threw his sword to the ground making a

loud noise on the marble floor. “What are you doing?”

asked one of Beowulf’s men. “You need your sword to

fight!”

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“When I fight this beast, I will not be advantaged in any

way. If he uses no weapons, then neither should I, and

if he wears no armour, then I shall not either. When I

kill this beast I will kill him fairly!” Beowulf declared

with excitement in his voice.

His men stared at him doubtfully and continued to

watch Beowulf as he removed his armour and took of

all of his clothing. Secretly they all suspected that this

would be his last fight. Beowulf, on the other hand was

confident he would defeat Grendel. “God has already

decided our fate. Whoever is supposed to die shall die,

regardless of armour or arms, and the other will win!”

he said, trying to convince his men. While no one in that

hall could be sure of fate, Beowulf was right: God knew

what would happen and He knew that Grendel had

finally met his match and would no longer be terrifying

the villagers of Heorot.

The night was still and there was an eerie feeling

floating in through the deserted courtyard. The air

tasted stale and the trees swayed looking as though

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they were whispering to each other the secrets of

tonight’s fate. Through the shadows came a devil, a

monster: Grendel. He swiftly and quietly crept through

the darkness. The hall guards leaned against the wall

slowly falling into a deep sleep. The monster went to

place his large hand – if you could call it a hand, that is

– on the familiar door that he had ripped open too

many times. Tonight, though, as soon as the long, spear

like fingers touched the wood an overpowering rage ran

through his ginormous body.

The door flung open revealing the long, dimly lit hall.

His thirst for blood grew as he charged through the

doorway. Grendel paced the patterned floor. There

sleeping in the hall were a mixed group of warriors and

kinsmen. His delight was as powerful as a volcano

erupting, the lava flowing, boiling over the brim.

Flashing across his eyes were images of bloody corpses,

ripping their lifeless bodies limb from limb,

demolishing them all and feeding on every last bit of

flesh. But little did he know of the fate that awaited him.

He went to meet his rival, His hopes high and adrenalin

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coursing through his body. Grendel’s reign of bloody

misery and terror was nearing its end.

Grendel crept closer, treading lightly so as not to

disturb Beowulf. He raised his talon, the dark, warm

blood of Beowulf’s comrades dripping off it and

prepared to attack. Suddenly Beowulf leapt from his

bed and grabbed the demon’s arm, his iron grip making

indents in Grendel’s blotchy purple skin. Caught off

guard, Grendel fought in his grasp. He could feel his

bones giving way under the immense pressure his foe

delivered through his bare hands. Never in his life had

Grendel faced such a worthy opponent.

Time and time again Beowulf’s men tried to aid their

lord, but all of their efforts were futile because no blade

on earth, no blacksmith’s art could make even the tiniest

mark on the demon’s skin. But Beowulf held his

ground, his fingernails digging into the devils skin,

drawing thick, clotted blood from the wound. The veins

in Beowulf’s hand pulsated as he tightened his grip and

pushed the monster back. Grendel could feel the power

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emanating off Beowulf as his toes dug into the floor in a

desperate attempt to regain control. He knew he was

fighting a losing battle and was slowly being pushed

into a corner.

He was desperate to make an escape back to his lair, but

Beowulf showed no signs of relenting. Grendel’s body

was growing weaker. They battled, knocking over

tables and benches all around the hall. They clawed at

each other, desperately grappling onto any piece of bare

skin. An ear-piercing wail erupted from the demon and

pierced the night as he felt his power slowly draining

from his body. It echoed off the walls and reverberated

in the ears of everyone in the kingdom. The demon was

desperately trying to escape, but Beowulf was not

inclined to mercy.

At long last Beowulf clasped Grendel’s should and

ripped the monster’s arm from its socket. The sound of

bones cracking, muscles tearing, and sinews snapping

reverberated through the hall. Blood seeped out of the

wound as the demon let out a final cry of anguish and

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distress. He staggered backwards and burst through the

wooden doors leading out of the hall. Grendel stumbled

into the blackness of night, fleeing back to his lair. His

time was swiftly drawing to its end, which he knew all

too well.

Back in the hall a victorious roar erupted from the

crowd watching Beowulf’s showdown. Beowulf stood

in the centre of them, fingers dripping with the blood of

the demon. His arm was raised, with the limb of the

demon clasped bloodied and limp in his hand.

News spread quickly about the death of Grendel and

how Beowulf had defeated him. Thousands of people

from little villages and small towns, from miles and

miles away came to congratulate Beowulf. “You’re my

hero; you’ve saved me and my family,” they told him.

Cheers and praise filled the air of Heorot.

Beowulf lived his life as a hero and became a legend. He

went on to become King of Heorot and was

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remembered as the best ruler that his people had ever

known. The people were all happy once again, looking

forward to the future and letting go on the past. They

raised their heads high in delight and merriment, and

smashed their goblets together in joy, happiness and

hope.

The End…

This is only the first part of the epic

adventures of Beowulf: our hero still has

two more vicious and gruesome

monsters that he must face!

This story is based upon Seamus

Heaney’s poetic translation of the

original Old English text:

Seamus Heaney, Beowulf: A Verse Translation.

New York: W.W.Norton and Company, 2002.