How Young Beowulf Overcame the Grendel and His Tribe on Candlemas Morn in the Year of Our New Millennium 2001

Long ago, and far, far away from the many-peopled city
of New York, in the westernmost regions of the Wild Cats
Mountains, lived old Farmer Hrothgar and his lovely wife,
Wealtheow. Rich was Hrothgar’s kingdom, with fields and
forests green as money, vistas wide and deep, rivers rich and
flowing. But no wilnian[1] did Hrothgar and his livestock own.

Beneath the farmer’s fields wended a cavernous borough,
rife with large and little Grendels, each spring’s groundhoglets
trained in war arts against Hrothgar, each filling his belly
with succulent blossoms meant for Hrothgar’s Holsteins. Each
winter the monsters, replete with harvest takings, slept
peacefully, undisturbed, beneath white and crusted snow.

The whistle-pigs lay snoring in their stony soil, evil dreams in
their grizzled, abhorrent heads. Chief among them was Grendel,
repe[2] field tunneler. (And all who had seen him
agreed him well-named, shambling field denizen, grim and graedig![3]).

The evil varmint caused no end of pain to the farmer and
his profits, for, each summer, Grendel and his clan channeled
Hrothgar’s’s fields until lean harvests of spindly clover were
all the meadows’ yield. Too many shared the fragrant flowers!

Mighty Hrothgar, worried for his future, the fate of his queen and
his Holsteins, held council with the Farm Bureau; he called Cornell
Cooperative, hired the rifle-slinging Long Islanders. Once,
he even retained the Lillith-Dog, promising her many bones, but
she, slayer of giants, vanquished only a child criminal.

It was soon clear that no one could defeat the Grendels,
their singale saece[4], and Hrothgar moaned and mourned when
every Candlemas the woodchuck king came forward, shading
his eyes against the sun, hooting, "Six more weeks of winter, six
more weeks of sleep, my dears, and then food, food, food!"
Farmer Hrothgar could not vanquish him, his filthy greed.
Oh, the Grendels truly claimed Hrothgar’s mountain!

Now, in the year of our new millennium 2001, it happened that
young Beowulf, over Treadwell way, heard of the trolls, the
corruption they caused. Forthwith, he journeyed to Hrothgar’s
realm, bent on doing battle. He was watched, as he sped
up the hill on his trusty snowmobile, by Hrothgar’s able man,
Wulfgar the Hired, who ran fast to meet the noble, skidding
in his barn boots, sprayed when the snowmobile spun about.

Beowulf halted his stout mearas[5] before the cringing aide;
he descended, chest inflated, and marched to the farmer’s barn.
"Who are you, and why do you come here?" charged the hired man.
"I come to kill the Grendel," laughed the tall hero.
"I am more in fighting spirit than you, than all your migrant
workers, and I will take the troubles from Hrothgar’s door."

Hrothgar descended from his John Deere, his breath icing
the white air, green and yellow tractor rumbling at his flank, and
spoke in a cold and distant voice. "I have heard of you, the success
you’ve had, that no Grendels camp under your enclave. But we
are too far gone, I think. What can you do to ease our pain?"

Beowulf spoke: "I on my steed will vanquish the devil on
Candlemas Day. Wait and see." Hrothgar, celebrated farmer,
welcomed the hero; Beowulf partook of medo-ful manig[6]
shanks of young lamb, fried potatoes. At last Beowulf pushed
back his bench, sated, and lay his noble body down on the guest
room bed. He pulled the pink chenille to his noble chin and
vowed, "I will not aldre linnan[7] to these world-dregs."

The very next morning, February 2, the day dawned bright,
ready, as usual to pay tribute to the Grendel-King. (Even the sun
bowed to the demon’s power!). Grendel woke, stretched and
scratched his lice-ridden shape; he commenced to travel
from his winter-chamber, from shaft to hollow tunnel, growling
his certain triumph. Up, up he sped, to the entrance hole.

But this time Grendel was greeted as he never expected,
famous flat ears rent by the snarl of Beowulf’s wundorlic[8]
nowmobile, crackling drone of engine on icy crust. Aghast,
Grendel covered his ears, rose up, and was smacked by the
snowmobile’s sharp skis. He rose again, looking for the sun,
searching for sanctuary, but he was never to find safety again!

The monster fought and fought, but he was not the
snowmobile’s equal; it ran back and aloft, skis flattening
the beast. At last Grendel feorh-alegde.[9] Beowulf the young,
the unconquered, had taken the victory. The avenging hero
cut off Grendel’s ears, raising them high in the darkening sky.

From ridge to ridge every remaining Grendel ran, escaping
to the freshly-plowed road, only to be smashed by Beowulf’s
backup troops in their all-terrain vehicles. No more would
Grendel and his rotten tribe rule in Hrothgar’s domain; no
more would the pendulous black and white Holsteins go hungry,
the dairy industry be deprived of its propaganda drink.

That night, there was high rejoicing on the mountain, Hrothgar’s
consort passing wide the cup, Beowulf boasting and reiterating,
face aglow with the taste of dairy, mustache white from milk.

[1] wilnian: peace
[2] repe: fierce
[3] graedig: greedy
[4] singale saece: incessant strife
[5] mearas: steed
[6] medo-ful manig: many a mead-cup
[7] aldre linnan: lose my life
[8] wundorlic: wondrous
[9] feorh-alegde: lay down his life