brought me a deer he had caught during the fit, but he could not tell me where he had woken up from it.
The next time I failed to subdue him, I was stunned while trying, and unable to follow. I heard the shouts of anger and screams of fear from the direction the party had been. He returned, with a few minor wounds. He was distraught to discover he had injured me, and haltingly described what he could remember of what happened in the village.
“I went into the hall, where the noise hurt most,” he said. “The door was blocked, but I forced it.”
The door fastened with a solid wooden beam, and he’d broken it. Oh, my son, what a warrior you could be, if only the demons didn’t torture you.
“They attacked me and I fought them all. I remember men hitting me, and me throwing them.”
That explained his black eye and bruised knuckles. He’d fought them all, all at once.
“I just wanted them to be quiet! My head spun, and stabbed, and I felt sick. I remember one man broke over the table when I threw him.”
He probably broke his back and was dead. Oh, Grendel, no.
Edda told me more. Grendel had killed one man and maimed two others, one of whom would never chew food again after his jaw was smashed. She looked fearful herself. “I may not be able to bring you any more supplies, if this happens again.”
“I am endeavoring to stop him,” I promised. “There seem to be certain sounds that are worse than others, ones that he runs to instead of from.”
She questioned which ones seemed to enrage him worse and drive him toward the village instead of away. I answered as best I could. She would try to encourage at least less of those, or to give some kind of sign so I would have time to prepare Grendel and restrain him.
It was the best we could manage. As the villagers had turned their stories of him into a troll or something even worse, it even worked for a while. She convinced them that deliberately enraging him was not conducive to their own peace. I owed her much.
Then came the day Edda breathlessly brought word about a traveler, Beowulf, who boasted he would end their “troll” problem once and for all. She argued hard to prevent the villagers from cheering on the insanity, but to no avail. Hrothgar planned for a huge celebration befitting such a “hero,” even that very night, in part to draw Grendel in. I gave her what would be one last hug.
“You have been the only family I have had besides Grendel these last years. Thank you.”
She returned the embrace. “I can only hope this madness can be avoided. Your Grendel does not deserve this.”
“As do I.”
When Grendel returned later, I tried to convince him to settle down early. I even gave him the soothing tinctures, which would normally ease the fits. I couldn’t bear to tell him they were setting a trap for him, and he would not settle for storms that didn’t exist. At length, I did tell him.
“But Momma, why?”
“They think you a monster, and want you dead.” I stroked his cheek. “You are my beloved son, and I want you alive. Please, let me do what I can to keep you from their trap.”
He acquiesced, and allowed me to bind him to his bed. I made him as comfortable as I could, and then set about doing everything possible to block out all sounds from outside of our walls. Every nook, every cranny, I stuffed full of scraps of cloth and hide. The only light left was one of our precious candles, sitting on the hearth. Even the chimney was as blocked as I dared risk.
It almost worked. I underestimated how desperate this “hero” was for a victory against an innocent man gossiped into a monster. The large horn, which should have been blown only in times of invaders, sounded, and Grendel screamed in agony. Thrice it blew, and the third time, Grendel convulsed and snapped his bindings.