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so that one pair of eyes was always on the lookout—thought it was just a whale playing in the moonlight, and took no notice. Meanwhile, Fitela had reached the rock from the north. Being so small, he was able to crawl up behind the Dragon without being seen. Sigemund dived down to the sea-bed again and swam quickly toward the island.
    Little Fitela was crouched right by the Dragon’s tail. As soon as he saw big telltale bubbles indicating that his uncle was aboutto emerge from the sea, he grabbed the tail boldly in both hands—and twisted it as hard as he could!
    The Dragon roared with anger.
    It turned its terrible fourth head to see and destroy whatever the impudent thing was that dared to tweak its tail. It was astonished by Fitela’s smallness.
    Sigemund took good advantage of that moment of astonishment. He heaved himself up on the silver rock and hurled himself at the Dragon. The head that breathed out air lunged at him. Sigemund seized it by the throat and twisted it round. Air came hissing from the head just as fire began to fork from the other one. Fitela would have been burned alive if the flames had reached him. But they did not reach him. Sigemund had locked the two heads together, so that the fire was beaten back down the Dragon’s windpipe by the blast of air from its other mouth. It writhed and coughed. Fitela pulled again at its tail. Again, the Dragon tried to get its fire-throwing head in position to deal with him. But Sigemund grabbed another head, the black one, already coughing up cartloads of earth, and bent the tough neck in his powerful hands, ramming it into the jawswhere fire struggled to get the better of air. Dark heavy soil poured down the Dragon’s throat. His red eyes popped out of his head as he choked on it.
    Fitela twisted the Dragon’s tail once more. Sigemund added the water-squirting head to the complicated knot he had already made out of the Dragon’s three other heads. The forks of flame, met by air, earth, and a great flood of water, had no chance to get out. The fire traveled down into the Dragon’s belly. He gave a fearful belch, and died.
    In this way, Sigemund and Fitela won the Fire Dragon’s treasure hoard for the good of their people. When they looked in the cave that had been his den, they found it was crammed to the roof with gold and silver and diamonds and rubies and pearls. They loaded ten ships with their plunder, and sailed happily home.
    After this cunning adventure, the storyteller concluded, Sigemund and Fitela were famous the whole world over. “But their deeds were as fleabites compared to Beowulf’s,” he added, putting down his harp.
    Beowulf laughed. He was amused and pleased by this tale, and stored it in his memory.
    Queen Wealhtheow poured the last of the wine into another golden cup for him to drink from.
    Hrothgar had fallen asleep on his throne, his white-haired head against his polished shield.
    Soon all the lords and warriors followed suit. They were worn out with happiness. Danes and Geats sprawled side by side on the long straight benches of the banqueting hall, content that Heorot was a safe place now, well satisfied with the celebrations they had had in the hero’s honor. The poets snored, sore-throated from so much storytelling. The servants dreamt of being masters.
    Beowulf slept too, his head on his hands, the golden collar glittering round his neck.
    Only Unferth remained awake. He stared at the arm, which hung from the hook. His eyes were dry and bloodshot, full of black thoughts.

VIII
R EVENGE
    In the heart of the night, in the darkest dark of the darkness, something stirred from the fen. It was shaped like a snake, a snake as black as jet, long and fat and hissing, but it moved across the marshy ground faster than any snake that ever was, because it had tentacles that pulled it through the mud as quick and slick as a knife going through butter. Its flesh was greasy. It had red lips and hanging breasts. It dribbled green bile and