Gilgamesh the King
Yet it often happens that that which is held forth to one as utterly impossible turns out to be no more than extremely difficult, or even merely inconvenient, in the actuality. That was the case here. I will not pretend it was an easy descent: it may be that no man other than I could have accomplished it, excepting only Enkidu. But it proved to be altogether possible to achieve. I will say this much, that I would not care to attempt it again.
Then the fearful passage was behind me. When I was done with my descent of Mashu I found myself entering a dry high tableland where only small thorny plants grew: not a pretty place, but one, at any rate, that did not tax my strength to travel through it. I was many days in crossing it. I walked in the patient plodding way of a mule, or an ox in the yoke.
But as I made my way onward, the quality of the land began slowly to change. The light became less harsh; the soil, which had been red and barren, grew darker and seemed more fertile. A warm tender wind that carried moisture came to me out of the south. I passed through a vale so narrow that I could almost touch both its sides with my shoulders, and when I came out of it I emerged into a misty country of soft air and gentle sunlight, where a sweet shining dew fell into the valleys from the hills ahead.
How good that felt, when the dew wrapped itself around me and bathed my parched dusty skin! It might almost have been the garden of the gods, that place. Flowers bloomed everywhere, with a fragrance like none I had known before. There was pale green grass, kind against my legs. The air shimmered as though it were silver. I saw the land unfolding before me like a great golden fan, wide and flat with green hills at the rim and a glittering sea somewhere farther onward. I could not say how long it would take me to reach that sea, but I knew that I would get there, and that I would find the blessed land of Dilmun upon its farther shore.
Still bruised and stiff from my long descent, wild-eyed, clad only in a lion’s tattered and cracking hide, I walked in wonder through this land of beauty. It seemed to me that the fruits that hung heavy on the vines were fruits of carnelian, and that the leaves of the plants were lapis lazuli, with sweet lush fruit nestling among them. Wherever I looked I thought I saw living jewels: agate and coral, onyx, topaz.
As I walked amidst this splendor I felt my injuries beginning to heal. I was covered all over by the festering bites of the stinging insects and the wounds I had received from the sliding tumbling rocks; my hair and beard were filthy tangles with sores beneath them; my tongue was swollen from thirst: but I began to heal. I found a cool lagoon of pure blue water, and drank and cleansed myself, and rested a long while, listening to the droning of bees that never thought to sting me. Their sound was like a loving music. White birds with legs like stilts paused in their foraging to look at me, and it seemed almost that they smiled.
I was at peace. It was a long time since I had known peace of any sort; and I do not think that I had ever known peace of the sort I felt just then. There was a joy and a silence about this land that brought me to rest, as I lay by the side of that cool lagoon. I felt no urgent need to move onward, nor any to go back to my city of Uruk: I was content where I was. I wonder now if I had ever before known a time when I was content to be where I was; but I did not ask the question then, feeling no need for answers. A man truly at peace does not ask himself questions of that kind. But peace and joy are not native to my spirit, I think; I am not accustomed to spending my time in their company. For as I lay there I thought of Enkidu, who knew nothing of this wondrous place. “Do you see, brother?” I wanted to say to him. “The vines bear jewels for fruit, and the birds walk on stilts, and the air is sweet as young wine! Have you ever seen a place so beautiful, brother? In all your wanderings in the forest, have you ever seen a place like this?”
I could say it, but he would not hear me, and a terrible sadness came upon me in the midst of all my joy and peace. I would have wept, but I was beyond all weeping; and so I could not rid myself of my sadness.
Despair returned to my heart. I could not find my way back to that moment of peace. This place was beautiful, yes, but I was alone and could never forget that; and every breath I drew brought me only that much closer to my end. So once more I was enveloped in grief and brooding, which had come to seem my natural state.
Then in my sorrow I looked up toward the sun and saw Utu the bright god looking down at me. I sent him half a prayer, just the smallest of a request for some solace. And I thought I heard him say, “Do you think there is any hope of that? How far you have traveled, Gilgamesh! And for what? For what? You will never find the life for which you search.”
“I mean to find it, great one,” I told the god.
“Ah, Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh, how foolish you are!”
I tried to look straight into the heart of the god, but I could not. So I turned and looked at him shining on the breast of the lagoon, and to the god in the pool I said, “Hear me, Utu! Have I marched and roved all through the wilderness for nothing? Am I simply to lie down now in the heart of the earth and sleep for all the years to come? Let it not be so! Spare me from that long darkness, Utu! Let my eyes continue to see the sun until I have had my fill of it!”
I think he must have heard my prayer. But I cannot tell you what reply he made to me, for I heard none; and after some little time a cloud passed across the face of the sun, and I no longer felt the presence of Utu close by me. I rose then and wrapped my tattered lion-skin about me, and readied myself to move on. For all the beauty of this place I could not regain that sense of joy that I had known for a while here. But the despair had passed from me also. I was calm. Perhaps I felt nothing at all. That is not peace; but it is better than despair.
I went onward, feeling nothing, thinking nothing; and in a few days more the air brought me a new taste, sharp and odd, like the taste of metal on the tongue. It was the tang of salt; it was the tang of the sea. My long pilgrimage thus was coming near its end. From that taste of salt in the air, I knew that I must be approaching the shore of the land that lies opposite the blessed isle of Dilmun, where ever-living Ziusudra dwells. Of that I had no doubt.
32
I CAME INTO THE CITY that lies upon the coast opposite Dilmun looking like a wild man, like a second Enkidu. It is not truly a city, I suppose; it is not a tenth the size of Uruk, it is nowhere near as large even as Nippur or Shuruppak. It is only a small seaside town, a village, rather; a place where fishermen live, and those who repair the nets of fishermen. But to me it seemed like a city, for I had been in the wilderness so long.
In truth it was a pitiful place. Its streets were unpaved, its gardens were sparse and ill-tended, the salt of the air was devouring the brickwork of its buildings. I saw what may have been a temple; at any rate it was raised on a little platform. But it was a small and shabby structure and I could not tell you the name of the god to which it was devoted. I doubt that it was any god of ours. The people here were slim and dark-skinned, and they went practically naked except for a strip of white cloth around their waists. As well they might, for it was as hot here as it is in the Land in the depths of summer; but the season here was not summer yet. A tawdry town; still, to me it was a city. I trudged through it, looking for lodging and someone who could tell me where I might hire a ferryman to take me to Dilmun.
I think any stranger would have stirred excitement in that sleepy village. Few travelers are apt to seek it for its splendor. Visitors of any sort must be rarities. But certainly it was bound to cause some buzzing when a man of giant size came marching through the shabby streets, wild-eyed and gaunt, clad in the skin of a lion, leaning on a great pointed staff. Some little children saw me first—they ran off in fright—and then a few older boys, and then one by one the townsfolk came to stare and point. I heard them whispering. They spoke a version of that language which the desert tribes speak, and which is spoken in many places on the borders of the Land. The way they used it here was not much like the way it is spoken by the people of the desert race who have come to live in the cities of the Land; but I could un
derstand it well enough. Some of them thought I was a demon, and some a shipwrecked pirate, and some a brigand. I said to them, “Is there a place where I can buy food and drink here, and a bed for the night?” They broke into laughter at my words—a nervous laughter, perhaps, or perhaps it was only that my accent was so barbarous. But then one woman pointed down a crooked muddy street to a little white-walled building, prettier and less ramshackle than any other in the vicinity. The breeze brought me a whiff of ale from it: a sailors’ tavern, I realized.
I went to it. As I neared its gate, a woman appeared and looked out at me. She was tall and comely, with shrewd straightforward eyes and a strong body: her shoulders were almost as broad as a man’s. For a moment she stared at me as if I were a wolf come to her door; and then with great force she slammed the gate in my face. I heard a bolt being thrust home within.
“Wait, what is this?” I cried. “All I seek is a night’s lodging!”
“You may not have it here,” she called from the far side.
“Is that the hospitality of this place? What did you see that frightened you so? Come, woman, I will do you no harm!”
There was silence. Then she said, “It is your face that is frightening. It is the face of a murderer, I think.”
“A murderer? No, woman, no murderer, only a tired wayfarer! Open up! Open!” And in my weariness a terrible anger came over me. I lifted my staff and said, “Open, or I’ll smash the door! I’ll break down the gate!” I pounded once, and once again, and I heard the wood creak. It would not have been a heavy task for me to shatter it. I pounded a third time, and then I heard the bolt sliding.
The door opened and she stood before me, looking not at all terrified. Her jaw was set, her arms were folded over her breasts. There was anger in her eyes to equal my own. Sharply she said, “Do you know what the price of a new door would be? By what right do you stand there hammering?”
“I seek lodging, and these people tell me this is a tavern.”
“So it is. But I am not required to take in every wandering rogue who comes along.”
“You do me an injustice. I am no rogue, woman.”
“Then why do you have the face of one?”
I told her that was an injustice too: I had come a long way, and the journey had left its mark on me, but I was no rogue. I took some pieces of silver from the pouch at my waist and showed them to her. “If you will not let me sleep here this night, then will you at least sell me a mug of ale?” I asked.
“Come you in,” she said grudgingly.
I stepped inside. She closed the door behind me. The place was cool and dark; I was glad to be in it. I held one of my silver pieces out toward her, but she brushed it aside, saying as she drew me my ale, “Later, later. I am not as greedy for your silver as you seem to think. Who are you, traveler? Where do you come from?”
I had thought I would invent a name for myself; but suddenly there seemed no reason to do that. “I am Gilgamesh,” I said, and waited for her to laugh in my face, as one might do if I had said, “I am Enlil,” or “I am An the Sky-father.” But she did not laugh. She looked at me long and close, frowning. I felt the presence of her, strong and warm and good. I said after a moment, “Do you know of me?”
“Everyone knows the name of Gilgamesh.”
“And is Gilgamesh a murderer?”
“He is king in Uruk. Kings have bloody hands.”
“I slew the demon in the forest, yes. I slew the Bull of Heaven, when the goddess set him loose to rage in my city. I have taken other lives when the need was there, but always only when it was needful. Yet you closed your door to me as if I were a common highwayman. I am not that.”
“Ah, but are you Gilgamesh? You ask me to believe a great deal, traveler!”
“Why do you doubt me?” I asked.
Slowly she said, “If you are indeed Gilgamesh of Uruk—and by your size, by a certain majesty that I see about you, I suppose that it could be that you are—why is it that your cheeks are so wasted, that your face is so sunken, that your features are so worn by heat and cold and wind? Is that the style of a king? And your clothes are filthy rags. Do kings dress that way?”
“I have been a long while in the wilderness,” I replied. “Into Elam, and north to the land called Uri, and to the deserts, and over the mountain known as Mashu, and many other places besides. If I look weatherbeaten and worn, there is good reason for it. But I am Gilgamesh.”
She shook her head. “Gilgamesh is a king. Kings own the world; they live in joy. You are a man with woe in your belly and grief in your heart. It is not difficult to see that.”
“I am Gilgamesh,” I said. And because there was warmth and strength in her, I told her why I had gone wandering. Over one mug of ale and another I spoke of Enkidu, my brother, my friend whom I had loved so dearly, he who had chased the wild ass of the hills, the panther of the steppe. I told her how we had lived side by side, how we had hunted together and wrestled together and feasted together, how we had had many grand exploits together; I told her how he had fallen ill, and how he had died; I told her how I had mourned him. “His death lies heavy on me,” I said. “It was the most aching of losses. How can I be at peace? My friend who I loved has turned to clay!”
“Your friend is dead. You have mourned him; now forget him. No one grieves as you have grieved.”
“You do not understand.”
“Then tell me,” she said, and gave me still another ale.
I drew a deep draught of the sweet foaming stuff before speaking. “His death puts me into fear of my own dying. And so, fearing death, I roam from land to land.”
“We all must die, Gilgamesh.”
“So I hear, over and over: from the scorpion-woman in the mountain, from Utu on high, now from you. Is it so? That I must lay me down like Enkidu, never to rise forever and ever?”
“It is the way,” she said calmly.
I felt hot fury rising. How many times I had heard that! It is the way, it is the way, it is the way—the words were coming to sound like the bleating of sheep in my ears. Was I the only one who disdained the sovereignty of death?
“No!” I shouted. “I will not accept that! I will go on and on through all the world, if I must, until I learn how I can escape death’s hand.”
The tavern-woman came to me and stood looking down at me. She let her hand rest lightly on my arm. Once again I felt the strength of her, and the tenderness within that strength. There was goodness-presence about this woman; she had the mother-force within her. Softly she said, “Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh, where are you running? You never will find this eternal life that you seek. Can you ever come to understand that? When the gods created mankind, they created death also. Death they allotted to us, and life they kept for themselves.”
“No,” I murmured. “No. No.”
“It is the way. Forget your quest. Live well, instead, while you live. Let your belly be full. Be merry, day and night: dance and sing, feast and rejoice. Put aside these tatters and let your garments be clean and fresh. Wash your hair, bathe your body, be always fresh and clean and pure. Cherish the little one holding your hand, cherish the wife who delights in your embrace. This too is the way, Gilgamesh. And it is the only way: live joyously while you have life. Stop your brooding; stop your seeking.”
“I cannot rest,” I said.
“Tonight you will rest.” She drew me to my feet. She was so tall that she came almost to my breast. “I am Siduri,” she said. “I live quietly by the sea, and sometimes strangers come to my tavern, but not often. When they come I treat them with courtesy, for what is my task on earth, if it is not to look after the comfort of wayfarers? Come with me, Gilgamesh.” She bathed me then, and washed and trimmed my hair and beard; and she made for me a meal of barley and stewed meat, and instead of ale we drank a fine wine of a clear golden hue. Then she laid me down on her couch and rubbed me and stroked me until all the weariness had gone from my body; and I spent the night clasped in her arms. No one had held me that wa
y since I was a baby. Her breath was warm and her breasts were full and her skin was smooth. I lost myself in her. It is good sometimes to lose one’s self that way; but one can never remain lost for long, so it seems. Before dawn I was awake, and restless, even with Siduri beside me. I told her that I must go; and again she said, gently, half reprovingly, “Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh, where are you running?”
“I mean to go to Dilmun, and speak with Ziusudra.”
“He cannot help you.”
“Nevertheless, I will go.”
“The crossing is toilsome,” she said.
“Undoubtedly it is. Tell me how I may get there.”
“Why do you think you will find Ziusudra, even if you reach Dilmun?”
I answered her, “Because I am Gilgamesh the king. He will see me. And he will help me.”
“Ziusudra does not exist,” said Siduri.
With a harsh laugh I said, “Am I to believe that? The gods themselves rewarded him with unending life and sent him to dwell in Dilmun. This much I know. Why do you try to discourage me, Siduri?”
“How stubborn you are!” She made a purring sound, and moved closer to me. “Stay here with me, Gilgamesh! Live by the sea, live quietly, grow old in peace!”
I smiled. I caressed her cheeks and the deep bowls of her breasts. But then I said, “Tell me how to reach Dilmun.”
She sighed. After a moment she replied, “There is a boatman, Sursunabu by name, who serves Ziusudra and the priests of Ziusudra. He comes each month to the mainland to purchase certain supplies. I think he will be here in a day or two. When he comes, I will ask him to take you back with him to Dilmun. Perhaps he will.”