Gilgamesh Immortal (Chronicles of the Nephilim) (18 page)

Meanwhile, Gilgamesh had been given just enough time and just enough inattention from the Bull to pull out his axe and bury it deep in
to its skull.

This was not enough to kill it, because it had a thick skull, but it
stunned the creature and it stumbled. It tried to move its feet, but somehow its thoughts could not translate to the body movements. The axe had severed some functional synapses.

Gilgamesh
drew his sword and found the soft spot at the nape of the Bull’s neck, right between its horns and bulging tendons. He thrust the sword in with all his strength. It went in all the way to its hilt.

The Bull of Heaven froze. Its brain had been pierced. It gave a whimper that sounded like a squeal compared to its earlier bellowing, and it fell to the ground
like a lump of clay. It shook the walls one last time and a cloud of dust covered the area as the mighty Bull of Heaven, this Behemoth of ancient days, lay dead under Gilgamesh’s feet. Soldiers arrived to carry their mighty king from his lofty perch on the head of the beast.

“
Where is Enkidu
?” Gilgamesh screamed. “
Where is Enkidu?!”
He had seen the tail whip him off and he knew that Enkidu could not have survived the crushing force of that landing.

His soldiers looked at him silently. They too knew the fate of Enkidu as many of them had stood helplessly by, watching the entire spectacle from their fearful positions.

“WHERE IS ENKIDU?” Gilgamesh belted out one more time through broken voice and tearing eyes. He lost his strength and fell to his knees.

But then, the unexpected happened.

The crowd of soldiers parted as a very exhausted and very beaten Enkidu limped through the crowd, dripping wet.

Enkidu smiled, “Thank the
creator for the irrigation canals of Uruk.” Enkidu had landed in one of the multitude of canals so necessary for the livelihood of Uruk. To him it felt like he was hitting a wall of bricks, since water was not particularly friendly at such distance and speed. But he was alive.

The
soldiers began to applaud until the entire fifteen thousand were outside cheering their heroes, Gilgamesh, the Wild Bull on the Rampage, Scion of Uruk, and his only equal, Enkidu of the steppe — shorter in stature, but stronger in bone.

Up on the rampart, Ishtar could not contain her disappointment. She stared at the display below with a bitter frown and muttered
a curse, “By the gods of heaven and earth, woe to Gilgamesh the bully, who mocked me, cut down my Huluppu tree, and killed the Bull of Heaven.” She turned and fled to her temple in the center of the city.

But her mutterings did not go unnoticed by
Ninurta, who had returned to the gate. He watched her with calculated interest. He knew she was behind this, but he also knew that if he could prove it, he might get the council to exile her and maybe even bind her in the heart of the earth where she belonged until Judgment.

Sinleqiunni
nni had ascended the steps to the top of the rampart near Ninurta. He approached the god since he was the only one standing there.

“Ishtar demanded my presence for transcription,” said the scholar. “What was all the ruckus?”

Sinleqiunninni had been so deep within the bowels of the library that he did not even know the fantastic battle that had just occurred. He looked down upon the aftermath and shuttered at the sight, “Oh my!”

Ninurta
gave a slight smirk of amusement and said, “I think Ishtar wanted you to witness what happened so that you might record it. Although I believe she had anticipated a different outcome.”

Sinleqiunnin
ni’s mouth was still agape with astonishment. “W-what happened?”

“King Gilgamesh and Enkidu killed the Bull of Heaven,” said
Ninurta. “I am sure you can come up with some interesting fiction to fill in the holes on your tablets of clay.”

With that,
Ninurta left the scholar to engage his imagination.

Down below, Gilgamesh and Enkidu were not done celebrating their victory. Enkidu grabbed his big axe and cut off the fifth leg of the monster. He gathered some soldiers to carry it in
to the city.

Gilgamesh had the Bull’s heart cut out for a sacrifice to Shamash.

When a king was vanquished in a battle or war, he was usually paraded through the city dead or alive along with his riches and other dead leaders. This triumphal parade would follow the processional way that led to the palace gates and was lined with citizens cheering the victory of their king and giving glory to the gods.

The Bull of Heaven was a
different kind of nemesis that required a different kind of celebratory response. Gilgamesh dragged its carcass through the streets with a herd of mighty horses, and threw its disemboweled intestines to the people for stew and soups. Then he had the meat cut up and apportioned to the orphans of the city as a gesture of goodness toward his weakest of subjects. Next he had the skin brought to the tanners and they began the long and arduous process of tanning the hide in order to hang it from the palace walls as a trophy of conquest. The heart he brought to the temple of Shamash, but for Ishtar, he planned a special offering.

The temple prostitutes, hierodules and votaries were assembled in mourning in Eanna. Ishtar led them, dressed in a black outfit that was both erotic and painful looking, with body piercings, chains, and claws. She led the coterie in cutting themselves with knives and sacrificial daggers.

The sound of Gilgamesh’s trumpet announced his arrival in the temple. The
devotees stopped their bloody self-immolation. Ishtar turned to see the king enter the holy area. Enkidu was by his side and that bothersome bulk, Ninurta, perpetually behind him like a vulture. A large number of servants followed. She noticed that Enkidu did not look healthy. He was pale and weakly, sweat rolling down his neck.

“And to what do I owe this dubious honor, King Gilgamesh?” asked Ishtar.

“I wanted to make an offering of thanksgiving to the gods. So I prepared some gifts to please you, O Queen of Heaven, the Morning and Evening Star.”

Gilgamesh clapped his hands, and
a half dozen servants carried two huge horns forward.

Gilgamesh announc
ed with an affectionate royal proclamation that Ishtar knew was more mockery in her face, “I grant these horns of the Bull of Heaven, filled with sweet oil for you to savor.”

The servants carried them up to Ishtar. She gestured for her own servants to receive them. But she did not bother to give even a fake smile. She just stared blankly without response.
She was boiling with bile.

Gilgamesh continued with his biting mockery,
“And also, this grateful offering, procured by Enkidu himself, for your pleasure to consume.”

He moved aside and
Enkidu led a retinue of fifty slaves carrying in the huge amputated fifth leg of the Bull of Heaven that Enkidu had chopped off.

They
eased it down on the floor. It took up most of the room. The hierodules and harlots had to move back to allow it room. The flesh was already rotting and filled the room with a sickening stench.

Enkidu stood before Ishtar and bowed in reverence. Ishtar could see close up now that Enkidu was very sick. He was barely able to keep himself straight.

“Feeling unwell, poor Enkidu?” Ishtar whispered.

He hissed back, “I know what you did. And if I could vanquish you I would do to you what I did to this leg. I would drape
your guts around your neck.”

It dawned on Ishtar
with a bit of unexpected surprise that the curse she uttered at Gilgamesh on the wall of Uruk must have taken effect. She had not engaged in proper ritual or used any sorcery in conjunction with her utterance. She had spit it out in a moment of anger. But evidently it had worked. And thank the gods this was a much better affliction than she had thought of. It was more of a punishment to leave Gilgamesh alive and well to watch his beloved Enkidu suffer the curse. And if Enkidu died, all the better for the despair of utter loneliness would torture Gilgamesh for the rest of his life. Such a living hell was much more damage than one’s own suffering and death.

And this was all a good thing too because she had been preparing to engage in the most dangerous stunt of her life
as revenge on Gilgamesh. She was going to perform a necromancy ritual that would open the gates of the Underworld and release the dead to rise up and eat the living. Now she would not have to, because this was a far worse punishment for the Scion of Uruk, or as she liked to say, the Gadfly of Sumer.

Ishtar watched as Enkidu stumbled his way back to Gilgamesh at the door.
She could see it coming, so she gave a little blowing wisp just as he collapsed to the floor unconscious.

Gilgamesh ran to
him shouting, “What is wrong, Enkidu?”

Enkidu could not speak. His eyes were upturned, he was white as death, and cold and clammy to the touch.

Gilgamesh looked up at the grinning Ishtar. “What have you done to him?”

She gave a gesture of her hands as if to say, “
Nothing.”

Gilgamesh picked up his friend and left the room like an Anzu in flight.

Enkidu lay in his bed delirious and barely coherent. Shamhat took care of him and Gilgamesh did not leave his side. He helped her put wet rags to Enkidu’s forehead and used various herbs passed down as healing essences. He brought in the diviners to read omens and the sorcerers to create healing potions. But nothing helped. Gilgamesh suspected it was a curse by Ishtar. But he could not prove it. And she denied it.

He considered going
before Ishtar and throwing himself at her mercy to plead for the life of his one and only friend. It was a kind of madness he entertained, being at the end of his desperation. He considered all possibilities: Selling his soul to Ereshkigal of the Underworld, trading places with his comrade, even killing himself to join Enkidu. But it was momentary madness that passed when Gilgamesh realized there was nothing he could do.

After several days, Enkidu became more co
nscious and Gilgamesh inquired of him, “What did Ishtar say to you?”

“She did not curse me,” said Enkidu. “She looked surprised when I met her and she surmised I was not well. Then she looked at you curiously. It was as if she had been expecting you to suffer, not me.”

“Can a curse be diverted? Do you remember any other strange happenings?” asked Gilgamesh. Shamhat was right next to him, listening raptly.

Enkidu was having a hard time concentrating. But he gathered his wits. “Yes. When I attacked the Bull of Heaven, he snorted upon me and I was drenched in his slime. At that moment, I felt weird, but I soon forgot it because we
had a Bull to kill.”

“True enough,” said Gilgamesh.
“It would not surprise me that that chaos monster from the Abyss would have spittle filled with disease and evil.”

Ninurta
remained ever vigilant and ever silent by the door.

Suddenly, Enkidu blurted out,
“I curse the mighty cedar door we made for Enlil. I curse the day I cut it down and carried it to the Euphrates, and drifted it to Nippur. And I curse the hunter who found me in the wilderness.”

Gilgamesh thought it strange that such an emotional outburst of cursing come from an otherwise rational man.

But then Enkidu looked at Shamhat’s sad face and added, “I curse you, Shamhat. I curse the day you civilized me.”

Shamhat could not believe what she was hearing. Enkidu kept going, “May you never
bear offspring. May you never be received by proper women.”

A tear came down Gilgamesh’s cheek. Shamhat was already
weeping a river. “My sweet love, my Enkidu, my husband, why do you speak to me this way?”

Gilgamesh became angry, “She saved you. Why do you curse the woman who brought us together
. You are a fool descending into chaos.”

Enkidu could not help
it. He knew his end was near and he could not face it. He understood finally what all of Gilgamesh’s fuss was about. His brooding contemplation about the “mysteries of the cosmos” were not the silly waste of time Enkidu had thought. Gilgamesh was not needlessly introspective as Enkidu had figured. The king had been the wisest of men after all. He had looked into the depth of the Abyss and faced the truth. Without something beyond this world, everything was a worthless delusion. Nothing had meaning, and every apparent blessing was only a mocking curse.

Enkidu was now facing that
oblivion.

But
he decided to make one last act of love to his wife. He said, “I am sorry, my Shamhat, my wife, my life. I do not want to die and yet this is my demise. Forgive me. I bless you instead. May you have a long and blessed life with many children.”

But it was too late.
The damage could not be undone with an insincere retraction calculated to make her feel better. Even though she brushed it aside in order to care for his ailing body, the seed of bitterness took root deep in her heart. She had lived a life of abuse at the hands of men. She had thought she found one truly worthy and good man. And now he had failed her as well. He had overshadowed her potential, and controlled her destiny. At his darkest moment of pain, he abandoned her. The despair for her was as impending as his own death for him.

Enkidu
turned to Gilgamesh and held up his hand that Gilgamesh now saw was clutching the gold amulet of adoption from Ninsun. It was the only thing he had carried with him through every adventure, every battle, every exploit in the face of death. It was his birthright. “If you are my brother, then pray for me to the gods. If they are not who they claim, my king, then we are all doomed.”

“I will pray for you, my
brother and friend,” said Gilgamesh. But in his heart he thought,
We are all doomed.

And Enkidu dropped back off into unconsciousness.

That night, Gilgamesh prayed and entreated and supplicated to the gods. But he sought not merely Shamash, he also implored Enlil, Enki and Anu for their mercy.

As had happened previous
ly, no response was forthcoming, because none of the gods could hear him.

By the twelfth day, Enkidu’s body had wasted away to an emaciated skeleton of his former self. His eyes were sunken into his scrawny face. Shamhat remained tirelessly by his side, cleaning him and trying to get him to drink or eat anything. The best she could do was wet his mouth. He was in a deep sleep from which he could not waken.

But suddenly, as Gilgamesh and Shamhat were tending to him, he awoke. His eyes snapped open and
he stared at Gilgamesh.

Shamhat shrieked in surprise.

When Enkidu spoke, it was with a hoarse croak. “I had a dream,” he said.

Gilgamesh knew he was not entirely in his right mind, but he tried to treat him with dignity. He knew the end was near.

“What did you see?” asked Gilgamesh.

“
I was standing between heaven and earth. And the heavens thundered and the earth gave reply. And a man like an Anzu thunderbird stood before me with paws of a lion and claws of an eagle. He struck me and crushed me underfoot like a mighty wild bull.”

Gilgamesh and Shamhat looked at one another trying to understand it.

Is that me?
thought Gilgamesh.
Am I responsible for his death?

Enkidu continued after a raspy cough, “I called out to you to save me, but you could not. You were afraid.”

So it was not me
, thought Gilgamesh.

“He tethered me like a captive bird and brought me down to the House of Dust, to the Land of No Return.”

Gilgamesh swallowed. This was not a dream. This was a vision. Shamhat clutched Enkidu’s hand.

Enkidu did not look at them, he stared into the void
and kept speaking, “In the depths of Sheol, I saw crowned heads who ruled the lands since days of yore. I saw Etana, I saw Lugalbanda your father, I saw Sumerian kings from distant days. But I also saw Humbaba the Terrible and the dread shades of Sheol, always consuming, never satisfied. Both young and old, rich and poor, king and commoner, good and evil, hero and villain, all end in the dust of death.”

Then Enkidu looked over at Shamhat and he smiled. It was a moment of connection with the past. Their eyes
penetrated one another and she knew this would be her last touch of the soul of the one man she had ever loved and would ever love. In mere moments her world would end. She would love no more.

Enkidu glanced at Gilgamesh as if he was surprised to see him. “My king,” he said.

“Do not call me king,” said Gilgamesh. “I am your friend. I am not king where you are going.”

“
Oh, but you are,” said Enkidu. “I saw you as king of the shades. You will sit in judgment over the chthonic dead in Sheol.”

Gilgamesh did not reply.
He only smiled. He knew it was a delusion of Enkidu’s own desire to procure for his beloved friend the significance that eluded him. He knew that in Sheol there was no significance. It was not a place of distinction for kings. It was the Land of Forgetfulness.

Enkidu said
, “Remember me, my friend. Do not forget all we have been through.”

“I will not forget,” said Gilgamesh.
“Your name will live on in the memory of the living.” He said what he knew Enkidu wanted to hear. But he knew it was a lie.

“I have become as nothing,” concluded Enkidu. He was summarizing his life that was being replayed in his memory. “If I had died in battle, I would have glory. I would have a name. But instead I have faded away in disgrace. I have ended most ingloriously.”

There was nothing Gilgamesh could say, because there was nothing to say. Enkidu was right.
All their journeys and hardships together, all their labors and adventures, their victories and triumphs — all of it was in vain, because Enkidu would be no more. And soon enough Gilgamesh would follow him into the darkness, where his memory that kept Enkidu alive would also be consumed in nothingness. They would end where all men ended, and where no man’s works mattered.

The thought crossed Shamhat’s mind that this was the
sad and pathetic state of the male gender. They were obsessed with “glory” and “fame” instead of love and acceptance. They sought a transcendent meaning in the abstract beyond, and completely ignored the imminent meaning of human relationship all around them. They entered Sheol alone.

She thought to herself,
But do we not all enter Sheol alone?

Enkidu
closed his eyes and breathed his last.

Shamhat wailed
in the traditional way. It was deep and guttural because in the depths of her being, she felt a turn, so simple, yet so profound that she knew she was not the same person in that instant.

She would never again allow her destiny to be controlled by a man.

Gilgamesh wept.

Ninurta
breathed the slightest sigh of relief. None of them knew that Ishtar was not the one who had inflicted Enkidu, nor was it the Bull of Heaven. It was Ninurta. He had poured slow acting poison in Enkidu’s dinner wine with the intent of taking away from the king the one connection to humanity that kept him from accomplishing the purpose of the gods. Ninurta was after all charged with making sure Gilgamesh performed their secret goal, and Enkidu was the one impediment in the way of that goal. He simply had to be taken out of the way.