by L.J. Hayward
lazuli and remembered why it had been given to me.
Bored and full of desire for glory and renown, Gilgamesh had tasked himself with the death of the guardian of the Cedar Forest so the great woods might be free for the use of all men.
“Enlil placed Humbaba in the Cedar Forest to protect it,” I said in the face of Gilgamesh’s visions of victory and glory. “He terrorises all who approach the forest with a roar like a flood and breath bad enough to drop a man dead in his steps. He can hear a rustle in his trees from a hundred leagues away! What man would venture into his forest?”
Gilgamesh shook his head, slowly and in wonder. “Who is this man with me? Is this truly Enkidu, the wild man, bold and strong? It seems this man is not bold for he is afraid of death. Only the gods may live forever and all men must eventually die. Our lives are short, so it must be that our achievements are short, as fleeting as the wind.” There was a manic glint in his eyes accompanying his dramatic words. “But that is not what I want. I want to be remembered. I want to live… I want my fame to live forever and how better to do that than with a grand triumph? I will go to the Forest, I will defeat Humbaba and I will cut down the cedar. Even if I should fail, they will still remember me, saying ‘It was Gilgamesh who locked in battle with Humbaba the Terrible!’” The enthusiasm increased in his voice as he stood. “How can you deny the thrill of this, Enkidu? You were raised in the wild, you fought wolves and lions! You have already experienced it all, this should be as nothing.”
It stirred deep inside me, the urge to give in to his excitement, to forget my own thoughts and let him steer our course. There was a truth to his words. Who would not want to live forever, even if it was just in the recalling of mighty deeds? Such a bold man’s name could echo through the years and his life would never be ended.
Yet I could not give in. What Gilgamesh meant to do was against the gods. It would earn him fame, but would it earn him favour with the beings we served? I did not think it would. So I left him there, disappointed.
The following day I was called before Queen Ninsun, his mother.
“You know his thoughts regarding the Cedar Forest,” she said.
“Foolish ones, yes.”
Her smile of agreement was twisted with despair. “He believes it is something he is destined to do, not something he merely wishes to do. I could not talk him out of it. So I sought the counsel of Shamash.”
My hopes for an outcome we could both be happy with died. The Queen’s sad eyes beseeched me.
“You are not my son but you are Gilgamesh’s brother. You know the way to the Cedar Forest. I would like you to go with him, to guide and protect him. Shamash has given his blessing to this task and I will give you mine if you swear to keep him safe.” She stepped down from her throne and held a cloak-clasp made of fine lapis lazuli to my chest. “With this gift, Enkidu, I would charge you with his safe return to his people.”
So my agreement was gained.
Before long, we stood at the edge of the Cedar Forest. For all that it was certain Humbaba knew of our presence and would shortly confront us, we were struck by the sheer majesty of the forest.
Broad trunks, spreading branches and sweet, luxurious foliage climbing up the slopes of the Cedar Mountain. The shade beneath the trees was cool and tranquil. Thornbushes matted together in thickets, but there were clear, wide paths through the forest.
Humbaba’s trails.
And the ogre came along one of these paths. Fully twice my height and three times broader, he had the features of a man, but of such shape and proportion he could never be mistaken for human.
Gilgamesh’s sword slithered free and I reached for my knives. The ogre looked down on us and sneered.
“Surely you have not come with the thought you could defeat me.” Laughter bellowed out so loud it seemed to shake the very ground we stood on. “Two little men with little knives. I am Humbaba! Guardian of the Cedar Forest. King Gilgamesh the feeble mortal can never defeat me!”
All my unfavourable thoughts about Gilgamesh’s intentions vanished. How dare this this ugly monster insult my brother?
“Humbaba, you are one alone,” I shouted back. “We are two together and together great things can be done. You roar like a mighty lion, but two cubs can roll the lion over!”
Small, piercing eyes found me and black lips twisted into a deadly snarl. “Enkidu the wild man. An idiot giving a fool advice. What do you know of the ways of man to offer counsel to one such as this?” He waved his giant club at Gilgamesh. “Enkidu, when you were small, running with the stags and wolves, I saw in you a beautiful harmony. There was no division in your heart, no question in your mind. Yet you were corrupted, tempted by flesh and made human.”
The ogre spat the word, spittle falling like a heavy rain putrid with rotting meat. I gagged with the thought that perhaps it could be my flesh—or Gilgamesh’s—soon rotting between those yellow, boulder-like teeth.
“Now you bring this man to me,” Humbaba continued. “This king. You stand here as an enemy, a stranger to all you once embraced. I will tear your throat out and feed your flesh to the screeching vultures!”
The rage that took me was towering, red and hot. My fingers curled around my knives, eager to move, to slice and cut and tear. He insulted me, insulted my brother. It did not matter that everything he said was true. It did not matter that I had wondered these things myself.
Gilgamesh caught my arm, hauled me back from a reckless charge.
“My friend,” he hissed in lowered tones, “I fear we may have been too bold. The ogre is greater than I ever imagined.”
Disbelief only served to fan my rage. “Did I hear correctly? You, who bullied all of Uruk into blessing this journey, now wish to turn around and flee! Was it not you who said to me as we approached the Forest, the one who watches from the side is a careful man, but the one who walks in front protects himself and saves his comrade, and through their fighting they establish fame?”
My words had the desired effect. Bravery and strength renewed, Gilgamesh lifted his sword and, with a mighty cry, commenced battle.
It was a long, tiring fight, fraught with deadly dangers. We danced and slashed about the giant Humbaba. He lumbered and crashed about us, yet he kept us from a killing blow and would have continued to do so endlessly had not Shamash finally recalled his promise to Ninsun.
The thirteen winds of Shamash rose around Humbaba, blinding him, trapping him and bringing him within the reach of Gilgamesh’s blade. On his knees, helpless at the point of Gilgamesh’s sword, the ogre begged for his life. Tired, Gilgamesh once more seemed aware of the magnitude of the task he had set for himself. He listened to the ogre and the edge of his sword left the ogre’s neck.
As weary as my friend, as ready for this madness to be finished, I said, “Do it before Enlil hears and the gods are filled with rage against us. We will erect a great tribute to the gods from the cedar of the forest and they will not punish us for the death of Humbaba.”
The memory faded and I held the clasp in my hand, the cloak fluttering about as if Shamash had sent his winds once more. But there were no gods in this empty place, they had abandoned it just as they had abandoned me for my anger, for my conceit. Had I not felt so proud at Ninsun’s word, had I not believed I—me! A creature born of the wilds, more animal than man—could ever hope to match King Gilgameash, Humbaba would be alive and guarding the Cedar Forest. The gods would not be enraged and I would not be here.
Freed of the weight of the cloak and clasp, my shoulders nevertheless felt heavy.
Enuralla took my cloak and clasp, offering them to the gate. They were accepted and, lightened but no less weary, I stepped through. Beyond was the same vista I had seen four times previously. Behind me was, once again, the endless road and no window.
Nerubanda greeted us at the fifth gate. I had very little left to offer, and though it pained me greatly, I lifted my arms and took from them my gold armlets. Cradling their beautifully crafted weight to my chest, I could n
ot but help remember the strange burden they had seemed to place upon me when first closed about my arms.
We had fought, viciously and without remorse, Gilgamesh and I, upon our first meeting. The rage that had overtaken me at hearing of his intentions at the wedding, the horror at the conceit he showed in taking as his supposed right something that did not belong to him, had burned away all the good words of Shamhat. My desire to meet him had not lessened, but it had changed. No longer did I want to meet this man who had dreamed of my coming, who longed for me as a companion and equal. No. I simply wanted to beat the arrogance out of him.
So I stood at the door to the marital chamber and when he approached in good cheer, ready to bed the new wife before her husband, I refused him entry.
This man Shamhat had told me about was everything she had said—tall, handsome, as mighty as the meteorite of Anu!—but he was also nothing of what she said. He appeared a man, clothed and articulate, but beneath the adornments I saw only a shadow, a reflection of what the gods had decreed him to be, not the embodiment.
King Gilgamesh was no more human than I.
Enraged that I would defy him, he fought with all the power he believed was his right. I battled with all the power I believed was my right. We broke walls and cracked streets and still we raged. We were a pair so equal in strength and cunning neither could