“The boatman of those who live forever. He has rocks that float and he crosses the sea without touching the water. Once a month, when the moon is fully bright, he comes over. He brings me beads of turquoise and carnelian; I give him goat milk and ale. Stay with me, Gilgamesh, until he comes. Let him see your face. Should he like you, he will take you across.”
“So be it,” Gilgamesh replied. “Now come, help me wash and trim my hair and beard and cut my nails, that I should be a fitting mate for your loins.”
“For that you’ll have to undress,” she said, and broke into laughter.
* * *
On the appointed day, Urshanabi arrived. He was short and broad-shouldered and in a way he reminded Gilgamesh of Enkidu. But his hands, though muscled, were thinner and he was older than anyone Gilgamesh had ever seen. His hair and long beard were all white, like the purest silver. He brought for Siduri beads of translucent carnelian and green-blue turquoise, and said not a word.
“This is Gilgamesh, king of Erech,” Siduri said as Gilgamesh stepped to the door. Urshanabi said nothing.
“I have come this way to behold my forefather Ziusudra,” Gilgamesh said. “I ranged and wandered over lands without count; I traversed difficult mountains that have no name. My body was not sated with sweet sleep; I fretted myself with wakefulness. I filled my joints with misery. My clothing was used up. I slew the bear and the hyena and the panther. Of the creeping things of wilderness I ate; of the flesh of the stag and the ibex I had my share. Then I killed the lions. I ate their flesh and their skins I wrapped about me as a mantle . . .”
“Why?” Urshanabi interrupted him.
“Man dies,” Gilgamesh said, “but Ziusudra has not died. This is the matter I wish to discuss with him, for I too do not intend to die!”
“He is the son of Ninsun the goddess; the Lord Utu is his forefather,” Siduri interjected when Urshanabi kept quiet. “He is two-thirds divine.”
“Why then do you seek Ziusudra?” Urshanabi asked, puzzled.
“That is what has been fated for me,” Gilgamesh replied. He took out of his garment the Tablet of Destinies. “It is the handiwork of the Lord of Lords, the great Anu,” he said.
The two looked at the curious object. “What do the markings mean?” Siduri asked.
“They depict the route to Heaven,” Gilgamesh answered.
“Why then do you seek Ziusudra?” Urshanabi asked again.
“He knows the secret of being taken aloft by the gods,” Gilgamesh said. “You speak as though you know of him . . .”
“Perhaps,” Urshanabi replied.
“If you do, show me the way!” Gilgamesh exclaimed. “I am divine offspring, I tell you! Here, look at my hands!” He held his hands out so that they could see the scar of the sixth finger.
“By the great gods!” Siduri said, awed. “He is one of the Healers, and with a child by him I am blessed!”
Urshanabi examined the king’s extended hands and nodded his head.
“Since time is remembered,” he said, “none dared cross the sea. Poisonous is the place of departure, and so is the place of arriving, and in between stretch the waters of death. But being two-thirds divine, you might survive the crossing. There are stones that float on the shore, black as the darkest night. You must tread on them between shore and boat. Then, as we sail, I will row, and you with long poles shall propel the boat. But make sure your hands don’t touch the water, for death is in it.”
“I understand,” Gilgamesh replied.
“Come then, let us go,” Urshanabi said.
Siduri put some porridge in a bowl and ale in a jar and handed them to Gilgamesh. “Will you come back?” she asked. “Will you see your child?”
“I shall go where I am fated to go,” Gilgamesh said, and he left with Urshanabi.
14
Careful to step only on the stones that floated, Gilgamesh followed Urshanabi into the boat. Its keel was shaped like a crescent and it had but one seat, for the one who rows. Urshanabi sat down and took hold of the oars, nodding toward two long poles with which the boat was also provided.
“Sailing by myself,” Urshanabi said, “I cut across the sea, arriving on the other side by nightfall. But with a passenger, the oars alone won’t do. You’ll have to heave-ho with a pole, and we’ll have to hug the shoreline so that you can make contact with the bottom. How long we’ll be sailing will depend on how mightily you push.”
Gilgamesh examined the poles. They were wooden and unusually straight and long. He wondered why the boat was equipped with them.
“I thought no one beside you crosses the waters,” he said.
“I am only a boatman,” Urshanabi answered. “Give us a shove and let’s sail away.”
They journeyed the whole day, hugging the shoreline. The sun, until it set, beat on them mercilessly. Urshanabi was silent the whole time, only grimacing now and again to show his annoyance at the slow progress.
“Alone, I would have been across by now,” he finally said. “We’ll anchor here for the night.”
They tied up to a large boulder protruding from the water. Urshanabi fell asleep right away, but Gilgamesh lay awake most of the night. While he slept he had no dreams, and thus no omens of what was in store for him.
In the morning they resumed the journey. Urshanabi, grumbling to himself, stood up from time to time to peer into the distance. Realizing that his host’s patience was running out, Gilgamesh began to push harder on the poles. He also tried to do it faster, counting the shoves out loud: “One and second, three and fourth, five and sixth . . .” On the twenty-sixth shove the pole broke.
Urshanabi looked at Gilgamesh, despair in his eyes, saying nothing.
Gilgamesh was about to pick up the second pole when, feeling a breeze and seeing the waves, an idea occurred to him. Taking off his garment, he held the cloth aloft with spread hands, thus creating a makeshift sail. It took him a few moments to position the sail correctly, but then the breeze filled up the cloth and the boat began to move.
Urshanabi smiled and abandoned the coastline, directing the boat straight across the sea. By nightfall they had reached the other side.
“A course of a month and fifteen days it would have been by land, if you could ever make it,” Urshanabi said. “We’ll stay here the night, but you must leave me in the morning.”
“I thank you,” Gilgamesh said, “and the gods will bless you too. Now tell me, Urshanabi, which way shall I go from here?”
“Go in the direction of the setting sun,” Urshanabi told him. “After a three-day march, you will reach the Portals of Heaven, as some call them. They are stone columns erected as a gate. A path leads from there westward, toward the city of Itla and the great sea beyond. Turn left and pass through the portal, and your feet shall bring you to a range of mountains. Seven are its peaks and six are its passes. They surround the plain where the rocketships ascend and descend. But be forewarned! The passes are guarded by godlike beings. Their terror is awesome, their glance is death. Their dreaded beam sweeps the mountains and its touch makes mortals melt away!”
“I am no mortal, I am two-thirds divine,” Gilgamesh said. “To seek out Ziusudra, to reach the Place of the Rocketships, I am determined!”
“Do as you please,” Urshanabi said. “I will sail off again on the next full moon. Be here if you wish to cross back with me.” Having said that, he left Gilgamesh on the shore and went alone to spend the night in the boat.
It did not take Gilgamesh long to fall asleep. Dreams came to him at night, visions of skyships and falling stars. He awoke fully rested at sunrise.
The boat and Urshanabi were gone.
Gilgamesh cast his eyes about him. Except for the shimmering sea, there was utter desolation in every direction. He sat down, completely disheartened, and tears came to his eyes. Had he been fooled by the old man Urshanabi? And come to think of it, who was Urshanabi and what was he doing in this wilderness?
Thirst and hunger jolted Gilgamesh out of his glo
omy thoughts. He ate and drank of the provisions Siduri had given him, leaving some for another meal. The sun was moving in the skies and Gilgamesh decided to follow its course, as Urshanabi had indicated.
On the third day Gilgamesh saw the Portals of Heaven. The two columns, connected by a horizontal lintel stone, indeed stood as a gate. As he neared the portal he saw that there was a carving on the lintel stone, that of a Winged Disc. It was the emblem of Nibiru, the home planet of the gods.
On the western horizon the sun was setting, reddening the skies. In that direction, according to Urshanabi, lay the city of Itla. A city! Houses, temples, people, food, even a bed to sleep in! Should he abandon his risky search and go there or keep on seeking his fate in the wilderness? Gilgamesh knew not what to do, and he wished Utu would send him an omen.
He found a large stone and made it his pillow, and lay down for the night by the mute stone columns.
He was awakened in the morning by the cries of an eagle. It flew about the sky in great circles, crying to an unseen mate. Soon it must have noticed Gilgamesh, for it flew down and after circling the place where he was, landed atop the portal. It eyed Gilgamesh for a few moments then took off again, this time straight toward the mountain range that rose beyond the portal.
Gilgamesh watched the giant bird until it disappeared, and then he knew that it was an omen from Utu, the commander of the Eagles. He raised his hands in prayer. “Oh Utu, great lord,” he said, “establish your protection over me, let me walk in the shade of your wings! Bring me safely to the Place of the Rocketships, let me find Ziusudra!”
Then he stepped gingerly through the portalled gate, and set his steps toward the mountain range.
The terrain he was covering by an unbeaten path sloped higher and higher as he advanced, and the ground changed from sand and gravel to one of stones and rocks. By noontime, when the sun was right above him, he found shade under a rock outcropping and sat down to rest. It was then that he noticed ahead reddish flashes on the mountain. He got up and watched the sight in amazement, for what he saw was like a fire that kept bursting out without appearing to consume anything.
Awed and excited by the sight, Gilgamesh set his steps toward it. As he came nearer, the flame flashed up and its glow—a terrible reddish brilliance—struck Gilgamesh. He shielded his eyes but did so too late to avoid being temporarily blinded. Again and again the brilliant glow struck him and each time he was blinded, but each time his eyesight returned.
“What manner of stranger are you?” a voice shouted at him. “Advance that we may look you over!”
The voice came from the same direction as the flame. Gilgamesh advanced toward it, climbing up the rocks. As he ascended, a promontory came into view. Two beings stood upon it, wearing peculiar helmets with sticklike protrusions from their centers, and girdles that were too long and hung like tails. They were manning a circular device mounted on a pole.
“Who are you?” one of the beings shouted to Gilgamesh, “that our rays don’t make your flesh melt away? Are you a god, not a man?”
“I am Gilgamesh, king of Erech,” he said, advancing toward them. “I am the son of the goddess Ninsun. I am two-thirds divine.”
“You must be, or you’d be dead by now,” one of the beings agreed. “What matter brings you here? This is forbidden land, the gods’ Fourth Region!”
“That indeed is my destination,” Gilgamesh said. “If you are the land’s guardians, a sign from the great Lord Anu I have with me to show you.”
He took out the tablet that his mother had given him and showed it to the guardians, who examined it in turns.
“It looks like a Tablet of Destinies, but it’s not,” one of them said. “It is marked with the writing of the people, and the material is of Earth, not of Nibiru.” He threw the tablet in the air, directing a beam at it from the circular device. The tablet fell down intact, but was now scorched and deformed on one side.
“Indeed so,” Gilgamesh said as he retrieved the tablet. “This is a replica—made by my mother the goddess—of a real Tablet of Destinies that was directed to me in a handiwork of Anu, from the Heavens descended. The original, too sacred to be carried about, in her safekeeping has remained.”
“Even so,” one of the guardians said, “no one can enter the forbidden zone without permission.”
“I have the blessing of the Lord Utu,” Gilgamesh said. “Of his offspring I am, with a divine sixth finger I am endowed.” He showed them his hands.
“Not even a god can enter without permission,” a guardian said. “The Place of the Rocketships can be reached only by authorized skyships.”
“Ziusudra, my ancestor, is there,” Gilgamesh said. “I must speak with him. It is a matter of life and death! I beg you, let me through!”
“Ziusudra,” one of the guardians said, “lives in this region, but not at the Place of the Rocketships. He lives in a secluded valley, alone with his wife.”
“If not at the Place of the Rocketships, give me admittance to the valley of Ziusudra, then!”
“No one can travel these mountain passes!” one of the guardians said emphatically.
“But there is another way, a tunnel . . .” the other one added.
“Only one who seeks certain death will travel it!” the first one explained. “It extends for twelve leagues inside the mountain. Dense is its darkness, suffocating its air. It is a tunnel from bygone days, when the rebellious Lord Zu sought refuge in these parts.”
“If I don’t find Ziusudra I’ll perish anyway,” Gilgamesh told them. “Lead me to the tunnel!”
The guardian looked at his comrade, who nodded. “Follow me,” he said to Gilgamesh.
He led him to a path along the rim of the mountain until they reached a large solid boulder that blocked their way. There he took out a baton from his girdle and directed it at the boulder. Without any sound an opening unfolded, as though an unseen hand was opening the door’s bolts.
Gilgamesh stood bewildered and awed. “I’ve never seen such magic,” he told them.
The guardian raised his hand. “The way begins with stairs,” he said, “very slippery they are. Tread carefully!”
And before Gilgamesh could thank him, he turned and left.
Holding on to the walls of the narrow opening, Gilgamesh began to go down the stairs. He entered a cavernous area; by the light coming from the entrance he could see a tunnel ahead. He went toward the tunnel, but by the time he had reached it the outer opening closed up as silently as it had opened, and Gilgamesh found himself in total darkness. He felt the walls until he found the tunnel. Its width was such that he could feel both walls with his outstretched hands; the walls felt smooth to the touch. The floor was also smooth, but his feet felt grooves across it that made the walking less slippery. The ceiling was too high for him to reach, and he had no way of knowing the tunnel’s height.
Like a blind man he walked cautiously, touching the walls with his hands and probing the floor with his feet. After what Gilgamesh had estimated to be one double-hour, he reached an intersection where the tunnel split in two. As he stopped to make up his mind as to which way to go, he saw—or imagined he saw—a flickering light, like that of a dying oil lamp, in one direction. He went into that branch of the tunnel, finding himself again in total darkness. He could feel, however, that the tunnel seemed to curve and slope down. He walked for at least, he thought, another double hour, getting nowhere, and he began to wonder whether he was not following a circle that would bring him back to the tunnel’s entrance . . .
On and on he walked, slipping now and then, or stumbling on a rock that must have fallen from the ceiling. By the fifth double-hour he sat down exhausted, pondering his situation. He dozed off, and in his half-conscious state he could see secret doors opening in the tunnel’s walls, revealing oddly dressed gods performing magical functions. When he came to and opened his eyes, he could see none of these sights and he knew not whether he was seeing things or just dreaming of them.
Rested
, he got up and resumed his cautious advance. After another double-hour he began to smell a foul smell, and after a while he saw a brightness ahead. The odor was overpowering as he neared the brightness, but he proceeded nevertheless and reached a huge cavern whose rock walls arched smoothly to form a ceiling over a subterranean lake. The smell and the brightness were given off by the waters, which had a yellowish color. Mystified, Gilgamesh touched the water with his hand; he felt a burning sensation and quickly withdrew it.
On the other side of the lake he could see, by the eerie light, the continuation of the tunnel, and he wondered how he might get across. He searched for a way to go around the lake, but in most places the cavernous walls were so sheer at the waters’ surface that there was no way to go without stepping into the water. He found a small rock and threw it in to gauge the depth, but could not hear the rock hitting bottom, and he concluded that the lake was very deep.
He was about to give up when, as he searched the lake’s circumference, he saw a niche in the rocky wall. He looked in, and there was a small wooden boat lying there, a single small oar inside it. He dragged the boat and placed it in the water, then heaved it off as he jumped in. With the oar he moved the boat to the other side of the lake, amazed that neither the launching of the boat nor his rowing made any sound. It was as though the cavern, or the eerie waters, swallowed all sounds. . . . It was a haunted place, and perhaps a cursed one too, and Gilgamesh was greatly relieved when he could step off the boat on the other side. He hauled the boat out of the waters and pulled it into where the new tunnel began. He hurried into that tunnel, away from the stench that was causing him, by now, to cough heavily.
The tunnel on this side of the lake was also built in a curve, and after a while the eerie light and the stench of the lake were gone. But unlike the earlier part of the tunnel, this one was inclined upward. Though the incline was very gradual, Gilgamesh, by now tired, hungry, and exhausted, found the going very exerting. He paused often to sit down, even to lie down. It was then that he noticed that the floor, unlike the walls, was surprisingly warm, and this warmth somehow restored his energy and confidence. He continued on his way, reaching a place where the tunnel ended. He felt the walls all around, and there was no doubt: there was no way to go any further.
The King Who Refused to Die Page 23