Gilgamesh (16 page)

“At the first glow of dawn, an immense black cloud rose on the horizon and crossed the sky. Inside it the storm god Adad was thundering, while Shullat and Hanish, twin gods of destruction, went first, tearing through mountains and valleys. Nergal, the god of pestilence, ripped out the dams of the Great Deep, Ninurta opened the floodgates of heaven, the infernal gods blazed and set the whole land on fire. A deadly silence spread through the sky and what had been bright now turned to darkness. The land was shattered like a clay pot. All day, ceaselessly, the storm winds blew, the rain fell, then the Flood burst forth, overwhelming the people like war. No one could see through the rain, it fell harder and harder, so thick that you couldn't see your own hand before your eyes.
Even the gods were afraid. The water rose higher and higher until the gods fled to Anu's palace in the highest heaven. But Anu had shut the gates. The gods cowered by the palace wall, like dogs.

“Sweet-voiced Aruru, mother of men, screamed out, like a woman in childbirth: ‘If only that day had never been, when I spoke up for evil in the council of the gods! How could I have agreed to destroy my children by sending the Great Flood upon them? I have given birth to the human race, only to see them fill the ocean like fish.' The other gods were lamenting with her. They sat and listened to her and wept. Their lips were parched, crusted with scabs.

“For six days and seven nights, the storm demolished the earth. On the seventh day, the downpour stopped. The ocean grew calm. No land could be seen, just water on all sides, as flat as a roof. There was no life at all. The human race had turned into clay. I opened a hatch and the blessed sunlight streamed upon me, I fell to my knees and wept. When I got up and looked around, a coastline appeared, a half mile away. On Mount Nimush the ship ran aground, the mountain held it and would not release it. For six days and seven nights, the mountain would not release it. On the seventh day, I brought out a dove and set it free. The dove flew off, then flew back to the ship, because there was no place to land. I waited, then I brought out a swallow and set it free.
The swallow flew off, then flew back to the ship, because there was no place to land. I waited, then I brought out a raven and set it free. The raven flew off, and because the water had receded, it found a branch, it sat there, it ate, it flew off and didn't return.

“When the waters had dried up and land appeared, I set free the animals I had taken, I slaughtered a sheep on the mountaintop and offered it to the gods, I arranged two rows of seven ritual vases, I burned reeds, cedar, and myrtle branches. The gods smelled the fragrance, they smelled the sweet fragrance and clustered around the offering like flies.

“When Aruru came, she held up in the air her necklace of lapis lazuli, Anu's gift when their love was new.
‘I swear by this precious ornament that never will I forget these days. Let all the gods come to the sacrifice, except for Enlil, because he recklessly sent the Great Flood and destroyed my children.'

“Then Enlil arrived. When he saw the ship, he was angry, he raged at the other gods. ‘Who helped these humans escape? Wasn't the Flood supposed to destroy them all?'

“Ninurta answered, ‘Who else but Ea, the cleverest of us, could devise such a thing?'

“Ea said to the counselor Enlil, ‘You, the wisest and bravest of the gods, how did it happen that you so recklessly sent the Great Flood to destroy mankind? It is right to punish the sinner for his sins,
to punish the criminal for his crime, but be merciful, do not allow all men to die because of the sins of some. Instead of a flood, you should have sent lions to decimate the human race, or wolves, or a famine, or a deadly plague. As for my taking the solemn oath, I didn't reveal the secret of the gods, I only whispered it to a fence and Utnapishtim happened to hear. Now
you
must decide what his fate will be.'

“Then Enlil boarded, he took my hand, he led me out, then he led out my wife. He had us kneel down in front of him, he touched our foreheads and, standing between us, he blessed us. ‘Hear me, you gods: Until now, Utnapishtim was a mortal man. But from now on, he and his wife shall be
gods like us, they shall live forever, at the source of the rivers, far away.' Then they brought us to this distant place at the source of the rivers. Here we live.

“Now then, Gilgamesh, who will assemble the gods for
your
sake? Who will convince them to grant you the eternal life that you seek? How would they know that you deserve it? First pass this test: Just stay awake for seven days. Prevail against sleep, and perhaps you will prevail against death.”

So Gilgamesh sat down against a wall to begin the test. The moment he sat down, sleep swirled over him, like a fog.

Utnapishtim said to his wife, “Look at this fellow! He wanted to live
forever, but the very moment he sat down, sleep swirled over him, like a fog.”

His wife said, “Touch him on the shoulder, wake him, let him depart and go back safely to his own land, by the gate he came through.”

Utnapishtim said, “All men are liars. When he wakes up, watch how he tries to deceive us. So bake a loaf for each day he sleeps, put them in a row beside him, and make a mark on the wall for every loaf.”

She baked the loaves and put them beside him, she made a mark for each day he slept. The first loaf was rock-hard, the second loaf was dried out like leather, the third had shrunk, the fourth had a whitish covering, the fifth
was spotted with mold, the sixth was stale, the seventh loaf was still on the coals when he reached out and touched him. Gilgamesh woke with a start and said, “I was almost falling asleep when I felt your touch.”

Utnapishtim said, “Look down, friend, count these loaves that my wife baked and put here while you sat sleeping. This first one, rock-hard, was baked seven days ago, this leathery one was baked six days ago, and so on for all the rest of the days you sat here sleeping. Look. They are marked on the wall behind you.”

Gilgamesh cried out, “What shall I do, where shall I go now? Death has caught me, it lurks in my bedroom, and everywhere I look, everywhere I turn, there is only death.”

Utnapishtim said to the boatman, “This is the last time, Urshanabi, that you are allowed to cross the vast ocean and reach these shores. As for this man, he is filthy and tired, his hair is matted, animal skins have obscured his beauty. Bring him to the tub and wash out his hair, take off his animal skin and let the waves of the ocean carry it away, moisten his body with sweet-smelling oil, bind his hair in a bright new headband, dress him in fine robes fit for a king. Until he comes to the end of his journey let his robes be spotless, as though they were new.”

He brought him to the tub, he washed out his hair, he took off his animal skin and let the waves of the ocean carry it away,
he moistened his body with sweet-smelling oil, he bound his hair in a bright new headband, he dressed him in fine robes fit for a king. Then Gilgamesh and Urshanabi boarded, pushed off, and the little boat began to move away from the shore.

But the wife of Utnapishtim said, “Wait, this man came a very long way, he endured many hardships to get here. Won't you give him something for his journey home?”

When he heard this, Gilgamesh turned the boat around, and he brought it back to the shore. Utnapishtim said, “Gilgamesh, you came a very long way, you endured many hardships to get here. Now I will give you something for your journey home, a mystery, a secret of the gods.
There is a small spiny bush that grows in the waters of the Great Deep, it has sharp spikes that will prick your fingers like a rose's thorns. If you find this plant and bring it to the surface, you will have found the secret of youth.”

Gilgamesh dug a pit on the shore that led down into the Great Deep. He tied two heavy stones to his feet, they pulled him downward into the water's depths. He found the plant, he grasped it, it tore his fingers, they bled, he cut off the stones, his body shot up to the surface, and the waves cast him back, gasping, onto the shore.

Gilgamesh said to Urshanabi, “Come here, look at this marvelous plant, the antidote to the fear of death.
With it we return to the youth we once had. I will take it to Uruk, I will test its power by seeing what happens when an old man eats it. If that succeeds, I will eat some myself and become a carefree young man again.”

At four hundred miles they stopped to eat, at a thousand miles they pitched their camp. Gilgamesh saw a pond of cool water. He left the plant on the ground and bathed. A snake smelled its fragrance, stealthily it crawled up and carried the plant away. As it disappeared, it cast off its skin.

When Gilgamesh saw what the snake had done, he sat down and wept. He said to the boatman, “What shall I do now? All my hardships have been for nothing. O Urshanabi,
was it for this that my hands have labored, was it for this that I gave my heart's blood? I have gained no benefit for myself but have lost the marvelous plant to a reptile. I plucked it from the depths, and how could I ever manage to find that place again? And our little boat—we left it on the shore.”

At four hundred miles they stopped to eat, at a thousand miles they pitched their camp.

When at last they arrived, Gilgamesh said to Urshanabi, “This is the wall of Uruk, which no city on earth can equal. See how its ramparts gleam like copper in the sun. Climb the stone staircase, more ancient than the mind can imagine, approach the Eanna Temple, sacred to Ishtar, a temple that no king has equaled in size or beauty,
walk on the wall of Uruk, follow its course around the city, inspect its mighty foundations, examine its brickwork, how masterfully it is built, observe the land it encloses: the palm trees, the gardens, the orchards, the glorious palaces and temples, the shops and marketplaces, the houses, the public squares.”

I
NTRODUCTION

p. 1,
Enkidu:
The accent (as with Gilgamesh) is on the first syllable.

p. 3,
he wrote at the end of 1916: “Gilgamesh
is stupendous! I know it from the edition of the original text and consider it to be among the greatest things that can happen to a person. From time to time I tell it to people, I tell the whole story, and every time I have the most astonished listeners. The synthesis of Burckhardt is not altogether fortunate, it doesn't achieve the greatness and significance of the original. I feel that I tell it better. And it suits me” (to Katharina Kippenberg, December 11, 1916,
Briefwechsel: Rainer Maria Rilke und Katharina Kippenberg,
Insel Verlag, 1954, p. 191). “Have you seen the volume published by Insel Books, that somewhat like a
résumé
contains an ancient Assyrian poem: the
Gilgamesh.
I have immersed myself in the literal scholarly translation (of Ungnad), and in these truly gigantic fragments I have experienced measures and forms that belong with the supreme works that the conjuring Word has ever produced. I would really prefer to tell it to you-the little Insel book, tastefully produced though it is, doesn't convey the real power of the five-thousandyear old poem. In the (I must admit, excellently translated) fragments there is a truly colossal happening and being and fearing, and even the wide gaps in the text function somehow constructively, in that they keep
the gloriously massive surfaces apart. Here is the epic of the fear of death, arisen in the immemorial among people who were the first for whom the separation between life and death became definitive and fateful. I am sure that your husband too will have the liveliest joy in reading through these pages. I have been living for weeks almost entirely in this impression [of them]” (to Helene von Nostitz, New Year's Eve, 1916,
Briefwech-sel mit Helene von Nostitz,
Insel Verlag, 1976, p. 99).