The Epic of Gilgamesh
What is available here is a telling of the oldest piece of epic literature in the world. The Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh is dated to somewhere around 2000BC and tells of a great Sumerian King who is two thirds divine, one third human and who lived around 2700 B.C. The most complete version comes from the 7th Century BCE and is recorded on tablets. This is 1500 years older than Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey.
This epic is mostly a classic hero tale where a hero with superhuman qualities travels to a strange land, confronts and defeats monsters and returns to the community with boons or gifts. The last part of the tale is where the transformed hero goes off on a search for immortality having experienced the death of his beloved friend, Enkidu.
There are themes here of the taming of the wild and instinctual, by a temple prostitute, the sexual excesses of the young king, heroic adventures and a failed quest. One of the great works of world culture…..but importantly you can hear it on the Bard. This is essentially an oral composition. Enjoy.
The Telling is in two Parts. Scroll down for Part II. The telling is by Chaobang in his powerful, inimitable style.
Gilgamesh Part 1
The Meeting with Enkidu and the defeat of Huawawa
He who saw the deep, who saw the foundation, who knew the most of all who know. He who made the journey, saw the secret things, the way things were before the deluge and set his story on tablets of stone. I am Chaobang. I wander the worlds. And this is my account of Gilgamesh.
Climb its stairs from a bygone era. See its fields and ponds and orchards, its date groves and clay pits and temples. Walk back and forth along its ramparts. Examine its brickwork. Survey its foundations. Uruk, city of Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh the magnificent and terrible. Two-thirds god, one-third man, son of Lugalbanda and of the wild cow goddess Ninsun. Back and forth along the ramparts, six cubits his stride. Bearded, handsome, hair thick as barley. None can withstand his aura, his power. This savage wild bull, he tyrannises his people, he harries their young without warrant. Gilgamesh lets no son go free to his father, lets no daughter go free to her mother. And so they complain. They say unto the gods, is this truly our shepherd, the protector of Uruk? You gods in heaven, who is this savage wild bull who you have bred to torment the people?’
The gods listen. And they say, it was the great mother goddess Aruru who made this troublesome king. Let her then create another who might be a match for the storm of his heart and thus bring peace to Uruk once again. And so hearing this, Aruru takes up the clay and throws it down with divine spittle to create Enkidu. Enkidu, the hair-covered wild man of the grasslands. Wild Enkidu, who knows no people, no country, citizen of everywhere and nowhere. He grazes on grasses with the gazelles and joins the throng of herds and flocks at the watering hole.
One day, a hunter comes upon Enkidu at the watering hole. The hunter stands silent, astonished, then returns home in fear and says to his father, there was this mighty hairy man at the watering hole today. He is as the beasts and he unsets my traps, fills in my pits, and pulls up my snares. He stops me doing my work, yet I dare not approach him. I fear no man is equal to his strength. The father thinks about this and replies, then go to Uruk and seek out Gilgamesh. And if no man’s strength is a match for this creature, try perhaps a woman’s instead.
So the hunter goes to Uruk and he appeals to Gilgamesh. And Gilgamesh says, “yes, return to this wild man and take with you the temple prostitute Shamhat. She will conquer this wild man.”
And so the hunter and the sacred prostitute travel to the watering hole, where they wait for three days and three nights until at last Enkidu arrives with the wild herd. And Shamhat knows at once how to handle him. She unclothes, overpowering Enkidu with a sight of marvels he has never imagined, still less seen. And as the wild man is made timid, she reaches out and catches him, and for six days and seven nights enraptures him with her strong and experienced body.
However, when at last they are done and Enkidu turns back to his herd, the gazelles and other wild creatures flee at the sight of him. His body has changed within. No longer does he feel the strength or the will to run after the animals into the hills. So now, at a loss, he sits again beside the sacred sex worker Shamhat, and she tells him, Enkidu, you are beautiful as a god. Why do you seek the company of the beasts? Come with me instead to Uruk, to the city, to its music, its dances, its culture, and to Gilgamesh, its ruler, whose desire none can withstand.
The words awaken something in Enkidu. He says, yes, take me to Uruk. I would challenge this, Gilgamesh, for it is the strength of one born in the wilderness that truly cannot be withstood.
Gilgamesh has a dream that night. A star falls from the heavens and lands on the plains outside Uruk. Crowds gather to wander at it. Gilgamesh too is drawn to it. He strives to lift it, but he cannot. And his mother, the wild cow goddess Ninsun, speaks. Here is the meaning of your dream, she says. “This meteorite is a companion, a gift of the gods. He will protect you with his life. He will never forsake you”.
To a shepherd’s camp, meanwhile, Shamhat takes Enkidu. She teaches him of bread and of beer, of washing and shaving, of handling weapons and guarding the flocks. And so at length they come to Uruk, whose streets and crowds amaze Enkidu and are amazed by him in turn.
Finally, they all say, one has appeared who is worthy to stand up to Gilgamesh. And Enkidu, full of wrath that Gilgamesh’s abuses, stands in the way of the king, blocks his path with the strength of a man of the wilds, to which Gilgamesh, in his own affronted rage, meets him. And they wrestle, They wrestle like bulls with locked horns through the streets of Uruk, trembling the gates and shuddering the city walls. Till after a long, hard struggle, Gilgamesh wrestles Enkidu to his knees.
But in the exhaustion of his efforts, the king’s great rage subsides, and he laughs, he laughs with a joy he has never known till this day. For now these equals, one of the walls, the other of the wilds, yet each so like the other. They embrace, they kiss, they cuddle, and they take each other by the hand as friends. He will never forsake you, says Gilgamesh’s mother, the wild cow goddess Ninsun. He has no mother, no father. He was born on the grasslands and has grazed with its beasts. This companion will never forsake you.
What adventures lie in store then for these two fast friends? With the wisdom of the wilds, Enkidu tells Gilgamesh, In the forest of Sida dwells one whose mouth is fire, whose roar is the flood, and whose breath is death. That is Huawa, terrifying Huawa, also known as Humbaba, whom the chief of the gods Enlil made guardian of the cedar forest.
“Well then, ‘ says Gilgamesh, “‘let us slay Huwawa in his lair. “‘We shall cut down and bring back the cedars. “‘Let the land learn the might of Uruk and secure our names eternal. So the two commission armour and weapons, and they declare their intent before the people of Uruk, even as the youths tremble and the elderly lament, for they all know well what perils await any mortal who sets foot in the cedar forest.
And the mother goddess Ninsun, she too laments, she laments to Shamash, the god of the sun and of justice. She asks him, why did you afflict my son with this restless heart? You, Sun God, you must go and watch over his journey, keep him safe.
And to Enkidu she says, Though you are not of my womb, I adopt you now as my son. You who knows the wild ways, the passes and the hidden waters, you must go in front and keep my son safe. So off they go with Enkidu leading the way. They travel 50 leagues a day. They rest only at night. And every third night, Gilgamesh wakes from a nightmare. In his first nightmare, a huge mountain collapses upon them. But Enkidu says, no, this is a good sign. What it means is that Huawawa will fall like a mountain and die. In Gilgamesh’s second nightmare, a great bull throws him down and bellows into his face. But Enkidu says, no, no, this is good. The bull is the sun god Shamash. This is his blessing.
In his third nightmare, darkness comes forth, lightning strikes, the earth shakes and fire rains down. But then Enkidu says, no, no, no, this too foretells good. In this way, they come to the cedar forest, where Gilgamesh, unbalanced by his dreams, prays to the sun god Shamash.
And Shamash’s voice rings out, hurry! The terrible Huawawa has seven orders to protect him, but right now he has shed six and wears only one. And seeing their chance, the two friends draw their weapons and enter the forest, following Huawawa’s tracks as the demon’s terrifying snarl rings forth. And through a confusion of noises and shifting faces, they come at last, a ferocious Huawawa in his lair, and with the thirteen storms of Shamash at their backs, they pierce the Guardian’s confounding aura and bring their weapons to bear against him.
And Huawawa is suddenly staggered and pleads with Gilgamesh, spare my life and I shall serve you in the forest, I shall cut down as many cedars as you command. But Enkidu says, no, do not listen. You must strike him down now. To which Huawawa replies, you wild man who knows the way of my forest, you know the curse that will fall upon you if you do this.
But Enkidu can only insist, hurry, we must slay him before Enlil, chief of the gods, finds out what we have done. So as the guardian Huawawa curses them with his dying breath, Gilgamesh strikes his neck while Enkidu drags out his entrails and takes his tusks as a trophy.
They then fell the loftiest cedar trees and from them make a gate for the city of Uruk, a monument to their victory over the fearsome guardian of the cedar forest. And loading this gate onto a raft, Enkidu steers it back to the city, while Gilgamesh carries the head of Huawawa.
Their deed sends shockwaves through the realm of the gods. Enlil, who appointed Huwawa, is enraged.
But Ishtar, goddess of lust, war and conquest, is intrigued. Ishtar looks on Gilgamesh returning to Uruk in beautiful triumph, and she longs to have him for herself. And so she speaks.
Give yourself to me, Gilgamesh, give me your body, give me your seed, and there shall follow untold riches, a chariot of lapis lazuli, of brass and ivory, amber and gold, driven by lions and storm-beasts. Kings and princes will kneel before you, bring the best produce of their mountains and lowlands in tribute. Your goats shall bear triplets, your ewes shall bear twins, your horses your oxen and so on and so forth.
But Gilgamesh himself born of gods knows the way of Ishtar all too well. And he says in answer, And what happens to those who let themselves be yours? You, the door through which the cold gets in, The house that falls down, the fire that goes out. What befell your first lover, whose wails we still hear year after year?
What of the lovely bird whose wing you snapped? The lion you made fall into the pits? The great wild horse you broke? The goat herd you turned into a wolf to be chased off by his own dogs, and that other fellow you changed, some say into a frog, others into a mole, others still into a tiny person, goodness knows! Do you think I would let you do to me as you did to them?’
And at this rejection Ishtar flies into a furious rage, and she storms off to her father Anu, the god of the sky, to whom she says, How dare Gilgamesh insult me so? Give me the bull of heaven, that I might send it down to punish him! Give me the bull of heaven, or I shall scream down the doors of the underworld and let loose the hungry dead to eat the living!’
And there is little Anu can do in the face of this threat. So he gives Ishtar the bull of heaven, and down it comes, snorting and bellowing, shaking the city of Uruk and cracking the earth beneath its hooves. At its thunder and rage, a pit opens up and one hundred people fall in. It snorts and a second pit opens up and two hundred people fall in. It snorts again and a third pit opens up and this time Enkidu falls in, but only up to his waist. And he springs back out and seizes the bull by its horns and they wrestle with the bull thrashing and slumbering and lashing his face with its tail. And Enkidu calls out to Gilgamesh who comes to help him fight it. And working together, Enkidu seizes the tail of the bull of heaven, as Gilgamesh, with a butcher’s skill, drives his knife between its horns and its shoulders.
The goddess Ishtar watches them slay it, and as they do, she goes berserk with rage, and she stamps and shrieks and curses them from atop the ramparts of the city, to which Enkidu, affronted by her words, rips a horch off the slaughtered bull and flings it mockingly in her direction.
That night, Gilgamesh makes an offering of the bull’s heart to the sun god Shamash. He hangs up its horns in his chamber, then washes his hands in the Euphratis and parades his strength and glory through the streets of Uruk. And then with his people, he celebrates in his palace, dancing and singing all night long.
But in the morning, Enkidu approaches him. He has had a dream, he says. And he asks, why did I see the gods meeting in council? For the gods have been mightily offended. They argue, they quarrel amongst themselves. Among them Ishtar’s voice is heard most loudly, and in the end Enlil, in his seething anger, decrees, Gilgamesh and Enkidu, who we sent to constrain him, has killed Huawa and killed the Bull of Heaven. This is too much. This cannot continue. One of them has to die. Thank you.
Gilgamesh Part II
The Journey to Utnapishtim
Enkidu has fallen deathly ill. Gilgamesh weeps beside his deathbed as Enkidu laments the choices that have led him to this end. He curses the gate they built from the tallest trees of the cedar forest. He curses the hunter who came upon him in the grasslands. He curses the sacred prostitute who brought him to the city. But Gilgamesh and the sun god Shamash, who opposed the decision that Enkidu must die, they console him and he relents and blesses these people instead. In a night ridden with sickness and fear, the dying Enkidu dreams of a fearsome individual with a lion’s head and an eagle’s talons, fighting him, overpowering him, transforming him into a bird-like creature and dragging him down to the house of darkness, where he witnesses the dwellings of those who do not return, the dead kings and priests of kingdoms past, and on her throne Ereshkigal, Queen of the Underworld, Ishtar’s older sister, who sees him and declares, who is it who has fetched this man here? Who has brought here this fellow? When he wakes, he tells Gilgamesh of this dream. They reminisce on their shared adventures, on the terrors in whose face they prevailed together. Day by day, night by night, his sickness worsens. And on the twelfth day, Enkidu dies.
For six days and seven nights, Gilgamesh weeps and clings to Enkidu’s side. He cannot believe that his beloved friend is no more. He cannot accept it. He cannot accept it. But at last, after seven nights, he watches a maggot come crawling out of Enkidu’s nostril, and at last is forced to concede that it is so. And he wails, how I weep for Enkidu, my companion, my friend, he wails. Gilgamesh mourns a long and plaintive obituary for the man from the wilderness, and the wilds, the trees, the crowds, they all mourn too within him. He is inconsolable. He lovingly adorns Enkidu’s body for a great funeral where his beloved friend’s remains shall be committed to the riverbed. He calls together the smiths and metallurgists and jewelers of Uruk to build a magnificent statue in Enkidu’s honour. At the first light of dawn he makes offerings, copious offerings, to Ishtar, to Shamash and most of all to Ereshkigal, Queen of the Underworld, and to all her staff, that his beloved friend might walk safe at their side. And then he wanders. He wanders.
Gilgamesh wanders the wilds. As he walks, he weeps for Enkidu, and while he grieves, his grief gives rise to fear. For he says, Enkidu has died. Must I too die? Must Gilgamesh be like that too? Sorrow wells in his belly. He fears Gilgamesh fears his own death. Is there no means to avoid it? He has heard of only one who has done so, the immortal ancestor, Utanapishti, he who preserved life. And so Gilgamesh resolved, I will seek out this Utanapishti, no matter the dangers of the journey. By night he wanders into a mountain pass full of lions. He prays to the moon god Shin, He fights them off, and then he clads himself in their pelts. Oh Gilgamesh, where are you wandering? The sun god Shamash asks of him. The life you seek is not yours to find. Yet on he wanders, from delirium to determination, from the wilds of his homeland to the very ends of the earth, where rise two mountains, their peaks as tall as the heavens, and between them a tunnel into the very bowels of the earth. A pair of scorpion people stand guard at the gates to this tunnel. There is a scorpion woman and a scorpion man, And they say to him, you must be a god of some kind to have come this far. Who are you and why are you here? And Gilgamesh replies, I come because I seek utanapishti, the eternal, to ask of him the question that concerns life and death. The pair of scorpion people warn him, no mortal has ever journeyed through this tunnel. For this, This is the path of the sun, where it goes at the setting and journeys by night twelve leagues of utter dark to its eventual rise beyond the mountains. No mortal could possibly go this way. Gilgamesh seizes up in terror, but struggling through it, he insists, then that is the way I must go. Open the gate. The scorpion pair confer. And then they say to him, very well, the entrance is open. Go, Gilgamesh, and may you make the journey in safety. And at those words, Gilgamesh plunges into the tunnel. There he is alone, companionless, in utter darkness, only darkness, darkness behind and darkness before, crushing, blinding, suffocating darkness. League by league he struggles, he fumbles his way forward, gasps for breath, panting, weeping, fighting the paralysis of his fear, till at long last, after eleven leagues, a greyness begins to take shape, and then the air turns fresh, and finally Gilgamesh breaks out into the morning sunlight. He has come to a marvellous garden, its fruits and leaves as colourful as all the jewels in the world, and beyond it he can see the sea.
Along the shore of this sea there stands a tavern. It is run by a wise old goddess and brewer, Shiduri.
She sees him coming. Who is this, Shiduri says to herself, who looks to have travelled so far to my tavern in the skin of a beast and with a face etched with sorrow?
She’s apprehensive. This man looks up to no good. He must be a thief or a troublemaker. She shuts the door, locks its bolts. Gilgamesh hears this and calls to her, Tavernkeeper, why do you shut your door as soon as you see me? Let me in or I shall smash the door down, for I am Gilgamesh, who struck down Huwawa in the Cedar Forest and killed the Bull of Heaven. And from the roof, Shiduri calls back, then why do you look like one who has undergone a terrible journey? Why is your visage wasted, your heart sunk with sorrow, your skin burnt by frost and by sunshine? Why, great king, do you wear animal pelts and roam the wilds in grief?’ And Gilgamesh answers, because I grieve for Enkidu, the companion I loved, who is now no more than clay. Must I become like that too? Tell me, tavern keeper, where is the road to Utanapishti? And to this, Shiduri replies, Oh Gilgamesh, what mortal can live forever? Only Shamash the sun god crosses this ocean. No human can cross the waters of death. And even if you did, what then would you do? Come, wash off the filth of your journey, put on clean robes, then eat and drink your fill and dance instead.’ And yet she sees that Gilgamesh will not be dissuaded, and so the tavern-keeper relents and tells him, if such is your desperation, then you must seek out the boatman, Ur-Shanabi. Show him your face, perhaps he will take you across. If not, you must turn back and abandon your crossing.” And so does Gilgamesh set out across the treacherous waters for Ur-Shanabi’s island, where he sees the great stone charms which power the ferry, unharmed by the waters of death. And perhaps he takes them for an enemy, or is merely overcome by his stress, for Gilgamesh falls upon the stone charms with his axe, breaks them to bits, and hurls them into the water. The ferryman, Urshan Abi, comes rushing out on hearing this commotion, and Gilgamesh demands of him, how do I cross the ocean to Utanapishti? And the boatman replies, look, your own hands have prevented your crossing. You have broken the stone charms which powered the boat. If you wish to cross now, you must take your axe back into the forest, cut 60 poles and 60 more, trim them, seal them against the water, then bring them back to me. So must Gilgamesh craft his own punting poles. And when he returns with them, he and Urshanabi set out for the waters of death. Let not your hand touch the water, the ferryman warns him. And indeed, as they pull the boat through, the water devours the first pole, and then the second, and then the third, till all of the poles have been used up. So now Gilgamesh strips off his lion skin and holds it up like a sail for the rest of the journey.
On the faraway shore, an old man watches them approach.
Why are the stone charms broken? He says. Who is that one on board with Urshanabi? They disembark. The old man greets Gilgamesh, who tells him of his story and of his purpose. He seeks the immortal Utanapishti to ask how he was admitted to the company of the gods. But to this the old man asks in answer, why? Why do you chase sorrow? How long stands a building before it falls? How long does a contract last? Ever do we build our households, make our nests, divide our inheritances? Time after time, the river rises and floods. The insect leaves the cocoon to live but a minute. How long does the mayfly float upon the water? How long can the eye look at the sun? From the beginning, things do not last. See how the dead and the sleeping resemble each other, the old and the young, the ruler and the peasant. For in their assembly, their gods established that there is life and there is death, and the day of death they do not disclose.
Gilgamesh hears the old man out, and then he says to him, you know, when I set out to seek the distant and immortal Uttanapishti, I thought he might be some strange creature or demon, But now that I see you, I see that your form is just like mine. Tell me then, Uttanapishti, how were you admitted to the company of the gods? How did you find life eternal?
Uttanapishti considers and then lengthy tells him, all right I shall tell you the story, I shall tell you a secret of the gods. You know of the ancient city, Shurupac, on the Euphrates. The gods in council decided to bring the deluge down on the city, the great flood, to wipe out all humankind. But Ea, cleverest of the gods, whispered to me, Utanapishti of Shurupak, demolish your house, Abandon your riches and build a boat instead. Cover her with a roof, let all her dimensions be equal, and take on board an instance of each living thing that they may be made safe from the flood. So I labored to build this boat. And as the darkness came, I loaded my kin and all the supplies I could and all living things to be saved from oblivion. For six days and nights, calamity rained down. The storms raged and the sea rose to engulf and overwhelm. The gods themselves, they trembled and wailed at the ferocity of their own flood. At last, when it ended, I found my boat had run aground on Mount Nishir, and all life below had returned to clay. But when the god Enlil spotted my boat, he was seized with anger and shouted in a rage, From where did that being escape? No human was to survive the destruction. What are we to do about him now? Ea, I know it was you. You alone are clever enough to cause this. But Ea only raged right back. You, Enlil, hero and sage of the gods, how could you be so ill-counseled as to bring on this deluge? You could have raised but a lion or a wolf, a famine or a plague, if you must, for you should inflict punishment on the one who transgresses, not on the heads of all. So for what do you blame me? That man, Utanapishti, he listened to the wind and guessed at our secret decision. Instead of being furious at him, you should go and reward him for his wisdom.’ And so did this, by the chasten endial, came on board, and he took my hand, and my wife’s too, and he declared in reconciliation, You were but mortal, but now you shall be as us gods, to dwell in immortality far away at the source from which all rivers flow. That, the old man tells Gilgamesh, is the answer to your question.
But now, Utanapishti continues, who will bring the gods together in council to grant you the life that you seek? Let there be a test. Let us see if you can keep yourself awake for one week.” And so the eager Gilgamesh sits down to test himself. But the journey has so exhausted him and at once a fog of sleep drifts upon him. Expecting him to be devious, Utanapishti asks his wife to bake a loaf of bread for Gilgamesh each morning and line them up by his head day by day. On the seventh day, Utanapishti pokes Gilgamesh awake and Gilgamesh complains, what no sooner was I falling asleep than you touched me and kept me awake. But Uttanapishti shows him the seven loaves of bread and their seven gradations of mould and decay. Look, he says, you have slept all seven days. If you cannot overcome sleep, the mere image of death, then how can you possibly overcome death itself? And now Gilgamesh panics. Oh Utanapishti, he says, oh please help me. Where shall I go? What shall I do? Wherever I turn, there too, I see death awaiting me. And Utanapishti says to him, go home, Gilgamesh. Cast off your pelts, wash yourself off, and return to your city in fresh royal robes befitting your dignity. Go with him, Urshanabi, See that he makes it safe and spotless to his native city.
And yet, as Gilgamesh washes, totally disconsolate, Udana Pishti’s wife says to Udana Pishti, this man has undergone such terrible hardships to get here. We must give him something for his homeward journey. And therefore, Utanapishti imparts on the king one final secret. There is a plant that grows beneath the water, he discloses. It is covered in thorns. It will prick your hand, but if you can seize it, It shall make you as you were when you were young. And so at once Gilgamesh binds heavy stones to his feet, and he lets them drag him to the depths of the ocean abyss. And there he finds this plant. He pulls it out, although the thorns cut into his hands. And then he cuts loose the stones and lets the current wash him ashore, where he declares to Ur-Shanabi the boatman, I have found it! At last I have what I came for! Oh, I shall take this plant back, and I shall eat it, and then I shall be as I was in my youth, and I shall share its secrets among the elders of my city. And so he sets off home, with Urshanabi accompanying him for the journey. They stop to eat and to rest for the night. Yilgamesh finds a spring of purest water, and he enters it to bathe and refresh himself. But while he is submerged, A little snake slithers from the reeds. It is attracted to the fragrance of the plant, and so it comes up in silence, steals it, and slips away with it into the undergrowth, shedding its skin as it goes.
When Yulgamesh comes back up, he finds this skin and realises what has happened, and he breaks down in tears at the edge of the pool. Why, he moans, to Ushanabi the boatman, why? I toiled so hard, I came all this way, and now the entire journey has been for nothing, nothing!
Perhaps, Perhaps it’s a sign, perhaps it is time to abandon that I have sought for so long.
And so they travel on, they stop to eat and to rest for the night, and in this way at last they come to Uruk, whose majestic walls Gilgamesh now looks on for the first time since he set out on his journey. And what does he say to the boatman? He says, Oh, look upon Uruk! Walk back and forth upon its wall, examine its brickwork, survey its foundations, see its fields and ponds and orchards, its date groves, its clay pits, its temples.
Is this the essence of what lasts? One day the great wild bull lies down, never to rise again. Yet what of his brickwork, his foundations? What of the tablets of stone with the wisdom he learnt, brought back for his people, and the customs they formed to preserve it. In the memories of those who follow, and in the reunions that await you beyond, your names, once uttered, do not sink into oblivion. For mortal humankind, be not sick at heart, be not in despair, be not heart-stricken. Do not go down to the great city with heart knotted in anger. For another there will never be, whose destiny is the same as yours, and how your name is pronounced will never be forgotten.
