Shadow of the Curses

Part Six of the Epic of Gilgamesh

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Inanna summoned her priestesses to begin the rites of lamentation for the Bull of Heaven. Though it was a solemn occasion, the barest hint of a smile touched the lips of the goddess from time to time. She knew that the day of reckoning for the king of Uruk was near.

Gilgamesh had no idea what a cruel fate was about to descend on him. He left the horns of the Bull, magnificent in both size and weight, as an offering in the temple of Lugulbanda, his father. After that, he and Enkidu walked among the people, who celebrated their heroic deeds. They chanted about the Bull’s slaughter and even about Enkidu flinging the Bull’s hindquarter at Inanna.

The goddess listened, but she did nothing. Time was on her side. She could afford to be patient.

That night, Enkidu had a dream—or so he thought, at first. Really, it was a vision of the gods as they debated the fates of Gilgamesh and Enkidu.

“Because they have killed Huwawa and the Bull of Heaven, one of the them must die,” said Anu, though his voice was more like the whisper of a breeze than the roar of an oncoming storm. But even at such a low volume, his words echoed in the ears of the other gods. They knew they could not ignore such a clear decision.

“Let it be Enkidu,” said Enlil. He would rather have said both, for both seemed equally guilty in his eyes. But he would not lightly set aside his father’s words.

“Why should either die?” asked Utu, his voice louder than that of either Anu or Enlil. “I ordered them to kill both Huwawa and the Bull of Heaven. Can they be blamed for doing what a god commanded?”

‘The blame is yours,” said Enlil. “Instead of behaving like their god, you have walked among them like a companion. Hence, their arrogance has grown beyond reasonable bounds. But as we cannot kill you without disrupting the proper order of the universe, one of them must die.”

Utu wanted to argue further, but he could tell from the eyes of Anu and Enlil as they looked upon him that they would not yield to any argument.

“What say you, Enki?” the sun god asked. “Why are you so silent?”

“I was pondering,” said Enki in a voice like rippling water. “I wonder why choose only one if both are guilty? And I also wonder why that one should be Enkidu if Gilgamesh is the leader?”

“That is simple,” replied Anu. ‘The loss of Enkidu is a greater punishment for Gilgamesh than death itself.”

Enkidu awoke, shivering, with the word of Anu echoing in his ears.

One of them must die.

At once, he hurried to tell Gilgamesh what he had dreamed. This time, the god of dreams had not offered any soothing interpretation. He had only the bare words of the gods, unambiguous and solid as stone. Their weight upon him was like a boulder on his back.

“My friend, this is grave news,” said Gilgamesh, embracing Enkidu. The king didn’t mention that Enkidu felt feverish. Surely, the end could not be coming so soon.

“All men must die,” said the king. “And nothing can annul the command of Enlil. But Enlil’s words did not mention a specific time for your death. I will ask the gods to let you live as long a life as possible.

Gilgamesh spent the next few hours in prayer. He prayed to Anu, Enlil, Enki, and Utu. But none of them responded. Where could he turn when even the gods were deaf to his supplications?

He didn’t pray to Inanna. What would have been the point?

Enkidu really did have a fever, and as it burned within him, it forced him to withdraw to a sickbed, where he lay in growing pain as Enlil’s command weighed him down.

In his suffering, he cursed the cedar door that he had fashioned for the temple of Enlil. But much more vigorously, he cursed the hunter who had complained to Gilgamesh about him, as well as Shamhat, who had pulled him into civilization.

“Without you, I would have remained pure and undefiled, living in the wilderness with my beastly brethren. Therefore, I curse you both with all my heart and soul. May you remain miserable in every way until death claims you.”

Utu, who had not known what to say to Gilgamesh, knew that he had to speak to Enkidu. He shined his rays upon the former beast man to get his attention. Enkidu turned his bloodshot eyes toward the light, only half realizing that a god was speaking to him.

“Enkidu, why do you curse people who have done you no harm? It is not their fault that things have turned out as they did. They gave you happiness, at least for a while. And if Shamhat had not intervened, eventually you and Gilgamesh would have met as enemies. Now, you can die with Gilgamesh as your friend, instead.

“This much do I promise you. Though you must die, you will always be remembered. Gilgamesh will mourn you, and at his instigation, so will all the princes of the earth. Your name will live forever. Surely, that is all a man can ask.”

Enkidu wondered if that was really all a man could ask. But he had to agree with Utu that the people he cursed did no deserve to be the target of his vengeful spirit. Weak though he now was, he poured what strength he had into changing those curses into blessings. The effort exhausted him, after which, he fell asleep and dreamed.

When Gilgamesh returned, Enkidu told him of his dream, even though his voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper.

“I dreamed that I stood between Heaven and Earth, listening as they communed with each other. Then a dark and fearsome being came for me, a lion-headed eagle who gripped me in his talons and swept me away. I struggled against his grip but could not break it. I cried out to you, my brother, but you did not come to my rescue.

“Down and into the shadows we plunged, down into the Netherworld itself, where all is darkness. Mortals there wear feathers as if they were birds and have nothing but dust to eat.

“There I beheld all the kings of prior generations, their crowns lying in a disorderly heap, no longer of any importance. I beheld also priests, their services to the gods forgotten. For in death, all one’s deeds are lost, unless living mortals remember them. But in the Netherworld itself, nothing from one’s mortal life, not even one’s reputation, matters.

“I also beheld Irkalla herself, queen of the Netherworld, beautiful yet cold, unyielding in her determination to rule the dead without compassion or mercy. Before her squatted Beletseri, her scribe, reading from the Tablet of Destinies, on which is inscribed the fate of every mortal.

“The queen looked at me and demanded to know who had brought me to her. After that, I awakened.”

Gilgamesh took Enkidu’s hand and offered what reassurance he could, but the king’s words sounded hollow, even to him. The gods had not heard his prayers, and the dream could only be a prophecy of Enkidu’s impending death.

Nonetheless, Gilgamesh continued to pray. Enkidu continued to suffer as his strength waned. Twelve days he spent in his sickbed as his life slipped through his shaking fingers.

“I always hoped to die in battle,” he whispered to Gilgamesh on the twelfth day. “To have died that way would at least have given me glory. Instead, the gods have chosen to take not only life but honor from me.”

Right after those words, Enkidu drew his last breath and then lay still. His now sightless eyes stared into those of Gilgamesh. The king wept bitter tears, knowing it was he who had brought about Enkidu’s destruction.

The spirits of the dead reach up in anticipation of Enkidu’s arrival (Mongkolchon Akesin/Shuttersock)

In the highest heaven, Anu nodded approvingly. Inanna, less solemn, laughed openly.

However, Gilgamesh’s story was far from done, as both of them would quickly discover.