The Fury of a Goddess Scorned
The Fury of a Goddess Scorned
Part Five of the Epic of Gilgamesh Series
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After returning to Uruk, Gilgamesh bathed, dressed himself in his finest robes, and put on his crown. Attired in his way, he looked more magnificent than any man who had ever lived.
Inanna, the shining goddess of love, looked upon him, and even she could not resist him. Just as Ninsun had come to his father, now Inanna came to Gilgamesh, ready to make a proposal that no man had ever refused.
“Marry me, Gilgamesh. Marry me, and be the father of my children. Marry me, and be the greatest king who has ever walked the earth.”
Much to her surprise, Gilgamesh stood before her in silence. She could hear the slight breeze blowing nearby, but from Gilgamesh, she heard nothing.
“He must not understand,” she thought. “He is too confused to reply. I will clarify my declaration for him.”
“I will make you the finest chariot mortals have ever seen.,” she told him. “I will fashion it from lapis lazuli, gold, and amber. Instead of horses, the chariot will be drawn by storm demons. It will move faster than the wind itself.”
Gilgamesh remained silent. It was as if she were talking to a statue. But she was not a goddess who would give up easily, particularly when Gilgamesh had no good reason to refuse her.
“Henceforth, my temples shall be yours as well, and when you come, the priests shall kiss your feet. Not only that, but every king in the world shall bend his knee to you. From the highest mountain to the lowest valley, all men will pay you tribute.”
Gilgamesh still stood silently, his face betraying no expression. Inanna did not how to interpret such behavior. Still, she was not deterred by it.
“As I am also a fertility goddess, your livestock will multiply more rapidly than those of any other king, and your animals will be stronger and faster.”
“But a husband is meant to provide gifts to a wife as a wife is to a husband,” said Gilgamesh, finally breaking his silence. “How can I marry you, for what can I conceivably provide for you that you cannot easily obtain for yourself? Can I give you better food, drink, garments, housing? No. What you already have is fit for a king, fit for the goddess you are. What could I possibly contribute to your happiness?”
Now, it was Innana’s turn to be silent, but it took her only a moment to figure out a good answer for his questions.
“Children,” she said. “Our children will be your gift to me.” Innana was the goddess of sexual love, not maternal love. But the possibility of children with Gilgamesh intrigued her. Surely, their offspring would be the joy of both gods and mortals. How could she not love them?
“That is what you say now,” said Gilgamesh, his tone sharpening as he wielded his voice like a dagger. “But you have married many times, yet such entanglements have never brought happiness to you—or to your husbands—no matter what you may have promised them.
“Dumuzi was your first choice, and you elevated him to godhood. Yet now, he languishes in the realm of the dead—”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Inanna, glaring at the man she had thought she loved just minutes ago. “Long before Dumuzi went to the Underworld, I ventured there myself to be with my sister, Irkalla, who had been recently widowed. But she did not welcome me to her home. Instead, she forced me to part with one of my garments—and part of my power—at each of the seven gates to her realm. By the time I came before my sister, I was powerless. She had me judged and found guilty. Then she struck me with a triple blow—the eye of death, the word of wrath, the cry of guilt. Thus, she took my life, and once I was a corpse, she hung me on a hook, that she might watch as I decayed.”
Inanna had expected Gilgamesh to understand the suffering she had endured, but his face was as unmoving as stone.
“What has any of this to do with Dumuzi?” he asked finally. Inanna clenched her hands into fists and thought of what it might be like to make Gilgamesh rotting meat on a hook. But she did her best to relax. She might yet persuade him of the error of his ways.
“The wise Enki, my grandfather, tricked Irkalla into releasing my body to his servants, who revived me using the food and water of life. But my struggle was not over yet. The Underworld is a strange place. Once trapped there, even a goddess cannot just leave. Someone must take her place. Irkalla dared not kill me again, for fear of Enki’s wrath, but she insisted on obeying the letter of the law by requiring that my substitute be found before I could be truly free.
“Accompanied by her galla demons, I returned to the world of the living. First, they tried to claim my loyal assistant, but I forbade them to do so, for he wore sackcloth and wept over my death. The same pattern was repeated with both my sons. But when I found Dumuzi, he was dressed in his finest garments, drinking wine, and celebrating—all this despite thinking that I was dead. I had no choice but to allow the galla demons to take him.”
Gilgamesh stared at her. His face remained stony.
“Did you stop to ask him what was happening? Are you sure he knew you were dead?”
“Of course, he knew!” replied Inanna as her blood boiled within her. “Even so, I took pity on him, decreeing that he would spend only half the year in the Underworld. The other half, his sister, who was a willing volunteer, would take his place, while he would live with me.”
“So half the time, you’re still married to him?” asked Gilgamesh. “Then how can you be suggesting marriage with me?”
Inanna’s face was so tense that it looked as if her skin might crack at any moment. “Marriage is not with gods as it is with mortals. I may take more than one husband.”
“Yet you were ready to pledge your love to me—and me alone. I wasn’t wrong about you. You will be my wife only as long as I please you. Thus it was with the others, for their have been many. The last two particularly stand out in my mind. You turned the shepherd into a wolf and the gardener, who rejected your advances, into a frog.”
Perhaps it would have been better if Gilgamesh had taken a lesson from the gardener’s fate. He might also have remembered that Huwawa’s dying curse still lay upon him. But he did neither. Instead, he rejected Inanna in the most abrasive way possible.
To be a mortal man in a relationship with a goddess is fraught with peril. But to be a mortal man who has rejected a goddess? There is no word strong enough to describe the amount of danger involved.
Without saying anything else, Inanna turned her back on Gilgamesh and flew up to the highest heaven, where she intended to meet with Anu. When she arrived, he stared down at her with eyes like stars. His cloudy face looked stormy against the vast blueness of his body, so like the sky that a mortal eye could not have distinguished the two.
“I call upon you, Father,” for thus she named him, even though he was actually her great-grandfather. Her tears flowed rapidly enough to form a new river.
“What is is it you wish, my daughter?” he asked, though the wind of his voice sound more noncommittal than inviting.
“Gilgamesh has slandered and insulted me,” she said. “He is far more insolent than we can allow a mortal to be.”
“Did I not tell you that giving a mortal so much power was dangerous?” asked Anu. More gently, he added, “You have suffered much in the Underworld. Gilgamesh doesn’t know the full extent of your pain. Perhaps if he did know—”
“I tried to tell him, but he refused to listen to my words. He is insufferable.”
“Yet he is king of one of your cities. Before, you were much concerned about Uruk being left without a proper king. Are you not equally concerned now?
“He is no proper king!” Inanna spoke with enough force that mortals might have mistaken her voice for thunder. “He is a blasphemer who must be cast down.”
“Then do so,” said Anu. “Uruk is your city. It is your prerogative to choose a ruler if you so wish.”
Inanna shook her head. “I cannot act alone. Utu, my brother, would retaliate if I moved against Gilgamesh. But if he sees that you favor my cause, he will not interfere.”
“How would you have me show my favor?” asked Anu, the wind of his voice sounded sad, as if he knew no good would come of Inanna’s request.
“Give me the Bull of Heaven, that he may go to Uruk and slay Gilgamesh. Utu will not be able to object if the Bull, whom only you can unleash, becomes the instrument whereby the king of Uruk meets his fate.”
“The unleashing of Bull of Heaven will lead to great suffering among the people,” said Anu. “I will not do it simply to spare you the inconvenience of conflict with your brother.”
Inanna’s eyes burned with the fires of her rage. “If you do not do as I ask, I will go to the gates of the Underworld and tear them down. The dead, who far outnumber the living, will arise and devour the mortals. The destruction will be greater even than the Flood, for not even one human will be left.”
Anu’s clouds twisted and swirled. He could scarcely believe what he had heard. Could Inanna possibly be serious? Surely, she spoke impulsively. She could not mean what she said. She would become an outcast among the gods if she even attempted such a thing as she had just proposed.
But Anu had to concede that the situation was partly his own fault. He should have forbidden the creation of a man as powerful as Gilgamesh in the first place, for power breads arrogance, and arrogance leads to defiance of the gods. He knew this well, but in this instance, he had yielded to the will of his children, Inanna in particular.
In truth, her fault was greater than his, for it was she who pushed the hardest for Gilgamesh to be two-thirds god. But apportioning blame would not solve their current problems.
He could punish her for her threats against humanity. Or he could allow her to uncreate the one who should never have been created. The latter course seemed better.
The gods had already tried to use Enkidu as a tool to moderate Gilgamesh’s worst impulses. But they had been wrong to think the problem solved. Only Gilgamesh’s death would do that.
“You have not won me over by your threats, which are unworthy of you, but nonetheless, I may do as you ask, for the situation demands that I do something.”
“However, you must first tell if you are properly prepared, for the Bull of Heaven will bring seven years of drought to Uruk. Have you stored up seven years worth of grain for the people? Have you stored up seven years worth of feed for the cattle as well?”
Inanna dried her eyes. “My people are always well taken care of. Grain for the people and feed for the livestock are stored already.”
“Then let it be as you have asked. The Bull of Heaven is yours to command.”
Inanna thanked him and charged off, more or less dragging the Bull of Heaven after her.
Anu watched her go. His clouds darkened as he thought of Huwawa, dead long before his time.
As soon as Inanna brought the Bull of Heaven to the human realm, it began to drink all the water on the earth. Its thirst was not quenched until marshlands had become like deserts, and the rushing waters of the Euphrates had been reduced to a trickle.
But the Bull was only getting started. As soon as it reached Uruk, it snorted, and gigantic crevice opened in the ground. Into the crevice fell a hundred men, none of whom survived. Unsatisfied, the Bull snorted a second time, and an even larger crevice swallowed up two hundred men.
At the third snort, a crevice as large and the first and second combined opened, and into it fell Enkidu, who had run out to see what was happening. But unlike the men who had died before, Enkidu was strong enough to climb out. The Bull squinted at the emerging hero. How could anyone have survived the fall?
The Bull’s surprise gave Enkidu time to grab it by the horns. Never had a mortal done such a thing before. Enkidu, his strength fueled by nature itself, hung on despite the Bull’s efforts to shake him free. He lost his grip only after the Bull spat on Enkidu and used his tail to flick dung on the hero.
Enkidu ran back into the city to fetch Gilgamesh, who was already racing toward the gate to see what disaster had befallen the city.
”Now is the time,” said Enkidu. “Now we will prove our worth to the city once and for all.”
Gilgamesh would have rushed out to defeat the Bull of Heaven immediately, but Enkidu urged caution. “We must plan our attack first, or the Bull will overcome us.” His words slowed Gilgamesh enough for Enkidu to convince him how they could work together to slay the creature.
Once they were ready and outside the gates, they wasted no time in implementing Enkidu’s strategy. He grabbed the tail of the beast and set his foot on one of the creatures’s haunches, distracting it and throwing it off balance. Before the Bull from Heaven could react, Gilgamesh thrust his sword into the nape of the creatures neck, doing enough damage to kill him.
As soon as the beast fell with a resounding crash, Gilgamesh cut out its heart, offering the bloody trophy to Utu as a sign of respect. The sun god shined his brightest beams upon Gilgamesh and Enkidu, and they knew that they were blessed.
The people hailed Gilgamesh as heroes—which, for a change, was actually true. Unlike the slaying of Huwawa, the killing of the Bull of Heaven removed a real threat to the city and its citizens. Gilgamesh and Enkidu returned to the palace to rest, satisfied with a job well-done.
But not everyone was satisfied with the outcome. Inanna, seeing that the great Bull had been slaughtered, lamented its end. She climbed to one of the nearby roofs and wailed with grief until the entire population of the city was filled with sorrow.
“I curse you, Gilgamesh,” she yelled, her agonized voice echoing up to heaven. “For scorning me and murdering this magnificent beast, I condemn you to suffer in your turn. As you have stolen my joy, so shall I now steal yours.”
Hearing her harsh words, Enkidu found himself overwhelmed by his emotions in a way that was more usual for Gilgamesh than for him. Appalled by such an expression of grief over a monster who had slain three hundred innocent men, as well as by the curse hurled at his brother and king, Enkidu ran out of the palace before the king realized he was gone, The former beast man sought out the body of the Bull and ripped off its hindquarter. With one might heave, he flung the torn flesh in Inanna’s face.
“If you were in reach, I would tear you in the same way!” he yelled, red-faced with anger, gore-covered fists clenched.
No mortal could insult a deity in such a way without a swift retribution following. Inanna might have struck Enkidu dead on the spot, but she did not. Instead, she smiled inwardly. Enkidu had given her exactly what she needed to seal his fate—and Gilgamesh’s.
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