Watch Out for the Snake

Part Nine of the Epic of Gilgamesh series

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When Gilgamesh and Urshanabi finally reached the shore, Gilgamesh saw what looked like a gigantic forest just a short way from the water’s edge. Though the trees were not bejeweled the way the ones in the Garden of the Gods were, their leaves were the springtime green of fresh growth, and their branches reach halfway to the sky, as if they had been growing for centuries.

Almost as noticeable as the trees, though much smaller, was Ziusudra. He stood as straight as the tree trunks, and even from a distance, there was no mistaking his piercing stare as he looked at them and frowned.

“He is displeased that I brought you here,” said Urshanabi.

“Do not fear,” replied Gilgamesh. “He will understand once I have made my purpose known.” The king of Uruk strode confidently toward Ziusudra, with Urshanabi trailing behind him.

“Why have you come?’ asked Ziusudra. “For you are both uninvited and savage-looking. The gods created this sanctuary for me precisely so that no one could intrude so rudely upon me.”

“I did not mean to intrude,” said Gilgamesh. “But I come here out of dire need. The death of my best friend nearly overcame me with grief, but it also spurred me to find the secret of eternal life. As you and your wife are the only two mortals who have managed to achieve that goal, I have come to learn from you the way that I might achieve it myself.”

Ziusudra sighed loudly. “All that lives must die. It is the law of nature and of the gods. The Anunnaki, the assembly of the great gods, with the aid of Mammetum, maker of destiny, decrees the fate of mortals. No man knows the hour of his death—only that it will come.

“Mortals never see Death until it is upon them, but all feel the blow of its scythe as it harvests them from the mortal realm, delivering them to the Netherworld. So why should you, Gilgamesh, complain? Other kings have died before you. Even other kings who were part god have died. Have not the gods given you much? Have they not bestowed great abilities upon you? Have they not set a crown upon your head? Why not be satisfied with what you have?”

“There was a time when I might have sought to overcome you by force and make you divulge the secret you seem so reluctant to give,” said Gilgamesh. “But now that I am in your presence, something stays my hand.”

I was an odd admission. Gilgamesh himself had no idea why he had spoken. But Ziusudra didn’t seem unsettled by the king of Uruk’s violent intentions.

“It is the power of the gods that restrains you. None may do violence in this place. But even if you could try to force me, it would do you no good, for I cannot tell you what you want to know.”

Before Gilgamesh could reply, Ziusudra continued. “I said I cannot, not that I will not. I cannot because the secret you seek does not exist. But perhaps explaining how I came to be immortal will satisfy you.”

The last thing Gilgamesh wanted was an long explanation of why his question was hopeless. But since he couldn’t force Ziusudra to answer in the way Gilgamesh wanted, he had no choice but to listen.

“Long ago, when I was king of Shuruppak, humans became so numerous and noisy that the gods grew tired of them. Anu himself thought that their quarrelsome natures and general irreverence to the gods made them unfit to survive. The other gods all agreed with him that humanity should be destroyed by the Great Flood. They further agreed to an oath of secrecy, so that no mortal could be told in advance about the coming catastrophe.

“Crafty Enki swore the oath along with the others, but in his heart, he was not so sure that he wanted all of humanity wiped out. Coming near my home, he spoke to the reed wall, so that I might overheard him without being told directly.

“Heeding his words, I at once began to prepare a boat large enough to take not only my family but also pairs of every animal and every bird, so that the earth could be repopulated after the Flood. Such a vessel would have to be huge, with the deck covering at least an acre. The ship had seven levels, including the deck, and it took ten thousand measures of pitch to caulk the interior effectively.

“My men helped me roll the ship on logs until it reached the seashore. I had already been assembling the animals, and I began getting them loaded onto the vessel at the first sign of approaching clouds. All the beasts and all the cargo had been loaded just as the first rain fell. The men gave the vessel one last roll to send it into the ocean. Then they returned home, still unaware of what they would face. I longed to tell them, even to try to crowd them onto the ship. But the whisperings of Enki had been specific on that point. If I warned anyone else or tried to put anyone else onboard my ship, the entire effort would be doomed to failure.

“Gods of destruction arrived to preside over the catastrophe. Clouds blackened the sky as Adad, the storm god, prepared for the greatest deluge ever known. As the rain poured down, the rivers flooded, and the dikes quickly overflowed. Before long, people were drowning everywhere, unable to keep ahead of the steadily rising tide.

“The waters overwhelmed all mortals like an unstoppable invading army. Lost in utter darkness, they waited helplessly for the tide to reach them, unable to do more than pray. But it was too late for the gods to listen to their prayers.

“The gods were so horrified by what they had done that they fled to the highest heaven and trembled like beaten dogs before the walls of palace of Anu. Aruru, who had made it possible for each of the dying mortals to be born, was particularly poignant in her wailing, like a mother grieving for her lost children.

“The gods wept so bitterly that their tears were exceeded only by the Flood itself. They also felt almost mortal, hungering and thirsting because there were no humans left to provide them with offerings. Their sufferings were far less than those of the mortals they had condemned, yet more than what they had expected.

“After seven days of rain, the storm ended, and the waters began to recede. As soon as dry land began to reappear, I offered sacrifices to the gods, and they hovered near the altar like flies, so hungry were they.

“When Enlil arrived, Aruru proposed denying him his portion of the sacrifice because he had been the most adamant that humanity should be destroyed. Ignoring her complaint, Enlil demanded to know how even one mortal could possibly have survived.

“‘One of us has broken our oath,” he said sternly. ‘Who was it?’

“‘Who could it be but Enki?’ asked Ninurta, the god of war. ‘Who but the god of wisdom would have been clever enough to do this?’

“‘Well, Enki, what do you have to say for yourself?’ asked Enlil, his voice deceptively quiet, even though his eyes flashed with rage that looked at that moment even more devastating than the flood.

“‘Enlil, how could someone with so much foresight have erred so badly?’ asked Enki. ‘What could have possessed you to agree to the destruction of the entire human race?’

“‘Sinners need to be corrected. Transgressors need to be punished. But create a doom for them that we can more easily control. Use a lion, use a wolf. Use even a larger catastrophe, such as famine or pestilence, so long as we have some control over the outcome. But to kill them all? It was madness, as we now clearly see.’

“‘Yes, I spoke of the flood to a reed wall, and Ziusudra overheard. Thus, he survived. But through his survival, we are also saved. Had we succeeded in our original plan, there would have been no way to recreate the human race. Aruru would have had nothing to work with. But now, she has two models to remind her of what humanity was like. Now, she can create a new humanity. These new mortals will have ancestors, as it is right that mortals should descend from other mortals. The spiritual ancestors of all of them will be Ziusudra and his wife.’

“In his heart, Enlil remained angry, for he knew Enki had allowed Ziusudra to overhear on purpose. But he looked at the expressions of the other gods and knew that punishing Enki as an oath breaker would surely have led to rebellion among them. Reluctantly, he put aside his wrath and approached my wife and me.

“We trembled, not knowing what he intended to do, for it is hard for mortals to read the intentions of gods. Did Enlil mean to finish what he had started?

“‘Kneel,’ he commanded, and we did, fully expecting the worst. But his touch upon our foreheads was gentle.

“‘Let there be more life to better balance the enormous death toll. These two who survived the Flood, formerly mortal, are now as immortal as gods. Far from other mortals shall they dwell, in the Land of Sunrise, the garden from which all rivers originate. Henceforth, it shall be known as the Land of the Living.’

“Gilgamesh, that is the ‘secret’ of our immortality—a unique blessing from the gods. Who will call the assembly of gods together, that they might bless you? What great feat can you do to earn such a blessing?”

“I have done many great feats already,” said Gilgamesh, forgetting that many of them had angered the gods rather than pleasing them. “Propose a task, and I will do it.”

“Your task is simple,” said Ziusudra. “Stay awake six days and seven nights. Do that, and the gods will assemble to pass judgment upon your worthiness for eternal life.”

Gilgamesh scratched his head. How could such a simple thing be the key to obtain eternal life? “I will complete that task easily,” he replied.

But the mighty king had forgotten how much the ordeal of reaching Ziusudra had drained him, how much weaker he was than normal. No sooner did he sit than sleep took hold of him, and he forgot all else, including his task.

“See here,” said Ziusudra to his wife, who had come to the beach to see what was happening. “The man who thinks himself worthy to conquer death cannot even conquer sleep.”

“It is a sad thing,” his wife replied. “Awaken him, and let him depart peacefully.”

Ziusudra shook his head. “All mortals are deceitful. He will claim that he merely shut his eyes and was not actually sleeping. Therefore, bake a loaf of bread each day he sleeps, and place it next to his head. When he awakens, we will use the loaves to prove to him how much time has passed.

Ziusudra’s wife bid as he asked, and on the seventh night, he touched Gilgamesh to awaken him.

“I had just closed my eyes when you touched me,” said Gilgamesh, much as Ziusudra had predicted.

“You do not speak the truth,” said Ziusudra. “The proof is in the bread. Right next to you lie loaves, one baked each day by my wife. The most recent one is fresh from the oven. The others are progressively drier and moldier, until at last we come to the oldest one, which is like a clay brick. If you had only just now closed your eyes, how is it that you did not notice any of these loaves being brought in?

“You have been sleeping this whole time. I gave the simplest possible task, and you could not find the willpower to complete it.”

“I had not truly slept for days before this,” said Gilgamesh, glaring at Ziusudra. “You must have perceived that when you set the test. You intended me to fail.”

“Whatever happens, the gods intend, not I,” said Ziusudra. “You asked me for a test, and I gave you one. Frankly, if the gods had wanted you to have eternal life, they would have helped you pass the test, even if I had asked you to walk through fire. Eternal life is not for you, Gilgamesh. The gods have made that plain.”

Gilgamesh longed to attack Ziusudra, but again, the power of the place prevented any hostile action. The king of Uruk had to be content with words.

“What am I to do, then?” he asked. “Death is my ever-present companion. I cannot look in any direction without seeing death stare back, hearing its whisper, feeling its cold touch.”

“There is nothing I can do about that,” replied Ziusudra. “Urshanabi!”

“Yes, my king,” said the ferryman.

“You will accompany Gilgamesh home—and stay with him, for you are no longer a servant of mine. You brought an uninvited stranger to my house. This, then, is the price of your disobedience.”

“Husband,” said Ziusudra’s wife, looking sadly at Urshanabi. “He has always been loyal to you.”

The former king of Shuparrak nodded. “He has, indeed. But this time, he saw fit to defy my simple instructions. Therefore, he must be banished.”

Urshanabi could have defended himself, for he had brought Gilgamesh out of necessity rather than negligence. But he remained silent, for the universe was often unjust, at least in his experience. The act was all that mattered. The motivation behind it meant nothing.

“Urshanabi, take Gilgamesh to where he may bathe,” said Ziusudra as he he had not just cast the ferryman out. “Cleanse him and anoint him with oil. Let his old animal pelts float out to sea and give him these instead.” Ziusudra held out a pike of fresh clothes. “This will remain clean and new until the king has returned to his kingdom.”

Gilgamesh tried hard to keep his face neutral. Ziusudra’s offer was more an insult than a gift, given what the flood survivor had denied him. But what was the point of bitter words? Ziusudra would simply disregard them, anyway.

Urshanabi couldn’t help sighing as he led Gilgamesh off to bathe. The man might be a king and a hero, but he seemed to leave nothing but disaster in his wake. Still, the ferryman would do this one last service for Ziusudra, who had so cruelly cast him out.

“Gilgamesh has suffered much,” said Ziusudra’s wife while the king was off bathing. “Is there not something more you could do for him?”

“Does he deserve any more?” asked Ziusudra. “Then let the gods give it to him.”

‘Have you not often told me that the gods act through us when they can?” asked his wife.

The flood survivor shook his head. He wasn’t at all convinced that Gilgamesh deserved even as much as what he had already received, but his wife’s instincts were seldom wrong. He might have feared to build the boat Enki had described without her supportive advice.

When Gilgamesh returned, looking far less savage and far more kingly, Ziusudra decided to give him one more chance.

“There is one other way you might be able to obtain what you want, King of Uruk. But it will be hazardous.”

“I will risk any hazard to conquer death.”

“In that case, I will tell you a mystery of the gods. At the bottom of the sea grows a plant that is protected by sharp thorns. But he who eats the leaves can restore his youth. If you can reach the sea bottom, survive the thorns, and return to the surface unharmed, you will have much of what you desire. Though the plant will not make you immortal, if you preserve the leaves and only eat a few at a time, you might grow young again several times, prolonging your life considerably.”

“How do I find this plant? For the sea is far more vast than a man can explore.”

“If you dig down through the soil here, you will eventually come to an abyss so vast and dark that you will be able to see nothing. But you should be able to smell sea air. Dive into the waters and descend as far as you can. There, you will find the plant I have described. That is all I can tell you, but if you use common sense, it should be enough.”

Ziusudra and his wife wished Gilgamesh well and then left the beach. Urshanabi suspected that they departed so hastily to avoid having to watch Gilgamesh fail again. Though perhaps, given Ziusudra’s stern attitude toward the the king of Uruk, he might have been eager to do exactly that.

For this test, Gilgamesh had one advantage—he’d slept for days and felt fully rested for the first time since Enkidu’s death. He dug with speed and efficiency that amazed Urshanabi. Down and down he dug, deeper below the surface than any mortal had ever reached. When finally he dug to the abyss Ziusudra had described, he paused long enough to tie rocks to his feet so that he could easily descend into the depths of the sea. Once that was accomplished, he dived into the abyss, hit the ocean, and let the stones do their work.

No mortal had ever reached the bottom of the sea, but somehow, Gilgamesh managed to do so without running out of breath. He found the plant described by Ziusudra. He tore his hands on its thorns, but he managed to get it uprooted. After that, he untied the stones and the his natural buoyancy carry him upward. after that, the tides pulled him to shore, where he found an amazed Urshanabi waiting for him.

“I have it!” he yelled. “I have the plant!”

Had the gods finally forgiven him? How else could he possibly have succeeded?

Rather than taste the leaves right away, he decided to wait until he returned to Uruk.

“I have thought about the words of Ziusudra,” he told Urshanabi. “There are enough leaves here for many doses. But instead of hoarding them all for myself, I will share them with the elders of Uruk—and with you, Urshanabi, without whose help I could never have reached Ziusudra.”

“I thank you,” said Urshanabi. He wished he could think of more to say, but Gilgamesh had caught him by surprise. The king had experienced much that no mortal had never experienced before. Had those experiences changed him for the better? Suddenly, the ferryman was looking forward to finding out.

On the first night of their journey, they went ashore to rest, and Gilgamesh found a lake in which to cool himself after the long heat of the day. It was good to relax and better still to realize that he would soon be home.

But when Gilgamesh started to get out of the pond, he saw a snake disappearing into the nearby underbrush—with the plant grasped firmly in its teeth.

Gilgamesh ravaged the landscape in an attempt to find the snake, uprooting bushes and even trees in an attempt to spot it.

But there was no spotting it. The snake was gone, taking with it the plant that would have restored Gilgamesh’s youth.

There was a time—perhaps just days ago—when Gilgamesh would have raged about the cruelty of the world, of the gods, of fate. But now, he felt more empty than enraged. He had done all he could. The plant was one of a kind. Even if he went back—which Urshanabi was forbidden to do—he could not find another. There was nothing to do but to return to Uruk.

The trip was long, but at last, they made it back. Gilgamesh found himself feeling a little less numb as he gazed upon the high walls of the city.

“Is it not the most magnificent city you have ever seen?’ he asked Urshanabi. “It is said that the seven sages themselves laid the foundation.”

Gilgamesh’s return was met with some degree of confusion. He had been gone much longer than he thought—years, actually. The people hadn’t forgotten him, but most of them had believed him dead. And there were those who had even prayed for that outcome and believed that the gods had answered their prayers.

But at the end of the day, everyone loves a good story, and Gilgamesh had the best one that any of the people had ever heard. He won their hearts with his tale—and kept them with a new determination to be the best king that the city had ever known.

Not too long after Gilgamesh’s return, he and Urshanabi walked through the city together. The guards kept a discrete distance—and kept the people at a more discrete distance, particularly when the two approached the magnificent monument that Gilgamesh had ordered built in memory of Enkidu. The king had been so eager to set off on his quest that he had not waited to see it finished.

“I was half-afraid that I’d find this place empty,” he confided to Urshanabi. “So much gold. So many jewels. Such temptation.”

“I think they must have known,” said Urshanabi, who had found he liked philosophy more than he had liked piloting a boat. “They knew you would return.”

“You are…somewhat like him,” said Gilgamesh. It was the first time he had ever compared anyone to Enkidu. The light of the setting sun hit the gems in the statue’s eyes at just the right angle to make them blaze with inner fire. Gilgamesh took it as a good omen that his old friend approved of his new one.

“I am…not so much larger than life,” said Urshanabi. The statue was four times taller than he was.

“Neither was he…when he lived,” said Gilgamesh. “Not physically, anyway. But he left a gigantic hole in my heart.”

Urshanabi pressed his hand against Gilgamesh’s chest. “But don’t you know? He is still there. He will always be there.”

Gilgamesh smiled, something he rarely did, and took Urshanabi’s hand. “My friend, you are great comfort to me.”

“And you to me,” replied the former ferryman. He no longer missed his old job, even though it enabled him to spend part of the time in an earthly paradise.

Paradise, after all, was where your heart was.

At that moment, he and Gilgamesh heard the voice of Utu in the wind.

“Be happy, for you have both earned it. But this is not quite the end of either of your stories.”