Narrative of Yilgamseh XI

There was a city called Shurrupak on the shores of old Yokuda. It was very old and so many were the gods within it. They converged in their complex hearts on the idea of creating a great flood. There was Anu their aging and weak-minded father, the military Enlil, his adviser, Ninstar, the sensation craving one, and all the rest. Ea, who was present at their council, came to my house and, frightened by the violent winds that filled the air, echoed all that they were planning and had said. Man of Shurrupak, he said, tear down your house and build a ship. Abandon your possessions and the works that you find beautiful and crave and save your life instead. Into the ship bring the seed of all the living creatures.

"I was overawed, perplexed, and finally downcast. I agreed to do as Ea said but I protested: What shall I say to the city, the people, the leaders of the many tribes of whom only the peaceful sea peoples of the coast could I call my own?"

"Tell them," Ea said, "you have learned that Enlil the war god despises you and will not give you access to the city anymore. Tell them for this Ea will bring the rains."

"That is the way gods think," he laughed. His tone of savage irony frightened Yilgamseh yet gave him pleasure, being his friend. "They only know how to compete or echo."

"But who am I to talk?" He sighed as if disgusted with himself; "I did as he commanded me to do. I spoke to them and some came out to help me build the ship of seven stories each with nine chambers. The boat was cube in shape, and sound; it held the food and wine and precious minerals and seed of living animals we put in it. My family then moved inside and all who wanted to be with us there: The game of the field, the goats of the Steppe, and the craftsmen of the city came, a navigator came. And then Ea ordered me to close the door. The time of the great rains had come. There was ample warning, yes, my friend, but it was terrifying still. Buildings blown by the winds for miles like desert brush. People clung to branches of trees until roots gave way. New possessions, now debris, floated on the water with their special sterile vacancy. The riverbanks failed to hold the water back. Even the gods cowered like dogs at what they had done. Ninstar cried out like a woman at the height of labor: O how could I have wanted to do this to my people! They were hers, (notice, even her sorrow was possessive) her spawn that she had killed too soon. Old gods are terrible to look at when they weep, all bloated like spoiled fish. One wonders if they ever understand that they have caused their grief. When the seventh day came, the flood subsided from its slaughter like hair drawn slowly back from a tormented face. I looked at the earth and all was silence. Bodies lay like alewives dead and in the clay. I fell down on the ship's deck and wept. Why? Why did they have to die! I couldn't understand. I asked unanswerable questions a child asks when a parent dies - for nothing. Only slowly did I make myself believe - or hope - they might all be swept up in their fragments together and made whole again by some compassionate hand. But my hand was too small to do the gathering. I have only known this feeling since when I look out across the sea of death, this pull inside against a littleness - myself - waiting for an upward gesture."

"Oh, the dove, the swallow and the raven found their land. The people left the ship. But I for a long time could only stay inside. I could not face the deaths I knew were there. Then I received Enlil, for Ea had chosen me; the war god touched my forehead; he blessed my family and said: Before this you were just a man, but now you and your wife shall be like gods. You shall live in the distance at the rivers' mouth, at the source. I allowed myself to be taken far away from all that I had seen. Sometimes even in love we yearn to leave mankind. Only the loneliness of the Only One who never acts like gods is bearable. I am downcast because of what I've seen, not what I still had hoped to yearn for. Lost youths restored to life, lost children to their crying mothers, lost wives, lost friends, lost hopes, lost homes, I want to bring these back to them. But now there is you. We must find something for you. How will you find eternal life to bring back to your friend?"

He pondered busily, as if it were just a matter of getting down to work or making plans for an excursion. Then he relaxed, as if there were no use in this reflection. "I would grieve at all that may befall you still if I did not know you must return and bury your own loss and build your world anew with your own hands. I envy you your freedom."

As he listened, Yilgamseh felt tiredness again come over him, the words now so discouraging, the promise so remote, so unlike what he sought. He looked into the old man's face, and it seemed changed, as if this one had fought within himself a battle he would never know, that still went on.