The gods were so sure that they had won. Gilgamesh, great king of Uruk, had tried to defy them, and he had been crushed. His lover was dead and remained so, and he himself had trudged back to his capital in weary defeat, frustrated at every turn in his search for the secret of immortality. Sooner or later, probably more sooner than later, the mighty king of Uruk would be dust. The gods had made their point. Immortality was theirs, and theirs alone...
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A few weeks after the great king returned to his capital, he went forth alone, in the very early morning, to the east gate of the city. He carried with him only a small cloth bag with something heavy inside. His step was light again; the guards wondered if he were starting out on another journey. In a manner of speaking, he told them, smiling. They did not dare ask him any other questions, which saddened Gilgamesh for a moment. He had so much to say now.
The king went only a few hundred meters from the gate, and sat down on a stone, looking all around him. To the west was the city he had created, great Uruk, the wonder of the world. He had built the city, organizing the labor by season so that the peasants who did the work did not starve, fetching pitch from the northern mountains and great beams of cedar from Lebanon, all the things that a city needed but the flat, dry plains of Mesopotamia could not supply. Once, he had thought Uruk would be his guarantee of immortality, that it would stand forever and testify to his presence and his name. The gods had laughed at him. One day, it would be one with the dust, they said, as forgotten as its builder would be. No physical thing, even a city, lasted forever. Uruk would be leveled, destroyed utterly, and the name of Gilgamesh would vanish from human memory.
Gilgamesh smiled. He thought of Siduri, a woman he had met on his wanderings, one who was wise without realizing her own wisdom. What had she said when he had described his quest to her? She had laughed and told him that he was searching for the wind. And she was right, the king reflected. Even though she would never know how right she was. Never mind that. He had a way to reward her all the same, the king thought.
What was the wind? Not a thing, but a movement, a pattern, a progress. It could not be caught or destroyed or denied; it was always there. It reproduced itself constantly, moving ceaselessly, with no care for human borders and natural boundaries. As long as the air itself existed, it would be there, easy to perceive, but impossible to capture.
How could he become like the wind? In the long sleepless nights after his return, he had turned this question over and over in his mind, as he went about the business of ruling a great and prosperous city. Yesterday, the answer had come to him, as he watched his clerks busy at the task of recording the endless business transactions that were necessary to keep his palace and capital supplied and fed. A strange place to find enlightenment, he mused. Perhaps these simple workers were too lowly for the gods to notice. So much the worse for the gods, he thought, and smiled again.
He opened the bag he had brought with him, and carefully unwrapped what was inside. The bag held several writing sticks and a tablet of damp clay, the same type of tablet his clerks used to record the tax payments of peasants and the wages of the guard. He set it on his knees, carefully, and began to write in the cuneiform script: Gilgamesh went abroad in the world.... It was slow work, because he was unpracticed, a king and not a clerk, but satisfying. Just as the sun rose, he finished the first tablet. He stood and held it up to the rising sun, and spoke, knowing that the gods could hear his voice.
“You said I would die and be forgotten, but you are wrong. I will write down my story, the story of Enkidu my lover, the story of my great city. Men will copy it, age after age, for the written word is not something mortal that will die and fade away. It is a wind that blows through men’s minds, bringing with it news of those who first shaped it, their times and their thoughts. O gods, I have won. It is you who will become nothing; you will only be known because I deign to write your names into the clay, to make you part of my story. I will never die, and I have given this gift to all those whom I have met. Enkidu I have made immortal; Siduri will live forever; the great city Uruk will linger in men’s minds long after its walls are leveled and its temples are destroyed. Thank me, gods, for it will be I who give you eternal life, a gift that you falsely pretended to possess. I am more gracious to you than you deserve.”
Then Gilgamesh, King of Uruk, turned his back on the rising sun and returned to his palace, laughing all the way.
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Story for Original Fiction, Poetry & Memoir, for Fun and Progress
Thanks to mettle fatigue for the invitation and the excellent graphic!