Gilgamesh Immortal (Chronicles of the Nephilim) (21 page)

Gilgamesh was awakened by the rustling of some brush. He had fallen asleep
inside the cave entrance that he found after running many leagues to Mount Mashu without stopping to rest. He was practicing for his twelve double hour run through the Underworld. He had managed to kill a couple of lions with the intent of carrying some food with him for the grueling journey ahead.

He grasped his dagger and slid into the shadow of a crevice in the rock wall.
He heard the scraping of clawed feet approaching on the rocks, and with it, a male and a female voice.

They were
bickering.

The male voice was gruff and spoke with a rural accent like he had not been in the city
— ever. The female voice was raspy and badgering.

“
Oh, for Enlil’s sake, will you please just simmer down some?” said the male voice.

“Simmer down?
You do not tell me to simmer down,” said the female voice. “I ask you to do one little thing, go and get us some food, and you cannot even do that without me leaving our post to help you do your job!”

“Nag, nag, nag,”
complained the male voice. “Is that all you can do?”

“Well if you did your job, I
would not have to nag,” nagged the female voice. “And now all we have is this mangy dog that is not fit for an appetizer.”

Gilgamesh saw the bickering couple enter the cave. He almost gasped with horror. They were Scorpion people.
Abominable hybrid beings that he had heard of in fables of dark antediluvian days, but had never actually seen. They had the lower bodies of scorpions with stinger tails and eight arachnid legs, and the upper bodies of humans, male and female. But where their hands would be on their arms were scorpion claws, large powerful pincers.

He had heard that before the
Flood, the gods had experimented with dark occultic arts in an attempt to interbreed nature with itself. To unite opposing poles of being. They had created soldiers with canine and avian heads, Scorpion people and other crossbred creatures. He did not know just exactly what was the point behind it all and whether this had something to do with the arrival of the Deluge of judgment. Had the gods reinstituted their miscegenation plans or were these just rejects from a dying line of those ancestors?

The female dragged a
diseased dog carcass by the hind leg and plopped it against the wall. It must have been dead for days and was rotting with maggots and flies all about it. Gilgamesh felt vomit rise in his throat. These mongrel monstrosities of miscegenation were the sentinels of the Path of the Sun.

“Now do I have to also gut it and clean it
for you or can you at least do that simple task?” she asked with contempt.

The Scorpion man rolled his eyes, sighed and took the
dog by the throat, thrusting his other claw into the belly to clip through it like a pair of scissors. Its rotting guts poured out on the floor. The Scorpion Man licked his claw and crunched a few maggots.

Gilgamesh gathered his wits and stepped out into the light of the fire the Scorpion Woman had just started.

The Scorpion Man saw him first and just stared at him. At nine feet tall, Gilgamesh was a good bit taller than their approximate height of about six feet. And Gilgamesh was a Gibbor warrior, a mighty king who had conquered the Rephaim Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven.

But who knew what these occultic
chimeras were capable of? Maybe they had magic powers from the gods. After all, the gods would not post sentries who were not capable of defending their turf. Their grumpy personalities must have been a disarming façade for some very vicious creatures ready to sting and claw to death their adversaries.

Then again, they
could not hunt well enough to find their own food.

The Scorpion Woman turned to see the Scorpion Man standing frozen in position. She blurted out, “Will you please stop piddling around like a statue and get your…”

She stopped when she saw Gilgamesh standing with hand on his dagger. She backed up a couple of steps in shock.

Gilgamesh would not allow them time to strategize. He pronounced, “I am King Gilgamesh, Scion of Uruk, Wild Bull on the Rampage,
slayer of Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven, the mighty king who has no equal.”

The Scorpion Man finally spoke, “
That is one mighty long list of epithets. Do you have a shorter name that is easier to remember?”

“For Enlil’s sake, Girtablu,” barked the Scorpion Woman, “It is King Gilgamesh.”

Girtablu smiled
as recognition slowly crept over his expression, and said, “We know you. He whose body is flesh of the gods is our visitor.”

The woman,
Sinnista, corrected him, “Only two thirds of him is god. A third of him is human.”

Gilgamesh, feeling a bit for the chastised of his gender, decided to help out Girtablu, “
That is just a myth. I am really a half-breed. Like you are.”

Girtablu and
Sinnista grew cold. A pall of tension descended upon the cave.

“We would appreciate it,” said Sinnista, “if you would restrain from such derogatory comments about
‘half-breeds.’ It is offensive and its
kindism
.”

“Kindism?” asked Gilgamesh.

Girtablu jumped in to help clarify, “
It is the human tendency to judge animal beings by their created ‘kind’ and then to place them on a hierarchy of superiority with man being on the top, of course, and lowly scorpions being inferior or of lesser value. It is used to justify oppression and the exploitation of the ‘other.’”

“But I
was not inferring such a value distinction,” said Gilgamesh. “I am a mixture of kinds myself.”

“
That is just what a Kindist says,” argued Sinnista. “I will bet some of your best friends are also half-breeds too, are they not?” she added sarcastically.

Now I know why the gods
appointed these two as guards of the Path of the Sun
, thought Gilgamesh.
They will quarrel anyone to death who tries to get past them.
But at least he knew now that his life was not in danger with these maladjusted nitpickers.

“Never mind,” remarked Gilgamesh. “I wanted to offer you the lions I captured and cleaned.”

He stepped over to the fire and took a burning log for light. He moved just a few feet back into the cave to show two large lions hanging and drying out over the rocks.

Gilgamesh added, “I
ate some of their meat already, but you can have the rest of them for yourselves.”

Girtablu glanced at Gilgamesh and smiled as if to say, “You would do that for us?”

Sinnista piped up, “See, Girt? He was able to capture two lions and he only had a dagger. Look at what you could achieve if you only applied yourself.”

Girtablu rolled his eyes for Gilgamesh to see and mimicked her mouth gestures to him like a chicken clucking without the noise.
Gilgamesh smiled.

“So what is your journey?” asked Girtablu.

“I seek Urshanabi, the boatman of Noah ben Lamech,” answered Gilgamesh. “I am told he is at the end of the tunnel of the Path of the Sun.”

“You want to travel the Path of the Sun?” exclaimed Girtablu.

“It has never been done before,” added Sinnista.

“
There is a first for everything,” said Gilgamesh.

“But you only have twelve hours to make it to the other side,” said Girtablu.

“I thought it was twelve double hours,” said Gilgamesh. “That is what the legends say.”

“Well the legends are wrong,” said Girtablu. “It only takes the sun twelve hours t
o traverse the sky and enter its channel beneath the earth. You can see it with your own eyes. Or do you cling to blind faith in your legends against the observable facts?”

Gilgamesh’s heart dropped. Now he only had half the time he thought he would have to traverse the tunnel. It seemed to just keep getting worse.

“
Okay, I have only twelve hours,” said Gilgamesh.

“In utter darkness
that even torches cannot penetrate,” added Sinnista.

“I know,” repeated Gilgamesh.
He had heard that the darkness of some parts of Sheol was so thick, all earthly light was consumed in the blackness. Although he thought it was called “outer darkness,” not “utter darkness.” Maybe it was just the rural accent of this yokel.

“
And if you stray to the right or to the left, the shades will eat you alive,” said Girtablu.

“I know, I know
,” exclaimed Gilgamesh. “But what I do not know is how I will be able to run that straight line through the tunnel without being able to see where I am going.”

“Oh,
that is easy,” said Girtablu. He extended his large claws on either side of Gilgamesh’s ears and clacked them with a smile. “You follow the sound.”

“Girt,” interrupted Sinnista, “
We are supposed to be guarding the Path of the Sun, not giving away its secrets.”

“WOMAN!” shouted Girtablu. He was fed up. She had gone too far. “
Do you really think this half-breed…” Sinnista’s eyes widened with shock, “Yes, I said
half-breed
, will be able to beat the sun?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” muttered Gilgamesh.

Girtablu continued his rant at Sinnista, “This will be entertaining. So shut up, sit down, enjoy the show, and leave me be, you pestering billy goat!”

Sinnista
was dumbfounded at the tongue lashing. He had never stood up to her with such firmness. She deferred to his display of strength.

Even Girtablu was a bit surprised at his outburst. But he kind of liked it. Maybe he would act more like a scorpion and wear the claws in the family from now on.

He turned back to the giant king and asked him with an annoyed look, “Are you married?”

Gilgamesh shook his head no.

“Lucky you,” Girtablu muttered.

Gilgamesh
asked him, “What exactly do you mean ‘follow the sound?’”

Girtablu’s eyes narrowed and he began to speak with the kind of expressive gestures that an actor in a theatre performed. Gilgamesh could tell he loved telling stories.

Girtablu explained, “The Path of the Sun is the only segment of Sheol that the shades will not transgress. It is the Path of the Sun, for Shamash’s sake, I would not either. But once they know you are there, they will surround you in every nook and cranny, every crevice, every godforsaken hole that opens to Sheol. And they will wait for you to get too close to their gnashing monstrous chops, and when you do, you are shade bait.”

Gilgamesh was not encouraged by the news. In fact, he
was growing increasingly discouraged, wondering why he ever chose this crazy idea in the first place.

Girtablu continued with his excitable and expressive storytelling, “But
that is their weakness,” he grinned widely, “They cannot stop chomping!”

Gilgamesh’s eyebrow raised. He was beginning to catch on.

“Their
foul smelling, chattering little chompers create a tunnel of sound.”

Gilgamesh smiled. Of course. He should have thought of that. He remembered the tales of the shades that he had heard as a child. Their bodies were animated by worms and maggots, and they were faceless faces with huge sets of double teeth that
clattered with endless hunger. The phrase, “The mouth of Sheol is never satisfied” brought to mind not only the inevitability of death, but also the eternal lack of satisfaction in that state.

Girtablu interrupted his
reminiscence, “Be like a bat. Turn off your sight and invest every ounce of your mind into your ears. Listen. And simply follow the tunnel of sound as you would a tunnel of sight.”

“
Girtablu and Sinnista,” announced Gilgamesh, “I thank you for your aid. I will never forget this day. I will return and lavish you with all the gold, carnelian, and lapis lazuli you could desire.”

“Some
cooking utensils and spices would suffice,” inserted Sinnista.

“
You are still going to die,” concluded Girtablu with a casual resignation toward Gilgamesh. “Because there is no way you can make it in twelve hours.”

“
I have a running stride of nine feet. They do not call me Wild Bull on the Rampage for nothing,” said Gilgamesh with a smile. “You just wait and see.”

He shared a meal with the chimerical couple and listened to their life stories, interrupted by hair splitting and quibbling over petty details. His mind drifted to Sinleqiunninni. He was right about the discrepancy of twelve double hours he had pointed out to Gilgamesh. But all in all, he was amused and fell asleep to the sound of the cackling fire.

Gilgamesh awoke before dawn and the Scorpion couple led him to the entranceway of the Path of the Sun lit only by their hand held torches.

It was a cave entrance that dropped steeply down to intersect with the huge round tunnel below. Exactly where the sun came out past his entrance he
could not figure out. He would not bother himself with minor operational details. He had a race to run.

It was a steep
descent into the Underworld that sent a chill down Gilgamesh’s spine. He held a torch for light and looked into the opening. He could not see very far down. It was as if the blackness was as thick as bitumen and swallowed up any attempt to shed light on its corners and crevices.

Gilgamesh stretched his body in preparation for his run. He
was in a race against time and he was going to push his body to its limit like he had never done before. He wore only a loincloth, made from the magical animal pelts, to protect his private area from the exertion. Anything else, be it sandal or tunic, would be an added weight to slow him down. He even pulled back his hair and shaved his beard off to maintain minimal air resistance.

He took
his last bite of lion meat and a swig of water from his water skin.

“Wish me luck,” he said to the couple.

“If you make this before the sun enters and burns you alive or before the shades catch you and eat you alive, then I will mend my ways and build Sinnista her dream cookery,” said Girtablu.

Sinnista
slapped him playfully and said, “That is not fair. You are sure to win that bet.”

Gilgamesh took a second look at Girtablu and Sinnista. They had a strange
peaceful look about them, as if the constant tension between them was momentarily released. It was not their normal disposition. They were even holding claws.

And then he realized what it was. They probably had
marital relations last night for the first time since the gods know when.

He
smiled and said to Girtablu, “Better get your tools together, because I am coming back to visit and make sure you eat crow.”

A hopeful look crossed Sinnista’s face and she smacked her lips. Clearly crow sounded good to her.

A tiny beam of orange began to break the sunrise. Girtablu turned and held his claws to his mouth and bellowed with all his might, “
Come and get him, you slobbering TEETH HEADS! Breakfast is ready
!”

Gilgamesh gave Girtablu a dirty look.

“What?” said Girtablu. “You need them for the sound.”

“I know, I know,” said Gilgamesh
. “But you do not have to make it sound like I do not have a chance.”

“You
do not,” he said.

“How about something more positive?” said Gilgamesh.

“Okay,” said Girtablu. “I for one, will be sad to see you gone.”

Gilgamesh
shook his head at Sinnista who smiled with sympathy.

Gilgamesh
leapt into the darkness and began his descent into Sheol.

He did not carry a torch. It was useless. The darkness would swallow the light anyway. It was not too long before Gilgamesh could hear the sounds of munching grinding teeth and the soft hisses and whines of hunger pangs gathering around him. This was it. He had reached the Path of the Sun through Sheol.

He stopped. Closed his eyes. Wait a minute, that made no difference. He
could not see a thing anyway. He opened them. And listened. He concentrated on the growing sounds around him. Teeth clicking, clattering, chomping and grinding. Together with the moaning and soft wails, they began to blend into an aural tunnel that his ears could hear as clearly as his eyes would see with light.

Amazing
, thought Gilgamesh.
Girtablu was right.

And there was no time to waste.

He began to run.

He paced himself. He had only twelve hours, but if he pushed himself too soon he could burn out, which would lead to a collapse and then a
burn up
by the sun. Persistent concentration on the sound tunnel was an added mental pressure that sapped his endurance. It was a challenging feat to balance the interests of all these factors against the sun dial that moved relentlessly toward his death.

The ubiquitous darkness around him made him lose all sense of time and place. He had
only his breathing to trust. He knew the tempo of breathing he had to maintain to make it out in time, and he trusted his discipline and training. He would not eat anything for the entire twelve hours and would only sip water occasionally from his water skin because it tended to offset the cadence of his breathing and synchronized footsteps. The fact is, if he made it out in time, he could very well collapse dead at his feet from dehydration or exhaustion.

Soon the sound of his breathing and the sound of the shades
craving his flesh created a rhythm that he got caught up in and lost himself.

He did not know how long he had been running. He did not know how far he had gone or how far he had to go. He only knew he was on time because his breathing.

In, out, stride, stride, in, out, stride, stride.

He guessed he was maybe three quarters of the way there.
Nearing the home stretch.

And then it happened. The unforeseen.
It was not a monster, it was not a shade or a villain of evil. It was a rock. A simple rock. Of all the scenarios they had discussed, dealing with a piece of rock that had loosened from the tunnel ceiling and fallen to the ground in a simple random occurrence was not one of them. Of course, rocks loosened all the time and fell to the ground all the time. But not here, not now. It would be of no consequence to the huge sun rolling through the tunnel burning up everything in its path. But to a demigod who could bleed and break it was big enough to hurt, and it was of grave consequence.

It was the size of a large mikku ball like the one he made out of the Huluppu tree. He
could not have seen it. He could not have heard it. It was not making sounds like the shades all around him.

His foot hit it in midstride and he launched forward in a fall that almost scraped his face off had it not been for his hands flailing out in front. He hit the ground with a huge thud and slid
twenty feet. He thought he blacked out for a second, but how can you tell when you are already surrounded by impenetrable blackness? He felt his shin. It was not broken, but it was bruised badly. He tried to get up and a shaft of pain split through him like lightning. He screamed out.

And then he heard the shades. Their hunger suddenly became like the sound of a hive of wasps. And they were all around. He could no longer hear the tunnel. He could only hear their grinding, gnashing, gnawing teeth a
ll around him like a bubble and he was inside it. How did that happen? Did he fall down a hole into the recesses of Sheol?

No. They would be upon him by now. He had to gather his wits and concentrate.
Focus on the sound. His head started to clear, though his shin continued to throb. He stood up trying to tune his hearing in to the agony trying to consume him. He knew he had tumbled away from the center of the tunnel and must be very close to one of the walls, deathly close. He could smell the fetid reek of their decay inches away.

He thought he sensed a clear path ahead of him, and was about to move forward, when he was checked by his
Naphil sense, that preternatural awareness of danger that had protected him many a time on the steppe with lions, wolves, and bears. He exhaled and relaxed, forgetting his ticking sundial just long enough to achieve full aural awareness.

He could now hear two pathways, a large one to his left and this smaller one right in front of him.
That is when he realized that the shades had almost tricked him. Knowing his aural reliance, the denizens of Sheol had cleared away from a portion of the wall to create the illusion of a clear pathway. As soon as he would have run into the empty wall, thinking it was the tunnel, they would be upon him.

He stepped back into the center of the tunnel and got his bearings. He could hear the tunnel again.

And he started to run again. Or rather, to limp, as the pain shot up his leg with each step. It was going to destroy his concentration. He had to overcome this. He had no option. He may have already lost everything.

He turned the sharp pain into a new part of the rhythm. In, out,
step, PAIN, in, out, step, PAIN.

It took him a
few cycles, but he finally achieved the cadence he needed again with his newly altered rhythm of pain. And then, because he had lost time, he picked up the pace and took no water for the rest of the run. Every single choice, every single action now, from an irregular stride to a drink of water meant life or death.

But it may already
be too late.

Just when the pain began to fade into his being, he saw a tiny ray of light coming in from ahead of him. He still did not know how far he had to go, and it was not the kind of encouragement that is usually given to someone when they see the light at the end of a tunnel. This light meant he was too late. The sun was already arriving at the setting end of the Path of the Sun where it would enter the tunnel and roll over him, vaporizing him into ash. Seeing the light meant the sun was ahead of him. It was beating him. He was going to lose.

He
did not pray to Shamash even though he was the sun god, because he had already proven to Gilgamesh to be entirely incompetent and unreliable. The thought suddenly struck him that he was pursuing Noah the Distant, so why not pray to Noah’s god? But who was it? Ninsun had never told him who Noah’s patron deity was. He had only heard references to the Creator. Was it Nudimmud or Qingu? It could not be Nintu or Mami because they were creatresses. There were too many to even try a process of elimination. He thought he would just wing it and throw out a cry for mercy to an unknown god.

He prayed silently because he could not afford the energy to pray out loud.
God of Noah, I do not know who you are, and whether you are even capable of doing anything wherever you are. But I ask you just this once if you are there and if you are real, allow me safe passage I pray, that I might seek the wisdom of your child, Noah ben Lamech.

It was a desperate plea. A
last resort. Could this god even hear the thoughts of his heart? Shamash proved incapable of doing so. The inept and posturing little twerp.

And then he saw it, the circle of the tunnel exit, a rim of light that grew rapidly in size as he approached nearer and nearer.

And then it was huge and he was at the opening. He dove out into the light, just as a flash of a fireball entered the tunnel, burning his loincloth and singing some of his hair.

He
did not actually see the fireball enter the Path of the Sun. It probably would have burned his eyes out of their sockets. But he marveled at how close he had come.

Was that an answer to prayer
?
He thought.
But how could a god who was not addressed by name know who was being addressed? I did not even know who I was addressing.

The lack of omniscience of the pantheon persuaded him
that he had deluded himself. When a man reaches the end of his rope and there is nowhere else to turn, he will try all options, even fantasy ones. Any gods will do. What an ironic coincidence it was that he happened to pray just as he was unknowingly near the end of his own achievement. It must have been his own oneness with his surroundings that allowed him the prescience. He would have to remember that one for a good story to his posterity.

He looked around him and suddenly realized that he had rolled right into a garden of delights. Lush foliage, and brilliance like that of gemstones
were all around him.

Because there
were
gemstones all around him. The trees must have been trees of the gods because they were made of carnelian and lapis lazuli. Instead of thorns and brambles there were rubies and amber. He saw that the trees bore fruit that were good for food and they were a delight to the eyes. He took of the fruit and ate. But when he saw the glistening pool of sweet spring water, he dove in without hesitation and began to gulp its life saving waters. He could feel his vitality return to him with each swallow.

He laughed and swam and drank.