Ink of Ages Fiction Prize

The Deluge

IF You were a kestrel, speckled wings folded close as you dove into the muddy eddies of the river Euphrates, you might well have sped past the baked bricks of the city of Uruk. A carp safely clutched between your talons – wings beating more slowly now, for even a baby carp is twice your size – you would swoop above the crenellated wall tops, past the men whose glinting iron swords curdled the air, and alight in the dappled leaves of the date trees. From here you could observe the bald-headed priests and long-haired priestesses outside the central ziggurat, the deep blues and reds of its spires towering far above you; you could hear the chants and cries and snorts and sighs of the people below, could smell acrid sweat, heady incense, the coppery dust of the earth. And if you were to look, cocking your head and peering between the leaves, the carp twitching as your claws sunk deeper into its scaly flesh, you might see the blue-black curls of King Gilgamesh.

As all good kings are, Gilgamesh was strong, handsome and brave; but, as most humans are, he was also stubborn, selfish, and arrogant. Though the townspeople of Uruk were grateful for his ability to flay criminals and impale intruders on spikes, they weren’t so keen on having their wives constantly snatched by the King’s henchmen and disappeared into the palace. So the gods sent Enkidu, a wild beast-man who lived in the forest and talked with the animals; and so smitten was he with his new companion that Gilgamesh forgot all about terrorising the people of Uruk as the two embarked on many adventures in search of fame and glory. They slew demons, warred with goddesses, and tore apart snarling creatures made of star and ash – but these are tales for another time. For now, we enter the story after Enkidu fought one god too many and has himself been killed. And Gilgamesh, heartbroken, has vowed to escape this fate and seek the secrets of the one who cannot die: Utanapishti.

Far in the distance, on a small rocky outcrop by the shore, Utanapishti the Faraway One watched the boat grow closer. This was very strange, as Utanapishti lived at the furthest edge of the universe so, naturally, never had visitors. As the boat grew closer still he saw a tall man, arms laced with muscle and grime, holding aloft a lion skin. His face appeared worn and weathered though Utanapishti could see, glinting off the fading rays of sunlight, hoops of pure gold slung in his ears.

Soon the boat rocked to a stop, the wood scraping along the rocks and shingle as the man clambered ashore. Puffing out his chest, he yelled, “It is I, Gilgamesh, mighty King of Uruk! Conqueror of the universe, beloved of the gods, destroyer of cities! I am the radiant day whose brilliance overwhelms the people, I am the splendid flame engulfing the land!”

Utanapishti blinked. This was rather a lot to take in.

“And how may I help you?” he inquired politely.

Gilgamesh stared. This was not the response he was used to and, quite frankly, he was unnerved.

“You should address me on bended knee!” he demanded, swinging his sword just in front of Utanapishti’s nose. The other man took a quick step backwards,

“I’m old, you see,” he said apologetically, “my knees—”

“Enough excuses!” Gilgamesh screamed.

Utanapisti noted that his grip on his sword seemed worryingly loose.

“Tell me your secret! How did you become immortal? How did you convince the gods to give you everlasting life?”

“I fear you’ve come to the wrong place,” Utanapishti replied quickly, “now if you get back into that boat there and just sail away that would be marvellous—”

“No,” Gilgamesh breathed.

He raised his head and with a jolt Utanapishti registered the hurt blazing from his eyes, felt the pain burning its way through his own skin; and then he blinked and Gilgamesh the hero was before him once more, his face cool and impassive, habitual sneer dancing around his lips.

Utanapishti paused. Raising one gnarled finger he stuck it in his ear, flapping it vigorously for a few moments before hooking out a sticky ball of wax and expertly flicking it over his shoulder. But his eyes never left those of Gilgamesh.

“All right,” he said slowly. “I’ll tell you. But sit. We may be here awhile.”

Lowering himself, Gilgamesh placed his sword over his knees. The glow from the flames crept and danced over the old man’s face and Gilgamesh watched with unease as the crags deepened, great chasms spooling across his leathered skin. As he opened his mouth Gilgamesh glimpsed broken teeth, a maw of polished ebony, pinpricks of light: and then Utanapishti began.

*****

I was a young man when the gods decided to send down the Flood. Every 1,200 years, Enlil – god of the earth and wind – tried to rid himself of mankind. They irritated him; they bred too easily and grew too big, their noise keeping him up at night like a horde of mosquitoes whining and buzzing in his ear. So in an attempt to solve the problem once and for all, he sent down to earth a great plague. But he was thwarted. Broken, ill, the humans survived.

Then he tried famine. With no crops, he reasoned, how on earth would the humans feed themselves? But he was thwarted. The humans survived.

Next he sent drought. With no water, surely, the humans would die. But there, too, he was thwarted. Once again they survived.

So finally, racking his brains, he decided to send the Flood.

In the great council hall, Enlil gathered the gods together and all swore an oath agreeing to his plan. But the god Ea was uncomfortable. His oath sat badly with him, the same way ghee-drenched pork sits heavy and leaden in one’s stomach. And though a god, Ea was not immune to gastronomical distress. So after spending many nights crouched in rather uncompromising positions, he decided he had to act. He was nowhere near powerful enough to stop Enlil, but he was not the god of tricks for nothing.

If he could not defeat Enlil’s plan he would sabotage it. Ea decided to warn the humans.

Creeping out of the palace, he commanded the elements to carry his message. And on the wind I could hear, first faintly, then growing with each gust and passing breath of air, the words of Ea as they travelled across the sky:

“ ... Day will darken into night and land will melt to sea; build a boat of life and, when I order, flee!”

At first I ignored the words; I did not understand them, and they frightened me. But they came after me like birds, pecking at my ears:

“Skies will weep and mountains roar as life on Earth will perish; fill this boat with creatures, craftsmen, family that you cherish! Make her stories six-fold high, nine feet make her width; seal her fast with a flat-topped roof and caulk her sides in pitch.”

If I was confused before I certainly remained so now. I understood little of this strange message, but what choice did I have? As my wife so helpfully pointed out to me, he was a god, after all.

For the next five days I set about building the boat as per Ea’s instructions. Finding the wood, mind you, was tricky, but, being a prince of Shuppurak in those days had its advantages. Convincing people to join me was less easy. If I could barely make sense of the god’s message, why should they? Many refused to come. Still others believed I was possessed and tried to perform exorcisms. Even my father, the King, did not believe me. In the end I gathered as many as I could and prayed it was enough. And then, huddled inside – amidst the brays and stamps of the animals, the harsh glow of the furnace, the damp warmth of hundreds of mingled breaths – we waited for Ea’s signal.

At the first brightening glimmers of dawn a black cloud grew from the root of the horizon.

It travelled slowly, its tendrils lengthening as it unfurled, roiling and billowing up towards the heavens until the whole sky was enveloped in its thick embrace. It crested, higher and higher, before crashing down like a storm-tossed wave.

Below us the ground began to tremble, more and more violently as though the earth were shaking in fury. Then suddenly a piercing crack tore the air as, from within the dark, seething mass, the god Adad bellowed and roared.

I felt a tug at my sleeve; turning, I saw my wife, her eyes wide, mouth moving silently whilst behind her the ship lurched and swayed.

“What?” I shouted. I attempted to remove my palms from my ears but was met with a slap of sound as the wind shattered the air.

“The sea,” my wife was yelling, her words gobbled by the screams and shouts and stamps and sobs of our companions, “look at the sea—”

Rushing to the side, I looked out the porthole. Water was sweeping past, galloping and racing as, with each passing breath, the waves crashed higher and higher. Already I could feel the ship groaning as it began to be rocked, the water pushing at its wooden sides as the current threatened to dislodge it completely. In the distance I could see the roofs of the city rapidly disappearing, the waves smashing through buildings and fields like an ox breaking free of its pen, the land decimated and torn as a ploughed field. The weirs had burst their banks, and the mooring poles had been uprooted and thrown into the deluge as one pulled a blade of grass. Above I caught a glimmer in the rumbling clouds, a flash as of a glint from a gold bangle: and then an almighty crack as another canal split and hissed.

“It’s the gods!” I shouted. “They are causing the land to flood, they are aiding Enlil—’ My words were interrupted as the boat suddenly lurched and heaved and, with a sickening keen, was launched into the newly formed sea. Through the porthole, above the angry spray of the rising tide, I watched as, down in the Underworld, the Annunaki lifted their torches and scorched the earth with fire.

Up in heaven, the gods looked on in shock at what they had done. They watched as corpses filled the ocean like fish, as skin was scraped from bones and churned back into clay, as darkness tore through the land with sharpened nails and inky fingers, and they curled up like pups cowering from the storm and sobbed.

*****

Utanapishti broke off. Gilgamesh could not move: his feet had long ago lost their feeling and his legs were stiff and brittle, but his eyes remained welded to Utanapishti’s face. The other man closed his eyes; then with a sharp shake of his head continued, the words spitting from his mouth:

“Eventually, the storm broke and after many days we made landfall. The gods were horrified, even Enlil. In gratitude for saving humanity, they granted my wife and I immortality and sent us to this wretched place. And that, Gilgamesh, is how I came to be immortal. I will remain here forever, in a faraway place where I will neither grow old nor die with none but my wife for company. This is both my blessing and my curse. So seek immortality if you must, O Great King. But you may not like what you find.”

Gilgamesh was silent. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he gently placed his sword on the ground, cradled his head in his hands, and sobbed.

The flame flickered lower and lower, burning crimson in the gloom as the two men crouched by the dying embers and wept.