If you could travel back in time, past your grandparents, past the kings and queens of the Middle Ages, past the empires of Rome and Greece, past even the building of the great pyramids of Egypt, you would eventually find yourself in a hot, dry land between two shimmering rivers.
This is ancient Mesopotamia, the land between the Tigris and the Euphrates, in what is now the country of Iraq.
4,000 years ago, this was a world of sun-baked mud brick, green fields of barley, and bustling cities that rose like mountains out of the desert.
And if you walked into one of those cities, a city called Uruk, you might see a scribe sitting in the shadow of a temple wall.
In his hand, the scribe holds a small flat slab of wet clay. With a pointed reed, he presses tiny wedge-shaped marks into the mud. Tap, tap, tap.
The marks look like the footprints of birds. This is cuneiform, the oldest writing in the world.
And the story that scribe is pressing into the clay is the oldest story we have ever found. It is the story of a king, a wild man, and a friendship that changed the world.
The king's name was Gilgamesh.
Now, if you were to ask the people of Uruk about their king, they would first point to the walls of the city.
These were not just ordinary walls. They were massive, high, towering ramparts made of burnt brick that gleamed like copper in the desert sun.
Gilgamesh had built them. They would point to the great orchards, the vast clay pits, and the magnificent temple of the goddess Ishtar.
Gilgamesh had built those too.
Gilgamesh was two-thirds God and one-third human. He was taller than any other man, stronger than a wild bull, and his beauty was like the sun rising over the eastern mountains.
But there was a problem with Gilgamesh. He was exhausting.
Imagine a fire that never goes out, a wind that never stops blowing, or a drum that beats day and night, right next to your ear. That was Gilgamesh.
Because he had the strength of the gods, but the restless mortal heart of a human, he did not know what to do with himself. He never slept, he never rested.
And because he could not rest, he would not let anyone else rest either.
"Build the walls higher!" he would shout at dawn, his voice booming through the streets of Uruk. "Dig the clay pits deeper!" he would command at noon.
He kept the young men of the city working until their hands bled and their backs bent with fatigue. He kept the young women dancing and serving at his feasts until they fell asleep on their feet.
He took whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, because there was no one in the world who could say no to him. There was no one who could match his strength.
And so he lived in a state of terrible, angry loneliness, though he was surrounded by thousands of people.
The elders of Uruk sat in the shade of the great gates, wringing their hands. Their knuckles were white with worry.
"He is our shepherd," they whispered, "but he harries the flock like a wolf. A king should protect his people, not wear them away like water on stone."
Finally, the people of Uruk could bear it no longer. They lifted their voices to the heavens, crying out to the great gods who live in the sky.
"You made him," they prayed. "You made him stronger than any man, but he is too much for us. Please, send us help. Send us someone who can stand against him. Create his equal, a person who can match his stormy heart, so that they may contend with one another, and Uruk may finally find peace."
The gods in their high, quiet heavens listened. They heard the crying of the city, and they felt a great pity for the tired people of Uruk.
The sky gods turned to Aruru, the goddess of creation, the mother of all things.
"Aruru," they said, "you created Gilgamesh. Now, create his double. Let him be like a second storm, so that when the two storms meet, they will spend their fury on each other and leave the city in peace."
Aruru nodded. She washed her hands in clean water. Then she reached down to the earth and pinched off a lump of wet, rich clay.
She held it in her palm, breathed her own breath onto it, and threw it far out into the wild grasslands, the great open step that lay beyond the cultivated fields of Uruk.
Where the clay fell, a man arose. His name was Enkidu.
Enkidu did not know anything of cities. He did not know how to speak, he did not wear clothes, and he had never tasted bread or wine.
His body was covered in thick, shaggy hair that flowed like waves of grain. The hair on his head grew long and wild, like the hair of a goddess of harvest.
He knew nothing of houses or streets. His home was the vast open plain under the blue dome of the sky.
Enkidu lived among the animals. He ran with the gazelles, his feet pounding the dry earth in perfect rhythm with theirs.
He ate grass with the wild cattle, chewing the sweet herbs of the field. When the sun grew hot at midday, he walked down to the water holes with the beasts, crouching on his hands and knees to lap the cool water alongside the leopards and the wild donkeys.
To Enkidu, the animals were his brothers and sisters. He understood their cries, their fears, and their silent languages.
He was as strong as a mountain star, but his heart was as gentle as the dew that fell on the grass at dawn.
Now, in those same grasslands, there lived a trapper. This was a man who made his living by digging pits and setting traps to catch wild animals, so he could sell their skins and meat in the markets of Uruk.
But lately, the trapper had been returning home with empty hands and a face pale with fear.
One evening, the trapper came to his father, his hands shaking so hard he could barely hold his cup.
"Father," the trapper whispered, "there is a giant of a man out on the step. He is the strongest thing I have ever seen. He must have come down from the hills. He walks with the beasts, and he does not let me catch them. When I dig a pit, he fills it back in with dirt. When I set a bronze trap, he tears it out of the ground with his bare hands. He frees the animals from my snares. Because of him, I can no longer hunt."
The father looked at his son and thought for a long moment. He was an old man, and he knew the ways of the world.
"Son," the father said, "in the city of Uruk, there lives a king named Gilgamesh. He is the strongest man in the world. Go to him. Tell him of this wild man of the grasslands. Gilgamesh will know what to do. He will give you a woman of the temple, a wise and beautiful woman named Shamhat. Take her with you to the water hole. When the wild man sees her, he will want to be near her. And when he learns her ways, the wild beasts of the step will no longer know him as one of their own. He will become a man."
The trapper did as his father advised. He walked the long, dusty road to Uruk, passed through the great gates, and stood before the throne of Gilgamesh.
Gilgamesh listened to the trapper's story. His dark eyes flashed with curiosity. A man who could tear bronze traps out of the earth? A man who ran with the gazelles?
This was the most interesting thing the king had heard in years.
"Take Shamhat," Gilgamesh commanded. "She is wise in the ways of human speech, of music, and of love. Let her go with you to the water hole. She will show this wild man what it means to be human."
So, the trapper and Shamhat walked out into the dry wilderness. For three days they traveled, until they reached the water hole where the animals came to drink. They sat down in the tall reeds and waited.
On the third day, the herds arrived. The gazelles bounded down to the water, and the wild beasts jostled one another in the mud. And there, walking among them, was Enkidu.
Shamhat watched him from the reeds. She saw the shaggy hair, the powerful shoulders, and the gentle way he patted the flank of a young gazelle.
She was not afraid. She stepped out from the shadows of the reeds and stood by the water's edge.
Enkidu stopped. He had never seen a creature like her. She did not have fur, she did not have horns, and she did not run away when he approached.
Her face was smooth and kind, and when she spoke, her voice was not a roar or a grunt, but a sound like water flowing over smooth stones.
"Enkidu," she said. It was the first time he had ever heard his name. It sounded beautiful.
Shamhat sat down on the grass and beckoned to him. Enkidu approached slowly, sniffing the air. He felt a strange new feeling in his chest, a longing that was different from hunger or thirst. He sat down beside her.
For six days and seven nights, Shamhat stayed with Enkidu in the wilderness. She spoke to him in the language of human beings, teaching him the names of the stars, the trees, and the earth. She combed the tangled burrs from his long hair.
But when the seven days were over, and Enkidu turned back to the water hole to join his beloved gazelles, a terrible thing happened.
The gazelles saw him coming, and they bolted in terror. The wild donkeys snorted and galloped away into the desert.
Enkidu tried to run after them, but his legs felt heavy. He could not keep up. His knees grew tired, and his breath came in short, ragged gasps. The wildness had left his limbs.
Enkidu sat down in the dust and wept. He felt utterly alone. His animal family had abandoned him, and he did not know who he was anymore.
But Shamhat came and sat beside him. She put her arm around his strong, hairy shoulders.
"Enkidu," she said softly, "you are beautiful. You are like a god now. Why do you want to run with the beasts of the field? Come with me. Let me take you to Uruk of the great walls, where Gilgamesh lives. He is the king, a man of great strength who rules over all. You should meet him. You should be his friend."
Enkidu wiped his tears. The word friend was new to him, but it felt warm in his ears.
"Yes," Enkidu said, his voice deep and gravelly, like stones grinding together. "Take me to this city. Take me to this king. I will challenge him. I will cry out in Uruk, 'I am the strongest. I am the one born in the wilderness. Let us see if his strength is greater than mine.'"
But before they went to the city, Shamhat took Enkidu to a camp of shepherds on the edge of the fields. There, the shepherds looked at him in wonder.
They brought him bread, but Enkidu only stared at it. He had only ever eaten grass. They brought him barley beer in a clay jar, but he did not know how to drink it.
"Eat the bread, Enkidu," Shamhat smiled. "It is the food of human beings. Drink the beer, for it is the drink of the land."
Enkidu took a bite of the bread. It was sweet and filling. He took another, and another, until he had eaten seven loaves. He drank the beer, and his heart felt light and happy.
He washed his body in clear water, rubbed himself with sweet-smelling oil, and put on a wool cloak that Shamhat gave him.
When he looked at his reflection in the water, he did not see a wild beast anymore. He saw a man, a prince of the step, ready to meet his destiny.
The sun was setting over the great city of Uruk, casting long, golden shadows across the brick streets. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat, garlic, and sweet dates. It was a night of festival, and the people were gathering in the main square.
Suddenly, a whisper ran through the crowd like wind through dry barley. "The wild man is here! The man of the grass is coming!"
The people parted, and there walked Enkidu, side by side with Shamhat. He was magnificent. Though he wore human clothes now, he still walked with the proud, free stride of a lion.
His shoulders were as wide as a temple doorway, and his eyes held the deep, quiet wisdom of the open desert. The people of Uruk gathered around him, whispering in amazement.
"He is shorter than Gilgamesh," one elder murmured, "but his bones are thicker."
"He is like a mountain star," said another. "He is the answer to our prayers."
Just then, a great shout rose from the other side of the square. The crowd parted once more, and there came Gilgamesh.
He was dressed in robes of fine linen, fringed with gold. On his head sat a heavy bronze crown. He walked with his head held high, looking at no one, because in his mind, there was no one worth looking at.
Gilgamesh was heading toward a great wedding house. According to his own selfish laws, he intended to enter the house first, before the bridegroom, because he was the king and no one could stop him.
But someone did stop him.
Enkidu stepped forward. He did not bow. He did not move aside. He walked straight to the doorway of the wedding house and stood in the center of the frame, blocking the entrance with his massive body.
He put his foot down on the threshold, and his eyes locked onto the eyes of the king.
"You shall not pass," Enkidu said. His voice was quiet, but it carried to the very edges of the square.
Gilgamesh stopped. He blinked, as if he could not believe what he was seeing. A stranger, in his city, blocking his way?
"Move aside," Gilgamesh growled, his hand falling to the hilt of his bronze dagger.
"I will not," Enkidu replied. "This house belongs to the bridegroom. You have no right to enter."
A great silence fell over the square. The wind stopped blowing. The birds in the rafters of the temple stopped chirping. The people of Uruk held their breath, their hearts hammering in their chests.
Gilgamesh took a step forward. Enkidu did not flinch.
Then, with a roar like a lion, Gilgamesh lunged. He did not draw his dagger. This was not a fight to kill, but a battle of pure strength. He grabbed Enkidu by the shoulders, and Enkidu grappled back.
The two giants locked arms. It was like two great mountains colliding in the desert. They wrestled in the street, their feet digging deep into the dirt, throwing up clouds of dust that turned the sunset red.
They grappled at the doorway of the wedding house. They smashed against the walls, and the heavy mud bricks cracked. They shook the doorposts until the wooden beams groaned and splintered.
Gilgamesh bent Enkidu back, but Enkidu braced his legs and threw Gilgamesh forward. They spun through the square, crashing into market stalls, scattering baskets of onions and jars of oil.
The people ran for cover, watching in absolute awe.
Never before had anyone stood against Gilgamesh. Never before had his arms met a strength that did not instantly yield.
Gilgamesh strained. His muscles stood out like thick ropes on his arms. His face turned red, and sweat poured from his brow. But Enkidu was like a rock.
Every time Gilgamesh pushed, Enkidu pushed back with the weight of the earth itself. They breathed in great, ragged gasps, their chests heaving together.
For a long, agonizing minute, they stood locked in a tight embrace, neither able to throw the other, their feet planted in the shattered dust of Uruk.
Then, slowly, Gilgamesh began to relax his grip. He stepped back. He looked at his hands, then he looked at Enkidu.
Enkidu's cloak was torn. His hair was wild, and his chest was covered in dust. But his eyes were bright, and he was smiling.
Gilgamesh looked at this man who had blocked his way, this man who had matched his strength stroke for stroke. And suddenly, a strange thing happened.
The anger in Gilgamesh's heart dissolved. The heavy, dark cloud of loneliness that had hung over him since his childhood simply vanished.
Gilgamesh began to laugh. It was not a cruel laugh or an angry laugh, but the deep, joyful laugh of a boy who has finally found someone to play with.
"Who are you?" Gilgamesh panted, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
"I am Enkidu," the wild man said, his own chest heaving as he smiled. "Born in the wild, raised by the beasts. I came to find the man who has no equal."
Gilgamesh stepped forward, not with his fists raised, but with his arms open. He embraced Enkidu, not as a wrestler grabs his opponent, but as a brother hugs a brother.
"You have found him," Gilgamesh said, "and I have found you."
The people of Uruk let out a cheer that shook the stars in the night sky. They wept with joy. The two storms had met, but they had not destroyed the city. Instead, they had joined together to form something beautiful.
Gilgamesh took Enkidu by the hand and led him to the palace. He introduced him to his mother, the wise goddess Ninsun, who lived in a quiet courtyard filled with white flowers.
Ninsun looked at Enkidu with her deep, divine eyes. She saw the wildness in him, but she also saw the loyalty and the goodness of his heart. She reached out and touched his cheek.
"Enkidu," Ninsun said, her voice like music, "you were born in the wild, without a mother or a father to guide you. But from this day forward, you are my son. You are the brother of Gilgamesh. You two shall walk the earth as one, and where one is weak, the other shall be strong."
And so, the wild man of the grasslands became a prince of Uruk. The restless strength of Gilgamesh finally had a place to go. He no longer harried his people. He no longer kept them awake with his endless, angry building. He had a friend.
For a long time, there was peace in Uruk. Gilgamesh and Enkidu were inseparable. They ate from the same plate, drank from the same cup, and slept on adjacent couches in the royal palace.
But Gilgamesh was still two-thirds god, and his heart could not stay quiet for long.
One morning, he woke up, looked out over the great walls of Uruk, and felt a cold finger of worry touch his soul.
"Enkidu," Gilgamesh said, as they walked in the palace gardens. "I have been thinking. We are strong, yes, but we are not gods. Someday, our lives will end, and we will go to the dark land of the dead. Before that day comes, I want to do something great. I want to raise a monument that will last forever. I want to make a name for ourselves that will never be forgotten."
Enkidu looked at his brother, a shadow of concern crossing his face. "What is it you want to do, Gilgamesh?"
"I want to go to the great cedar forest," Gilgamesh said, his eyes shining. "I want to cut down the giant trees to build a magnificent gate for our city. And I want to slay the guardian of the forest, the monster Humbaba."
Enkidu took a step back, his face turning pale. He knew the wild places of the world far better than Gilgamesh did.
"No, my brother," Enkidu said, his voice trembling. "Do not speak of this. When I lived with the beasts, I traveled to the edge of that forest. It is a place of terror. The cedar forest is 10,000 leagues wide. And Humbaba, his breath is like fire. His roar is like the storm flood, and his teeth are like the jaws of death itself. The great god Enlil appointed him to guard the forest, to strike terror into anyone who dares to enter. It is a place we must not go."
But Gilgamesh only laughed and threw his arm around Enkidu's shoulders. "Are you afraid, my brave brother? You who wrestled me to a standstill? If we die in this adventure, we will die with glory. And our names will be sung by children yet unborn. But we will not die. Together, we are two. One spear cannot be easily broken, but two spears together can pierce the heart of a giant. Come, let us go to the forge."
Gilgamesh would not be talked out of it. He ordered the smiths of Uruk to cast weapons of bronze such as the world had never seen. Axes that weighed 100 pounds, and swords with blades as thick as a man's arm.
The elders of Uruk gathered at the gate to watch them leave. They wrung their hands once more, but this time, they prayed for the king's safety.
"Go, Gilgamesh," they said. "May your personal god protect you. And Enkidu, we trust the king to you. You know the wild roads. Keep him safe. Bring our king back to us."
"I will," Enkidu promised. "I will walk before him and protect him from the dangers of the forest."
And so, the two friends set out.
The journey was long and hard. They walked three days' journey in a single day, crossing rivers and climbing mountains that would have taken ordinary men weeks to traverse.
Every night, they dug a well to find sweet water, and they set up a small shelter of branches to sleep.
But as they drew closer to the cedar forest, the air grew cold, and the dreams began.
On the first night near the forest, Gilgamesh woke up in the middle of the night, screaming and shivering with cold.
"Enkidu!" he cried, clutching his brother's arm. "I had a terrible dream! A mountain fell on me! It crushed my feet, and I could not move! There was a blinding light, and a strange, beautiful man pulled me out from under the rock and gave me water to drink! What does it mean? Am I going to die?"
Enkidu sat beside him, rubbing his back to warm him. His voice was calm and steady.
"No, my brother," Enkidu said gently. "The dream is good. The mountain we saw is Humbaba. He will fall, and we will crush him. The man who rescued you is Shamash, the sun god, who will help us in our fight. Do not be afraid. Sleep, my king."
The next night, it was Enkidu who woke up gasping for air, his eyes wide with terror.
"Gilgamesh!" he whispered. "The heavens roared, and the earth groaned! The day grew dark, and fire fell from the sky! A great bird of prey with wings of brass seized me and dragged me down into the deep earth! I am afraid! My strength is leaving me!"
Gilgamesh held his friend close, wrapping his own warm cloak around Enkidu's shoulders.
"My brother," Gilgamesh said, his voice soft and full of love, "the dream is a sign of victory. The bird of prey is the god of the sun, who will carry us through the danger. I am here. Nothing will harm you while I have breath in my body."
In this way, they comforted each other through the long, dark nights. Where one was weak with fear, the other was strong with hope.
It is all there, pressed into the clay tablets 4,000 years ago. The honest truth that even the strongest heroes get scared, and that the only thing that saves them is the hand of a friend in the dark.
On the third day, they reached the edge of the cedar forest.
It was a place of breathtaking beauty. The great cedars rose up like green towers, their branches interlacing to form a high, dark canopy that blocked out the hot desert sun. The air was cool and smelled of pine resin and wet earth.
They stepped into the shadows of the trees. The forest was silent, save for the wind whispering through the needles.
Tap. Tap.
Gilgamesh raised his great bronze axe and struck the trunk of a giant cedar. The sound echoed through the forest like a clap of thunder.
Immediately, the earth began to shake. The ground buckled beneath their feet. The trees swayed and groaned. From the deep heart of the forest, a roar arose, a sound so loud and terrible that it felt as if the mountains themselves were cracking open.
Humbaba was coming.
The trees parted, and the guardian of the forest appeared. He was a giant of monstrous proportions. His face was a mass of twisted, writhing lines, like the entrails of a beast. His eyes burned with a cold, green fire, and his breath was a cloud of poisonous vapor that withered the leaves on the branches.
"Who are these mortals?" Humbaba roared, his voice shaking the stones. "Who dares to touch my trees? I will tear your heads from your shoulders and leave your flesh for the birds of the step!"
Gilgamesh felt his knees grow weak. He looked at the giant, and for a moment, he wanted to run.
But Enkidu stepped up beside him. He did not run. He gripped his bronze axe, his eyes fierce.
"Stand firm, Gilgamesh!" Enkidu shouted over the roar of the monster. "Remember your strength! Remember who you are! We are two! Together, we cannot fall!"
Gilgamesh looked at his brother, and his courage returned like a flood.
They charged.
The battle was fierce and terrible. Humbaba struck at them with fists like boulders, but they were quick. Enkidu darted left, distracting the giant, while Gilgamesh struck from the right.
The wind god, Shamash, saw their bravery and sent 13 great winds to help them. Winds of ice, winds of dust, and winds of fire that blew into Humbaba's eyes, blinding him and pinning him to the ground.
With a final, mighty effort, Gilgamesh and Enkidu brought the giant down. Humbaba fell with a crash that shook the earth for miles around.
The giant lay in the dust, defeated. He looked up at the two friends, his fiery eyes dimming.
"Gilgamesh," Humbaba whispered, his voice cracking like dry wood, "spare my life! I will be your servant! I will build you palaces of cedar! I will obey your every word! Only let me live!"
Gilgamesh hesitated. He felt a pang of pity for the ancient guardian of the forest. He looked at his axe, then at the giant.
But Enkidu shook his head. "Do not listen to him, my brother. If you let him live, he will destroy us. He is the servant of the gods, and if we do not finish this, the gods will hear of it and punish us. We must make our name today."
Gilgamesh nodded. He raised his axe, and with one swift stroke, the battle was over.
The two friends stood in the silent forest, panting and covered in dust. They had won. They cut down the tallest cedars, floated them down the Euphrates River to Uruk, and built a gate for the temple that was so high, it could be seen for miles away.
But as they walked home in glory, the forest behind them seemed to grieve. The wind through the remaining trees sounded like a long, sad sigh. And high in the heavens, the great god Enlil looked down at the empty spaces in his sacred forest, and his heart grew cold with anger.
When Gilgamesh and Enkidu returned to Uruk, they were treated as gods. The people lined the streets, throwing flowers at their feet.
Gilgamesh washed his hair, put on his finest robes of purple and gold, and placed his crown back upon his head.
He was so beautiful that Ishtar, the goddess of love and war, looked down from her high temple and fell in love with him.
She appeared before him in a cloud of sweet-smelling incense, her eyes shining like stars.
"Gilgamesh," Ishtar said, her voice like honey. "Marry me! Be my husband! If you join with me, I will give you a chariot of gold and lapis lazuli, with wheels of fire! I will make the kings of the earth bow down before you, and your wealth will be greater than the sands of the sea!"
But Gilgamesh was proud. He had defeated Humbaba, and he felt as if he did not need the gods anymore. He looked at Ishtar and spoke to her with words that were sharp and cruel.
"Why should I marry you?" Gilgamesh laughed. "You are like a stove that goes out in the cold. You are like a door that lets in the draft. What happened to your other husbands? You loved the shepherd, and then you turned him into a wolf. You loved the gardener, and then you turned him into a toad. If I marry you, you will treat me the same way!"
Ishtar's face turned red with fury. No mortal had ever spoken to her this way. She flew up to the highest heaven, crying tears of rage, and stood before her father, Anu, the god of the sky.
"Father!" Ishtar screamed. "Gilgamesh has insulted me! He has told everyone of my wicked deeds! Give me the Bull of Heaven! Let me send it down to Uruk to destroy him and his city! If you do not give it to me, I will break down the gates of the underworld and let the dead rise to eat the living!"
Anu sighed. He knew his daughter was spoiled and angry, but he also knew she would do what she threatened.
"Very well," Anu said. "Take the Bull of Heaven."
The Bull of Heaven was a monster of cosmic proportions. When it descended from the sky and landed in Uruk, its first snort was so powerful that it opened a great crack in the earth, and 300 young men of the city fell into the crevice and were swallowed up. Its second snort opened another crack, and another 300 men disappeared.
The city was in a panic. The streets were filled with screams.
But Gilgamesh and Enkidu did not run. They ran toward the beast. "I will take the tail!" Enkidu shouted, his wild instincts returning. "You take the head, Gilgamesh!"
The bull lunged, its horns gleaming like polished bronze. Enkidu leaped into the air, grabbing the beast by its thick, hairy tail. He swung himself onto its back, locking his strong legs around its sides. The bull bucked and roared, but Enkidu held on, pulling its head back to expose its neck.
"Now, Gilgamesh!" Enkidu yelled. "Strike!"
Gilgamesh stepped in close, his sword flashing in the sun. With the precision of a priest making an offering, he drove the blade deep into the neck of the Bull of Heaven, right between the shoulders.
The great beast shuddered, groaned, and fell dead in the dust.
The two friends stood side by side, their arms around each other, laughing in the sunlight. They had defeated the guardian of the forest, and they had killed the Bull of Heaven. They were the masters of the world.
But that night, the gods gathered in council. The sky was silent. The stars did not shine. In the great hall of the gods, Enlil, the god of the earth, stood up, his face dark with anger.
"These mortals have gone too far!" Enlil said. "They have cut down my sacred cedars! They have slain Humbaba! And now, they have killed the Bull of Heaven! One of them must pay the price! One of them must die!"
Shamash, the sun god, tried to defend them. "They did these things to make a name for themselves," Shamash said. "They are heroes!"
"It does not matter!" Enlil replied. "The law is the law! The wild man, Enkidu, was made of clay. Let him return to the clay!"
The next morning, Enkidu did not wake up with his usual strength. His limbs felt heavy, and his breath was hot and shallow. He looked at Gilgamesh, his eyes dimming.
"My brother," Enkidu whispered, "the gods have decreed my end. I had a dream. They sat in council, and they chose me to die. I will not die like a soldier in battle with glory. I am fading away like a sick animal in the grass."
Gilgamesh sat beside his bed, his heart freezing in his chest.
"No, Enkidu!" Gilgamesh cried, holding his friend's hand. "You cannot leave me! We are two! We are the two spears that cannot be broken!"
But the strength of the gods cannot be turned back by mortal tears. For 12 days, Enkidu lay on his couch, his body growing weaker and weaker. Gilgamesh did not leave his side. He bathed his friend's forehead with cool water. He sang to him the songs of the step. He promised him that he would build a statue of gold and lapis lazuli in his honor, so that the people of Uruk would remember him forever.
On the 12th day, Enkidu looked at Gilgamesh one last time. His hand, once strong enough to tear bronze traps from the earth, grew limp and cold in Gilgamesh's grasp.
He closed his eyes, and his breath stopped.
Gilgamesh did not believe it. He sat by the bed, holding Enkidu's hand.
"Enkidu," he said, his voice shaking, "wake up! The sun is rising over the mountains! The gazelles are running in the grasslands! Wake up, my brother!"
But there was no answer. For one day, for two days, for three days, Gilgamesh sat by the body of his friend. He did not eat. He did not drink. He did not let anyone touch Enkidu's body.
The elders of the city came to him, their faces full of sorrow, begging him to let them prepare the funeral.
"He is only sleeping," Gilgamesh told them, his eyes wild and bloodshot. "He is tired from our adventures. He will wake up! He must wake up!"
For seven days and seven nights, Gilgamesh watched over his friend, hoping for a breath, a twitch of a finger, a sigh.
But on the seventh day, a tiny worm crawled out of Enkidu's nose. It was the terrible, undeniable proof of death. The body of the wild man, who had run with the gazelles and wrestled the king of Uruk, was beginning to decay. He was turning back into the clay from which he had been made.
Gilgamesh let out a cry so loud and terrible that it was heard in the furthest fields of Mesopotamia. It was not the cry of a king, but the howl of a wounded beast.
He tore off his fine linen robes. He tore the bronze crown from his head and threw it into the dust. He whipped his hair out by the handfuls.
"My friend," Gilgamesh wept, his tears falling on Enkidu's cold face. "My younger brother, who ran with the wild asses and the panthers of the step. We climbed the mountains together. We killed the Bull of Heaven. And now, what is this sleep that has seized you? You are dark, and you cannot hear me!"
The king of Uruk walked out of his palace. He walked through the great gates of the city he had built, the walls of burnt brick that he had once been so proud of. They seemed small and meaningless to him now. What was the use of a city if his friend was not there to walk its streets with him?
"My friend, whom I loved, has turned to clay," Gilgamesh whispered to the empty desert. "And I, shall I not die like him? Shall I not lie down in the dust and never rise again?"
For the first time in his life, Gilgamesh was afraid. He was not afraid of monsters or giants or gods. He was afraid of the quiet, cold end that waits for every human being.
He did not return to his palace. He did not put on his crown. He clothed himself in the skins of lions, his hair growing long and matted, just like Enkidu's had been when he lived in the wild. He walked away from Uruk, out into the vast, silent desert, searching for something, anything, that could tell him how to live forever.
Here, the ancient clay tablet is broken. If you were to hold the 4,000-year-old slab of clay in your hands today, you would see that the neat rows of cuneiform marks stop suddenly in the middle of a sentence. The mud has crumbled away over the centuries, leaving a blank space where the rest of the story once was.
But we know where Gilgamesh's road leads. He will travel to the ends of the earth. He will cross the waters of death, and he will search for the one man who survived the great flood to learn the secret of eternal life. That is a story for another time, another day, and another episode.
For now, we must leave Gilgamesh walking into the sunset, wearing his lion skins, his heart heavy with the memory of the wild man who changed his life.
Before you close your eyes tonight, think about the king of Uruk and the wild man of the grasslands. Gilgamesh was a king who had everything, strength, beauty, power, and wealth, but he was miserable and lonely because he had no one who could understand him. Enkidu had nothing, no clothes, no house, no language, but he had a heart that was open to the world.
When they met, they did not destroy each other. They became a mirror for one another. Gilgamesh learned how to be gentle and how to love someone else more than himself. Enkidu learned the beauty of human speech and the warmth of a brother's hand.
So here is a question to keep with you as you drift off to sleep. Can one true friend change what kind of person you are? Or does a true friend simply help you find the person you were always meant to be?
Think about that, and sleep well.