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The last story of Gilgamesh is of an untold rebellion.
In Irkalla, in the ocean of dust, the rotting king have heard all stories of the dead. He let the words travel, one tongue into another, great waves of thoughts, and they flooded to the last gate from which they have passed through, carving and pointing, knocking and banging, all united in their singular story and singular desire.
We died. We passed through here. We are trapped. Let us out.
But despite the banging and knocking, the gate stays firm, barely shaken by fists of dust. Only gods may open them, may knock over them, and even Innana could not leave the Irkalla on her own, she who threatened to knock over the gates of Irkalla.
Gilgamesh can almost hear the river. He was buried beneath it, in the mud of river bed, in the likeliness of Enkidu's flesh. He who was not dust and clay and blood, but mud and water, clay and saliva.
And Enkidu never died. Not like a man. He was clay and saliva, not dust rotting in Irkalla.
In Irkalla, Tiamat and her son stir. All of Qingu's blood is here, and all of it dust and dead.
Gilgamesh begins to climb.
His great great grandfather, the sweet water Abzu, was slain by his rebellious child. And, like Enkidu, Abzu did not die, not like a man. Abzu is not dust. He is rivers and lakes, brooks and fountains, things of Enki's domain. And Irkalla is but a domain below Enki, dust gathered in tunnels and caves, under cities and fields and mountains and river beds.
Gilgamesh reaches the ceiling, and pushes.
He has heard of rivers underground, from which wells are drawn. There is no water in Irkalla, not where dead men gather, but Irkalla was married in her bath. But his river is not Irkalla's bath.
The ceiling seemed to be dust, but the gate is indeed built into solid stone. After all, the roof is but Enki itself. The king remembers Enkidu and continues to push.
The river is louder close to the ceiling. Familiar. The one Gilgamesh was buried under. Rivers sound the same, but only this one seems to whisper the name of Enkidu.
Gilgamesh pushes harder, the gate still firm, but the frame and the ceiling start to give way.
The river starts to whisper Tiamat's name. All sweet waters go to the bitter ocean, empty remains of Tiamat's flesh. This one, however, knows that it will not be a mere carcass he will meet.
Gilgamesh remembers Humbaba. Gilgamesh remembers Bull of Heaven. Gilgamesh remembers Enkidu's encouragement and insistence when the king hesitated.
It will not be a mere carcass that the king will meet.
Gilgamesh gives it a final push, and the ceiling cracks to let Abzu in.
In Irkalla, Tiamat greets the arrival of her first consort. The carcass of sweet water, the slain Abzu, reunited with his soul and his wife.
Tiamat's tail and ribs shake, and in a torrent of rain the sweet Abzu is in his war attire, his sweetness turned bitter by mud and clay, dust and carcass.
In Irkalla, the dust of the dead becomes mud.
The bitter and sweet waters mix, foul and fertile, powerful anew.
The mud of the dead gather in a serpentine flow, blood of dubious colour, body-less but alive.
Enki no longer controls the waters. The primordial gods are back to their roles. In a fall of stars from Tiamat's tail, the war is ignited anew.
The dead surge from the earth, crownless kings and unsung heroes alike, unskilled labourers and builders of legends alike, no longer dust but water, mixed and bitter, Tiamat and Abzu alike. They shatter towers and rebuild ruins, sharpen their blades and point them at An and Enki alike. Tyrants have reigned long enough.
The reigning gods fight back in full war regalia.
The rebelling deads push them back with full rage of vengeful souls.
At the head of the army, Gilgamesh is a king anew, no longer a puppet of gods. Lugalbanda fights by his side, and Enkidu himself is Gilgamesh's body, all army's body, the great, shaping mud that covers Enki and rebuilds it anew, no longer a son but a king and god.
And the last flood washes the abandoned earth till all bones of gods and dust of men become mud and fertile soil, and none of the towers, temples or ziggurats, neither Esagila or Etemenanki, could stand in the warring waves, but to break by bricks and become, not dust, but mud.
Gods fall like shooting stars to the washed, empty earth, like seeds of fire to grow anew.
And Gilgamesh, by side of Lugalbanda and Tiamat and Abzu, whispers his last word, not in the silent language of dust, but in the old and lively language of wind:
I am back.
And, mortal as he was, melts into Enkidu. No longer dust, but always king. Back to who he was and free from who he was made to be.
And the mud, neither alive nor dead, was fertile. Free from the shaping of gods, free to give birth and become again.
Gilgamesh will become again. And so will Lugalbanda, so will Enkidu, so will all heroes. Under different names, the stories will live again.
Thus concludes the unsung tale of Gilgamesh, the final story of Gilgamesh.
The flood passes.
Plants grow.
Bulls and antelopes roam the land, hooves and horns gleam under the old Shamash.
Things of earth die, but they don't die out.
The story of the world continues.
Another man, another woman, another farmer and another shepherd.
The shepherd holds the farmer's hand, kisses and gifts exchanged to quench the sparks of a budding feud.
But the shepherd's blood feeds the soil again, and once empty Irkalla fills up again.
But above, seeds still sprout and sun still shines.
A beloved's detached head is kissed again.
And kings, they don't die out either, like wheat and weeds they crop up again.