Island of Fire (The Age of Bronze) (46 page)

“Listen, and I will speak to you as if you were my own son. These are the things that your own mother would say, if only she were here. I know, I know what a mother’s heart is, my fine, young man, so listen to me. Since she could not be here, let me speak a moment in her place. There is a story that we women always tell, when a funeral must be held. It is the tale of the beloved consort of Astárt. He is the spirit of the flock, the guardian of the shepherds, the sweet lover, Dámmuz.” As the Assúwan woman spoke, her calm, soft voice soothed the anxious, weary spirits of everyone there, both the travelers and the native warriors. Gradually, the refugees began taking their seats again, too exhausted to stand any longer. When all of the visitors were on the ground, the Italians sat too, though still in a ring around these mysterious and unruly guests, prepared to act quickly if the need should again arise.

‘Iqodámeya’s voice changed from merely speaking to chanting and from there to singing. There was magic entwined with her words as she went on:

“To the Land of No Return, to the realm of Nikkál,

Astárt, the daughter of our Lord Moon, set her mind.

To the dark house, to the land of Irkálla,

That house which none leave, once they have entered it.

Once upon the road to that place, there is no turning back.

In that land, there is no light,

Dust is their food, clay their drink.

They are bird-like there, clothed in feathers.

Over every door and latch, dust is spread.

When Astárt reached the gate of holy Irkálla,

She spoke to the gatekeeper, saying, ‘Open the gate!

Open the door so that I may enter.

If you do not, I will smash the doorpost,

I will open all the doors and raise the dead!’

But the gatekeeper answered, ‘Stop, my lady,

Wait, and I will speak to my queen about you.’

When lady Nikkál heard of Astárt’s coming,

Her face grew pale, her lips became dark as a bruised reed.

‘What drove her heart to this, my realm?

Should I, the queen, eat clay with the shades of the dead? What nonsense!

Should I, the queen, bemoan those who die and do not return? What nonsense!

Go, my gatekeeper, let her enter,

But ensure that she follows the laws of my land.’

The gatekeeper opened the first gate to Astárt

But he took the gold crown from her head.

‘What is this? Why have you taken this from me?’

Astárt demanded of the man of the gate.

‘Be still, my lady, do not open your mouth in this place.

The laws of the netherworld are perfect.

They cannot be changed, not for humankind;

Not for goddess or god can they be overturned.’

Seven gates lady Astárt did enter.

Seven adornments the gatekeeper took from her.

The laws of the netherworld were completed.

They could not be changed, not for humankind;

Not for god or goddess could they be overturned.

When Astárt descended to the Land of No Return,

She stood before Nikkál, her sister,

As naked as the beggar, or the unwanted child.

Misery of the eyes fell upon her eyes;

Misery of the body and of the head,

Misery of the heart and of the feet came to her.

Like a lifeless side of beef, she was hung from a peg.

Before the Divine Moon, the people came weeping,

‘The bull springs no more upon the cow;

The donkey has no thought for the jenny;

In the streets, the young man does not follow the maiden;

She lies alone in her bed, he in his own chamber.’

The Moon was troubled in his heart,

But the laws of the netherworld are perfect.

They cannot be changed for earth or sky.

‘Great Father, lord Abyss, king of the void,

Restore Astárt to the land of the living.’

He conceived from the clay a shining being,

Sent the Unliving One to Irkálla.

There Nikkál lay in torment,

In perpetual labor, giving birth to the
lámiya
,

The night’s evil daughter who would sit upon the chests of men,

Who would drink the breath of the sleeper.

But the
lámiya
could not come forth into life –

Not until Astárt bade her live.

‘Woe to thee, lady,’ wept the Unliving,

‘May your pain leave your body and come into mine,

To me let it come and may you have peace.’

Nikkál smiled and it was done.

‘Come, strange one, and I will decree your fate,

And give you a destiny that no one can change.

Remain by the doorpost forever, Unliving,

And death will never take you away.

Be not of this place, yet do not live,

Not being of life, you cannot die.

Now ask me a favor and that will I give,

I swear by the river of my own realm.’

The shining one pointed to Astárt’s lifeless body.

‘Give me the meat hung on the peg; let her live.’

Nikkál flew into a rage, in fury she flew,

‘May you never enjoy the pleasures of living;

The peace of death may you never know!’

Astárt arose, clothed in glory,

Adorned as the queen of life once more.

Now the
lámiya
clung like a shadow beside her.

‘A life I must have, if not yours, then another’s.

A shade I must have, if not yours, then your lover’s.’

Sweet Dámmuz was playing his flute in the meadow,

While watching the kids and the lambs at play.

The
lámiya
swept from the hills and came at him,

Carried him off from the herd and the flock.

Sweet Dámmuz pleaded, Dámmuz begged,

But the decree of Irkálla could not be changed.

That which had him eats not the sprinkled flour,

Drinks no libation, craves no sweet cake.

That which had him takes the babe from the breast,

Takes the bride from her husband before they are joined,

Cuts down the tall youth in his very first battle,

Takes the young wife in the midst of her labor,

Cuts down the warrior, leaving orphans behind.

Dámmuz lifted his eyes to the sun up above,

Raised his hands to the shining god.

‘O Sun, you are my beloved’s brother,

I once carried butter to your mother’s house,

I once carried milk, I brought her good cheese.

So save me from this death here beside me.

Turn my hands to the hands of a snake,

Turn my feet to the feet of a serpent,

Let my soul escape to house of my sister!’

The sun heard the prayer of his kinsman,

Changed his limbs, changed his form,

And his soul sped away.

The
lámiya
went to the house of his sister,

The
lámiya
went to the shepherd’s fold.

‘O Sun, you are my beloved’s brother,

Change my hands to the hands of a kid,

That I may escape the
dáimon
once more.’

‘Let it be so,’ said the Sun and it was.

O Lady of Irkálla, great Nikkál,

Great is our sorrow, so great your praise.

O Lady of Irkálla, great Nikkál,

Great is our sorrow, so great your praise.”

“Yes, yes, this is a true tale, truer than any other could possibly be!” T’éti cried, pressing her hands over her heart. “I have sung this song many times myself, although the name of the one who died was Diwonúso, and it was only a kid, a young goat, that he became, and not a snake.
Ai
, by all the gods and goddesses of the Great Above and the Great Below, the decrees of Fate are indeed perfect and irreversible, my son. There is mourning for us on earth at a hero’s passing, but rejoicing down below at a hero’s arrival. You see, your father’s spirit is gone from us, Askán, but he still lives in Préswa’s land, below. That spirit may still be seen one day, perhaps, in the form of the snake that inhabits the houses of his kinsmen, or in the kid that is sacrificed on the altar to the good god. But the body of your father is forever changed. You must give up this anger, my boy, and hold the funeral for him. Now, all that must be done is to sacrifice a young animal with the proper ceremony. Then your father’s soul will know true peace, at last.”

Askán, thoroughly bewildered and disheartened, let the others accept the offered payment, such as it was. He said no more of the blood-price he had earlier demanded. Yet again, it was no simple matter to conclude the affair, though, since there were the details of the funeral ceremony. Túrem once again offered the services of the
flámen
of the Rásna. But this, Askán was reluctant to agree to, not knowing what it might entail. T’éti was equally ambivalent. She admitted that she had failed to foresee their present situation. But she was quite taken aback by the notion of a new, possibly savage Italian god who might not send his decrees through her mouth, or take the soul of the dearly departed to the proper segment of the underworld. Would a foreign priest or priestess know the route to ‘Aidé, in any case?

“Who has the authority to put this matter to rest and accept this Karména?” Tushrátta asked, trying to hurry things along. “I would say that Odushéyu’s position is in doubt now, at the very least. I understand that he brought about his own son’s death, in a roundabout way. What was that boy’s name, anyway? I cannot seem to remember.”

“Qérayan,” Mélisha said impatiently, still dabbing nervously at her husband’s face.

“Delbínu,” ‘Iqodámeya corrected, gentle but firm, as always. “He was from the island of Qéra and only allowed you to call him the Qérayan as a nickname. But his real name was Delbínu, like the Assúwan god who was lost and awakened by the Divine Bee, the deity who leads men to war. This is important. His death, also, must be properly attended and his funeral arranged, as well. We have kept his bones, or the symbol of them, in any case.”

Others agreed that Odushéyu was to blame for his son’s death and the polluting death of a kinsman automatically removed him from the status of leader. But T’éti strenuously objected to his being deposed. “He is still a
wánaks
. That has not changed any more than…”