Confessions of the Immortal
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Information poured in like an avalanche, burying the established order of my inner world. From the laws of Hammurabi carved in stone, establishing order and punishment in ancient Babylon, to the sacred texts copied on papyrus in Egyptian temples and monasteries of medieval Europe; from the philosophical treatises born in the minds of Plato and Aristotle to the base gossip spread through dusty streets and noisy taverns; from news of distant wars brought by exhausted couriers at post stations to imperial decrees reaching the most remote provinces – all of this came crashing down on me. My mind, which held the memory of billions of years of existence, of the birth of stars and the extinction of worlds, of primordial chaos and cosmic order, was now forced to process an unimaginable amount of data every day about the lives of thousands, and then millions, of people whose stories flashed by like shadows on a wall. It was exhausting, as if an endless, uncontrollable stream was being poured into my head, which I could neither stop nor organize, risking being completely swallowed up by it, losing myself in this immeasurable abyss of human knowledge and delusion.
With this onslaught of information came an imperceptible but piercing loss of depth, a loss of genuine, heartfelt connection with my surroundings. In a primitive tribe, where each person was inextricably linked to the community and nature, where their life had meaning, each fate was clear as day, its twists and turns felt at the level of the collective breath of the whole community, in which each person was part of the whole. In the bosom of civilization, however, people turned into a faceless mass, into silent bricks from which grandiose, soulless structures were built – cities, empires, trade unions. Their individual destinies dissolved into the scale of these colossal formations, becoming mere dry statistics in the annals of history, numbers in demographic reports, or names on lists of those who died on the battlefields. I saw thousands of faces passing by, like fleeting shadows on the wall of a cave, reflections of days long past, but only a few of them lingered in my memory for more than a moment. Only those whose lives were exceptional, beyond the ordinary, like the exploits of heroes who redrew the map of the world, or the fall of tyrants whose names shook the foundations of states, could leave a mark. I watched the birth and death of entire generations within a single street, a single city block, and it caused a strange, aching feeling of detachment, as if I were an eternal spectator in an endless theater where the actors changed but the play remained the same. My ability to empathize did not disappear, but it became blurred, scattered, as if my emotions were distributed among too many people, losing their sharpness and focus, like an ancient river that, dividing into many branches, loses its power and dissolves into the endless sands.
Moreover, a completely new form of danger had emerged – invisible, insidious, devoid of physical form, but capable of destruction far more terrible than any blade. In the primitive world, threats were obvious: the sharp claws of a predator creeping out of the forest thicket; the pangs of hunger that gripped the stomach; a flying enemy spear that brought instant death. In civilization, however, other, far more sophisticated enemies appeared: intrigues born of envy and ambition at the courts of kings; lies spread by whispers along trade routes and merchant guilds; social pressure capable of breaking a person’s spirit, forcing them into the confines of unspoken rules; and, finally, laws written by human hands that could deprive a person of their freedom or even their life without a single blow, without bloodshed, based on a single word or false accusation. My ancient ability to survive in the wild, my strength, my heightened senses that allowed me to sense the approach of a storm or the smell of danger, proved powerless against slander spread by secret means, or unjust accusations, against whispers that could destroy a life faster than the blade of a sword. I was forced to learn to blend in with my surroundings, to hide in its labyrinths, constantly changing my identity and profession. From a simple farmer who knew only the rhythm of the earth, I could turn into a skilled craftsman who knew the secrets of metal or wood; from a minstrel wandering the roads to a scholar-copyist at a monastery, bent over parchment; from a merchant traveling the Great Silk Road to an inconspicuous city dweller, just so as not to arouse suspicion, just so as not to become a target for those seeking witches or conspirators. If in ancient times I was revered as a spirit or ancestor, which gave me protection and a certain aura of inviolability, now I could easily be recognized as a spy, a heretic whose views contradicted the established dogmas of the church, or simply a strange stranger who was best avoided, from whom one should keep away, as if he were plague-stricken.
I learned to pretend to be mortal, masterfully playing my part in this endless spectacle of human existence. To feign fear of death, which was completely unknown to me, for I myself was the embodiment of eternity, its silent witness; to show naive joy at small, fleeting achievements, whether it was a successful deal at the market or the birth of a healthy child, which for me were only fleeting flashes against the backdrop of endless time; to mourn losses that were for me only brief events in the endless chain of existence, like fading flowers in the fields. But each such role, each new image, was only a mask that, growing attached to my face, distanced me more and more from my true self, which remembered the Flash, remembered the beginning of everything, felt the pulse of creation when the very fabric of reality was being formed. I became not just a master of adaptation, but a virtuoso of mimicry, able to fit into any era, any society, whether it was the lavish court of Louis XIV, where balls and intrigues reigned, or the harsh streets of a medieval city ravaged by the plague, reaping its bloody harvest. But this adaptation required constant, exhausting effort, mercilessly blurring the lines between my true self and my invented personalities, threatening me, as never before, with the ultimate loss of myself, dissolution into a bottomless ocean of other people’s lives, oblivion of the true nature of my being.
My loneliness seemed to have reached its absolute peak, its silent climax. I was surrounded by thousands of people, their voices, their lives swirling around me like the currents of a raging river carrying its waters to an unknown sea. Their laughter and tears, their hopes and despair filled the air, but I was even more alone than in the empty cosmos after the Flash, when there was nothing but me and the endless void, when only the echo of the primordial explosion filled existence, and I was the only consciousness in the immensity of nothingness. I was eternal among the fleeting lives that built their worlds, erected their empires, fed on their dreams and beliefs, unaware that I was there when their world was just beginning, when it was just a speck of dust in the boundless universe, just a spark in the cosmic darkness. This developing, information-filled world, instead of offering me true connection and belonging, only deepened the chasm between me and humanity, making it insurmountable, like the bottomless abyss between a star that shines eternally and the traveler who gazes at it, whose life is but a moment.
Chapter 8: The Call of the New World
Time, that relentless weaver of destinies, flowed through the millennia like a great river that, knowing no fatigue, carved its way through granite strongholds, carving out the deepest canyons of existence. I, the Stone, remained unshakable amid this eternal, turbulent flow, a silent but all-encompassing witness to the endless drama of human development. The epochs spent among the tribe that became my first refuge in this world, my first experience of contact with the human spirit, came to their logical, predestined conclusion, like a long but inevitably melting dream, leaving behind only vague, bittersweet memories.
Before my eyes, the rough tools once carved from flint fragments and polished mammoth bones – primitive but vital symbols of primitive survival, each bearing the mark of painstaking labor and ingenuity – were transformed, acquiring a previously unheard-of delicacy and elegance. From the hands of these people, guided by intuition and necessity, they were transformed into polished copper tools, then into durable bronze fused with artistry, and later into hardened iron, whose sharpness and hardness heralded a new era. Each blow of the hammer, measuring the rhythm of progress, each casting in a clay mold, each spark carved from stone, reflected not only growing skill, but also an irrepressible will to create, heralding the coming civilizations. I watched as their temporary, fragile encampments, scattered across the landscape like autumn leaves, gradually grew over with sturdy adobe walls, forming the first permanent settlements. These outlines of houses, surrounded by palisades and then by massive walls of unfired brick, became not just dwellings, but the cradle of cities – ancient Uruk, the multi-layered Jericho, the mysterious Çatalhöyük – where life took on a new, settled form, where the most complex foundations of collective existence were formed, heralding the emergence of the state.
Their whispering, once dedicated only to the spirits of the forest and fearsome beasts, primitive and instinctive, full of fear of the unknown and reverence for the forces of nature, gradually transformed into a complex, multifaceted language. This language, like a mighty river system, branched out into dialects, enriched with metaphors, becoming capable of expressing not only the immediate needs of hunting and survival, but also deep, secret dreams, abstract ideas, and the first shoots of philosophical concepts. It expanded the boundaries of their consciousness to previously unimaginable horizons, allowing them to comprehend not only the world around them, but also their place in it, their past, and to foresee the future. They grew, changed, moved forward inexorably with astonishing, almost frightening speed, as if obeying an invisible law of development, and I remained their silent companion, a shadow impervious to decay, watching their every step, their every breath, every moment of their brief but dazzlingly bright lives.
My heart, if I dare attribute this ephemeral, so human essence to myself, felt the warmth of their fires, whose sparks flew up into the night sky like tiny but brave stars challenging the endless, indifferent darkness. I absorbed the sound of their carefree laughter, echoing through the primeval forest, dispelling shadows and fears, and felt the weight of their immeasurable grief when death took their loved ones, when their eyes, still shining with joy, filled with tears as ancient as the pain of human existence itself. I was with them when, for the first time, with hands trembling with excitement, they sowed grain in cultivated land that had recently been wild, anticipating the future harvest, and I shared with them the joy of the first abundant harvest, which brought them not only sustenance, but also unshakable hope for tomorrow, for the stability of life. I stood by them when, having grasped the sacred mystery of fire, they learned to tame it not only for warmth and protection from nocturnal predators, but also for creation – for firing clay, turning malleable earth into durable ceramics, for smelting metals in red-hot crucibles, creating new, more sophisticated tools and exquisite jewelry that became symbols of status, faith, and belonging.
They called me Stone – not only for my physical immobility and age-old constancy, for my hardness and resistance to time, but also because I was eternal to them, like the earth beneath their feet, an unshakable landmark in a world of constant change and eternal uncertainty. I was their silent sanctuary, their first teacher, their eternal guardian. And yet, despite this apparent closeness, despite these shared millennia filled with shared experiences, I remained fundamentally, ontologically alien. Their lives were bright but fleeting flashes, their generations mere moments in my infinity, which I could only observe but never truly share. I could not live their short but intense lives, could not feel the fullness of their fleeting but infinitely precious existence, their passions, their doubts, their beliefs.
I saw how their settlements, once chaotic clusters of huts resembling organic cells, grew, transformed, and gave birth to the first cities – true centers of civilization, where a new, complex rhythm of life pulsated. Here, people not only learned to trade, exchanging goods and ideas in bustling bazaars, but also to erect monumental structures, such as the majestic ziggurats of Mesopotamia or the gigantic pyramids of Egypt, reaching for the sky, testifying to their growing ambitions, their desire for immortality, and their belief in the divine. They learned to argue, but also to create complex laws, such as the Code of Hammurabi, regulating public life in an attempt to bring order to the eternal chaos of human relations. Their world became more complex with each passing century, their minds became sharper, their questions deeper, as they sought to comprehend the mysteries of the universe and unravel the sacred meaning of their existence, their pain, and their greatness. But with this complexity came inevitable alienation. What was once a simple, primitive rhythm of survival had now turned into a din and noise of many voices, ideas, ambitions, and conflicts, where everyone fought for their place under the sun, for their share of the truth. My loneliness, which had always been my constant companion, became even heavier in this new, complex world, where everyone was searching for their destiny, and I could not find mine, being outside their system, outside their human understanding, like a spirit wandering among the living but having no flesh.
And then, in one of those moments when eternity itself seemed to slow down, when time itself stopped so that I could realize the inevitable, I understood: my time with them had irrevocably come to an end. I could no longer remain an organic part of their history without risking becoming a pure myth, a legend that they, unwittingly or consciously, would distort in their stories, turning me into something I never was, something that did not correspond to my true, silent essence. I felt an irresistible, almost physical call to something new – a world where people, having crossed the line of primitive simplicity, would begin to build something greater than I could imagine, something that would surpass their current achievements, their most daring, most secret dreams. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, beyond the veil of centuries, I heard the call of the great rivers – the Euphrates, the Nile, or the Indus, whose waters carried not only silt but also the promise of new, unexplored lands, oases where humanity learned to record its thoughts on clay tablets, creating the first cuneiform or hieroglyphic records, recording its laws, myths, and history. Where their steps leave traces not only in the dust of fleeting time, but also in eternity, creating an imperishable legacy that will outlive them and become the foundation for all subsequent generations.
With a heavy but determined heart, like an ancient wanderer leaving his last, but now outgrown, haven, I left the tribe that had become my home, the place where I had spent so many eons watching their steady growth and metamorphoses. I left quietly, like a shadow dissolving in the shimmering morning mist, leaving behind only the whisper of their legends about me, which will be passed down from generation to generation, acquiring new details and fiction, losing its true features but gaining a sacred, almost divine meaning. They will live on, build their grandiose cities, erect temples, sing their songs, give birth to new generations, unaware that I was their silent witness, an observer of their first steps on earth, their first victories and defeats, their great triumphs and crushing tragedies. And I set off on my journey, driven by an insatiable thirst to see where this relentless march of time would lead them, and perhaps to find a new, deeper meaning in my endless existence, in this eternal journey through the eons, in search of something more than just observing the fates of others – in search of my own, albeit silent, participation in the great drama of existence.
Part 2: Sumer
Chapter 1: Arrival in Mesopotamia
I do not remember how many millennia have passed since that moment when the slightest, almost imperceptible glimmer of hope touched my soul, weary from the endlessness of eternal existence. It was ephemeral, like a grain of sand caught by a merciless wind in the boundless desert of my destiny, where each passing century only multiplied the weight of the invisible cloak of memories. My path lay through sun-scorched lands, past rare oases where life, against all odds, clung to every precious drop of moisture. Fatigue, my constant, eternal companion, was not earthly exhaustion promising oblivion in a short sleep, but the unbearable burden of existence, woven from thousands of images, from faces I knew, loved, and irretrievably lost. It was the fatigue of an observer condemned to endless witnessing of blossoming and withering, where each ending only heralded a new beginning, devoid of peace for me.
The air here, in this new, unknown land, was thick and hot, saturated with the tart smell of damp soil and something else – something alive, raw, that had not yet turned to dust, but already carried the promise of the future. It was the deep, primal scent of fertile earth, mixed with the spicy fragrance of flowering reeds and the faint haze of distant fires, bearing news of human presence. I moved eastward, guided by a deep, almost mystical instinct, toward two great rivers – the Tigris and the Euphrates. Their names, whispering legends of antiquity, sounded like powerful spells promising unimaginable life where, it seemed, only barren emptiness reigned. These rivers, like the arteries of the universe, heralded the birth of the cradle of civilization, whose breath I could already feel.
When my weary feet finally stepped onto their banks, the sight pierced me to the depths of my soul, which, I thought, had long since died, bound by the ice of indifference. It was not just an oasis, not just a fertile valley offering temporary shelter. It was something else – a harbinger of a new era dawning before my eyes, something capable of awakening even the centuries-old stones of my memory. Along the rivers, where the water brought fertile silt, vast fields stretched out, neatly divided into geometrically regular squares, like a giant, carefully woven patchwork quilt, where each patch of emerald foliage testified to human diligence. People bustled about these fields, their silhouettes clearly visible against the golden light of the setting sun, like figures in ancient frescoes. Their movements were measured, almost ritualistic, purposeful, devoid of the chaotic bustle of hunters or the aimless wandering of gatherers. They were building. Not primitive huts or temporary shelters, but something more substantial, made of clay and reeds – materials that would soon become the backbone of the first cities, the majestic walls, simple houses, and sky-reaching temples erected on these lands. Their labor was an act of creation, not only from the materials of the earth, but from the very essence of human will.
I stopped on a small hill covered with sparse grass, silently watching their work, this amazing, eternal dance of man and nature, where every gesture was a step towards a new world. The sun was sinking below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery shades of flame, ochre, and deep purple, creating a majestic, tragically beautiful panorama. The silhouettes of people bent over the ground against the backdrop of the sunset seemed carved from stone, monumental in their primitive simplicity, embodying the eternal striving for order. I saw them digging irrigation canals – a complex but elegant network of waterways, skillfully diverting life-giving moisture from the river to their fields. It was amazing. For the first time in many centuries, I witnessed people not just taking from nature, but boldly attempting to change it, to subjugate to their needs, creating a complex irrigation system that would become the cornerstone of Mesopotamian civilization, the foundation of their unprecedented prosperity. There was something provocative and at the same time incredibly fragile about this endeavor, like the first tender shoots of a new world breaking through the thicket of centuries, harbingers of grandiose achievements and inevitable downfalls.
I descended the hill, trying to remain unnoticed, blending into the shadows of the approaching evening, which were growing longer and denser with every passing minute. My clothes, woven from coarse wool, were faded and dusty, but they did not attract attention, for I looked like just another wanderer seeking shelter in this new, seething cauldron of life, where every day brought change, where destinies intertwined, and the future was born with every breath. As I approached the settlement, the smells became more distinct, enveloping me: the acrid smoke from the hearths mixed with the aroma of food being prepared – thick barley porridge, perhaps dried fish, or freshly baked spelt bread, the staple diet of the ancient Sumerians. I could hear voices, the carefree ringing of children’s laughter, the barking of dogs, interspersed with the bleating of sheep and the mooing of cattle being herded in for the night. It was the noise of life filling the air, which I so often observed from the sidelines, always remaining a stranger, merely an impassive witness rather than a participant, like a spirit gliding along the edge of existence.
The settlement, though small, already bore the clear signs of organization characteristic of early proto-urban centers such as Uruk or Eridu in their initial stages of development. Several dozen clay houses, stuck together like honeycombs, formed a semblance of winding streets and alleys, along which people bustled, each with their own purpose, their own hope, their own burden. In the center stood the most impressive structure – a ziggurat, or at least its prototype, a sacred place around which the entire life of the community, its beliefs, and its aspirations were concentrated. Its walls were made of sun-baked mud bricks, and it looked impressive despite its relative simplicity, towering above the other buildings like a symbol of nascent power, faith, and aspiration to the heavens. People entered and left it, carrying offerings – baskets of grain, clay jugs of water or oil, perhaps the first examples of cuneiform tablets recording harvests or gifts to the gods, evidence of the first steps toward bureaucracy and writing, toward an awareness of their own history.
I found a place for myself on the outskirts, under a spreading date palm, whose juicy fruits were a symbol of the abundance of this land and an important part of the diet, giving strength and life. No one paid much attention to me, for I was just one of many shadows gliding across this land. There seemed to be many newcomers here – merchants whose caravans brought exotic goods from distant lands, broadening the horizons of the world; artisans whose skilled hands created tools and jewelry, embodying ideas in matter; farmers who flocked to fertile lands promising new opportunities and freedom from the oppression of hunger. I listened to their speech – guttural, unfamiliar – but I was already catching recurring sounds, trying to comprehend its structure, to grasp its hidden meaning. It was the Sumerian language, a language that would soon become the basis for the first great civilization, a language in which the first laws establishing order would be written, epic poems such as the Epic of Gilgamesh, and hymns to the gods extolling their greatness. I did not know it then, but I felt that I had stumbled upon the center of something grand, where the foundations of human civilization were being laid, its first, uncertain but determined steps changing the course of history.
My eyes, which had seen the fall of countless tribes and cultures, their dizzying rise and inevitable decline, were now witnessing their birth, the very source of humanity’s desire to create. In these simple people, in their tenacity and innate, almost animalistic desire for order, in their remarkable ability for collective labor and organization, in their naive but unshakable faith and insatiable thirst for knowledge, I caught the spark that could ignite the flame of civilization that would illuminate the world for millennia. And I, Enkidu, the immortal wanderer, was here to become a silent but attentive witness to this birth. The burden of my existence remained with me, but for the first time in a long time, it took on a new, strange purpose – to observe. Simply to observe how, from clay and water, from sweat and faith, from chaos and order, the world is born, how its first, still vague but already tangible contours are formed, taking shape under the gaze of eternity.