To the Land of the Living

by Robert Silverberg

  “This Wotan, who also is called Odin, was a god, long after your time and mine, a one-eyed god of the cold northern lands. Those three, they were convinced that I was the model from whom he was created, the ancient original of this Odin, this Wotan, do you see? That in the years after my death I went on to become a legend, the wise one-eyed king of the snow-country, and over thousands of years the people of the north had come to worship me as the father of the gods.”

  “And if that is so? Time has turned many kings and warriors into gods. What is that to you? Why would it trouble you?”

  “Only that those three foolish men were dancing with joy, to know that they had the original of a great myth right there at the table with them. That was fine for them, but where did it leave me, the real me, the man who lived and was? It swept me away, Gilgamesh, it robbed me of all that was real! I said I am no myth, I am who I am; and they brushed that aside. Who I was was of no importance to them. They thought I was quaint, a primitive, a savage. A beast. I think they were amazed that I was capable of speech at all. It was what they wanted me to be that excited them: the archetype. That was what they called me, the archetype. I asked them what an archetype was and they spent hours explaining it to me, when one word would have done. It means the original. I am the original Wotan, if you can believe those three. All the great myths, they said, come down out of the prehistoric dawn of mankind, and here was a man out of that dawn sitting right there with them in the tavern, and it made them delirious with a fever of the mind. Wotan! Wagner cried, and he wanted to know if I had had any daughters. Freud, though, asked if I had sons. And Nietzsche wanted to know if I believed in God. Ah, those three, Gilgamesh! One of them had written operas about Wotan—you know what an opera is? Singing and noise, and costumes—and one had written philosophy, and the third one claimed to know more about the way of life of my times than I knew myself. They each saw their own reflections in me. And they asked me ten thousand thousand questions, and called others to see me, scientists and thinkers, and made such a fuss and a bother that I would have given them my other eye to let me alone. By the Mother, they drove me crazy! I fled from them finally. I am no god, Gilgamesh, and I am no archetype. I am only a simple man of the Pleistocene, and—”

  “The what?”

  “It is what the scholars call the time when I lived. The time when ice covered everything and the shaggy animals were still alive.” Vy-otin laughed. “Pleistocene. You see? Their silly words infect me. Prehistoric. Do you think we thought of ourselves as prehistoric? Mere grunting beast-men? That was not what we were. We had poetry. We had music. We had gods. Aurignacians, that is their name for us. It means nothing to me, that name. Archetype.” Vy-otin shook his head. “I fled, and I hid from them. And now I call myself Henry Smith, and I pretend I am Later Dead, so that the scholars can’t annoy me any longer—the deep thinkers, the philosophers who would tell me what I am. Let them study someone else. Let someone else be prehistoric for them. Let someone else be an Aurignacian archetype.”

  “You don’t look Later Dead, Vy-otin.”

  “No?”

  Gilgamesh smiled. “Not to me. To me you look like a one-eyed Ice-Hunter chieftain dressed up in Later Dead clothing. A barbarian just like me. You look—Pleistocene. You look—what is it?—Aurignacian. Definitely an Aurignacian. You look like an archetype, Vy-otin. Do I say the word correctly? An archetype.”

  Vy-otin smiled also, but without much warmth. “Be that as it may,” said the Ice-Hunter, sounding a little testy. “I will not play their game. And woe betide you, my friend, if you should find yourself some day among a pack of philosophers. They’ll give you no peace; and by the time they’re done with you you won’t be sure of your own name.”

  “Perhaps so,” said Gilgamesh. “In the Outback once I met a poor crazy man of the Later Dead who mistook me for one Conan, an ancient warrior, who he said was something called a Cimmerian—not Sumerian, Cimmerian—and wanted to worship me, or worse. What a sad fool he was! It was more of that archetype business, I think.”

  “They are all such fools, these modern men,” Vy-otin said.

  “But foolishness was not invented yesterday,” said Gilgamesh. “We had our share of it in my time. Possibly so did you.”

  “Indeed,” said Vy-otin.

  Gilgamesh stared thoughtfully at his old friend, and suddenly found himself wondering about his own gods, Sky-father An and Enlil of the storms and Enki the compassionate and all the rest. Had they once been only men themselves—warriors, priests, kings—and been turned by time and human gullibility into these lofty remote creatures, these archetypes? If he wandered the Afterworld long enough, would he find the true originals of the gods of Sumer the Land gathered in some tavern in the City of Dis, drinking deep and laughing lustily and telling each other tales of the good times before the Flood?

  That was not something that he cared to think about.

  In silence once more they walked back toward the feasting-hall.

  Gilgamesh said, “So this is the advice that you had for me? That I should keep away from philosophers?”

  “That, and being on your guard against Dumuzi.”

  “Yes. Yes, that too. But I should fear the philosophers more, if your experience is to be any guide. Swords and daggers I can handle. But buzzing men of words? Pah! They madden me as much as they do you!” He saw Herod now, coming out of the feasting-hall looking much the worse for his night’s carouse. The little Judaean leaned woozily against the intricate reliefs of the hall’s dark facade and drew breath again and again, and rubbed his eyes, and ran the back of his hand across his lips. His white Sumerian robe was stained with wine, his skullcap was askew. “Do you see that one?” Gilgamesh asked. “He traveled with me from Brasil. Words, all words! Give him an ear and he’ll buzz at you for hours. No more courage than a flea. And yet he claims he was a king once too.”

  “Gilgamesh?” Herod called, shading his eyes in the glare. “There you are, Gilgamesh!” Walking in an uncertain way, as if he expected his ankles to give way at any moment, he came toward the Sumerian and said, “Been looking for you. Can I talk with you?”

  “Go on.”

  Herod glanced uneasily at Vy-otin. He said nothing.

  “What is it?” Gilgamesh said.

  Herod said, still uneasy, “I’ve managed to pick up some information this night. A few things that ought to interest you.”

  “Speak, then.”

  “Your mother’s friend? The man who wants to paint you?”

  With mounting impatience Gilgamesh said, “Well, what about him?”

  “He goes by the name of Ruiz here. But do you know who he really is, Gilgamesh? He’s Picasso!”

  “Who?”

  “Picasso. Pablo Picasso!” Herod, bloodshot and stubble-faced as he was, seemed almost apoplectically animated. “He’s trying to hide from some ex-wife or ex-girlfriend, that’s why he’s going under another name. But one of Dumuzi’s courtiers told me who he actually is. Isn’t that fantastic? Of course you’ll let him paint you, won’t you? He’ll turn you into a masterpiece the likes of which the Afterworld has never—” Herod paused. “You aren’t impressed. No, you aren’t, not at all. You don’t even know who Picasso is, do you? Only the greatest Later Dead artist who ever lived! I’ve studied these things, you know. Later Dead art, music, architecture—”

  “Is it not as I told you?” Gilgamesh said to Vy-otin. “An endless buzzing. A torrent of words.”

  “All right, you don’t care,” said Herod sulkily. “Let him paint you anyway. I thought you’d be glad to know who he was. But that wasn’t the most important thing I wanted to tell you.”

  “Of course not. You save what is important for last. How considerate. Well, speak, now!”

  But again Herod was still, and looked uncertainly toward Vy-otin.

  “This man is my dear friend and brother Henry Smith,” said Gilgamesh. “I have no secrets from him. Speak, Herod, or by Enlil I’ll hurl you as far as—”


  “Enkidu is in Uruk, just as the Knowing foretold,” Herod blurted hastily.

  “What?”

  “The big rough-looking man, the one you seek. Your friend, the one you call your brother. Isn’t that Enkidu?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “The courtier told me—an Assyrian, he is, name of Tukulti-Sharrukin, very drunk. Enkidu appeared here last week—perhaps the week before, who can tell? Anyway, he showed up in Uruk and went right to the palace, because he had heard a rumor you were here, or had had a dream, or—well, whatever. He thought you might be at the palace. But of course you weren’t. He kept asking, Where is Gilgamesh, where is Gilgamesh? He should be here. Dumuzi became very upset. He didn’t like the idea that you might be anywhere in the vicinity.”

  Gilgamesh felt a thundering of excitement within his breast. “To Hell with Dumuzi. Where is Enkidu now?”

  “The Assyrian wasn’t sure. Still here somewhere. A prisoner somewhere in Uruk, that’s what he thinks. He promised to find out for me and let me know tomorrow.”

  “A prisoner?” Gilgamesh said.

  “By the Tusk!” Vy-otin bellowed. “We’ll find him! We’ll free him! By the Mother! By the Horns of God! A prisoner? Enkidu? We’ll tear down the walls of the place where he’s kept!”

  “Gently,” Gilgamesh said, putting a hand to Vy-otin’s shoulder. “Stay calm. There are ways and ways to go about this, Vy-otin, my friend.”

  “You told me his name was Henry Smith,” said Herod softly.

  “Never mind about that,” Gilgamesh snapped. To the Ice-Hunter he said, “Haste would be wrong. First we must find out if Enkidu is truly here, and where he is, and who guards him. Then we approach Dumuzi, carefully, carefully. He is a weak man. You know how one must deal with weak men, Vy-otin. Firmly, directly, taking care not to send them into panic, for then they might do anything. If he slays Enkidu out of fear of me I could be another thousand years finding him again. So we must move slowly. Eh, Vy-otin? What do you say?”

  “I think you are right,” the Ice-Hunter said.

  Gilgamesh turned to Herod. A pitiful little man, he thought. But a clever and a useful one.

  “A good night’s work,” he said, smiling warmly. “Well done, King Herod! Well done!”

  “This will be your mask,” Picasso said. “Here. Here, put it on.”

  He moved about the big, ugly underground room like some chugging little machine, rearranging the heaps of clutter, kicking things out of his way, pushing them aside. Gilgamesh looked at the mask that had been thrust into his hands, puzzled. It was as ugly as everything else in this room: a massive bull-snout of papier-mâché, with huge black nostrils and great jutting square teeth. There was one staring red eye along the left side and another on top. Short sharp curved horns made of wax protruded at peculiar angles. Clumps of thick crinkly black fur were glued to it everywhere. A sour smell rose from the thing. He was supposed to fasten it, apparently, by tying the cord that dangled from it around his throat.

  “You want me to wear this?” Gilgamesh asked.

  “Of course. Put it on, put it on! You will be my Minotaur!” Picasso waved his hands impatiently. “I made it today, especially for you.”

  Only a day had gone by since Dumuzi’s feast. The mask, hideous though it was, was highly elaborate, surely the product of many days of work. “How is that possible?” Gilgamesh said. “That you could have made this so quickly?”

  “Quickly?” Picasso spat. “Cagarruta! What do you mean, quickly? That mask took me more than an hour!”

  “You are a sorcerer, then.”

  Picasso laughed, and went on clearing space in the studio.

  Gilgamesh put the mask aside and wandered around the room, peering at the paintings stacked against every wall. They were horrifying. Here was a woman with two faces on one head, and it was impossible to tell whether she was looking straight at you or showing you the side of her head. Here was a picture that was all little boxes, that made your eyes jump around until you wanted to weep. Here were three monsters with mocking faces. Here, a woman with three breasts and teeth between her legs.

  The shapes! The colors! No one had ever seen such scenes, not even in the Afterworld. Surely there was some witchcraft being practiced here. In old Uruk, Gilgamesh thought, he would have ordered these paintings to be burned, and the painter to be driven from the city with whips. And yet he found himself beguiled despite himself by these works. He could sense the little man’s powerful and playful mind behind them, and his formidable strength of will.

  “Are you a sorcerer?” Gilgamesh asked.

  “Por favor. The mask. Put it on.”

  “A demon of some sort?”

  “Yes,” said Picasso. “I am a demon. The mask, will you?”

  “Show me the picture you have made of my mother.”

  “It is not finished. It keeps changing. Everything keeps changing. I will put the mask on you myself.” Picasso crossed the room and snatched it up. But he was too short; Gilgamesh rose above him like a wall. “Dios! What a cojonudo monster you are! Is there any need for you to be so big?” He shoved the mask upward toward Gilgamesh’s chin. “Put it on,” he said. “Ahora a trabajar. It is time for us to work, now.”

  He said it quietly, but with great force. Gilgamesh slipped the mask over his face, nearly gagging at first at the stink of glue and other things. He tied it behind his neck. There were slits through which he could see, though not well. Picasso beckoned him to a place under the bright, intense electrical lights and showed him how he wanted him to stand, arms upraised as if ready to seize an onrushing enemy.

  “All these other pictures, you have painted using models?” Gilgamesh said, his voice muffled and rumbling inside the mask. “They are things you have actually seen?”

  “I see them in here,” said Picasso, tapping his forehead. He lit a cigarette and stepped back, staring at Gilgamesh so unwaveringly that the power of that keen gaze felt like the pressure of cold knives against the Sumerian’s skin. “Sometimes I use models, sometimes not. Lately more often than not, because of the difficulties. I tell myself that the models will help, though they do not, not very much. This place, this Afterworld, it is shit, you know? It is mierda, it is cagada, this whole place is un gran cagadero. But we do what we can, eh, King Gilgamesh? This is our life now. And it is better than the great darkness, the big nada, eh? Eh, king? Hold your arms up. The legs apart, a little. Thrust forward from the hips, as though you are going to stick it into her, eh, just as you stand there.” He was painting already, swift broad strokes. Gilgamesh felt a quiver of uneasiness. What if this really was some kind of sorcery? What if Picasso could capture his soul and put it on that canvas, and meant to leave him locked up in it forever?

  No, he told himself. That was nonsense. The little man was just what he said he was, a painter. A very great painter, if Herod could be believed. There might be a demon inside him, but it was the same kind of demon that once had been in Gilgamesh, that had driven him onward to go everywhere, see everything, learn everything, devour everything. I understand this man, Gilgamesh thought. He and I are very similar. The difference is that in the Afterworld I have grown quiet and easy, and this one still burns with the restlessness and the hunger.

  “You were always a painter?” Gilgamesh asked.

  “Always. From the cradle. Don’t talk now, eh?”

  How casually he orders a king around, Gilgamesh thought. Just a little bald-headed man wearing only a pair of ragged baggy shorts, sweat running down the white hair of his chest, a cloud of cigarette smoke surrounding him, and he has no fear of anyone, of anything. It was not hard now to see how he had captured Ninsun. This man, Gilgamesh thought, could probably have any woman he wanted. Even a queen. Even a goddess.

  “Do you know?” Picasso said, after a long while. “I think this time it will work. The painting holds. The others, they turned in my hand. This one holds. It is the charm of the Minotaur, I think. The bull rules in the Afterworld! I am a bull. You are a
bull. We are in the arena all the time. I could not become a matador, so I became a bull. The same with you, I think. It makes no difference: the power of the bull is in us both. In your city, did they fight the bull?”

  “I fought one once,” Gilgamesh said. “Enkidu and I. It was the Bull of Heaven, with the power of Father Enlil in him. He was let loose in the city by the priestess Inanna, and ran wild and slew a child; but Enkidu and I, we caught him, we danced with him, we played him, we fought him down. Enkidu wearied him and I put the sword in him.”

  “Bravo!”

  “But it angered the gods. They took Enkidu’s life, by way of revenge. He wasted away and died. That was the first time I lost him; but I have lost him again and again here in the Afterworld. I am doomed to search for him forever. It is our fate never to be together very long. That man is my brother; he is my other self. But I will find him again, and soon. They tell me he is in Uruk, a prisoner. You may have seen him, perhaps—he is just as tall as I am, and—”

  But Picasso did not seem to be listening any longer. He was lost in his work, and in some private distant dream.

  “The bullfight on Sunday,” he said, as though Gilgamesh had not been speaking at all. “How you will love it! We will sit together in the seat of honor, you and I. Sabartés has found a matador of whom I know nothing, but perhaps he will be good, eh? It is very important that the matador be good. Mere butchery, that is shameful. The corrida is art. Lift the arms, yes?”

  He has not heard a word of what I said to him about Enkidu, thought Gilgamesh. His mind went elsewhere when I spoke of killing the Bull of Heaven. He hears only what he wants to hear. When he wants to hear, he listens, and when he wants to talk, he talks. But in his soul he is the only king. No matter, Gilgamesh thought. He is a great man. His greatness shines about him like the light from a polished shield. And Herod is probably right: he is a great painter also. Even if the only things that he paints are monstrosities.

  “It goes well,” Picasso said. “The image holds true, you know? The power of the bull. No cubism today, no blue, no rose.” His arm was moving so quickly now that it seemed to be not a single arm but three. His eyes were ablaze. Yet he gave no appearance of haste. His face was fixed, still, expressionless. His body, but for that one unceasing arm, seemed totally relaxed. Gilgamesh ached to see what was on that canvas.