“You are indeed godly, a Queen of Heaven!” Ninsubar said. “The king will be enchanted by your divine appearance.”
“The king, I am told, is greatly weakened,” Ishtar said. “His sins cry to Heaven!”
“But of all men, you love him the most!”
“I loved him, but he has rejected me, and stolen from me Anu’s tablet. . . . I have put a curse on him, on Gilgamesh!”
They could now hear the approaching music and singing.
“Will you let him be?” Ninsubar asked.
“The curse, Ninsubar, cannot be undone. To forever seek life and never find it, I have fated him!”
Ninsubar looked puzzled “How can he search forever, and not forever live?”
Ishtar nodded her head. “That, indeed, is a puzzle for fate to solve.”
16
When Astra opened her eyes, the first thought that occurred to her was that she was dead, and the next thought, that she was buried alive.
The place was utterly dark and totally silent, and cold. She wanted to turn her head but couldn’t, for it was heavy and aching and her neck was stiff. She tried to move her hand but there was an uncommon weariness in her limbs and a stiffness in her fingers—a numbness as that which follows a blocking of circulation. She was lying on her back, and feeling so immobile, she tried to move her lips, to utter a word so that she might know whether she was dead or alive. Her lips, however, were dry and cold, and could not be shaped to utter a coherent sound. But she did let out a kind of a groan, and then knew she was alive.
Alive . . . but where?
I must move, she thought, but she couldn’t. With much effort she began to twiddle the fingers of her hands, and after a while she felt circulation returning to them, and then to her arms. Straining, she slowly raised her arms and touched her face with her hands. The touch felt reassuring and she began to rub her cheeks.
The action reduced the numbness in her face and now she could also move her head from side to side, and this relieved the stiffness in her neck. She dropped her hands to her sides and felt about, and realized she was lying on a bed. Shifting her body in a slithery movement she began to slide out of the bed. As her feet stuck out enough to bend and touch the floor, she discovered that she was entangled in some ropes, a kind of a net. She muttered a swear word, wondering what a stupid net of ropes was doing in a bed.
It was at that moment that a flash of memory crossed her mind: she lay in a hammock . . . there was a man, a naked man. She was rocking, to and fro, to and fro. . . . There was a warmth, spreading upward in her body. . . . It was a warmth, an inner glow. . . .
She shivered. Now, she was cold. There was no warmth, no inner glow. Was it a dream?
She slipped out of the bed and stood up. Her feet touched a cold floor. A chill passed through her body and there was another flash of recollection . . . A room. A room filled with artifacts. A lyre. There had been lyre music . . .
But now there was utter silence. Without moving, she looked around. In one place she noticed a glimmer of light and she made her way carefully toward it. When she reached the spot, her extended hands touched a curtain. With an uncertain hand she pulled it aside. There was a window behind the heavy curtain and the light struck Astra’s eyes as a hammer’s blow. She closed her eyes and, dizzied, held on to the curtain in order not to sway. Then she opened and closed her eyes several times, blinking until she got used to the light.
She turned around and looked at the room. There was a lyre, there were other artifacts. A canopied bed. There was a man on the bed, lying on his side, his face pushed against a pillow. Eli, she recalled. He brought me up here. Last night.
Last night? Instinctively she looked at her wristwatch. It was twenty to nine.
It was then that she realized she was entirely naked save for a gauzelike, see-through robe. The man in the bed was naked as well.
“Damn!” Astra muttered. “I must’ve spent the whole damn night here. And now I’ll be late for work.”
Eli didn’t answer. No wonder the poor fellow is exhausted, Astra thought. We must’ve screwed around the whole night!
She found her clothes strewn on the floor and dressed in a hurry. How the hell do I get out of here? she thought, seeing that Eli was still fast asleep. Now that she had gotten used to the light and could even distinguish the dim parts of the room, she noticed the elevator and a female figure in it. She walked over and saw a lifelike statue, and another memory flashed through her mind. Ishtar, the goddess. . . . Eli was telling her things, ancient things. . . . She saw it all in a dream after she had fallen asleep . . .
She touched the features of the statue.
“Hey, Eli!” she cried out to him. “Guess what! I dreamt that I was a goddess, like this statue. . . . I was Ishtar, and you were a king—Gilgamesh!” Her shout should have awakened Eli, but it didn’t.
Now Astra felt annoyed. She pushed herself into the elevator beside the statue and pressed a button, then another, but nothing happened. She was getting mad at the prospect of being late for work and was frustrated by feeling caged in.
She stepped out of the elevator and went toward the bed.
“Come on, mister!” she shouted to Eli as she got closer to him. “It’s bugle time! Just get up and let me out of here!”
He ignored, or didn’t hear, her loud words, and she grabbed his hand and pulled it a few times to awaken him. As she let go of his hand, it fell back limply on the bed. What’s going on here? Astra thought, apprehension beginning to overtake her. She shook Eli a few times and when even that didn’t help, she bent over, and with some effort turned him over on his back.
His eyes were open but glazed. He was not breathing, though his mouth was half-open. His penis was erect and blue, dark blue. She felt his pulse; there was none.
He was dead.
“Oh my god!” Astra cried out as she stepped back, horrified.
For a few moments she contemplated the dead body, undecided what she should do. She knew had to get out, but how? Frantically she looked about the room again, noticing for the first time a doorknob in one of the walls. She rushed there, and from close up she could see that the wallpaper was laid to make the door indistinguishable. She turned the handle and pulled and the door opened, revealing stairs leading down. It was dark beyond the top stairs, and she felt her way down carefully until she came upon a door at the bottom. She opened it and went through, and saw she was back in the sitting room, which she now recalled from the evening before.
The bluish light that had engulfed the room then was gone, but some light infiltrated from behind heavy curtains and Astra made her way toward it. She looked for her jacket and handbag and found them on the armchair where she had sat. On impulse, she sat down again in the chair.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember what had taken place in this room the evening before. Her host, now dead, was talking to her, showing slides. . . . What was he telling her? She remembered Baalbek, her childhood, a sixth finger. . . . He spoke to her at the museum, she accompanied him here. . . . They drank a nectar. . . . She opened her eyes. Yes, the glasses were still here, on the side table. She had felt an inner warmth, a floating away. And then? What then? There was a dazzling scent that went with these recollections, but her sense of smell now reported back an odor of mustiness, and the new odor interfered with the lifting of the fog over her memory.
She looked about the room, trying to regain her bearings. There was the slide projector, another anchor for memories. Yes, he had told her about the statue. . . . They went upstairs. . . . It was the night of the Sacred Marriage . . .
The musty smell overwhelmed her and she felt a chill. Was she remembering correctly or was it all an illusion? Had she dreamt it all?
She shook her head, picked up her belongings, and made her way toward the stairs. The bluish light that had lit up the stairwell last evening was out, but there was enough daylight coming through narrow windows at alternate landings so that she could find her way. Reaching
the exit door she almost stumbled on a pile of papers strewn on the floor. The door was locked, but she found the latch with groping hands and unlocked it. She turned the handle to open the door but it didn’t budge. Frantically Astra pushed against it, and the door opened on a heave.
In the light, she could see that the pile she stumbled on was made up of letters and magazines, which had evidently been thrown in through the mail slot in the door. As she stepped into the alley, closing the door behind her, she noticed the number “6” on it. As she reached the corner, she noticed the street sign: Coptic Mews, off of Coptic Lane.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Astra muttered, wondering whether these were all mere coincidences.
It was still—or again—drizzling, and Astra remembered the hat and coat she had left in the museum the night before. She went to pick them up, but was stopped by a guard at the iron gates.
“The place isn’t open yet to visitors,” he said. “Only readers can come in now.”
“I’ve just come to pick up my hat and coat. I left them last night.”
“All right,” he said, taking a good look at her. “Come on in.”
As she crossed the courtyard she couldn’t help thinking of the previous evening; how she had walked through this very courtyard with a total stranger. Did he really believe in a destiny that would take us both back to ancient Sumer, or was it just an ingenious way to lure me into his bed? She nodded her head in disbelief at her own trusting naïveté, shrugged her shoulders, and went up the stairs.
At the checkroom, she produced the plastic chit she had been given the evening before.
“I’m afraid I left my hat and coat here last evening,” she said to the attendant. “Could I have them, please?”
“Why, sure,” the attendant replied. He went back to the racks, and a minute later returned. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but there’s nothing left on this number. Besides”—he looked at her inquisitively—“all the chits for this number are in place. When did you get it?”
“Why, I told you,” Astra said. “Last night, when I was here for the Gilgamesh exhibit.”
The attendant looked at Astra askance. “The Gilgamesh exhibit? There was no such exhibit here last night. Are you sure you’re not mixing us up with some other gallery?”
“Come on,” Astra said nervously. “I’m not crazy, you know. I left my hat and coat here; I checked them in for the exhibit!”
Baffled, the attendant called out to one of the museum guards.
“Hey, Charlie,” he shouted, “there’s a lady here says she was here last night for a Gilgamesh exhibit. Know anything about it?”
The guard came over. “A Gilgamesh exhibit?” he said, staring at Astra. “Yes, we had one, but not last night. It must’ve been at least a year ago!”
“A year ago?” Astra exclaimed. “It was last evening, here, at this museum!”
“Yes, you’re right, Charlie,” the attendant said. “I remember it now. It was about this time a year ago. They were serving drinks at the coffee shop. . . .”
“This is crazy!” Astra exploded. “Either I get my hat and coat or I talk to a supervisor!”
“Take it easy, Miss,” the attendant said, glancing at the guard. “Whenever it was, your hat and coat aren’t here, and no chit is missing here either. Now, take back your chit and call Lost and Found at the Metropolitan Police. It’s where we send stuff left behind too long.”
“There’s a phone right there, behind the partition,” the guard added, pointing.
Uncomprehending, Astra took the chit back and went where she had been shown. She fished for a coin in her handbag, then remembered she did not need a coin to call the police.
“Which emergency do you require?” an operator answered.
“Police.”
There was some clicking and a deep male voice identified himself as Sergeant Watson, Metropolitan Police.
“I want to report a death,” Astra said, hesitation in her voice.
“A violent death?”
“Oh no . . . it’s a man who died . . .”
“What’s your name, Miss?”
“His name was Eli . . . Elios, that is.”
“I need your name and address. Where are you calling from?”
“Yes . . . number six, Coptic Mews . . . there’s a dead man . . .”
“How did he die? When?”
Astra did not respond.
“Hello there, Miss!” the sergeant said urgently. “Do you know when the man died? Today? Yesterday?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Astra whispered. All of a sudden, her voice trailed off and the phone dropped from her hand. She had caught a glimpse of someone familiar over by the coat rack. It was Eli. Had he seen her?
She closed her eyes and opened them again. When she did, he was gone.
About the Author
One of the few scholars able to read and interpret ancient Sumerian and Akkadian clay tablets, ZECHARIA SITCHIN (1920–2010) based his bestselling The 12th Planet on texts from the ancient civilizations of the Near East. Drawing both widespread interest and criticism, his controversial theories on the Anunnaki origins of humanity have been translated into more than 20 languages and featured on radio and television programs around the world.
About Inner Traditions • Bear & Company
Founded in 1975, Inner Traditions is a leading publisher of books on indigenous cultures, perennial philosophy, visionary art, spiritual traditions of the East and West, sexuality, holistic health and healing, self-development, as well as recordings of ethnic music and accompaniments for meditation.
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Copyright © 2013 by the Estate of Zecharia Sitchin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sitchin, Zecharia.
The king who refused to die : the Anunnaki and the search for immortality / Zecharia Sitchin.
pages cm
Summary: “Zecharia Sitchin’s secret allegorical novel that brings to life the key concepts of his best selling book The 12th Planet”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-59143-177-0 (hardback) — ISBN 978-1-59143-755-0 (ebook)
1. Human-alien encounters—Fiction. 2. Gilgamesh—Appreciation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.I835K56 2013
813'.6—dc23
2013021061
Electronic edition produced by
www.antrikexpress.com
The King Who Refused to Die Page 27
