Beneath the Garden of the Gods, where the Great Deep crashed its waves, the Breweress sat, her face veiled, her golden pot-stand and brew-vat by her side.

A man of godlike proportions, worn from long trekking, haggard with sorrow, dark with anguish, approached her.

The Breweress thought, “How direct, how desperate he is—he comes for me, a murderer by his look!”

She darted like a mouse into her tavern, barred the door, and hurried to the rooftop.

He stood glowering in wrath before the door. Hearing the woman upon the roof he looked up and saw her peering down at him.

His shout was like a lion’s roar, “Why have you barred your door? I shall enter, shall batter down your door unless you show some hospitality!”

The Breweress answered, “You look the Wildman—why should I not bar my door and take to the roof? Tell me your name and declare your destination.”

“Gilgamesh, king of Great-Girded Uruk, the man who killed Humbaba in the Cedar Forest, the man who slew the Bull of heaven—I am He!”

The Breweress asked, “Why are you so gaunt of form, hollow of cheek, so frost-bitten by the wasteland, so burned by the desert sun, worn down and spent? Why does such grief ache within you, Oh King? Why have you embraced the journey harsh?”

Woefully, he answered:

“Should not my cheeks sink, should not my face be worn, scoured and burnt?

“Should not this heart ache?

“Should not I be worn and spent?

“My friend, my close companion, my brother, whom stood by my side through every peril—even against the gods—Enkidu, whom I loved, the doom of mankind overcame him.

“For six days I forbid his burial, trusting in the very fury of my grief to revive him. For six days and seven nights I mourned him. Then a maggot fell from his nose and I shrank, fear-filled, before Death. I cannot bear the passing of my wild friend, so I have set out to roam the wild, to find his wild place.

“My true friend has turned to clay. I would not also fall into the dust never to rise.”

She spoke, “Where you roam, Gilgamesh, you shall not find the life eternal you so seek. The gods created mankind and also Death, holding eternal life for their own. Humans are born, they live, they die, according to the eternal order. While you live enjoy life, spend it in joy not despair. Savor your food, delight in the day, bathe and anoint your body, dress brightly in clean, crisp clothes, with music and dance filling your home, loving the child who holds your hand, embracing the woman who bore him in pleasure. This is the way a man should live.”

Gilgamesh raged, “Your words do not lift my grief, Breweress, behind your tavern eve. What can your words mean to me who grieves for his dead companion? Show me the way to The Distant One. I shall span The Great Deep if I can. Failing that, I shall roam the wilds, grieving, alone.”

The Breweress, safe upon her tavern roof, said, “No path is marked upon The Great Deep, nor has any human succeeded in crossing the watery abyss. Only The Sun, brave and bright, as he climbs through the sky, may traverse The Great Deep. Who else could do such a thing?”

He remained stubborn in his grief, glowering.

“The crossing is fraught with peril and midway spreads the Waters of Death, whose touch kills. Even if you sail that far, how might you survive the Waters of Death?”

He remained adamant, unshakable in his resolve.

The Breweress relented from her tavern eve, “There is Slave of The-Wise-One, the Boatman who crosses the waters between this eternal garden and the garden set aside for The Distant One, whom the gods so blessed.

“Slave of The-Wise-One is working down in the pine forest now, harvesting branches to rig his boat. Go to him. Ask. He is guarded by the Stone Men. If he agrees, you may go forth. If he declines, you must turn back.”

Beer, in ancient Mesopotamia, was an important method of preserving the barley harvest and of intoxicating the populace, who largely led lives of labor-intensive misery. The beer was drunk communally from a large clay pot, with the drinkers seated around it, sipping through long reed straws.