With the words of the Breweress ringing in his ears, He gripped his heavy axe, slid his trusty knife from its sheathe and crept downward toward the camp of the Stone Men through the gathering pines.
Having stalked like the lion to within pouncing distance, He dashed among them with a mighty roar which rang through the forest.
The Boatman, Slave of The-Wise-One, saw the sheen of the great knife blade, saw the bronze of the massive, burnished axe-head flash in the sunlight, and stood stunned in a daze.
Fear seized the ancient hearts of the Stone Man crew—they too, hesitated like the faun startled by the lion’s roar. Gape-mouthed and dull-eyed they stood as He fell upon them, smashing, slashing and bashing them all to pieces. They died, chipped, broken and shattered, only to be hurled forever into the depths they had plied—downward they sank, forever The Great Deep drank.
From the sorrow-filled water’s edge, He came back into the camp, now empty of its bustling occupants and stood before the Boatman, who was aghast and scathingly asked, “Who are you? Tell me your name. I am The Slave of The-Wise-One, the slave also of He Who Found Life, known as The Distant One.”
“I am Gilgamesh, king of great-girded Uruk. I have journeyed here over high mountains, through the hidden Underground way from where The Sun rises. Show me the way to The Distant One”
The Boatman said, “By your own hands have you blocked your own passage. In your fury you have smashed the Stone Men who crewed my boat, immune to the Waters of Death.”
He stood crestfallen, haven aided his own curse.
“Do not despair,” said the Boatman, “There is another way. Cut with your axe three hundred poles, each a hundred feet long, strip them, make grips and bring them to me. I will wait.”
He went into the forest and did as the Boatman said. Together they boarded the boat with three hundred barge poles, each a hundred feet long, and sailed off across The Great Deep.
For three days and three nights they sailed, a six week journey for mortal men, finally reaching the Waters of Death on the fourth day.
The Boatman directed Him, “Take care and with the first pole push us along without touching the Waters of Death. When the end of the first pole is behind you, let it go and take up the next, until you have used all three hundred poles and the Waters of Death are behind us.”
After the three hundredth pole was discarded, He took the Boatman’s robe and held it up for a sail with widespread arms. When the wind filled the sail the little boat pushed on toward the shore.
