The Blade of Gilgamesh. Jeff Edwards
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an instant, and it was not until much later that the hunters were able to piece together their individual recollections.
There was another mighty crash of sound. This one was much louder than those that had gone before. A streak of fire flashed across the sky and they were all thrown off their feet as it slammed to earth at the head of the valley.
The fiery demon struck a tree whose trunk exploded, as did the rock face behind it, and then the top of the destroyed tree toppled slowly into the stream, its twisted branches now blocking the maddened animals in their efforts to escape.
Kront and his men lay cowering in fear as more and more fiery missiles crossed the sky, and the earth continued to shake with their passing.
At last all was still, and as Kront rose to his feet he saw that the herd continued to wheel in a demented mob at the entrance to the valley. One stood apart from the rest, staggering slightly, and Kront could see his spear protruding from the animal’s side.
With his clan’s desperate plight still utmost in his thoughts the hunter moved silently until he was between the wounded animal and the rest of his thrashing companions. Giving no thought to his dangerous position Kront then ran toward the wounded animal with his arms waving and yelled loudly.
The already skittish animal’s eyes were wide in fear as it wheeled away from this new danger and rushed directly into the path of Kront’s men.
Spears pierced the wounded animal’s flanks and the unfortunate cow soon lay bleeding on the river’s bank. Two hunters held the cow down while Kront slit its throat.
‘What about the rest of the herd?’
‘We have no need of more meat. Leave them. Right now, they’re too dangerous to approach. We’ll come back when they’ve calmed down. Divide this one up and we’ll leave.’
***
The return of the hunters was a time of great joy to the entire clan.
Not only had they managed to survive the wrath of the sky gods, but they had returned with enough food to ensure their survival.
Kront led the assembled clan to a place of shelter not far from the entrance to the hidden valley, and ordered the women to set up cooking fires.
As the lifesaving meat was being readied Kront took the opportunity to return to the river and make his way back through the gorge.
The younger sister of his dead companion was outside the camp gathering wood and saw him go and she wondered where was up going. Curious, she decided to follow.
***
Where the fallen tree had blocked the hidden valley Kront climbed up onto the shattered trunk and studied the lush meadows beyond.
‘The cattle will still be restless. It would be foolish to go near them,’ said a woman’s voice.
Kront turned and nodded to her, ‘I was looking for my brother’s body.’
‘There’ll be time for that later, when the cattle are calm. Our first care must be for the living.’
‘Our journey has been long and hard and my heart is heavy with our losses. I want to honour his bravery.’
‘And we will. Tell me what happened?’
Kront described the hunt, how it had gone wrong, and how the gods had interceded on their behalf...
‘The gods did this to the tree?’
‘Yes.’
‘They are indeed powerful.’
‘Even the rocks were smashed. See,’ he said pointing to the shattered rock face.
The woman moved over to the blackened and pulverised rock. ‘There’s something in there,’ she said, pointing to the centre of the impact zone.
Curious, Kront joined her and could also see something strange embedded in the rock. He used his flint knife to sharpen a nearby branch and began to gouge away at the blackened rock. Eventually he managed to manoeuver the pointed stick under the mysterious object and lever it free. The shiny orb flew out of its resting place and dropped into the stream where it shone brightly as the sunlight reflected off its smooth sides. Excitedly, the woman scooped it up.
‘I’ve never felt anything like this before,’ she whispered in awe as she handed the small wet object to him.
Kront studied the mysterious thing which now lay in the palm of his hand. It was the size of a grown man’s thumb and as it caught the sunlight it threw the sun’s rays back in such a way that it hurt the hunter’s eyes. Kront closed his large hand over the object and found that it was incredibly hard. Far harder than the hardest wood he had ever come across, and much smoother. Pebbles from the stream were this smooth but this mysterious object absorbed the heat of his hand unlike any piece of rock he had ever held.
Kront opened his fist again and turned the object over. The woman beside him gasped.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Look at it closely,’ she said in wonderment. Slowly she reached out and touched the rounded parts, ‘See, this is her head, and these are her milk filled breasts, and that is her swollen stomach, full of child.’
Kront could see then what the woman saw. It did indeed look like the head and body of a pregnant woman.
‘It is a gift from the gods, a sign of fertility,’ said the woman with great reverence, ‘Our clan has lost much lately but the gods have also seen fit to give us much in return.’
Kront nodded, ‘The gods have trapped the cattle. Our clan will be able to live for many seasons upon their flesh.’
‘I believe what the gods have given us here is the promise of fertility. If we kill only when we have need and allow the rest of the cattle to survive they will give birth to more animals and we will never go hungry again.’
Kront nodded in admiration at the woman’s wisdom, ‘I wonder if the promise of fertility is for the women of the clan as well?’
The woman gave a throaty laugh and placed a hand on Kront’s arm, ‘I have lost a sister and you a brother. If I hold the sacred object in my hand as you enter me, we’ll call on the gods to make me fruitful.’
Kront smiled, ‘Spread your legs woman. What the gods wish of us must be determined.’
‘I’ll call on them to plant in me a hunter as mighty as his father.’
20 April, 1986
Today was the first time Muammar Gaddafi had dared to call together his most senior councillors for discussions about the future of his regime. Up until this morning he had been forced to remain hidden, along with his family, in a secret bunker on the outskirts of Tripoli and had been forced to communicate with his staff by phone.
After the attack, he had vented his anger on the United States by ordering Scud missiles to be fired at a US Coast Guard station on the Italian island of Lampedusa, but unfortunately these had missed their target and crashed harmlessly into the sea.
When no second attempt had been made on his life, and with the world press now debating whether the US attack was an act of undeclared war or a justified act of revenge, he had finally decided to emerge from hiding.
The meeting was carried out in his palace in central Tripoli, in a room designed to look exactly like the interior of a Bedouin tent, and his ministers were seated in a group facing their leader while lounging on thick pillows.
‘The response to your televised speech has been subdued,’ advised one of his oldest and closest friends, ‘and the renaming of country to the Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriyah has been met with scepticism.’
‘I don’t care. We must show the world that we were the victims in this matter, and that we won’t take their aggression lying down. What about the bodies?’
‘We assembled them