Ishtar Read online

  ISHTAR

  Edited by Amanda Pillar & KV Taylor

  Published by Gilgamesh Press

  Östra Promenaden 43

  602 29 Norrköping

  Sweden

  http://www.gilgameshpress.com

  Cover Design copyright Amanda Pillar 2010

  Typeset in Garamond

  Published by Gilgamesh Press in November 2011

  The Five Loves of Ishtar copyright Kaaron Warren

  And the Dead Shall Outnumber the Living copyright Deborah Biancotti

  The Sleeping and the Dead copyright Cat Sparks

  The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

  All those characters in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  KINDLE EDITION, LICENCE NOTES

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  THE FIVE LOVES OF ISHTAR: KAARON WARREN

  AND THE DEAD SHALL OUTNUMBER THE LIVING: DEBORAH BIANCOTTI

  THE SLEEPING AND THE DEAD: CAT SPARKS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  INTRODUCTION

  I suppose it makes sense to those who know me that I would choose to start a publishing company focusing on questions of Assyrian literature, identity, culture and concerns. And even more obvious for those in the know (are you tapping your noses yet?), that I would choose to publish a book about Ishtar, Assyrian goddess of love and war (at least in most circles) when considering that Gilgamesh Press' mother company is Morrigan Books, its figurehead Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of love and war.

  What is maybe not so obvious is that the company has the name Gilgamesh Press and not Ishtar Press, as that would have seemed the most logical and was, actually, the original name for the imprint before the tragic murder of my brother-in-law at the Swedish University of Örebro, 2007. Gilgamesh Press then became the only alternative for the company but the question of Ishtar still remained. For she is a goddess who just will not go away.

  I had an idea regarding the ubiquitous goddess from an ancient civilisation, whose people are still spread all over the globe to this day, a nation without a country to call their own. Yet Ishtar is not worshipped by them, cast aside due to the appeal of Christianity, the irony of this being their fate at the hands of the non-Christians in their respective five countries that make up the Mesopotamia of old. Yet how do I see Ishtar, far from her home and her people, a bitter goddess, angry at her followers' dismissal of her? Would she fade into obscurity or would she fight tooth and nail to ensure her comeback?

  This made me think of three periods of time, leading to three novellas, which would make up a book: Ishtar's time (that of the old Mesopotamia), Ishtar in our time (21st Century Earth) and Ishtar in our future (undefined). Easy job completed, now I just needed the authors.

  Here I wanted to be traditional in one way and pick three women writers who could write these stories with Ishtar in mind. Two jumped into my head straight away: Kaaron Warren and Cat Sparks, both of whom I had read extensively and both of whom I have a lot of respect for and would love to see on the cover of the debut book from Gilgamesh Press.

  Due to the fact that both Kaaron and Cat are Australian meant it made some sort of sense to choose another Australian author to make up the triumvirate. I had two in mind, two authors whose work I had read and had enjoyed but I had a little trouble deciding which one would fit best with the others' styles. And so I left it up to them, I sent Cat and Kaaron a mail, giving them both names and asking them which they felt could work on the third story with them. The same day both of them had replied with the same answer: Deborah Biancotti and we were off. Ishtar or rather Red, Hot and Bad (our working title) was begun.

  Kaaron was keen on writing the first tale of the three, being as she was interested in the culture and mythology and would need to do the most research for her story. Cat was very interested in a futuristic Ishtar story and Deborah was more than happy to take the modern story.

  Suffice to say the three of them exceeded my expectations of what the book was going to become, each story a fantastic interpretation of one of the most interesting mythological figures in our history. In part due to the exquisite writing of the authors but also thanks to an impressive partnership in Amanda Pillar and KV Taylor, editing the stories and making sure the book works as a whole.

  That is, quite simply, what has happened and this is a book that can be enjoyed by both those with some knowledge of the mythology and those who have no idea and, dare I say, have no major interest in this area of mythology.

  I sincerely hope you enjoy the book and the stories within and hope that this, in turn, leads you to delve a little deeper into the Assyrian culture. Whatever happens and whatever you read after this, know that you are about to read one damn fine book.

  Mark S. Deniz

  November 2011

  THE FIVE LOVES OF ISHTAR

  BY KAARON WARREN

  My goddess Ishtar had five great loves in her thousand years of living. Many lovers; so many even I lost count, I, who can tell you the number of girdles in every household in the city. But five men she loved, and five times she risked all for love.

  ****

  TAMMUZ: 3000 BC

  THE WASHERWOMAN SHAROKIN

  I washed Ishtar’s clothes in a stream, the waters high and cold after a winter of rain. She would complain if her robes weren’t clean, but she did not have her fingers turned to frozen blocks. People who don’t do the work don’t understand the work. Not even a goddess.

  The air was warm though, and filled with the scent of flowers; spring rains had begun and so we were assaulted with beauty. The pollen made me sneeze, but the colours, after the drab winter, made me sing.

  I was looking my best, apart from my red, cracked hands. My hair was sleek and clean. The warm breeze brought colour to my cheeks. Kuttumu, to veil a woman, may also mean to shut a door, but I didn’t find wearing a veil so confining. I loved the freedom of being able to choose. I was lucky to have both; veiled and high class when I was with my mistress, low class and loose when I was not.

  I splashed my face with the chill spring water, and my eyes felt sparkling and clear.

  Downstream was a small flock of sheep. They were good looking creatures. Black of face, their wool the pale colour of sesame seeds. I watched them as I washed, happy for a distraction.

  Their shepherd was hunched over, washing his feet in the stream. He stood up and stretched. Tall, strong and bare-chested, his skin tight against his muscles, the sight of him took my breath away. I covered my head, hoping he would glance over and see a respectable woman.

  I thought of how sensitive his skin must be, how pleasure bumps would form if I ran my fingers over his chest.

  He called to his sheep, a deep roar. They moved from the water and gathered at the greenish edge of the meadow. He walked amongst them, and for a moment, I could not tell his feet from theirs; his seemed cloven, too.

  I worked, using rocks to remove the stains from the goddess’ clothes. Perhaps I worked with more passion on this day, hoping he would look. If Ishtar were to walk in the pastures, this beautiful man would fall to his feet with desire for her.

  My mistress was bronze in colour. Or copper. Or burnt gold. Her legs long
and strong. Was I the only woman to have seen her naked, as she stood, hands on hips, demanding her jewelled robe?

  All men fell to their feet. They didn’t care that she was cruel and murderous. They didn’t care that she couldn’t cook or clean.

  She had people to do that for her.

  I heard the shepherd laughing and looked up to find him watching me. “You are doing a very good job washing those clothes, though I’m wondering if your mistress will be able to wear them again.”

  I smiled. My tongue felt numb and my brain empty of words.

  “Who is your mistress?” he asked me with such intensity it seemed like a lightning bolt.

  I thought he already knew the answer. “I serve the goddess Ishtar.”

  He nodded. “And you will help me win her.”

  I had told him Ishtar likes clean clothes, but he did not listen.

  “You are Tammuz? The Green One? I have heard nothing good about you,” Ishtar said.

  “They know me as Damuzi as well. They think I am two separate people, one hateful, one loving. One handsome, one ugly. One hard, one soft. I am all in one. But I am Tammuz; Tammuz is the name I am.”

  “You are a shepherd. You stink of sheep grease.”

  “Ah, but how soft are my hands?”

  “Your hands are coarse like you. I couldn’t tell them from a cat’s tongue.”

  “Let me stroke you, goddess, and tell me if you still confuse me with a cat.”

  Ishtar had spent some time as a shepherd girl when I was young. I didn’t wash for her alone then, but for the whole gang of sheep herders. Why were we there? Because her father the moon god wanted to teach her humility.

  “I am the goddess of love and war; what need do I have for humility? The humble don’t change the world. The humble would live in the dirt. The humble do not build homes. The humble don’t live forever.”

  No need to gloat, I thought. Ishtar shed homes like a snake does its skin. Sometimes it galled me that she would live for long after I had died, and that perhaps my daughter would serve her, and my grand-daughter, and so on for a thousand years.

  All we learned during our time with the shepherds was that they are like all men; kind and cruel in parts.

  Tammuz said to Ishtar, “You have not seen beyond my sheep.”

  “You have failed then. Not me. Ishtar is never wrong.” She touched her own chest gently.

  Tammuz pressed her against his cedar tree, the mother of all others. Seeded at the beginning of time, it watched over us.

  Ishtar placed a finger on his forehead and pushed him back.

  “This is my mother!” He smiled. “Aren’t you ready to meet her?”

  “This is not the place to seduce me,” she said.

  Tammuz had an animal reek which filled your throat and your gut. He made my whole body pulse when he was close. I’m sure he did the same to Ishtar, but she kept him away. She knew she could reject him from afar, as a mere shepherd, but if she stood close she would fall back, wet and ready, and he would be the happiest man in all existence. He was blinded by her. He could have anybody, but he wanted her, who would take him and destroy him. The dust of his death; I could already see it around his feet.

  Ishtar wasn’t interested in death. Death was war, war was death, and she considered both to be consequences beyond her control.

  Leaving him with his mother, the cedar tree, we walked towards the market.

  “What of Tammuz?” I asked. “When will you reveal yourself to him? Are you worried about him seeing you in your underwear?”

  A woman in her underwear reveals all. Ishtar was ashamed of her third breast and still worried it would turn men away. But what man would turn from Ishtar?

  “I could ask my sister to make you some new underthings. Something clever, with flaps and hooks, which will leave your parts hidden if you want them to.”

  Ishtar stopped in her stride and turned to look at me. “You are more to me than a washerwoman. You know that, don’t you?”

  It was the greatest thing a god ever said to a mortal in all existence past and future.

  Tammuz had his chance when Ishtar heard of a woman with a difficult pregnancy in the next village and we went to help.

  Ishtar strode ahead, never looking down, so she did not see the scorpions, the Zuqiqipum or the snakes, the swarms of them in the desert. Her footsteps showed in the sand, but she walked without touching any creature; perhaps they crawled away at her approach. I walked as close to her as possible, yet still the Zuqiqipum scrabbled over my toes. At least they didn’t bite; that is a terrible death to endure. You feel so ill you never want to eat again, and the sweat will soak the ground at your feet. Your heart beats like the fluttering of a bee’s wings, and your mouth is filled with spit. You vomit, and shit runs down your legs. Then you fall to the ground and shake uncontrollably until you die.

  It’s believed a drop of alcohol on the back will send a Zuqiqipum mad; they mistake the feel of the arrack for fire, of which they are mortal afraid. They will sting themselves to death rather than burn.

  This woman had been pregnant for a year or more. This happened. It is said such women gave birth through their stomachs, though they always birthed alone, isolated, and would not talk about it.

  This woman would not birth alone.

  Ishtar called Tammuz, the Green One, to her. “This woman is ready to feel the quickening, and the sight of you, the smell of you, may bring movement to her womb.”

  It was arid and we trained ourselves to need less water or wine or beer, yet Tammuz took three huge draughts of ale, needing courage.

  Dressed as a midwife, Ishtar entered in a golden glow, bringing calm to the birthing room. She stood at the mother’s left side. “Your baby sits to the right,” she said. A boy.

  Tammuz entered the room, wary of so many women, so much sweat. Ishtar tugged his sleeve. “Come closer. Let her smell you.”

  He took small steps to the mat where the woman lay, tired, drained. He leaned over her, opened his lips and kissed her forehead wetly. She groaned. He stroked her hair, her left arm; he ran his fingers through the damp hair in her arm pit. Her breathing quickened and she pushed herself up.

  Ishtar snaked her arms around Tammuz’s waist and pulled him away. “You’ve finished here.” She kept her arms around him.

  He pulled her out of the room. She was red-cheeked; she had momentarily forgotten why she’d come.

  I followed them to the doorway and said, “Goddess, this woman needs you.”

  Tammuz looked at me as if I were an ugly old woman. I wanted to take his hand, suck his fingers, take his loving so that he forgot Ishtar.

  She returned to where the woman lay huge on the floor. Ishtar squatted beside her. The woman cried, “I’m so scared. My sister told me about a woman who was torn from cunt to breast, ripped open. My aunty told me about a woman whose baby got stuck and died drowning in the mother’s own blood. I heard about a woman who was in such pain she threw herself from a window and killed herself, her baby and the three children she landed on. I heard...”

  Ishtar placed a finger across the woman’s lips. “These are stories women love to tell. Perhaps it is because they know you will feel great pain, the pain a man will never feel, and want to prepare you for it.”

  Then Ishtar quietened her by speaking of the ritual of birth. It was like a meditation, a calming list, a symbolic story. “You are steering a boat loaded with perfume, cedar, cedar fragrance, carnelian and lapis lazuli. The boat stops by the quay of death and the quay of hardship. My father, the moon god, waits for you there and will decide if it should carry on.”

  Lapis lazuli and carnelian as a combination were mostly seen at funerals. I think Ishtar evoked their combined image to warn of death, to let the mother know that she may not survive. Ishtar was a believer in being prepared.

  “Ishtar, help me,” the woman groaned.

  “I beg my father for your safe passage and that he will see your future. He will see strong boys for g
enerations, warriors. Soldiers. He sees our land safe because of your boys. He gives you safe passage.”

  The baby was part way through; its face was blue, her muscles tightened around his neck.

  Ishtar pressed gently on the woman’s stomach and the baby slipped out. The mother groaned; another came out when Ishtar pressed, then another, the last, a scrawny scrap of a thing no bigger than the spread of two small hands.

  Ishtar threw back her robe and suckled all three, one each to a breast, while the midwives attended the mother.

  “Why must we beg your father to keep our birthing mothers, our newborns safe?” one of the midwives asked. “Why does he make it so difficult?”

  “My father doesn’t like pregnant women because they have no moon blood. Moon blood is his; it fills him with fire.”

  Ishtar saved the three boys because they would be needed in war. They would all die in battle, but would add so much to the world. They would keep a hundred people alive by their existence and their courage; those people hundreds more. They would worship Ishtar for saving them and help her cult grow. I would not see this, but my descendants would. I wished I could.

  Tammuz waited for Ishtar outside. He was shirt-less, shining.

  “You take these birth clothes home to wash,” she said, not looking at me. Her lips were swollen and she was covered with sweat.

  I carried the huge bundle of filthy clothes on my back, bent forward with the weight.

  “Grass stains, Ish?” I said when she returned. When she was tired I liked to talk to her. She didn’t get angry when she was tired.

  “I visited with my shepherd.” Her voice was soft, as if she spoke through three layers of cloth.

  “That must have made him very happy at last.” I wanted details. My hands were rough as tree trunks, my skin like waxy dust; I did not have lovers lined up to worship me. “I thought you did not like the shepherd. You said he smelt of wool. That he was greased up and slippery.”