“Look,” he says, “I’m sorry for reminding you of this, but if we still had laws, the Mafia would be a criminal organization.”
“But we don’t have laws,” she says, “so it’s just another chain.”
“Fine, all I’m saying is, they may not be doing this for the benefit of humanity.”
“And why are you in here, holed up with this geeky daemon?” she says, gesturing at the Librarian. “For the benefit of humanity? Or because you’re chasing a piece of ass? Whatever her name is.”
“Okay, okay, let’s not talk about the Mafia anymore,” Hiro says. “I have work to do.”
“So do I.” Y.T. zaps out again, leaving a hole in the Metaverse that is quickly filled in by Hiro’s computer.
“I think she may have a crush on me,” Hiro explains.
“She seemed quite affectionate,” the Librarian says.
“Okay,” Hiro says, “back to work. Where did Asherah come from?”
“Originally from Sumerian mythology. Hence, she is also important in Babylonian, Assyrian, Canaanite, Hebrew, and Ugaritic myths, which are all descended from the Sumerian.”
“Interesting. So the Sumerian language died out, but the Sumerian myths were somehow passed on in the new languages.”
“Correct. Sumerian was used as the language of religion and scholarship by later civilizations, much as Latin was used in Europe during the Middle Ages. No one spoke it as their native language, but educated people could read it. In this way, Sumerian religion was passed on.”
“And what did Asherah do in Sumerian myths?”
“The accounts are fragmentary. Few tablets have been discovered, and these are broken and scattered. It is thought that L. Bob Rife has excavated many intact tablets, but he refuses to release them. The surviving Sumerian myths exist in fragments and have a bizarre quality. Lagos compared them to the imaginings of a febrile two-year-old. Entire sections of them simply cannot be translated—the characters are legible and well-known, but when put together they do not say anything that leaves an imprint on the modern mind.”
“Like instructions for programming a VCR.”
“There is a great deal of monotonous repetition. There is also a fair amount of what Lagos described as ‘Rotary Club Boosterism’—scribes extolling the superior virtue of their city over some other city.”
“What makes one Sumerian city better than another one? A bigger ziggurat? A better football team?”
“Better me.”
“What are me?”
“Rules or principles that control the operation of society, like a code of laws, but on a more fundamental level.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That is the point. Sumerian myths are not ‘readable’ or ‘enjoyable’ in the same sense that Greek and Hebrew myths are. They reflect a fundamentally different consciousness from ours.”
“I suppose if our culture was based on Sumer, we would find them more interesting,” Hiro says.
“Akkadian myths came after the Sumerian and are clearly based on Sumerian myths to a large extent. It is clear that Akkadian redactors went through the Sumerian myths, edited out the (to us) bizarre and incomprehensible parts, and strung them together into longer works, such as the Epic of Gilgamesh. The Akkadians were Semites—cousins of the Hebrews.”
“What do the Akkadians have to say about her?”
“She is a goddess of the erotic and of fertility. She also has a destructive, vindictive side. In one myth, Kirta, a human king, is made grievously ill by Asherah. Only El, king of the gods, can heal him. El gives certain persons the privilege of nursing at Asherah’s breasts. El and Asherah often adopt human babies and let them nurse on Asherah—in one text, she is wet nurse to seventy divine sons.”
“Spreading that virus,” Hiro says. “Mothers with AIDS can spread the disease to their babies by breast-feeding them. But this is the Akkadian version, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want to hear some Sumerian stuff, even if it is untranslatable.”
“Would you like to hear how Asherah made Enki sick?”
“Sure.”
“How this story is translated depends on how it is interpreted. Some see it as a Fall from Paradise story. Some see it as a battle between male and female or water and earth. Some see it as a fertility allegory. This reading is based on the interpretation of Bendt Alster.”
“Duly noted.”
“To summarize: Enki and Ninhursag—who is Asherah, although in this story she also bears other epithets—live in a place called Dilmun. Dilmun is pure, clean and bright, there is no sickness, people do not grow old, predatory animals do not hunt.
“But there is no water. So Ninhursag pleads with Enki, who is a sort of water-god, to bring water to Dilmun. He does so by masturbating among the reeds of the ditches and letting flow his life-giving semen—the ‘water of the heart,’ as it is called. At the same time, he pronounces a namshub forbidding anyone to enter this area—he does not want anyone to come near his semen.”
“Why not?”
“The myth does not say.”
“Then,” Hiro says, “he must have thought it was valuable, or dangerous, or both.”
“Dilmun is now better than it was before. The fields produce abundant crops and so on.”
“Excuse me, but how did Sumerian agriculture work? Did they use a lot of irrigation?”
“They were entirely dependent upon it.”
“So Enki was responsible, according to this myth, for irrigating the fields with his ‘water of the heart.’”
“Enki was the water-god, yes.”
“Okay, go on.”
“But Ninhursag—Asherah—violates his decree and takes Enki’s semen and impregnates herself. After nine days of pregnancy she gives birth, painlessly, to a daughter, Ninmu. Ninmu walks on the riverbank. Enki sees her, becomes inflamed, goes across the river, and has sex with her.”
“With his own daughter.”
“Yes. She has another daughter nine days later, named Ninkurra, and the pattern is repeated.”