To Kurnugi, land of no return,

Ishtar daughter of Sin was determined to go;

The daughter of Sin was determined to go

To the dark house, dwelling of Erkalla's god,

To the house which those who enter cannot leave,

On the road where travelling is one way only

These are the first six lines of a rather intriguing Akkadian myth. Written in the late Bronze Age, this poem has survived the test of time, albeit not in its entirety, and is now available for the curious and learned alike to read through and enjoy. It was also the first story I was able to correctly translate from Akkadian cuneiform to English with few errors during my study at university.

Myth has always intrigued me; whether it be the daring exploits of the temperamental Thor or the mystical descent of star chasers in Native American lore, from I was a child, the stories our ancestors told to explain the world around them and to entertain each other have always held a special place in my heart. But specifically, my interest lies in Mesopotamia and the Levant. Collectively known as the Ancient Near East in academic circles, this region houses some of the earliest stories ever put to paper... Or, in some cases, pressed to clay. Entire narratives of gods and men before the concept of good and evil became so formulaic.

I taught myself to read hieroglyphs when I was in high school, stayed abreast of archeological excavations through to college, even had the first chapter of Genesis memorised for the longest time. I've always been intrigued with how these stories came to be, what events inspired these tall tales humans in our distant past told each other around campfires, at threshing floors, and in humble homes.

Now let me be clear, I'm not saying these stories themselves have any truth to them. The chances of the likes of Ea, Nergal, or Ra rushing to and fro over the Earth at any point in Earth's history is literally zero; but all these stories branched off from somewhere, and it's always been a fascination of mine to trace the inspirations through the cultures further and further back. That is the truth I seek.

I'm sorry if the last few paragraphs have felt rather dull, but I don't wax poetic about this love of mine for no reason. In fact, you know me, Rodgers, and you know what I do for a living so it may even seem redundant to share my background and my passion. But I have to set the stage. I have to put you in the same mindset I am in every day. I have to, because you need to understand just what it meant to me when he entered my library.

The man was large. His bullish frame easily filled up the entry doorway of my humble library and he was easily half a head taller than me. His skin was tanned and wrinkled from not just the sun but age, and his hair was white – again, likely from both. He wore an eclectic mix of khakis, denim, and cotton with a rough-worn canvas rucksack slung over one shoulder and a leather satchel just as distressed hanging at his hip. He also wore a smile that added creases to his cheeks. All in all, he gave the impression of a world traveller or even an explorer. A real Indiana Jones-type.

"Are you the man in charge?" His booming voice held both confidence and warmth and his eyes seemed to sparkle behind the round lenses he wore.

I told him that I was indeed the sole proprietor of this rather obscure nook and started to exchange introductions when he approached me with heavy footsteps and slapped his hand down on my desk. This caught me by surprise and I quickly shut my mouth; after all, you know that I'm an introvert at heart. I can't even get through interviews with prospective employees without having a mild panic attack. As I collected my wits to help the customer, he eyed a few of the shelves.

"The Houngan's Folly, the Book of Works... You even have a few abridged volumes of the Illuminated Collection." He listed off a few of the books in my care and nodded his head approvingly. "Seems I've come to the right place!"

 His joviality was infectious and I couldn't help but smile with the realisation that he, like me, seemed to be interested in the esoteric and ancient. "How can I help you, sir?" My heart finally was back to a more normal rhythm and I'd remembered my manners.

"I was in Syria on some personal business and found myself at a private dig site on the border of Iraq, near Anah." As the man spoke, I felt my heart rhythm increase again, but for a different reason. It seemed my initial assumption about the strange man was correct. He was some sort of archaeologist. I couldn't help but lean in as I listened to his tale. "The site itself had been abandoned for the day, but one of the locals led me along the edge of the excavated area to a small cave that had been uncovered. You would not believe what I saw peeking out from the recently disturbed desert sands."

Enraptured, I couldn't help but fall for the man's ploy for my participation. "What?" My breath had nearly left my body so the question came out as a whisper.

The bull of a man's grin shifted from excitement to mischievousness as he paused for a few seconds, obviously relishing in the moment of being the centre of my attention. Finally, when he could tell I take the suspense no longer, he reached for the rucksack hanging from his massive shoulder and gingerly placed it atop my desk. His eyes shone as he grabbed the latch to the main compartment and spoke one word: "Tablets." He undid the latch and my heart stopped.

Three clay tablets carefully swaddled in thick cotton cloths and bubble wrap slid out of the main pocket and onto my table. They were no bigger than a sheet of paper each, but I'd studied these sorts of things in school and knew their weight well. That he was carrying three of these dense, paper-sized things on his back was no small feat and spoke volumes on the man's strength. I stared at them, mouth agape, for longer than I'd like to admit.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

"Go on, pick one up," the large man urged.

So I did. 

I picked up one of the tablets in both hands and felt its heft. Definitely, heavy. I carefully pulled the cloth to the side and squinted through the bubble wrap. I was able to make out a few of the characters etched into the clay, but not enough to read what had been written on it thousands of years ago. "Have you had them dated?" I asked.

"As best they could be," the man replied. "A few experts placed them in the 14th century B.C.E., though that estimate was conservative." He tilted his head. "They said it is very well possible that some are older than the 17th."

I looked up at him in shock. "That would make them older than the texts found at Ugarit!" I exclaimed. "In fact, that would make them a downright revolutionary find! On par with Assurbanapal's library!"

He shrugged as if indifferent to the potential history he had in his possession. "Like I said, the conservative estimate places them at around the time of the Ugaritic texts themselves... Which is more likely in my humble opinion." Though as he said this, our eyes locked and I could see a spark that he was simply putting up a front: he believed the wilder date. He chuckled a bit as I turned the tablet over in my hands. "Go ahead and open it up."

I looked back at the tablet and placed it carefully back down before taking out a pair of disposable gloves from under my desk. With shaking hands, I uncovered the first tablet. I'd laid eyes on ancient tablets before. Just recently, when I was in America two years ago, I'd had the great fortune of handling the Ras Shamra tablets housed at Claremont Graduate University's Institute for Antiquity. So I was no stranger to ancient tablets, but to be holding tablets that likely hadn't seen the light of day since at least the 1500s BCE filled me with a sense of awe.

"Well?" the man asked me expectantly. "Can you read it?"

Now I realised just why this strange man had come into my humble shop and graced me with this once in a lifetime experience: he needed a translator. "But... your experts?" I inquired. "You said you'd had it dated. Wouldn't they have also translated the texts?"

He shook his head. "I'm asking if you can read it, Mr. Collins. I'm not asking about them." It was the first time his voice took on a tone other than wonder. He spoke with seriousness and a slight impatience, and I didn't want to try his patience any more. He was looking down at the tablets now with a firm furrow in his brow. "Can you read it or not?"

I swallowed and nodded as my social anxiety started to bubble up. "I can," I promised in a quiet voice. "Just give me a bit of time." I traced over each indent on the first line in the clay tablet with my finger. It took a few moments before I started making sense of the etchings and soon the first line was revealed to me. "It's... a sort of receipt or listing of names." I paused as my eyes jumped to the next line and deciphered the text. "Yes, a listing of names for grain."

As you well know, Rodgers, one of the earliest reasons for writing was to keep account of legal matters and at my fingertips was a hitherto undeciphered list of people who'd purchased grain from a particular land owner. I was scarcely through the second tablet when Vincent placed another before me, one he'd taken from his breast pocket.

"And this one?" he inquired. "What does this one say?"

My eyes brushed over the newly shown piece and I frowned. The writing was similar enough to cuneiform, but there were a few strokes that seemed out of place as well as a few unfamiliar symbols. The item itself seemed to be but a shard from a much larger tablet. I took the thing in my hands and did my best to read it.

"This is not normal Cuneiform text. Closer to Canaanite, it seems. There are some foreign characters here, too, but..." And then I translated what it read. Here, see I have recounted it below, Rodgers:

On Anat, El's Judgement is cast.

On the Mistress of the Peoples,

El's decree is against.

Where the sun never rises and Twilight remains,

Where battle sounds clang and rest is not found,

Anat is made to go.

As I finished translating the shard, the reality of what I'd just read hit me and perhaps now my quote at the top of my email makes more sense. I was ecstatic, Rodgers! I looked up at my companion and no doubt the glee on my face was apparent as I spoke. "This... this is a descent myth. A Canaanite descent myth, like the Descent of Ishtar! I've never heard of such a thing. These really ought to go to academies! They should be studied and preserved!"

The man's smile had already returned and he gave a knowing nod. "Preparations are already underway. I have a few of them scheduled for transport to Cambridge for further study while some others will be travelling across the pond to Miskatonic." He started to pack up the other five tablets that were still wrapped.

"You don't seem all that surprised by the contents of the tablets," I pointed out. "And you're not asking for details, either." I eyed him suspiciously. "You already had these translated, didn't you?"

He continued carefully packing up. "It seems you are quite the perceptive fellow. Yes," he admitted. "The wrapped tablets had already been translated, with some difficulty, and their contents made known to me. This was a test."

"A test of what?" I asked carefully. "And what about the shard?"

"A test of your knowledge and skill. And open-mindedness" He wrapped up the first tablet I'd translated and placed it inside his rucksack with the rest, then slung it back over his shoulder. His hand went to his pocket to store the curious shard and came out with a small card. "Here you are, Mr. Collins. I do have a few more pieces that have yet to be translated and I feel that you're the man for the job."

I took the card and gave him a confused look. A test of my knowledge and skill but to what end? If he had some at his disposal who could translate the tablets already, why did he specifically seek out me? And what about my open-mindedness? I looked at the card and saw it had an address in neatly typed cursive font. The bell for the front door rang and my eyes darted to the front. The bull of a man had opened the door to exit. I quickly called out to him. "Wait! I didn't get your name!"

"Flip the card over, son," he answered warmly with a hint of teasing.

I did so and read the name in the same neat and cursive font. "Vincent Manacur?"

He nodded. "I will see you tonight at my home an hour after sunset. Sharp!"

I weakly nodded and watched the strange man retreat to a dark car parked on the side of the road. A minute later he had pulled into traffic and was out of sight. The thudding behind my ribcage subsided as I looked back at the card and memorised the address. I may have calmed, Rodgers, but adrenaline was still rushing through my veins. Just what had I agreed to do? Regardless, my friend, I am excited to see just what this Vincent fellow wants me to look over. I'm so curious to know why he wants to keep it secret. But don't worry, I promise to fill you in with all the juicy details in my next email.

Your friend,

Woodrow Collins