A critical review of “Whom The Telling Changed”, an interactive fiction by Aaron Reed.

“Whom The Telling Changed” is an interesting and unique entry in the genre of interactive fiction, written by Aaron Reed. Typically, a lot of interactive fiction is characterized by puzzles, of which there really aren’t any in this game. And even those works of IF that don’t specifically involve puzzles usually involve the player taking on the role of the protagonist and experiencing and guiding the story (like a Choose Your Own Adventure book). Reed does something different here.  In this work, the actual “story” being told is from the Epic of Gilgamesh, the story of how Gilgamesh and Enkidu fought the demon Humbaba. But the “story” in this work involves the player taking on the role of a warrior in the village, who helps to direct the story being told by the village’s storyteller. Just to say this upfront, this critique is based on a single playthrough of the game. Further playthroughs would definitely offer further insights into how the story works, and just what the ramifications are of certain choices you make.

This is the aspect of the work that probably does set it apart from typical IF games, while still maintaining a lot of the benefits of interactive fiction and digital writing. Essentially, each time you play through the story, you will have a fair amount of control over the direction of the story, and what it means. For example, when the demon Humbaba cowers in fear and begs not to be killed, you have a choice whether to say you think it is a cowardly act, or wise to try and avoid death. With a storytelling method like this, it is important to not let the player be too confused about what they need to type at any given time (or more accurately, what they can type). Fortunately, Reed adopts an approach where certain words from the story are emphasized, so you can always have a fairly clear picture of what your choices are. In practice, sometimes it is very clear what typing a word will do, but other times it is not. For example, you might have “afraid” as a keyword, but the impact of talking about being afraid might not always be what you expect. There were times when I brought up a word expecting one thing, only to have my character react another way.

A good example of this occurs near the end of the game:

The warrior leader steps out of the darkness and bares his teeth. “You
will give us half your sheep,” he says in a strange, harsh accent, “and
half your grain. You will gift us these things or we will take them,
now.” The men behind him grip their spears tightly.

>gift
“A gift under threat of force is no gift,” you say. “It is a ransom.”

The warrior leader looks at you defiantly. “I care not what you call
it,” he says dangerously. “But if you do not bring it, now, I shall
become angry.”

>angry
You try to speak, but angry hands hold you back as expectant faces turn
to hear Sihan.

“It is dark, and the sky storms,” Sihan says reasonably. “Can we not
discuss this in the sun’s bright rays?”

“If we had come in the day you would have seen us three miles off, and
we would receive only the points of your spears when we arrived,” the
leader says. “No; we will talk now.”

>spear
The enemy looks to be about an even match–but perhaps they will respond to a show of force.

>even
“Your spears are of fine make,” you say, “not so different from
ours. I think if our peoples were to fight, it would be a very close
battle.”

The warrior leader’s face stays fierce, but you see in his eyes he has
thought the same. “We would not take this path,” he says with heavy
tones, “were there any other way. But the spear is the only way we have
in this strange land where our shepherds cannot catch sheep.”

Lightning flashes across the bodies of the enemy warriors, who stand for
an instant in brightest light before thunder and darkness settle over
them once again.

>shepherds
“The skill to catch these sheep can be taught,” you say. “We
will teach you. Come in peace, and we will teach you to catch the sheep
and share our grain with you.”

A twisted smile crosses the leader’s face. “We have heard such offers
before,” he says, a bitter edge shaping his voice, “to come unarmed and
helpless to the homes of enemies with sharpened spears and cruel
daggers. Do you think us fools?”

>offers
“You have heard other offers such as this before?” you say. “So
this is not the first innocent village your people have set upon this
way. Perhaps we will prove stronger than those you have met in the
past.”

The warrior leader’s face darkens and he grips his spear tightly, but
Sihan steps forward. “This braggart does not speak for us,” she says,
and many in the crowd mutter their assent. “We do not wish to leap to
hasty action. Let us discuss this matter around our fire.”

>listen

The fire smokes and hisses as rain falls on it.

Sihan steps forward.

“We do not wish you harm,” she says quietly. She bends down and places
her spear at the feet of the warrior leader.

“You are brave,” he says after a time, looking away for a moment and
licking his lips. He focuses on your people. “And clear-headed,” he
adds. “Perhaps… perhaps there are things we can learn from you.”

He steps forward and places his spear on the ground. As he straightens,
a wave of sighs moves through the circle, a release of tension in both
strangers and neighbors.

The leader of the warriors looks upon you with stoic pride. “I am
Arkab,” he says, “and these are my people.”

When the story is about to finish, a tribe of newcomers enters your village bearing spears, demanding half of your village’s sheep. When you initially refuse to meet their demands, they explain that their shepherds cannot catch sheep, and you are able to offer to help them catch sheep. In response, they say that they have heard offers like that before that turned out bad for them.  One of the highlighted words was “offers”. I ended up using this word, because I expected it would make me offer to help them again. Instead, it made my character respond by saying that if they’ve heard “offers” like this before than they have threatened other innocent villages, and that we should try and attack them instead. The only problem I had with this really is that it wasn’t what I intended, and there wasn’t an obvious clue that this would become a threatening response. Aside from this, I was made to feel like I made a wrong choice – the storyteller told me that I had a chance to take action and I didn’t, but I am not sure where that was. It seems like I still influenced the game though; the people as a whole agreed with what I was pushing them towards, seeing that it would be wise to avoid fighting these newcomers. Perhaps that is the point, but I would need to play through it again and try making different choices.

One thing to note is that this work, like many other works of IF, offers an “undo” feature. Looking back on it, I could have simply “undone” my choice of “offers” to see what another choice would do. However, at the time I forgot about this because I was so engrossed in the story that I forgot about the “game” aspect of it. This is probably another sign of the success with which Reed draws the player into the story and makes them forget it is a game.

In terms of judging a work like this, I think it can be judged in multiple ways. Unlike some works of IF, this can probably be judged in ways closer to a standard story. This isn’t a game where you have to solve puzzles, and it isn’t even really a game where you have to explore.  It is solely about having this story told, and directing how it is told and the effect it has on you and the town. When I played through it, I consciously tried to take a peaceful route (perhaps because I was trying to be “good”, and perhaps also because you are described as a warrior, and it felt interesting to “go against type”. I’m sure that this is something the writer had in mind.)

So, with a work like this, there are multiple questions to ask. Is this something that benefits from its digital format?  I think the answer to that would clearly be yes.  If this were a simple linear story, you could probably convey much of the same information, but the reader would not get to control or shape how the story is told. As I mentioned, I approached this story with a peaceful goal, but it would be easy to replay this game and focus on saying things like “Enkidu was a coward for being afraid”. And I definitely got the feeling at the end that the aspects of the story I chose to focus on, and the interpretations I offered helped to ensure that our village didn’t go to war with the newcomers. I think this is one of the most interesting characteristics of this story, that it is very much about letting you influence the story – not just the telling, but how the story affects the rest of the village. This is clearly a good example of a work that could not really be told in a clear linear fashion. At best, you could perhaps have a short story that followed along one path, and then follow it up with an “alternate telling”. But even here, you would be much more limited, and would not be able to emphasize the debate as much as it does in this interactive fashion.

Finally, this work can be judged based on how well it works in drawing the reader in and making them care about the character and the story. I think this is an area where it is absolutely successful. When I first started it, I actually wasn’t really very engaged. I already had a sense of the basic game mechanic from reading about it, but I wasn’t sure quite what to expect. At first, it did feel very linear, and I wasn’t sure where things were going. As the storytelling gets underway, and especially as you start to see the effect that your choices make, I found that it became very engrossing, and I actually began to care about what choices I made – I think part of why I played it by trying to emphasize wisdom and peacefulness was because I didn’t want there to be a battle between the villagers and the newcomers. I think that this is a sign of a truly effective piece of writing, interactive or not.

One last thing I’d like to note; one of the most interesting mechanics of this work is the fact that oftentimes, you can and are even encouraged to NOT make a choice. There are times when all you can do is “listen” to hear more of the story, and other times where simply listening might be a wise decision. Looking at the other game actions available, you can also praise or mock. I didn’t use these, but it seems like it would be interesting to see how praising and mocking during the storytelling (and perhaps mocking or praising other characters who speak up) would change things. Again though, these are all interesting choices to offer, and change the gameplay experience from the typical puzzle-heavy game.

I’d highly recommend playing the game – at Aaron Reed’s website for “Whom The Telling Changed” you can download the story file and an interactive fiction interpreter for Windows or the Mac – or you can even play it online. I’ve gone ahead and included the complete transcript of my playthrough below, so you can see just one example of how I played through. The release notes for the game also provide interesting insight into what Reed was going for. Finally, Reed also has a link to a very interesting analysis of 72 player transcripts of the game. With a piece of interactive fiction, it can be invaluable to look at how various people played the game…. how many people asked for help or instructions, how many people made certain decisions, etc. One of the challenges in writing interactive fiction is anticipating how different people will approach it, so this analysis provides some useful insight.

But overall, I think Reed was very successful at what he set out to do, and “Whom The Telling Changed” is a great example of the possibilities offered by interactive fiction and multi-linear storytelling.

Update: I’ve posted a follow-up to this critique based on a second playthrough. Playing through a second time revealed some more options for how you can effect the story in trivial and serious ways. Clearly playing through more and more and taking different approaches will reveal further depth to the story.

Update 2: I’ve posted another follow-up based on a third playthrough, which revealed even more about how the game works and how to have a very different effect on the game.

Transcript Of My Session With “Whom The Telling Changed” by Aaron Reed:

“He found the knowledge at the heart of the universe;
Returned, and cut his story into stone…”
– The Epic Of Gilgamesh
W H O M T H E T E L L I N G C H A N G E D
By Aaron A. Reed

Release 2

(Press any key to continue)

Would you like instructions?> y

I am your eyes and hands within the story. Direct me with commands such as EXAMINE THE BAG, GO OUTSIDE, LISTEN, or FIGHT HIM. Single word shorthand like FIGHT or BAG will often suffice. Some single words will be highlighted to bring them to your attention. Type them to shape the story to your will; some of the possible choices will be seen in the header bar above. Time only advances when you give a command or type LISTEN, which it is sometimes wise to do.

Other useful commands include REPEAT, to remember what was recently said; STORY to see the choices you have made; INVENTORY to see what you are holding; WAIT to let the time pass; UNDO to take back your last turn; and GREET, MOCK, PRAISE, TALK TO or ASK ABOUT to interact with characters.

More information about this story is available by typing ABOUT.

Press any key to continue.
‘Whom The Telling Changed’ makes use of emphasized words to indicate useful options to pursue. Typing one of these words helps to advance the story in the direction you desire. Please choose a style of emphasis which displays clearly on your interpreter:

1) The emphasized words appear in this fashion.
2) The emphasized words appear in this fashion.
3) The EMPHASIZED words appear in THIS fashion.
4) The emphasized words appear in this fashion.
5) Emphasis off.

Select a number> 1
Style set. You may change this setting using the STYLE command.

Note that you are not limited to typing emphasized words to interact with the story. Other actions may be open to you at any time.
Press any key to begin.

The people have always gathered on moonless nights to hear the telling, since the time of your ancestors’ ancestors. The heat of the fire and the glow in the storyteller’s eyes make the past present, and the path to the future clear. Tonight the stars are bright, but the minds of your people are troubled. May the words of the telling guide your way.

———–

The walls of your tent glow yellow in the lamplight, your simple possessions casting flickering shadows on the wall. A straw bed; some skins of water, oil, and wine; a small, guttering lamp–it is simple, but it is enough.

The symbol of your occupation hangs from the central support of the tent.

>x symbol
Which do you mean, the medicine bag or the copper dagger?

>dagger
This copper dagger is as long as your forearm, with a round pommel and hardened leather grip.

>x bag
A small leather medicine pouch hangs from a long strap, bulging with curative herbs.

>take dagger
You carefully take your weapon down from the wall and study it thoughtfully for a moment.

>take bag
You lift your lover’s medicine bag down from its place, handling it carefully.

>l
The walls of your tent glow yellow in the lamplight, your simple possessions casting flickering shadows on the wall. A straw bed; some skins of water, oil, and wine; a small, guttering lamp–it is simple, but it is enough.

>n
You can leave your simple home through the open flap.

Lowered voices speak softly from somewhere outside your tent.

>listen
The lamp crackles softly as it burns. Somewhere distant is the sound of muffled voices.

>leave
You step outside into the warm night air.

It has been night for many hours, but the air is still warm, and the stars are a million brilliant fires above you. Nearby are the vague outlines of your neighbors’ tents, but on this moonless night only the distant glow of the fire pit seems truly alive.

In the darkness a few feet away, Sihan and Saiph talk quietly in strained tones.

As you approach, your enemy grows silent. Your love turns to you with a look of relief and reaches out a hand.

>x sihan
Sihan is beautiful; you have always thought so, as have many others. Her long black hair seems to swallow up her face in the dark of night.

>x saiph
Saiph has his father’s tall strength and the bearing of a leader. His grace and bold demeanor draw others to him, though few know of his quiet and gentle side underneath.

>speak
I didn’t understand that sentence.

>talk to sihan
You clasp Saiph’s strong hand and turn to Sihan with a frown.

“What business have you here?” you ask her coldly.

Sihan tosses her hair and fixes her sharp gaze on you. “I came to see if Saiph has sense left in his head after a season with you,” she says levelly. “But I see that, like you, he would lead our people down the path of needless killing. I have no more to say.” She turns and vanishes into the darkness without a sound.

>talk to saiph
“I care for you more than you know,” you say, kissing Saiph on the cheek.

Saiph frowns. “She still hopes for peace with the newcomers,” your lover says, “and was upset to find I do not share her views. We shall see if your enemy has better luck at the telling.” He looks up to the stars, and adds, “It is a good night for it.”

>ask about newcomers
[I'm not sure what you are referring to.]

>newcomers
“Have you heard the news?” he asks. “Young Ada found traces of a camp less than an hour’s walk from here, and more than half a day from their fires in the valley. Sihan maintains they were merely investigating our camp. Many, perhaps, would call it spying instead,” he says darkly.

>sihan
“Sihan talks endlessly, but words cannot sharpen axes or protect children,” your love says. “She is convinced still that these newcomers mean us no harm. What will it take for her to wake up to the truth?”

>fires
“The moon has waxed and grown small again since they arrived,” Saiph murmurs, holding you tightly. “Why don’t they come to us? Why do they hide when we send our emissaries? They must know the unrest they’re causing in us.”

>enemy
The time is not right to speak about that.

>telling
“It is almost time,” your love says seriously. “I wonder, what story will we hear tonight? The people are buzzing about the newcomers; perhaps the teller’s story will be about them.”

>night
Saiph points up at the night sky. “See how bright the stars are,” he says, “as if the gods themselves gather round our fire to hear the teller’s story.”

Saiph glances towards the fire pit and takes his medicine bag from you, slinging it into its familiar place around his neck. “Let us join the gathering and hear the story,” your love says lightly, and turns to the fire at the center of the village.

>fire
You walk to the firepit with Saiph, and friends and neighbors greet you with a nod or quiet word.

Always the fire pit is the center of the village, and always the people gather there. Faint smells of tonight’s great feast still linger, but the fire now smolders low, only a shadow of its roaring fierceness at sunset.

Isi and Nabu stand near the fire, along with a growing crowd. Saiph stands near your side.

>l
Always the fire pit is the center of the village, and always the people gather there. Faint smells of tonight’s great feast still linger, but the fire now smolders low, only a shadow of its roaring fierceness at sunset.

Isi and Nabu stand near the fire, along with a growing crowd. Saiph stands near your side.

>tell story
What do you want to tell the storyteller about?

>tell story about enemy
She is not nearby.

>tell story about fire
Now is not the time for that.

>tell story about newcomers
He is not nearby.

>story
This is a story about a warrior of the village who was in love with a gentle man, the village healer, Saiph, and how the night of the telling would change them both.

>tell story about saiph
Now is not the time for that.

Saiph places a hand on your shoulder. “Go on, my love,” he says softly. “Give the circlet of office to the storyteller. It is time.”

>give circlet to storyteller
Your people have always believed in the power of names. For such an important ceremony as this, you must use the teller’s name.

>storyteller
“The storyteller awaits,” Saiph says. “The telling cannot begin until the teller’s circlet has been gifted.”

>who is storyteller
The teller is older than time and thick as space; wise as the moon, and sharp as the stars. The storyteller is older than the oldest king and will live yet when the last spark of the sun dies out.

>x storyteller
The teller is older than time and thick as space; wise as the moon, and sharp as the stars. The storyteller is older than the oldest king and will live yet when the last spark of the sun dies out.

>speak to storyteller
I didn’t understand that sentence.

>talk to storyteller
That title is meaningless until the circlet is placed on the storyteller’s head.

>put circlet on my head
(Nabu)
You approach your uncle Nabu and hand the circlet to the small old man. He takes it delicately, eyeing the craftsmanship, and then turns to Saiph with a nod and a warm smile. Carefully, he lifts it up to his old head–and now before you is no longer your father’s brother, but the storyteller… a role he has taken every new moon for many years.

>x nabu
The teller is older than time and thick as space; wise as the moon, and sharp as the stars. The storyteller is older than the oldest king and will live yet when the last spark of the sun dies out. In the vessel of your father’s brother, the teller seems like any other one of the people; but there is something in the eyes that tells you otherwise.

>tell storyteller about saiph
[You may simply type the most relevant topic word in the future.]

[The top bar shows some of the things you may currently speak about.]

Sihan approaches the far side of the fire and greets some friends warmly.

>saiph
The time is not right to speak about that.

Saiph kisses your cheek. “May the story bring you what you seek,” he whispers, then slips into the crowd. Your beloved has always liked to hear the stories by himself.

>enemy
Sihan, Sihan: self-righteous, fierce, proud, graceful. She is the eldest daughter of Tanhar, the people’s richest merchant, and they say the gods must have sharpened her wit on the whetstone of heaven. A shame that that wit has been turned against you for many years now.

>newcomers
The time is not right to speak about that.

The murmurings of the people die away as the storyteller rises to his feet and raises two bony hands.

>listen
A gust of wind makes the ashes of the fire hiss.

The storyteller shouts, “In this time of darkness the people gather for the telling. Will the people hear?”

>shout yes
Whom do you want to shout that to?

>storyteller
That is not acceptable.

The crowd cries out with one voice, “The people are ready.” The teller bows humbly, accepting the people’s blessing, then straightens with the hint of a smile.

“Tonight,” he says, “we shall hear an old, old story, from days long ago when great cities and mighty kings ruled this land. May you find in the story that which you seek.”

>listen
A log falls in the fire, sending a shower of sparks up into the night.

The storyteller lifts his hands in invocation. “Our story begins,” he says quietly, “in the far-off city of Uruk. Uruk of the broad streets, Uruk of the mighty walls. Can you see them, gleaming in the desert heat?”

The teller gestures into the night, and in your mind the walls come alive, shimmering in the desert air.

“Come,” he continues, “cross the ancient threshold, walk the streets and orchards and markets. Walk the streets and climb the great stone steps to the temple. Climb the steps and find the box of burnished copper. Find the box and undo the lock and draw out the great tablet of deep blue stone. Draw out the tablet and read of Uruk’s king, Uruk’s pride, Uruk’s greatest hero. Hear of the trials of Gilgamesh.”

>gilgamesh
You wonder why the teller has chosen a story of Gilgamesh, whose name is legend. Is it to inspire the people in a time of fear?

>inspire
“Good,” you call out forcefully, “a tale of mighty kings and heroes is a good story for these troubled times.”

There are some in the crowd who raise their voices in support of these words. There are other who stay pointedly silent.

>listen
Somewhere in the darkness, a night bird calls.

“Is this a well-chosen tale?” Sihan calls out darkly. “Should we hear stories of battle and war when they lie on our very doorstep?”

The crowd looks hesitantly between Sihan and the storyteller, who regards your enemy with inscrutable eyes. “Stories are not all of far off places and distant times,” he says softly. “The world tells us stories every day, and the wise pay heed. Gilgamesh may teach us much tonight, if we have the ears to hear.” Sihan bows stiffly, accepting the storyteller’s decision.

>listen
A bat circles above the fire for a moment, then swoops away.

The teller continues. “Mighty was Gilgamesh, a lord among lords. Mighty is he who both leads the way and guards the rear. Mighty is he who both crashes like a wave and shelters the weak. Gilgamesh was tall, strong, bearded, a roaring bull among his people. Aruru, mother of the Earth, gave him his form, and Adad the Storm gave him courage, and Shamash the Sun gave him beauty–but,” the teller’s piercing eyes fixate on the crowd, “he was still a man, nonetheless.”

>man
Gilgamesh had something of the gods in him, it seems, but also something of men. Which, you wonder, shaped him more?

>men
“With so many gods to shape him, how is it that Gilgamesh was only a man?” you ask.

“The gods did shape him,” the storyteller replies with a nod, “but gave him no godly powers: no magic touch, or gift of foresight, or long, ageless life. Gilgamesh shared the fate of all mankind, and this was why long after many of the old gods fell and were forgotten, the people of Uruk remembered him, for he was one of them.”

An old mother behind you squeezes your arm for a moment.

>x mother
The same as ever; though getting on in years a little now.

>uruk
“Tell more of the city of Uruk,” you ask.

“Uruk, mighty Uruk of the wide streets,” the teller says with shining eyes, “its heart the temple of Inanna, towering over all; its skin mighty walls of oven-fired brick, their like unmatched in all the world. Uruk, planned by the seven sages and filled with orchards and gardens. Never was a city more mighty and proud than Uruk, and never had any city so great a king.”

>listen
A bat circles above the fire for a moment, then swoops away.

The telling continues. “With his friend and companion Enkidu,” the storyteller says, “Gilgamesh ruled Uruk with a young and prideful heart. But he saw the dead and dying in the streets of Uruk, and his mind was troubled.”

>troubled
You wonder, was Gilgamesh a fool to be so troubled by distant death?

>wonder
“Why was mighty Gilgamesh troubled, I wonder?” you ask.

“A hard thing to tell,” the storyteller says simply, “and a question that the King himself often pondered. The dead and dying in Uruk troubled him, yes, but he could not say why. Death had not touched his soul, and perhaps, perhaps, he did not yet have the words to tell what troubled him.”

>dead
Sihan is speaking before you can react.

“It was battle that united Enkidu and Gilgamesh in friendship, was it not?” Sihan says musingly.

“It is often the way,” the teller says, “that two foes may only find kinship through the bitterest battles. But perhaps,” he adds humbly, “this is only the way in stories.”

>listen
Somewhere in the darkness, a night bird calls.

The storyteller continues. “One night,” he says, “as Gilgamesh knelt in prayer, Shamash, god of the sun, came down to whisper in his ear. Shamash whispered to Gilgamesh of a far off place called the Cedar Forest, where dwelt the demon Humbaba. Shamash whispered that he who could defeat Humbaba would gain fame greater than any man. He who could chop down the tallest cedar and defeat Humbaba the guardian would gain everlasting fame. He would burn in the minds of men forever. He would never be forgotten. And the heart of Gilgamesh became restless.”

>restless
Doubtless the heart of Gilgamesh stirred at a chance for glory; but was this Humbaba a valid opponent?

>valid
“Tell me,” you say to the storyteller, “had this demon ever set upon the city of Uruk, or harmed its crops or its cattle?”

“The demon Humbaba did not leave the Cedar Forest,” the teller answers. “Humbaba was charged by Enlil, lord of all gods, to guard the Cedar Forest against all intruders.”

“Then perhaps this foe was not a wise one for Gilgamesh to pursue,” you respond. “Why stir up trouble when none trouble you? Why make new enemies in a time when they are legion? Gilgamesh should think of his people and the price they might pay for his brashness.”

An old mother behind you squeezes your arm for a moment. You catch a glimpse of your love Saiph’s face, darkened by a frown.

>listen
A bat circles above the fire for a moment, then swoops away.

“Tell my little one more of Humbaba the demon,” a young father says.

The teller bends down and smiles at the sullen child. “His breath is a firestorm; his voice is the floodwaters; his jaws are death itself. Horrible to look at is the demon Humbaba, and the few who saw him and survived could not describe his face.” The child’s eyes widen in fear and the storyteller tousles his hair.

>shamash
“Shamash, lord of the sun, delivered this message himself to Gilgamesh?” you ask. “Why was it so important?”

“Shamash, lord of the sun, is not here to tell you,” answers the teller with a wink, gesturing into the night as the crowd laughs.

The story moves on. “The heart of Gilgamesh burned with the words of Shamash,” says the teller. “Gilgamesh sought out his friend Enkidu and said to him: ‘You came from the wild. My friend, you came from the wild and you know the secret paths of animals. Do you know the way to the Cedar Forest?’

“Enkidu sighed and his heart grew heavy,” says the teller, and then seems to become young and strong as the gruff guise of Enkidu comes over him. “‘Yes, I know the way to the Cedar Forest, but it is long and lonely. And what awaits you at its end but the demon Humbaba? The lord of all gods, mighty Enlil, has set him there to guard the Cedar Forest. What man or god could defeat him, my brother?’”

>sighed
Enkidu was brave to question his friend, perhaps. Or was his hesitation to fight a sign of weakness?

>brave
“How strong is Enkidu,” you marvel aloud, “to stand against such a man as Gilgamesh. What courage to raise his voice against so mighty and stalwart a man.”

Wisps of clouds mark moving black shadows on the stars above.

>listen
The wind picks up, bending the fire’s smoke and rustling your hair.

“Guard?” Sihan calls out. “Did you say the demon Humbaba was set by the gods to guard the Cedar Forest?”

“By Enlil,” says the teller, nodding, “Humbaba long had guarded the Cedar Forest against mortal intruders, at the command of Enlil, lord of all gods.”

“So Shamash who set this idea before Lord Gilgamesh sought merely to use him as a pawn in some divine gambit?” Sihan asks. A babble of astonished voices rises from the crowd.

“You must find your own wisdom in the story,” says the teller with a tiny bow.

>gambit
Your voice shouts above the others: “Bold is he who dares to question the will of a god, even one now worshipped by few. How can a mortal know what purpose drives the divine?”

“The gods must be questioned,” Sihan responds, “for otherwise what purpose do men serve but as their playthings and mindless lackeys?”

“And could you understand their answers?” you say powerfully. “The gods spin and weave our fate; without their powers we are nothing.”

The telling continues. “Gilgamesh looked at Enkidu with disapproving eyes,” continues the teller, who then seems to grow tall and strong. “Is this the brave Enkidu I know?” he asks in the voice of the king. “Is this Enkidu who fought with the wild beasts and once challenged King Gilgamesh himself? Have you traded courage for cowardice? Our days are few, and chances for glory far between. Do you not wish to burn forever in the minds of men?”

The teller becomes Enkidu again, and seems to consider the words of Gilgamesh. “‘You have set your mind, I see. You will make this quest no matter what your friend Enkidu counsels. Since that is your road, I will go with you. I will guide you on the hidden paths; I will find for you the hidden water; I will help you on your quest for glory. Enkidu will go with you.’”

>enkidu
Sihan is speaking before you can react.

“A strange king is Gilgamesh,” Sihan says loudly. “He is troubled by the sight of his people, sick and dying, so he leaves them to go on a long quest to distant lands. Would a better king not have stayed behind to help them?”

Several of those near you nod their heads.

>stayed
“What help could he have given them?” you ask. “Gilgamesh was not a healer, but a fighter; a warrior. He could best help his people by inspiring them; for that is what a warrior must do in troubled times.” You give your adversary a pointed look.

A voice somewhere behind you calls, “It is true!” and nearly all nod their heads in agreement.

>listen
The wind picks up, bending the fire’s smoke and rustling your hair.

The story continues. “Gilgamesh rejoiced,” the teller says, “and summoned the blacksmiths to forge mighty weapons for the companions. He summoned the blacksmiths and summoned the servants to prepare food and supplies. He summoned the servants and summoned the priestesses to make generous sacrifices, to ask the gods for good fortune.”

“When all was ready, Gilgamesh and Enkidu passed through the seven gates of Uruk and set off into the desert. The people watched them go,” he says softly, “the people of Uruk in silence watched them go.”

>silence
“Did the people of Uruk not cheer as their two greatest heroes left on this quest?” you ask.

“I would not,” says an old woman near you. “If my protectors left me for a long journey to distant lands, leaving the weak and defenseless to fend for themselves? No; I would watch in silence, too.”

Low muttering comes from across the circle; it seems this has struck a chord with nearly all.

>sacrifice
“What were the sacrifices Gilgamesh made to the gods?” you ask.

“They were many,” the teller responds, “and befitting of such a strong king; three fattened oxen and twelve fattened sheep; four golden bowls of honey and five silver bowls of butter. The incense was lit and the prayers were sung; the priestesses sang the prayers while the stars turned above.”

>weapons
You call out, “What weapons did the blacksmiths of Uruk make for Gilgamesh and Enkidu?”

“They were like the weapons of the gods,” says the storyteller, spreading out his hands, “axes taller than men; knives with mighty pommels and inlaid patterns of gold and lapis; armor that no ordinary man could have bore. But Gilgamesh and Enkidu took them all and used them with skill.”

“Hot were the sands of the desert,” continues the teller, “hot were the sands and hard was the way. Many bones of less fortunate travellers marked their journey. But Enkidu knew the secret paths of the animals and the secret hiding places of water, and the land fell behind them swiftly.”

“The first mountain range they crossed in a day; the first desert and mountain range they crossed in a single day. On the next day they crossed the second desert and the second mountain range; on the next they crossed the third desert and the third mountain range. On the third night they lay down to sleep, utterly exhausted from their journey.”

>bones
Sihan is speaking before you can react.

“Without Enkidu, Gilgamesh could not have crossed the desert,” Sihan points out. “Without Enkidu, who was once his enemy, Gilgamesh could not have prevailed in this quest.”

“It is true,” nods the teller, “without Enkidu Gilgamesh would have been lost in the trackless sands.”

Voices mutter in agreement; for a great many, this point has touched home. Saiph scowls darkly across the flames.

>mountain
“Was the crossing of the mountains difficult?” you ask.

“For the likes of us, perhaps;” says the teller, “certainly for an old bones like me. Great and long the desert ranges ran, with no water or shelter or game on their cruel slopes. But Gilgamesh and Enkidu strode over their slopes without slowing down, though the sweat coursed down their bodies like rain.”

A gust of wind ripples through the grass.

>bones
“Did the companions not stop to perform burial rites on the bones of those who had died in the desert?” you ask.

“The heat of the sun burned on their backs, and the trackless ground wore at their feet,” says the teller. “Whether they wished to stop or not, the companions had to keep moving.”

The teller continues. “In the darkest hour of night Gilgamesh woke with a start and clutched his chest. ‘Who walks there?’ he gasped. ‘Why does my flesh tingle? Has a god touched me?’ Enkidu heard and awoke, saying, ‘Have you dreamt, Gilgamesh? Tell me your dream and I will unravel its meaning.’

‘I dreamt we walked in a gorge beneath a mighty mountain, you and I,’ said Gilgamesh. ‘We were like flies beneath its massive bulk. Then, with a rumble, the mountain collapsed on top of us. What is its meaning, my friend?’”

>dream
Sihan is speaking before you can react.

“A dark dream,” Sihan says, “for the heroes to have on their journey. Clearly it was sent by Enlil, to warn of the doom the companions will face if they destroy his servant Humbaba.”

“Your reasoning is sound,” says the teller with a bow, “but the interpretation does not match the one Enkidu gave to Gilgamesh. ‘The mountain is the demon Humbaba,’ he said. ‘Shamash has sent us this dream to show that we will defeat the demon, and his fall will shake the earth.’ And Gilgamesh heard his words, and was at peace.”

>listen
The stars begin to fade as clouds swallow up their light.

“Dreams of portent are frightening,” says a young mother, pulling her wrap tighter around her. “I do not like the gods to enter my head in the night.”

“Wise you are to be cautious,” says the teller with a nod. “The ways of the gods are strange and obscure to men, their dealings laced with complexities we cannot understand.”

>listen
The wind is picking up now, catching the teller’s hair and making it dance with each gust.

As the teller speaks more of the journey across the desert, an unfamiliar hand presses on your shoulder. You turn to see Sihan’s face only inches from yours.

“Your words are subtle tonight,” she says, “and I wonder at your purpose. I will ask you straight: do you counsel action or the path of words?”

>purpose
“I have only the same purpose as you,” you say, “to lead our people down a path to safety.”

“Safety?” Sihan asks, her eyes widening, “safety is seeking out mindless bloodshed in unlooked-for battle? Safety is tricking our people into raising swords against strangers we know nothing about?”

>words
“Talk can be stronger than actions,” you say quietly.

“Indeed it can,” Sihan says, looking at you piercingly, “and perhaps I have spoken too soon. Do you support me in speaking for peace, or do you still seek bloodshed?

>support
“I am glad to support you,” you say. “The people like you, Sihan, and trust you. We need leaders like you in these dark times.”

“Glad I am to hear you say this,” says Sihan warmly, clasping your arm. “Many in this town are warmongers; I had presumed you among them, but I am glad I was wrong. You will be a powerful ally to have with me.”

>warmongers
“Do not be so quick to divide our people,” you say. “We both perhaps have much left to say this night.”

Sihan gives you a long stare. “You have always been one for mysterious speeches,” she says. “I ask you in plain language, now: are you with me or against me?”

>with
“I am with you,” you say.

“We shall see,” says Sihan cautiously. “There is still much of the story to be told.” She turns and fades back into the crowd without a backward glance.

>listen
A distant roll of thunder sounds from the horizon.

You turn your attention back to the teller. “On the seventh day,” he is saying, “the companions crossed the seventh desert and the seventh mountain range, and came at last to the edge of the Cedar Forest.”

“The cedars were green, and the forest cool after the barren heat of the desert, and it smelled inside of wood and soil. But quiet it was under the boughs of the trees; quiet, with a lingering whisper of fear.”

>fear
Fear, you wonder, of the unknown? Or the dreadful fear of a terrible evil?

>unknown
“This fear is only natural,” you say reasonably, “even for braves ones like our heroes. Only the foolish do not feel fear when facing a foe they know little about.”

>cedar
“What magic was there in the Cedar Forest that made it special?” you ask.

“Uruk was a land like ours,” the teller answers, “where the tree is scarce and the wood is poor. Cedarwood is strong, and beautiful, and pleasant to see and smell, and in those days was valued as gold. In the Cedar Forest far, far away, the cedar trees are so thick you could not see a man a hundred paces away; and so tall you could not see the sky.”

>forest
“What did this mighty forest look like?” you say.

“Tall were the trees,” says the teller, “tall and broad were the trees of the cedar forest, their wide arms grasping each other high above. The Cedar Mountain sloped up, up, up, and the trees were a pale green blanket wrapping it tight.

The teller speaks slowly, lingering over each word. “Enkidu and Gilgamesh stepped into the cedars with care, but,” he says, picking up speed, “the demon Humbaba, Humbaba, Humbaba heard the rustle of every leaf in the forest.”

The teller leaps up and spreads his arms wide, and the people shrink back in fear. “A wind blew through the trees,” the teller says quickly, “and a freezing terror seized the companions. Nightmare faces leered behind gnarled branches: blood-smeared faces, faces of rabid lions, faces with hideous tusks, always changing, always horrible. But the demon did not appear before them.”

>not
Curious, that. Did the demon not appear because he was a coward, trembling before the approach of the mighty heroes? Or did he perhaps hope to scare off the companions and avoid a fight?

>scare
“Perhaps he thought to save himself the trouble of fighting,” you say with an amused tone, “by scaring off the intruders. Wise is the one who avoids unnecessary conflict.”

A current of energy runs through a great many in the crowd, who mutter affirmation with somber faces.

>faces
Shifting faces can be the mark of thieves; but perhaps there is more to them.

>more
“The faces–whose were they?” you ask.

“The terrors of Humbaba; the seven terrors of the demon,” says the teller. “Guarding their master they should have been; but they flocked to the companions, leering and snarling at them with a thousand devil faces. Enkidu’s heart raced in his chest, as it had not done since he ran with the animals.”

>freezing
“Tell more of the freezing terror of Humbaba,” you say, intrigued.

“It was as if the very bones of their bodies were turned to ice,” the teller says with wide eyes and open hands. “They stood for a time rooted to the spot, paralyzed, the terror of Humbaba filling their bodies.”

The story goes on. “With a cry, Enkidu fell to his knees,” says the teller, mimicking the action. “‘I cannot go on, friend Gilgamesh! You must leave me and go on alone. I must return to Uruk in shame, for I cannot withstand the terrors of Humbaba!’”

“Gilgamesh pulled Enkidu to his feet. ‘Courage, friend,’ he said. ‘Two may prevail where one would fall. Together, we are stronger than any single man. Touch my heart and you will not fear death.’ And Enkidu placed his hand on Gilgamesh’s chest, and he felt no fear. Together they journeyed deeper into the forest.”

>together
“So true are the words of Gilgamesh,” you say. “Two together are stronger than two divided. Such a simple thing to say, but how many can remember it?”

A current of energy runs through a great many in the crowd, who mutter affirmation with somber faces, but you hear a disparaging snort from Saiph.

>fell
Does this episode show a weakness in Enkidu, or does it illustrate a strength in Gilgamesh?

>strength
Sihan is speaking before you can react.

“Gilgamesh is a true friend,” Sihan says thoughtfully. “He has learned something about friendship since the start of this journey, when he called Enkidu a coward for questioning him.”

Many nod their heads at Sihan’s words. “Well said,” someone says.

The wind is picking up now, catching the teller’s hair and making it dance with each gust.

>listen
A distant roll of thunder sounds from the horizon.

“Soon before them rose up a mighty cedar,” continues the storyteller, so tall its top seemed to touch the sky. ‘Surely, this must be the tallest cedar in the forest,’ Gilgamesh cried, and unsheathed his axe. But his first blow had scarcely fallen when Humbaba screamed with rage. The leaves rustled and the ground shook, and in an instant Humbaba the terrible had come.”

“His face shimmered and whirled with a thousand forms,” says the teller, eyes wide as if the demon stands before him, “a thousand nightmare faces whirled and shimmered down at them. Humbaba’s breath scorched their faces; his screeches cut their ears.”

>first
Before you can speak, Sihan steps forward.
>listen
A flash of lightning on the horizon catches your eye, followed by a low, rumbling wave of thunder.

“The demon could breathe fire?” asks a fascinated weaver-woman.

“Not fire like this,” says the teller, nudging a smoldering log. “It was as if the air itself was burned; scorched and withered inside and out.”

>first
“On the very first blow of Gilgamesh the demon came?” you ask.

“That is so,” nods the teller, “the sound of the splitting tree had not yet died when the ground began to shake with Humbaba’s rage.”

“It seems this demon has a sense at least of honor, then,” you say quietly.

The story goes on. “Gilgamesh trembled and fell to his knees. ‘I cannot face him!’ he cried to Enkidu, ‘My blood has turned to ice. You must go on and fight him without me!’

Enkidu pulled Gilgamesh to his feet. ‘Courage, friend,’ he said. ‘The well-twined rope is stronger than a single strand. Together, we are stronger than any single man. Touch my heart and you will not fear death.’ And Gilgamesh placed his hand on Enkidu’s chest, and he felt no fear. Together they drew their weapons and faced the demon Humbaba.”

>friend
Sihan is speaking before you can react.

“The true friend is always there to help,” Sihan says. “What would Gilgamesh have done without Enkidu?”

“You speak true,” says a stoic woman. “Gilgamesh and Enkidu are examples to all who do not value friendship; all who think themselves above their neighbors.”

Whispers of assent float across the fire; a great many nod visibly at these words.

>gilgamesh
“It seems none are immune to the fear of Humbaba,” you say mildly, “not even the mightiest heroes of Uruk.”

“Not even they,” agrees the teller, “and if you knew the touch of Humbaba’s fear, you would understand why, oh yes–then you would understand why,” he whispers.

>listen
The people huddle together as a hot, damp wind catches their clothes.

The story continues. “Humbaba laughed, and the mountains shook,” the teller says, then draws himself up and cries out in a great, booming voice: “‘What fools are these? What fools are these who dare challenge the demon Humbaba? I will crush your bodies and leave your corpses bloody and mangled on the ground. You will never see your homes again and your women and children will mourn an empty grave.’ And with a roar like the splitting of the heavens, Humbaba charged.”

“Enkidu stabbed with spear; Gilgamesh slashed with sword; Humbaba ripped with claws. Trees crashed to earth; the ground was torn asunder; lightning and thunder split the skies over the forest. Gilgamesh and Enkidu fought like no men ever fought before; but still the demon Humbaba drove them back, and the companions came ever closer to defeat.”

>humbaba
“Awesome must it have been, to see such a fight,” you say, picturing it in your mind.

“You would not have wanted to be too close!” warns the teller, bringing a nervous laugh from the audience. “The clouds turned to a poisonous shroud; the very mountains were split by the fury of Humbaba’s rage. It was all the companions could do to stay alive.”

>lightning
You open your mouth to speak but a middle-aged widow turns with a look of annoyance. “You speak too much.” she says frostily, “Be quiet and let the rest of us hear how the story ends!” She turns eagerly back to the teller, as several nearby people hide their smiles.

>defeat
“So contested was the battle?” you ask. “Even Gilgamesh himself struggled?”

“He struggled more fiercely than a trapped lion,” says the teller, “striking at Humbaba again, again, again. But the demon was too strong, too fierce; and ever did he drive Gilgamesh and Enkidu back, back, back.”

The teller continues. “Gilgamesh cried to the sky, ‘Shamash, my lord! Help your servant Gilgamesh in his hour of need!’ And Shamash heard Gilgamesh’s cry, and sent all the mighty winds of the world to rail against Humbaba: The Winds of the North and the South and the West and the East and the Rainstorm and the Snowstorm and the Icestorm and the Sandstorm; the Screaming Winds and the Piercing Winds and the Cruel Winds and the Devil Winds and the Winds of Simurru. Thirteen winds Shamash sent against Humbaba, and not even he could stand against them all. Enkidu threw a net over Humbaba and Gilgamesh seized him from behind.”

>behind
This touches something in you. Is it only common sense to take advantage of a harried foe? Is there place for fairness in war?

>fairness
Sihan is speaking before you can react.

“So that is how the mighty heroes end their adventure,” Sihan says bitterly, “sneaking behind an enemy held down by a god. How brave the companions were.”

The voices of the crowd rise to affirm these words, and the teller raises his hands. “Bravery,” he says, “and might, and even heroes… these are but words. You must make of them what you will. The story continues.”
It is strangely quiet around the fire.

>listen
It is strangely quiet around the fire.

Sounds of scuffling come from the back of the circle. People crane their necks in alarm, but it is only two young boys reenacting the capture of Humbaba. “Got you!” one of them shouts, as his parents pull him away with tiny smiles.

>listen
A gust of wind makes the ashes of the fire hiss.

The teller continues. “Humbaba saw the way things were and cried out in fear. Humbaba the demon cried out, ‘Do not kill me, mighty heroes! If you let me live I will be your slave, your eternal servant. I will let you cut down all the trees you want; I will cut them for you. I could have attacked you when first you set foot in my forest, but I showed you mercy. Now return the favor and spare my life.’

“Gilgamesh heard Humbaba’s words and took pity on the monster. He lowered his sword. But Enkidu cried out: ‘Do not listen to him! Show no mercy to this cunning foe, this evil creature. If you let him live he would attack us the moment our backs were turned.’”

>mercy
“And why should Gilgamesh not show this creature mercy?” you call out. “They had defeated him in combat; the Cedar Forest was theirs. There would be no gain in killing this demon.”

From across the circle, Sihan smiles as the crowd mutters in agreement.

>pity
“Curious,” you say, “that mighty Gilgamesh, so strong and proud, would take pity on the creature in this way.”

“There is strength, perhaps, in pity,” answers Saiph from across the circle, “though perhaps not in pride.”

>could
Before you can speak, Sihan steps forward.

“What Humbaba says is true,” Sihan says after a long pause, “he could have attacked the companions when they first set foot in the forest. Why did he not?”

Whispers of assent float across the fire; nearly all nod visibly at these words, but you hear a disparaging snort from Saiph.

>servant
“Enkidu should not be so quick to slay this creature,” you say. “Has he forgotten his own past? When he came to the city of Uruk, an uncivilized wild man covered in hair, he fought with Gilgamesh; but the King did not slay him. Gilgamesh made Enkidu his friend.”

The storyteller continues. “Humbaba the demon called out in fear, ‘Please, mighty heroes, do not slay Humbaba! I was set by Enlil, father of the gods, to guard over the forest. If you slay me he will be angry and his judgment severe.’

“Gilgamesh heard the demon and again took pity on him, lowering his sword, but Enkidu cried out, ‘Gilgamesh, do not listen to his words; close your ears! Kill the demon before you become confused. Kill him now before he can tell the gods anything. Kill him now and claim your fame!’”

>enkidu
Enkidu now seems as rash and merciless as he was hesitant at the journey’s start. Has he forgotten himself, or realized that Gilgamesh’s way is the right one?

>forgotten
“Where did this thirst for blood come from in wise Enkidu?” you ask. “Did he not once counsel Gilgamesh to give up this quest?”

“The story does not say,” the teller mutters softly.

Low muttering comes from across the circle; it seems this has struck a chord with nearly all.

>defending
“Humbaba did not threaten the people of Uruk,” you reply. “He only guarded the Cedar Forest many leagues away. It was Gilgamesh and Enkidu who came to Humbaba’s home and attacked him. It was Humbaba who had the right of defense.”

A voice somewhere behind you calls, “It is true!” and a great many nod their heads in agreement.

>humbaba
Perhaps it was a sign of weakness for the demon to plead for his life. Or was the creature wise not to fight to the death?

>wise
“Humbaba was wise not to fight to the death,” you say. “Continuing malice in the face of total destruction is foolishness.”

The teller continues. “Gilgamesh looked into Enkidu’s eyes,” says the teller’s powerful voice, “Gilgamesh, the King, looked into the eyes of his friend Enkidu and made his decision. He knew…”

A gasp rises from the far side of the circle. Out of the darkness three dozen strangers appear, bearing long spears and faces painted with dark blue lines. It is the newcomers, the invaders in your valley, and as they approach your fire, the rain begins to fall.

Amongst them one stands out: tall, with sharp features and a thick leather vest. You guess at once that he is their leader.

>listen
The fire smokes and hisses as rain falls on it.

The warrior leader steps out of the darkness and bares his teeth. “You will give us half your sheep,” he says in a strange, harsh accent, “and half your grain. You will gift us these things or we will take them, now.” The men behind him grip their spears tightly.

>gift
“A gift under threat of force is no gift,” you say. “It is a ransom.”

The warrior leader looks at you defiantly. “I care not what you call it,” he says dangerously. “But if you do not bring it, now, I shall become angry.”

>angry
You try to speak, but angry hands hold you back as expectant faces turn to hear Sihan.

“It is dark, and the sky storms,” Sihan says reasonably. “Can we not discuss this in the sun’s bright rays?”

“If we had come in the day you would have seen us three miles off, and we would receive only the points of your spears when we arrived,” the leader says. “No; we will talk now.”

>spear
The enemy looks to be about an even match–but perhaps they will respond to a show of force.

>even
“Your spears are of fine make,” you say, “not so different from ours. I think if our peoples were to fight, it would be a very close battle.”

The warrior leader’s face stays fierce, but you see in his eyes he has thought the same. “We would not take this path,” he says with heavy tones, “were there any other way. But the spear is the only way we have in this strange land where our shepherds cannot catch sheep.”

Lightning flashes across the bodies of the enemy warriors, who stand for an instant in brightest light before thunder and darkness settle over them once again.

>shepherds
“The skill to catch these sheep can be taught,” you say. “We will teach you. Come in peace, and we will teach you to catch the sheep and share our grain with you.”

A twisted smile crosses the leader’s face. “We have heard such offers before,” he says, a bitter edge shaping his voice, “to come unarmed and helpless to the homes of enemies with sharpened spears and cruel daggers. Do you think us fools?”

>offers
“You have heard other offers such as this before?” you say. “So this is not the first innocent village your people have set upon this way. Perhaps we will prove stronger than those you have met in the past.”

The warrior leader’s face darkens and he grips his spear tightly, but Sihan steps forward. “This braggart does not speak for us,” she says, and many in the crowd mutter their assent. “We do not wish to leap to hasty action. Let us discuss this matter around our fire.”

>listen
The fire smokes and hisses as rain falls on it.

Sihan steps forward.

“We do not wish you harm,” she says quietly. She bends down and places her spear at the feet of the warrior leader.

“You are brave,” he says after a time, looking away for a moment and licking his lips. He focuses on your people. “And clear-headed,” he adds. “Perhaps… perhaps there are things we can learn from you.”

He steps forward and places his spear on the ground. As he straightens, a wave of sighs moves through the circle, a release of tension in both strangers and neighbors.

The leader of the warriors looks upon you with stoic pride. “I am Arkab,” he says, “and these are my people.”

[Press any key to continue]
þ

The fire has almost died and the people have scattered, leaving a tangible emptiness behind. Even the rain has stopped its drizzle.
>listen
A gust of wind makes the ashes of the fire hiss.

Saiph finds you and gives you a strong embrace. “I am glad there was no war,” your love says. “Arkab has promised to return tomorrow, bearing gifts instead of spears.”

>enemy
“How is Sihan?” you ask.

“Speaking with Arkab about sheep and grain,” Saiph says. “She may be gone all night. I think things may turn out all right between you two,” he adds. “She asked about you earlier without a trace of bitterness–with something almost approaching concern.”

“How strange this day has been,” you mutter.

Saiph places a firm hand on your shoulder. “There is sad news,” he says. “The storyteller is dying. The shock must have done something to his heart. There is little we can do now, but he asked to speak with you. You should hurry,” he adds quietly, pointing towards the storyteller’s tent near the edge of the village, “for there is not much time left to him.”

>dying
“How did this happen?” you ask.

Saiph smiles. “Quietly,” he says, “during the talks with the newcomers. Perhaps a chance of timing, or the shock of their sudden arrival. But now a great pain is in his chest, and his vision fades, and the healers say he will not linger long now in this world. Hurry, love, to his tent, while there is still time.”

>arkhab
[Things to try: LOOK | LOOK AT | GO | TALK TO | GREET | ATTACK | TAKE | TOUCH | HEAL | LISTEN | PRAISE | MOCK | STORY | UNDO | or an EMPHASIZED word. For more detailed instructions, type INFO]

>tent
You pull aside the flap of the teller’s tent and step inside.

A lamp burns low, its nearly-spent wick barely lighting up the storyteller’s small tent. Nothing adorns the walls or brightens up the floor; all that is here is a small straw mat, on which the teller lies, breathing shallowly.

>greet
You’ll have to specify whom you wish to greet.

The teller smiles at your arrival, and beckons you closer with a weak hand. You kneel by the old straw mat and grasp the cold fingers tightly.

“Curious,” he mutters, “the way fate moves, sometimes weaving a fantastic tale, and othertimes getting the timing all wrong. I would not have had my end be upstaged, were I telling this final chapter.” He smiles, then grimaces in pain.

The teller seems to look through your eyes to something hidden at the core of your being, and weigh it with great care. “The people did not hear the end of the story,” he says presently. “For good or ill a great decision was made tonight, before the story was complete. Would you know how it ends?”

>yes
“Yes,” you say, “I would hear the end of the story.”

The teller smiles and closes his eyes. “Gilgamesh faced a choice,” he says quietly. “Whether to take pity on Humbaba and spare his life, or kill him, as his friend Enkidu counseled. Gilgamesh looked into Enkidu’s eyes, and made his choice. He reached into the demon’s throat and pulled out his insides, pulled them out of the demon’s body by his tongue. Enkidu chopped off Humbaba’s head, and the ground shook, and the forest trembled, and the soil ran with blood. And then it rained, it rained, it rained…”

The storyteller trails off, eyes unfocused, as if lost in another world. After a long moment, he comes back and looks at you. “You made your case for peace tonight,” he says, “but when a moment to prove yourself came, you did not act. Were you afraid?”

>yes
“I would not have thought so,” the teller says gently. “I think that you knew what the people would do; I think you were so sure of the outcome you did not bother to lift a finger. Many kings would give a mountain of gold for such power; and many strong warriors do not possess it.”

The teller coughs, but the cough turns to long, gasping chokes.

>no
“I did not think so,” the teller says gently. “I think that you knew what the people would do; I think you were so sure of the outcome you did not bother to lift a finger. Many kings would give a mountain of gold for such power; and many strong warriors do not possess it.”

The teller coughs, but the cough turns to long, gasping chokes.

>listen
The lamp sputters quietly, sending flickering shadows across the tent wall.

“There is a secret that all storytellers know,” the teller says, and I will tell it to you now.” He beckons you close, and says each word distinctly. “No story is true, until the listener has heard it. A story is no more true than a doll is a man. To a child, a doll can seem to be filled with life and wishes and dreams; but this is not because of the doll. It is because of the child.”

The storyteller coughs again, very, very weakly. There will be but a few more breaths, now, before the end.

>listen
The lamp sputters quietly, sending flickering shadows across the tent wall.

>enemy
The time is not right to speak about that.

“I have one last gift for you,” he says, his voice fading but still powerful, “a choice you must make. You must make your decision not out of consideration for me, nor for Saiph, nor for any but yourself, for it is you who will walk the path this choice lays out, and you alone. There is no shame in refusing, for the ways to the path are many, and another will find it in time. But I think, perhaps, it is well-suited for you.”

The storyteller grips your hand tight, and summons up one final reserve of strength, holding your gaze with eyes that begin now to fade. “The teller must gather the people each time the moon dies,” he says. “The teller must tell the stories to the people so the young will learn and the old not forget. The teller must teach the people who they are, and how to shape who they will be. Will you do these things? Will you become the storyteller?”

>yes
The teller sighs, and sinks back into his pillow, and your uncle Nabu lies before you once again. Peace slowly fills his pain-wracked face, and he mutters something as the old eyes close. You bend closer to hear.

“You will tell the stories well, my child,” Nabu says in a voice softer than grass in the wind, “You will tell them well.”

The voice falls silent, then, and there is much darkness before the next story begins.

[Press any key to continue]
This is a story about a warrior of the village who was in love with a gentle man, the village healer, Saiph. On the night of the telling, when the warrior’s uncle Nabu became the teller, their enemy Sihan tried her best to turn the people towards a foolish peace with the outsiders. The warrior also spoke for the path of strength, and rallied the people as the story unfolded.

Words flew between these two firebrands, but a strange connection was made between the adversaries. The arrival out of the blackest night of the strange newcomers shook the crowd, so sure peace was the way. The people took what they had learned and brokered a fragile peace, and agreed to share their resources with the curious strangers to their land.

And the teller lay dying, struck down from shock or chance with a weakened heart, and in his final moments called the warrior to his side. He told the warrior how the story ended, and whom the telling changed. A teller died and a teller was born, and the story will always guide the way.
*** This telling has ended ***
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> afterword

Thank you for interacting with “Whom The Telling Changed.” If you haven’t already, try playing again and pursuing a different path. There are many ways to experience this story, and many perspectives you may encounter: what you assumed to be right and wrong, good and evil with one play-through may not be as simple as you thought. Your very first action sets your course, but there are many ways to alter it as both stories progress, some surprising.

The storyteller’s tale is part of the Epic of Gilgamesh, the oldest story recorded by human history, originating in Sumeria more than 4,000 years ago. The specific words used by the teller are my own, a mishmash of various versions of the Humbaba story from Sumer, Babylon, and Akkadia. The quest of the Cedar Forest is only a small part of the full epic, which is well worth reading or re-reading.

The setting of my frame story is not meant to be any more specific than somewhere in the Fertile Crescent, thousands of years ago, but to fill in the details of atmosphere and setting I am indebted to Karen Rhea Nemet-Nejat’s book “Daily Life in Ancient Mesopotamia.” The various translations of the Gilgamesh epic were also very useful: specifically, those of Mitchell, Ferry, and Gardner/Maier, all of which are beautiful and readable versions of the work.

Thanks also to my beta testers James Cunningham, Michael Fransioli, and Henrik ‘Drix’ Jensen, to storyteller Beth Horner, and to the friends who helped me wrestle the very nebulous concept for this piece towards its final implementation.

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