Taming a Wild Man

Will beauty conquer the beast?

“IT’S A MONSTER.”

“No, just a beast.”

“I heard it’s a devil sent from the gods.”

Shamhat listened to the men murmur their worries in the temple. Her room was closest to the temple’s common places, but inaccessible to all except the most worthy of worshippers. She could hear the murmurs and chatter through the walls, and she liked to listen while waiting to perform her duties as a priestess of Ishtar, goddess of passionate love.

The rough men from the wilderness had been groaning about the person, animal, or thing liberating their prey for many months. Merchants and craftsmen groaned, too, now that less game meat came into the city.

Shamhat sighed as the muffled voices told the same stories. Groaning men, and not moaning ones, were displeasing to the goddess. Frustrated men were also rougher on the priestesses in the worship beds.

Rumors were like currency to Shamhat and the other devotees of Ishtar. The right hearsay could be used to buy favor or improve standing in the intricate hierarchy of the temple. Secrets have power, and Shamhat sought to become the most powerful holy harlot in all of the city of Uruk. But these men’s theories of a bothersome trap breaker were nothing new to Shamhat’s ears. They were dull like the clink of copper in the alms platter when she wanted to hear the thud of gold.

“I’ve heard it’s come to the king’s attention,” spoke one of the patrons waiting to pay homage to Ishtar. Shamhat perked up in her bed. Why Gilgamesh, the king of Uruk, would be bothered by the hunters’ bad luck was a mystery to her. Still, word of the king’s interest was worthy of her interest.

“Why would the king care?” asked another worshiper.

“Because it is a challenge,” answered the first. “His majesty is entertained by challenges.”

“He’ll be entertained until he learns he can’t solve our problem. When that scourge evades his snares, too, King Gilgamesh will bore of the subject.”

“The snares of the king of Uruk are not trivial traps.”

Shamat was caught pondering these words when her own challenge entered her chambers. A lord— only lords could afford to access the goddess through her loins— walked in. He was a tall, albeit soft man, who might have been handsome in his distant youth. The gray mat of hair on his bare chest was thicker than that on his head. Shamat feigned a smile; lying does not anger Ishtar, but offending a devotee will.

“Oh, disciple of Ishtar,” Shamat said seductively, “let me take you to the goddess’s throne.”

SHAMAT ONCE AGAIN HAD AN EAR PRESSED TO THE WALL between her chambers and the men waiting to use her. Those who were in the next room muttered if they spoke at all. Word of the king’s interest in the hunters’ dilemma had already lost its value in the temple, so she looked forward to new gossip.

While Shamhat strained to discern any words coming through the wall, booted feet stepped towards her door. Two, three, maybe four men walked in file down the narrow temple halls. Their bodies were heavy with vestments of armor and not bare as worshippers always are. If Shamhat were not so concerned with the murmuring voices, she might have heard the boots from afar. But she did not hear the men until the door to her room swung open with haste.

Mighty Gilgamesh, the two-thirds god-king of Uruk, stood resplendent in the threshold, and Shamhat’s ear was pressed against cold stone in search of secrets.

“Is this the girl?” the king asked. His voice was less regal than she suspected. He spoke in a languid tone that was neither whisper nor mumble. A man behind the king shuffled past the others. It was the bald noble who recently paid Shamhat a visit.

“The very one,” the noble said.

“Leave us,” Gilgamesh demanded blandly. Those who accompanied him did as told, and the door closed behind the king as he stepped into the room.

Shamhat had been visited by many great men during her service to Ishtar, but none had smothered her with their presence quite like the king. He stood a hand below the high ceiling and was as broad as the door he entered through. The armor he wore gleamed even in the low light of her chamber. His robes were made from curtains of the finest blue fabrics.

Shamhat said a silent prayer to her patron, asking that Gilgamesh’s infamous appetites had not turned towards her, then stood out of bed to properly greet the king.

“I haven’t the time for curtsies,” Gilgamesh said, “I come to you, oh priestess, with a request.”

“A request?” Shamhat asked.

“I am told you are a gifted vessel of the goddess?”

Shamhat winced. She was a priestess, and a high one at that. Her spiritual gifts extended far beyond what the men of the city knew her for, but to argue the terms of her vocation would surely displease the king if not also Ishtar herself.

“It is true that many men prefer the means by which I take them to the throne of Ishtar,” Shamhat conceded. “Is that what brings his majesty into my rooms today?” Shamhat hoped his answer to the question would be no.

“I come to you with a task my council tells me only a woman with your talents can accomplish.”

Shamhat was stunned for a moment. “What could such a task be?” She wondered aloud.

“Taming the wildest of men,” the king answered

THE NEXT DAY, Shamhat left the temple for the first time she could remember since taking the holy vows of Ishtar as a little girl. The gleaming brightness of the fire-brick city hurt her eyes, and the many voices of the crowds overwhelmed her ears. A wealth of rumors too great to bear.

The king’s guard led Shamhat past beggars and lepers lying prostrate on the steps of the temple, then through markets and slums, and finally out the city gates, where they all took places on carts driven by ass. A seat lined with pelts of fine fur was given to Shamhat, but the cushion did little to mute the jerk and sway of the donkeys’ pull.

The sun climbed overhead as the carts drove into their shadows. The wilderness claimed more and more of the land around them until all Shamhat could see was jagged rock and grassland. Even when she thought they could go no further, the carts continued their loping journey.

Shamhat thought of the man she was traveling to meet while the donkeys pulled her far from home and familiar gods. Gilgamesh had told her that he was feral and hardly more than a beast. But he was also cunning: evading every trap and even devising some of his own that endangered the hunters of the hinterlands.

“He will be useful to my court if he can be brought to heel,” Gilgamesh claimed. “If not, then perhaps poisoned honey is the only way to kill this bear.”

Shamhat touched the dagger hidden within the folds of her shawl. She knew how to kill. Even the goddess of love demanded regular sacrifice of goats and lambs, but she doubted she could drive the knife into a man before he silenced her as well.

Trees came into view as the sun began to set. When the cart rocked to a halt, the trunks were taller than the walls of Uruk, and darkness fell from their canopies. Shamhat was the first to rise once the donkeys stopped.

“It be best if you stay in the cart while we make camp,” a guard said. His voice was gruff from the hours spent in silent travel.

“I have need to leave the presence of men,” Shamhat explained. The guard shrugged in response.

Shamhat ventured into the bush. Twigs and leaves snagged her clothes, but she pressed through until she couldn’t hear her escort grunting to make camp. Instead, nature sang all around her. Birds and frogs and bugs created a chorus with their longing cries. The wind sang through the timbers, and something large rustled nearby.

Unaware that she should fear beasts that lurk in the woods, Shamhat stepped towards the sound. Her feet tangled in something, and she fell. The hard ground was quick to catch her, and she screamed in its embrace.

The creature advanced. Dull yellow fur with mottled spots. Paws with missing claws, but the few present remained as sharp as knives. It made ungainly bounds towards the woman thrashing on the ground. Shamhat would surely have died if the leopard had not been old. It was not as quick as the guard who told Shamhat to stay in the cart. He burst into the thicket and put his spear into the animal’s hide before Shamhat untangled her legs from the roots that tripped her. The other guards were close behind the first, and the donkeys brayed as the old leopard died. The birds and the frogs and the bugs fell silent.

“It be best if you stay in the cart,” repeated the guard as he pulled the spear from his quarry.

“I’ll do just that,” Shamhat said. She rose and picked the dirt and leaves from her shawl. She went back to the cart to await the building of camp.

But the guards did not return to tent making. They went to work skinning the cat instead. A leopard’s pelt was a fine thing, even if it came from a hobbled veteran. So the guards put their sharp knives beneath the spotted skin and peeled away their glory. Little did they know, something wilder watched their transgression from above.

The hunter of hunters slinked down from his perch in the trees. His mighty hands gripped the bark with the surety of a squirrel; his thick thighs held the trunk like a serpent. He stepped easily over the roots that tripped Shamhat, roots he had pulled up as a snare, and stalked to the rear guards. Blood from the leopard soiled the dust. Then the blood from the three king’s men mingled with the beast’s.

Shamhat did not hear any of the men scream. She heard their bodies fall, but mistook this for more unfamiliar sounds of the woods. In the cart, she thumbed the hilt of her dagger beneath her clothes. Doubt crept into her mind. This errand was a mistake, she thought. Death had claimed her the moment she entered the wild lands. How was she to succeed in anything the king tasked her to do?

As she berated herself, the man who killed her escort stepped into view. His stature rivaled that of King Gilgamesh— tall and broad— and all of his flesh was out on display. The male form was Shamhat’s profession, but the specimen before her left her in awe. She had no doubt that this was the wild man she was sent to tame. His dark eyes pierced the twilight like a bronze tipped spear. Banded muscles rippled beneath thick scars and calluses. She looked at him for a long time before she noticed the blood. Red stains on his hands and mouth, for his weapons were the same as a beast’s.

“Are you going to kill me?” Shamhat asked. She feared worse intentions from the man and pulled her skirts tight about her legs.

He took a step, and Shamhat held her breath. He took another. Shamat’s hand rested on her dagger, but its keen edge offered her no comfort. She felt like a scribe clutching at a stylus and clay. Killing this behemoth was well beyond her capabilities, even if she had one of the soldiers’ spears.

The wild man came near enough to touch the cart. He smelled of earth, sweat, and blood. But he stepped to the front where the donkeys were tied. Unlike Shamhat, the animals were at peace with the man by their side. He petted them and scratched behind their ears. The donkeys leaned into his hands, unbothered by the blood, and the man took off their harnesses. He gave each of the beasts of burden a swift smack on the rump once they were untethered, and they fled into the woods.

Finally, the man turned his attention to Shamhat. The rising moon reflected in his eyes, but all fierceness had left him. He looked at her like an oddity; he sniffed the air and grunted at the scent of her salves and perfumes. Shamhat held his gaze in hers and steeled her nerves. He may be a predator, but she did not have to be his prey. Even wolves might fear a viper.

“I am Shamhat,” she said without fear, “priestess of Ishtar. You have saved me from the hands of vile men, and by my goddess I swear my life to yours.”

Shamhat did not think what she said was untrue. The guards were rough, and did she really enter into the king’s venture of her own free will?

The man she swore to didn’t acknowledge her. He reached to touch her sleeve. Congealing blood smeared the fabric as he rubbed the hem between his fingers. Shamhat didn’t flinch.

“Is there a name I can call my savior?”

The man let go of her clothes and grunted three syllables.

“Enkidu.”

SHAMHAT STAYED WITH ENKIDU IN THE WILDERNESS, though they left the forest for the steppes. In the great grasslands, Shamhat watched Enkidu run with gazelles, call down eagles from the sky, and lie with wild sheep like their shepherd. He cared for the world as a king cares for his city. Enkidu’s subjects were creatures, not men; his dominion was over mountains and rivers, not walls and streets. No wonder, Shamhat thought, that this man dealt with her guards so harshly and quarreled with hunters and gatherers. The actions of man against nature were declarations of war.

Shamhat was tolerated by Enkidu. The animals were wary of her presence unless Enkidu introduced her with bestial noises. He spoke very little to her except when offering food.

“Eat,” he’d say as he offered the raw haunch of a hare.

“Drink,” he’d say when they found a clear pool of water.

His disinterest in her confounded Shamhat, but she soon came to appreciate his temperament. The days gathered into one week. Her time with Enkidu was the longest she had gone without knowing a man since becoming a priestess. And yet, she felt closer to the love her order worshipped than ever in her life. Enkidu cared for creation, and he cared for her.

“Eat,” he’d say, always offering the largest portions to her.

“Drink,” he’d say, letting her take the first sips before sand was stirred in the pool.

They came to a river on their seventh day together. Enkidu, who had been bare-skinned the entire time, was the first to wade into the current. In a flash, he dove in and disappeared,

Shamhat put her toes in. The waters nipped playfully at her skin. The once pure white garments she wore were presently tattered and brown. Enkidu resurfaced as she pulled at the ties on her shoulders. He was across the river with his back turned towards her, but she felt uneasy taking off her clothes in his presence.

She laughed at herself. How many men had seen her naked and felt every inch of her skin with theirs? The number was inestimable. Even so, she waited for Enkidu to submerge again before stepping out of her robes. She hastily found chest-high water to wade in.

The cold took her breath away. She bathed fast, rubbing the sweat and grime from her limbs and out of her hair. When she came out of the river, Enkidu remained beneath the surface. She desired to wash her clothes, too, but thought better of it. A cold body in wet clothes may be lethal without the sun to keep warm. Perhaps she could wash them in the morning, before Enkidu woke.

A breeze blew over Shamhat’s body and set her teeth to chattering. Her hands trembled. As she shook the dust out of her shawl, the keen-edged dagger fell out of the folds. The knife rattled on the smooth stones, and Enkidu appeared out of the river. He was close and facing her.

Their eyes met. Their eyes wandered to compatible parts. Man and woman. Rock and water.

Slowly, Shamhat draped her shawl across her shoulders to cover against the cold. Enkidu took on a posture she had yet to see and walked out of the river. Neither paid mind to the dagger on the ground.

Enkidu failed to gather the gazelles the following day or call the eagles on the next. Lambs came to play on the third, but he turned to Shamhat instead. Herds remained unprotected on the fourth and fifth days, and the hunters returned on the sixth. Enkidu didn’t break their traps, so on the seventh, the beasts fell into the hands of men. Shamhat fell into his. Day and night, Enkidu traded his kingdom for the throne room of passion.

Early one morning, while Shamhat rested beside him, Enkidu rose to run with the herds. He had grown tired of lying in the grass and desired to work his legs. But when he searched for the gazelle, he found none. So he turned to find an eagle. He whistled, high and shrill, but no bird answered. When he looked for the wild sheep and their playful kids, he discovered only bones. Just as he abandoned the wilds, the wilds abandoned him. Gone was the kingdom of Enkidu.

When he returned to Shamhat, she was awake and smiling. Enkidu knew better than to blame her for his choices, but he couldn’t stop himself from being dour.

“What’s wrong?” Shamhat asked. She had managed to get much more than “eat” and “drink” to escape from his lips during their fortnight together.

“The animals have fled from my sight,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

Enkidu tried to give his eagle cry, but his voice broke. Tears fell from his eyes.

“I am no longer welcome among the wild.”

Shamhat looked at Enkidu and witnessed her own part in his cruel fate. What wrong had this man committed to deserve banishment from his domain? He broke traps and harassed hunters. He defended his own subjects as any king would, and for that earned the ire of another mighty man: the king of Uruk.

Gilgamesh did this, Shamhat thought. She was the spear, of that there was no doubt, but Gilgamesh’s hands had directed her into the heart of the wild man she now loved. Let Gilgamesh pay for his crime.

“I know who is to blame,” Shamhat said to her lover. She held his head against her breast and patted his mountainous back like a mother consoling her babe. “Gilgamesh must pay for his sin?”

“Who is Gilgamesh?” Enkidu asked.

“The man who sent me to curse you.”

SHAMHAT AND ENKIDU ENTERED THE CITY OF URUK through the way sheep and other animals were brought in. Shamhat had shorn his hair in the manner of a city man and had even found him clothes, but the man’s size refused to be disguised. She walked beside a giant through city streets and alleys. Merchants in the bazaar stared; children fled. When they went through the temple district, a few people bowed as if in the presence of a god.

Enkidu was confused by everything. The crowds. The walls. The attention. His head turned to each new sight and sound. He pulled Shamhat off course more than once, but each time she managed to bring his focus back to the task at hand: finding Gigamesh. When the city bells chimed to announce a wedding, Shamhat knew just where to look. She pulled Enkidu along to the temple of ceremony.

They arrived at the wedding just as Gilgamesh did. The king was on his way to challenge the groom for the right to know the bride first.

“That is the king of Uruk,” Shamhat said, but the two champions had already locked into each other’s sight. There were no men half as great as either in the whole city, and the presence of one was an immediate affront to the other.

“Who is this who fails to bow to a king?” Gilgamesh asked. His painted eyes narrowed. His mantle glinted in the sun. “Who is this who—”

Enkidu struck first. Shamhat gasped at the swiftness of the attack and the force of the collision. Like two trees felled into one another, Enkidu and King Gilgamesh dropped to the ground.

For a brief interval, Enkidu had the advantage, and Shamhat wondered if she might witness the death of the king by her lover’s hands. Would that make Enkidu the king of Uruk? Or would the guards swiftly dispatch him before such a coronation might take place? The men tasked with protecting the king watched the fight in just as much confusion as Shamhat. The grappling bodies were too tangled for them to stab with their long spears. They might misjudge their thrust and kill the king instead of his enemy. Sizing them up, Shamhat doubted they could kill Enkidu, even with their spears.

Gilgamesh overcame the element of surprise and worked free of Enkidu’s restraint. His robes were torn, and his face reddened with exertion. He pounded on Enkidu’s back with deafening blows. A lesser man might have crumbled beneath the onslaught, but Enkidu brushed off the strikes as a horse swats flies with its tail. He seized the king’s arms and struck the monarch’s head with his own. Craniums cracked like hammer against anvil, and both men crumbled in a daze. The fighting paused, and the guards moved to kill the assailant. But Gilgamesh recovered his wits just in time to wave off his protectors.

“Spare him,” Gilgamesh bellowed. By this time, a crowd had formed around the fight, and silence fell over the city streets. Gilgamesh staggered. Blood dripped from a broken nose. Dust covered his fine robes, hair, and beard. Enkidu looked just as disheveled, save for the lack of reddened nostrils. He breathed heavily and sweat glistened on every inch of his skin.

“No man has ever made me bleed,” Gilgamesh said. The king’s smile surprised both Shamhat and Enkidu. “I have never faced an equal. Surely you must be a god?”

“I am made of Earth. I am nature’s king. I act on instinct and am dauntless in the face of danger. I am the untamed man. I am Enkidu!”

Gilgamesh grinned as Enkidu roared like a lion.

“Yes,” the king clapped as if it were all a performance. “Yes, Enkidu, you are surely my equal. The way I see it, we can either fight and kill each other. For as long as we oppose one another, that is all we can do. Or, we can trade blood and become brothers.”

Gilgamesh wiped his palm in the blood beneath his nose. He offered his red hand. Enkidu looked at the gesture like a freshly broken horse regards its new rider, with awful respect and utter amazement at being bested. He glanced around the city. Its strange walls made him nervous. The sound of people, and not animals or birds, unsettled his ears. He spied Shamhat across the crowd and thought of life with her instead of death by the king’s hand. Enkidu looked down at his wounds. Fang and claw had never bruised him like the king’s mighty blows. There was a cut on his thigh— made by some buckle on Gilgamesh’s clothes— that streamed blood onto his own garments. No man had ever made him bleed, either.

Enkidu touched the wound and looked Shamhat in the eyes while he shook Gilgamesh’s hand.

---

Short stories are published on a monthly basis. If you missed my previous story Svanhvít, you can find it at the link below.

About the Author

Corey D. Evans is a speculative fiction author whose work appears in anthologies from Flame Tree Press. He has also edited theological works for Dispensational Publishing, including a modern revision of The Silence of God by Robert Anderson. Drawing on myth, religion, and the landscape of the Ozarks, Corey writes stories where folklore dances with faith and the mythic drifts into reality.

Corey D. Evans lives in the American Midwest with his wife and seven children. When not writing, he can often be found admiring trees or turning them into cabins.

Copyright © 2026, Corey D. Evans. All rights reserved.