‘The Thread of Ariadne’
By George Sopasakis
An excerpt from Chapter 7: “The Golden Thread.”


-The Golden Thread-
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....One such window was opened long ago for the ancient Egyptians. We can catch brief glimpses of their belief systems from their written records. Words, ideas, images, and reality were treated as one and the same. Language was considered able to create, as if it was of divine origin and carried enormous power. Once unleashed within our world through its art-the images, was considered capable of affecting and determining destiny. Whispers of death carried in the winds over the sands of the Sahara could supposedly come alive, evoking the powers of the mysterious script of eternal life known as the Book of the Dead. It represented an attempt to manipulate that certain destiny of mortality awaiting man.

Death was believed inevitable, but not irreversible. It could be undone with help from that lone scroll of papyrus, which contained language and imagery meant for after-death communication with gods. The opening of the mouth, eyes, and ears ceremony by Anubis, the spiritual awakening to follow, the waiting promised land, rejuvenation, the welcoming field of reeds at the end of the road—all seemed logical and approachable destinations through the pages of the Book of the Dead.

It belonged to the one whose name was inscribed in it. Once acquired, it was to be one’s personal guide, instructing one on the perilous journey of the afterlife. It advised on behavior, expectations, and the correct responses to demons eager to devour the traveler. The book did not follow an exact format; it was composed of texts chosen by its owner based on his status, beliefs, and wealth. Despite that, it contained particular segments common to all such books. The afterlife was completely irrational, yet the way to the desired everlasting peace, the golden fields of reeds, was to be achieved through entirely rational means. Within that realm, the lowly papyrus on which was written your name would come alive; its magic would emerge to smooth that irrationality and rule over the domain of death. It represented a bold demonstration of both the magic and the burden of words to carry and transform the destiny of souls.

Many incomplete specimens of this book have been unearthed by archaeological expeditions. One document, secured by questionable and unorthodox means, is the papyrus of Ani, dating around 1300 BCE. Its story provides us plenty of fuel for debate.

Ani, a “scribe and accountant for the offerings to all gods,” finds himself in a maze with numerous doors to open in a preordained sequence. If he does not know the precise way to respond to his ferocious challengers, he will be eaten out of existence. His only chance to reach the other side, where he regains control of his afterlife, is the papyrus manuscript carrying his name and specifying his every action. Before he could utter a word though, he had to see and be seen through the “opening of the mouth” ceremony.

A hidden attraction to this story involves the word “papyrus” and its use. Papyrus was used for rope for the boats crossing the Nile—a thread, our very own thread of Ariadne. The only way out of this afterlife maze of trials was to follow the suggestions in the 70 feet roll of papyrus, accurately, down to the letter. By comparing the maze of the Egyptian afterlife to the labyrinth, we have stumbled upon a like theme. It may be that King Minos echoed more than the Minoan civilization on Crete. The Book of the Dead leaped onto a papyrus form around 1500 BCE, or approximately the same time as the destruction of the Minoan palace at Knossos, Crete, and the volcanic eruption at Thera, Santorini, the theorized mythic land of Atlantis. Before that, it existed only as engravings within the pyramids of Egypt—the sacred pyramid texts.

The recent Egyptian find of a Minoan bull-leaping fresco in the town of Avaris may be more than mere coincidence. We would be negligent to ignore such parallels. We have found something very curious. The story of Theseus and the Minotaur may be an integral part of the Book of the Dead and may be telling the story from an earlier era and another civilization. We are intrigued with the probabilities. Going through the pages of prehistory, we look for a story similar to ours but from a different origin and an earlier period. Our suspicions were finally rewarded when we stumbled upon the fantastic ancient story of the Sumerian king, Gilgamesh, and his quest for immortality.

We meet Gilgamesh, king of Uruk, around 3000 BCE. He has the lead in the oldest story known to man, engraved in clay tablets, told and retold throughout the millennia. His theme runs parallel to ours: his mother a mortal, his father a god—like Theseus. In the saga of Theseus, Ariadne, out of love for him, arranged to help him slay the Minotaur and walk out of the labyrinth unharmed. In the epic of Gilgamesh, Inana was in love with him, but because he rejected her, she arranged for him to be slain by a white bull, “the bull of heaven.” The Minotaur was also a white bull created by Poseidon—a god. It was clearly a bull from heaven. The two story lines offer interesting alternatives and provide us the rare opportunity for a side-by-side comparison of slightly different versions possibly hiding alternative answers to questions with deeply esoteric meanings.

Indeed, by comparing the two myths, it seems that the threat the Minotaur represents in the story of Theseus may be coincidental. The key to success was not dependent on the threat of the Minotaur, the complexity of the labyrinth or the abilities of Theseus, but on something unexpected—his relationship with Ariadne. If Theseus had refused her, she would never have helped him defeat both the bull and the complexity of the Labyrinth. Ariadne was the key to the wise choices in the myth of Theseus, as Inana was the key to the unwise choices in the Gilgamesh story. In the end, Gilgamesh succeeded into slaughtering the heavenly beast, as did Theseus, when it was his turn. Gilgamesh, because he killed the bull, paid the price. He lost Enkidu, his best friend whom he met at a later part of his life. Theseus also lost his father Aegeus as a direct result of his quest to kill the Minotaur. He also met his father for the first time, late in his life.

Gilgamesh’s loss started him on his mythic adventure to transverse the labyrinth, to uncover the key to immortality, leading to his encounter with Utnapishtim, the only mortal to survive the great flood, the only mortal to be granted the gift of immortality by the Sumerian gods.

Long before the Hebrews wrote of Noah, we are introduced, on Tablet VIII of the Gilgamesh epic, to the mysterious figure of Utnapishtim. On Tablet XI, we are told of the deluge, when the gods of Sumer decided to rid the Earth of those “noisy” humans.

The god Enki, partial to humans, broke ranks and notified one man of the upcoming catastrophe. Utnapishtim was instructed to construct an ark and collect precious metals and two of every living creature. He had to spend all his wealth in preparation for the cataclysm. If he prepared accordingly, he and his wife would be spared the devastation.

The flood came, humanity was drowned, and after seven days on his ark, he released a turtledove and a raven to help him find dry land. Finally, he reached the top of Mount Nimush, where he offered his thanks to the gods. Enlil, drawn to the sweet smell of sacrifice, relented and gave Utnapishtim and his wife the gift of immortality.

Utnapishtim was generously rewarded, but what about Gilgamesh? Because he killed “the bull of heaven,” he now had to confront mortality. His short term solution was to find his immortal ancestor. He went to the ends of the Earth; it was an arduous journey, yet he stayed his course. He intended to win the fight or die trying.

It has become evident that Gilgamesh experienced the same story as Theseus. The events may not appear precisely synchronized, but focus on the core aspects of the stories. Certain choices caused a change in the story lines, but the dynamics remain the same.

In Gilgamesh’s tale, Inana was rejected and instead of helping the leading man, she obstructed him. Gilgamesh could not escape by following Theseus’ path through the labyrinth as his individual choice about Inana generated a different outcome for him. He killed the Minotaur and exited his own version of the labyrinth—the treacherous crossing to the Far-Away land of Utnapishtim, but his Minotaur was removed from the labyrinth, it was forced to appear before the labyrinth, so he did not accomplished his intended task. He could not find his immortality. He experienced a changed story, but still trod the same path—our path. Likewise, the Book of the Dead tells the same story with its own particular deviations.

At this junction I wish to interject a highly interesting suggestion. These myths instruct a curious wisdom: Destiny lays the path. We may have power of choice over the destinations along this path but none over the path itself. We are destined to experience it, transverse it, no matter what rearrangements we negotiate. Therefore, our best tactical choice is to have as smooth trip as possible—the course of least resistance. This does not imply that our particular course will become stress-free. Regardless of choice, we do know that Theseus, Ani and Gilgamesh had to endure the wear and tear of the Labyrinth, not a pleasant experience but a necessary one. The same message pops up in different places throughout the epic of Gilgamesh. It is vividly expressed within the following lines in the mythos: “Slow Down. Where are you going in such a hurry?”

This observation of parallels is no accident; these are not meaningless texts. These stories are full of clues left for our benefit. They represent an important legacy. They carry within them the wisdom and culture of people from the lands of Egypt, Crete, and Mesopotamia, and their true origins may lie even further beyond. “The bull of heaven” is a common thread at the center of the quest to bring us to where time stands still.

We have then, not one or two, but at least three totally different versions of the same story. The oldest text we found is the Sumerian, which opens doors to indulge in the possibilities. Utnapishtim achieved immortality and was able to pass it on to Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh had to prove his worth. Despite initial failure, he is afforded one last opportunity to regain his youth, only to later see it slip away, snatched from his tired fingers by a serpent, almost like the one in the Garden of Eden.

By following the evolution of this story we find that where one text is lacking, another picks up the pieces. The texts are meant to guide the initiate to certain success. Initially, Gilgamesh spells it out—the quest, the choices, the stakes, the players, and their backgrounds. The Egyptian version comes along with a focus on methodology for the task. Finally the Greek version appears, almost paralleling the Egyptian, focusing on correcting Gilgamesh’s failed choices and offering a brilliant, simple, yet elegant solution to the puzzle—the thread of Ariadne. Our own path crosses all three of these stories. We must go back and revisit Ani’s version of events to study the methodology offered, to search for additional clues.

In the Book of the Dead, known also as The Book of Coming Forth by Day, we take note of “the opening of the mouth,” the first step in entering the labyrinth. It was termed “wpt-r” and “wn-r.” “Wpt” indicated a splitting, a division of time, the determination of truth, some sort of an opening. “Wn” indicated exposure, access, and in certain cases, to see or be seen. These terms appear to describe all the esoteric knowledge that Gilgamesh was so furiously searching for. Our own story may very well be hiding quietly, waiting to be found behind this same humble, deteriorating thread of Ani’s papyrus....

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Chapter 7-The TOA
Copyright © 2007. Excerpted from the book The Thread of Ariadne (The TOA)
By George Sopasakis, published by Llumina Press.