The Disappearance of Telipinu

Telipinu became angry; the reason is lost in the damaged opening. In his rage he put his right shoe on his left foot and his left shoe on his right, and he left. Mist seized the windows, smoke seized the house. On the hearth the logs were stifled; on the altars the gods were stifled; in the fold the sheep were stifled, and in the pen the cattle. The sheep refused her lamb and the cow refused her calf. Telipinu went off and took with him grain, the fertility of the herds, growth and plenty, into the steppe and the meadow, and lay down in a meadow, where he was overcome with sleep.

Barley and wheat no longer grew. Cattle, sheep, and people no longer conceived, and those already pregnant could not give birth. The mountains and trees dried up, the springs dried up, and famine came to the land. Gods and people alike were dying of hunger.

The great Sun-god gave a feast and invited the thousand gods, but they ate and were not satisfied, drank and did not quench their thirst. The Storm-god realised that his son Telipinu was gone, and the gods began to search. The Sun-god sent out the swift eagle to look over the high mountains, the deep valleys, and the dark waters; the eagle came back without finding him. The Storm-god then spoke to Hannahanna, the Grandmother, who told him to go and look himself. He went to Telipinu's city and knocked at the gate, but he could not find him either, and he sat down to rest.

Hannahanna then sent a bee. The Storm-god objected that the bee was small and its wings were small, and that the great gods had already searched in vain. But Hannahanna told the bee to find Telipinu, sting his hands and feet to make him stand up, and wipe his eyes and feet with wax to purify him, and then bring him back. The bee searched the high mountains, the deep valleys, and the dark waters, until at last it found Telipinu asleep in a meadow in the grove of Lihzina. It stung his hands and feet, and he got up.

Waking only made Telipinu angrier. He complained that he had been sleeping in his rage and that they had woken him and forced him to speak, and in his fury he began to destroy the land, flooding rivers and knocking down houses. So the gods turned to Kamrušepa, the goddess of magic, and a ritual began: the anger, rage, and sullenness of Telipinu were drawn out and taken away. The doorkeeper of the Dark Earth opened the seven doors and drew back the seven bolts, and down in the Dark Earth stood bronze vessels with lids of lead. Whatever goes into them does not come back out; it perishes there. So Telipinu's anger was shut away.

Telipinu came back to his house and cared once more for his land. The mist left the windows and the smoke left the house; the altars and the hearth were restored; the sheep took back her lamb and the cow her calf. Before Telipinu stood an evergreen eya tree, and from it hung a hunting bag of sheep's fleece holding sheep fat, grain, wine, cattle and sheep, and long life and offspring.

The text lets us see how Hittites thought about blight and famine: as the absence of a god whose presence keeps life going, which could be repaired by finding, soothing, and honouring him. The ritual words that follow the story were meant to do exactly that for a real community in a real bad year.