When Kemal returned home, his thoughts were a tangled mess. He could no longer understand the whirlpool he was being drawn into. Just days ago, his life had been ordinary and monotonous. Now, wherever he stepped, a shadow of mystery seemed to follow.
For a brief moment, he thought about the message he had sent to Yelda. He felt as if he had dragged her into this darkness himself, and a tightness gripped his chest. Among all the emotions swirling inside him, guilt had now joined. "Am I pulling the people around me into this shadow too?" The thought grew heavier, darkening the corners of his mind.
At that moment, the phone on the edge of his desk suddenly lit up. Kemal's eyes snapped toward the screen. Professor Bekir Çevikoğlu had finally replied. In that instant, every other thought faded to the background. Guilt, fear, remorse… all fell silent. His heart filled with a new surge of excitement and curiosity. He rushed to his computer. His hands trembled slightly as he sat down. There it was in his inbox, the long-awaited reply. Without even taking a breath, he opened the email.
Dear Dr. Kemal Doğan,
First, allow me to apologize for my delayed response. Before replying, I wanted to analyze the symbols in the image you sent more thoroughly and compare them with my personal sources.
The inscription on the disc, as you correctly identified, belongs to an early variant of Akkadian. However, what stands out is how the characters deviate significantly from traditional cuneiform. This deviation suggests the text might belong either to a localized cultural synthesis or to a ritual dialect that has long since vanished.
In my preliminary translation, I came across the following phrase:
"The eighth gate shall open, the lion shall awaken. The deer shall fall, the goddess shall be born. The cycle is complete."
Such texts are extremely rare in Mesopotamian literature. However, I recall encountering something similar only once—phrases attributed to a cult that existed thousands of years ago, lasted briefly, and vanished without leaving much trace.
As for the figures on the disc:
The lion-headed humanoid form is a common motif in Mesopotamian iconography, symbolizing divine power, destruction, and transformation.
The deer-headed figure, however, is highly unusual. In certain pre-Ishtar local belief systems, it was referred to as "the silent watcher" or a sacrificial intermediary between gods and men.
From this perspective, the object in your possession is not just an archaeological artifact—it may be a symbolic and possibly ritualistic vessel.
Historically, such symbolic-ritualistic artifacts have been found mostly in the northern Mesopotamian transition zone: Upper Tigris basin, around Urfa-Harran, Eastern Taurus, and certain inner Cappadocian basins.
However, some lesser-documented examples have also been found along ancient trade routes reaching as far as ancient Thrace—especially remnants linked to Byzantion's early pagan phases, which remain largely unexplained.
I hope this sheds some light on your questions. Should I come across any further data or materials on the subject, I will gladly share them.
Sincerely,
Prof. Bekir Çevikoğlu
Kemal stared at the screen long after reading the message. The translation matched word for word what Yelda had written in her notebook. How had she known about it? Had she been taken for exactly this reason?
He reread Bekir Çevikoğlu's email again and again, making sure he missed nothing. His eyes landed on a word: "Ishtar."
He was familiar with working on symbols and imagery, but Mesopotamian mythology was not his area of expertise. Still, the name was not unfamiliar.
In the back of his mind, something stirred.
Love, sexuality, war, and destruction…
Ishtar embodied all these conflicting forces.
In ancient texts, she was both a creator and a destroyer. The Sumerians had called her "Inanna." Later, the Akkadians, Babylonians, and Assyrians had worshiped the same deity under the name Ishtar.
Driven by intuition, he dove into deeper research—academic papers, old blogs, archives.
Pages and pages of myth, interpretations, and fragmented texts passed before his eyes.
But none of them fully answered what he was looking for.
Maybe even he didn't know exactly what that was.
Still, he could feel it—something was close.
A word, a symbol, a sentence brushing against the edges of his mind and retreating again.
Hours passed. Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon. The room sank into a quiet twilight.
He brewed fresh coffee and sat down again. As he set the cup beside the keyboard, he murmured:
"Maybe I'm chasing a meaningless detail…"
Before closing his laptop, he gave one last glance to the open pages.
In the corner of the screen, a title caught his eye.
"The Descent of Ishtar."
Even before clicking, he felt something stir deep inside.
He read:
"The Queen of Heaven passed through seven gates, each stripping her of her divinity…"
The words echoed like a voice from beyond time.
He kept reading.
Ishtar descended into the underworld, ruled by her sister Ereshkigal. At each gate, she gave up a symbol of her power—her crown at the first, her necklace at the second, her breastplate at the third…
By the end, she was naked and powerless.
Then came her death. Her disappearance.
The gods sent help to rescue her—but her return required a price.
She had to leave someone behind.
She chose Dumuzi—her lover.
Kemal's eyes widened.
The sacrifice wasn't just symbolic. It was a key.
And suddenly, an image appeared in his mind:
The deer-headed figure on the disc, face-to-face with the lion.
Not just symbols—''a ritual. A map.''
He stood. A strange duality washed over him—relief for what he had uncovered, and the crushing weight of what it meant.
Each answer opened ten more questions.
He paced the room.
Then, his eyes caught a dusty frame on the bookshelf—a childhood photo at an excavation site. His tiny hands clung to his mother's leg. Her smile radiated warmth and safety.
He picked up the photo.
"I miss you," he whispered.
She had always been there for him. But now, more than ever, he needed her.
A tear slipped onto the glass.
And with it, a spark.
A memory.
A story from childhood—half myth, half history.
His mother's voice drifted back to him:
"Once, there was a goddess who ruled the brightest star in the sky…
One day, she fell into a deep sleep beneath the earth, waiting to be awakened.
A lion guarded her—not an ordinary lion, but one with a crown and a human face.
He could not open the gate himself. His role was only to wait.
And once every thousand years, when silence swallowed the world and the sky turned dark…
The lion would rise.
The gate would open.
And the goddess would return through the stars."
He knew now.
His mother had spoken of Ishtar.
And then, another memory surfaced. She had once said to him:
"I want to show you something."
She had reached for an object in the dimly lit tent… but then the memory stopped.
What she showed him—what she said—was gone.
Vanished into fog.
Yet something had been left behind.
And now, slowly, it was returning.