Tarhunt, Thunder in a Shattered Sky

Abandoned Pantheons

Ashes Over the Altar

The wind carries sand through the stone fangs of the temple. Somewhere beyond the broken columns, Tarhunt still holds the lightning — but his eyes are empty. The temple is silent. The priests turned to dust long ago, their voices now echoes in the canyons of Cilicia and Lycia. You stand at the edge of the ruins, and it feels like the thunder that once shook the heavens has faded into the ticking of your watch. But if you squint, you might still glimpse a flicker of his wrath in the cracks of the stone. Tarhunt, god of the storm, never left. He’s just waiting for you to notice.

Temple in Ruins

Tarhunt, also known as Teshub, ruled the skies in Hittite and Luwian Anatolia, when the world was younger and the gods still walked among men. In Cilicia — where Mersin now lies — his temples rose above barley and grape fields nourished by rain. In Tarsus, ancient priests offered bulls and wine, pleading with Tarhunt for storms. In Lycia, near modern Antalya, his shrines clung to mountain slopes — Tahtalı, Xanthos, Patara. Where lightning struck the cliffs, they saw his chariot drawn by bulls.

Archaeology is merciless: in Tarsus, reliefs of a bearded god gripping a bundle of thunderbolts have been unearthed. In Xanthos, Lycian inscriptions carve the name “Trḫnt” into altars. But time is a cruel ally. Tarhunt’s temples in Cilicia and Lycia were plundered and destroyed — by Persians, Greeks, Romans. All that remains are fragments: a few basalt slabs in Tarsus, a couple of statuettes in the Antalya museum. The myths endured better — tales of the dragon Illuyanka, split in two by Tarhunt’s axe; of his war against Kumarbi, the father of gods who dared challenge the sky. These stories still whisper in the ruins, if you know how to listen.

Faces of Forgetting

Tarhunt is a beard of clouds, eyes of lightning, an axe that splits mountains. His name, “Tarhunt,” means “victory” in Luwian, and in Hurrian he is Teshub — thunder that tears through silence. He is god of storms, rain, fertility — and war. His symbols: the double axe (labrys), a bundle of lightning, and bulls that haul his chariot across the heavens. In Cilicia, he was depicted standing atop two bulls; in Lycia, on a mountain, feet sunk in clouds.

His consort was Hepat or Arinniti — the sun goddess, mother of gods and earth. Together, they are balance: storm and light, chaos and order. In myths, Tarhunt isn’t just a god — he’s a king battling chaos. In The Song of Illuyanka, he defeats the dragon by getting it drunk with the help of the goddess Inara. It’s not just a tale — it’s ritual: his triumph heralded rain and salvation for the harvest. His forgotten names — Trḫnt, Tarḫu, Teshub — still echo in the inscriptions of Xanthos and Tarsus.

Shadows at the Edge of the Mind

Why do we return to dead gods? Tarhunt is not just a statue in a museum or a name on a clay tablet. He is the fear of a storm that still lives in anyone who sees dark clouds gathering. He is hope for the rain that might save the fields. His lightning is our adrenaline when the world begins to crack.

In an age where satellites predict the weather and drones patrol the skies, Tarhunt reminds us: nature is still stronger than us. His temples have fallen, but his essence is in the wind’s howl, the crash of thunder, the way we freeze when the sky growls. He lives in our fear of chaos — and our craving for order. A forgotten god is a mirror: in him, we see ourselves, our battles with inner dragons, our desperate prayers for rescue.

How Did We Get Here?

Want to find Tarhunt? Start in Tarsus, near Mersin. The Adana Museum holds bronze storm-god figurines, and the hills of this province (and the neighboring ones) still hide basalt slabs carved with Hittite reliefs. In Antalya, head for Xanthos — among the ruins of this Lycian capital, you’ll find stones marked with “Trḫnt.” Mount Tahtalı (the Lycian Olympus) is another site where, they say, Tarhunt once hurled lightning.

How to get there: from Antalya to Xanthos takes about 2 hours by car on the D400 highway; from Mersin to Tarsus — 30 minutes. Bring water, sunscreen, and good boots — ruins do not forgive weakness. Don’t touch the stones: they’re older than your ancestors. Don’t expect signs — Tarhunt doesn’t like tourists. Best time to go: spring or autumn, when the heat doesn’t melt your brain.

What to see: in Xanthos — Lycian tombs and the amphitheater; in Tarsus — archaeological park, museum, and the old bridge over the Kydyrlı.

What not to do: don’t sneak into closed digs or try to “borrow” fragments — Tarhunt doesn’t forgive thieves.

Echo in the Void

Standing before a ruined temple is like staring into the eyes of time. In Xanthos, where the wind howls through cracks in stone, I felt Tarhunt watching me. Not with anger, not with mercy — with indifference. His thunder has long faded, but the air still smells like ozone, just before a storm. I touched the stones, and it felt like they whispered:

“We were here when your gods were still unborn.”

Tarhunt is not a god you can pray to. He is a reminder that the world is bigger than us. His axe still hangs on the horizon, and maybe one day it will strike again. For now, there is only silence, sand, and the echo of thunder that has not yet returned.

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