Everyone Should Eat His Own Turtle (A Greek Myth Novel) by H.C. Southwark (nonfiction book recommendations TXT) 📕

“There is more than one prophecy,” said Epimetheus. “There have been such prophecies being made for a hundred years, now; at Delphi, at Lesbos where Orpheus’s head is kept, and Apollon even struck down the prophet Tiresias for announcing one at the well of Tilphussa—but you are the first mortal to have received one about yourself. And you alone have this addition: that you not only will witness, but also understand.”

As he said this, Isme realized that all her life she had felt like an addition to another story—as if the story of the end of the world actually belonged to her father, who heard the prophecy and taken his daughter to an island to await the end of the world. She had been a recorder, not the hero of the story, but instead the side character to watch the hero overcome his challenges and report on the story later to the wider world. She was not that important, herself.

But, if she had a prophecy of her own, then there was more than just her father at the center of this story. Regardless of whether Epimetheus was a primeval god or not, she too had value and impact on the tale. This was also her story, same as his.

Possibilities filled Isme’s mind, but she could grasp none of them. The world had seemed solid in the wake of her father’s prophecy: she always knew what was coming next, even if the end of the world was taking a while to arrive. And yet now, even though her prophecy was much the same—somehow, she felt unmoored, as if the next step was unknown and the ending to the tale, her story, could be almost anything at all.

Her father was not finished. He said, “Of course, when this prophecy was revealed your parents were horrified. They thought that perhaps you might in some way be responsible for ending this world and they decided to be rid of you. They left you exposed in the wilderness to die, as you suspected...

“But Orpheus’s mother, Kalliope the Muse—decided you would not die. She had heard of my brother Prometheus’s prophecy, and how I was beginning to prepare for the end. Since yours was like mine she gave you into my charge, for while Prometheus’s prophecy merely predicts the end of the world, yours says that you will actually see it happen. And so I took you in.”

“And here I am,” said Isme. She was not surprised to hear Kalliope was her grandmother—she had called the song-goddess that for all her life, and what spark of joy she felt was the same she always did when she thought of Kalliope tending the well of endless songs. She felt like this was the way to end the story that her father had been telling. That was what this was—another story from Kalliope’s well. Such things were what the world was made of. And she added, because she felt like it: “The end.”

“Not quite,” said her father. “For there is one last thing.”

Shifting her weight to the side, feeling unease settle over her, much like her father’s deductions about how she had caused the men sailors to drown with her song—and then Isme realized that they were back onto that topic, the realization that the drowned sailors’ deaths would indeed have consequence.

“My brother warned me, before the flood that ended the last world, not to accept any gift from Zeus,” said Epimetheus. “I did not listen, then—when I was given Pandora for wife, I thought of his prophecy only once, and then I saw she was beautiful and decided not to heed him. And now, as is my blessing and curse, in the afterthought of it all I can see how foolish I am...”

His face clouded with regret, just for an instant, introspective. Then he fixed his eyes on Isme. “My brother told me something similar about you. That, should I ever have a child to call my own, she should never harm any living thing that could speak.”

Isme’s breath caught, and she said in a rush, “Did he say why?”

“No,” said Epimetheus. “My brother is not in the habit of telling the why. He has said that prophets are not believed unless they give an aura of mystery. I suppose that is why he says what he does when he does, rather than just saying straight out.”

He paused once more, then said, “Then again, perhaps there is something about prophets being mysterious to protect themselves. Old Tiresias was perfectly happy to deliver news directly to people, and for that was beaten many times. Bad news is worse than no news to some people. Voices of bad news are like bad dreams.”

Isme sat, remembering bad news herself, the sound of the voice in the woods saying: I will never leave you any more than those men will. That was more than simply bad news: it was a kind of curse. At last, she said, “Then we must find your brother and tell him what has happened, and what should be done. Maybe...” she hesitated, and then forced herself to proceed, “Maybe I am cursed now.”

Her father regarded her with a grave look on his face. He said, “Those who shed blood are subject to blood guilt. An old curse from Mother Gaia, back in the days before Olympus, the days even before Zeus’s father Kronos, when there were more gods than men. In those days, her daughters the Erinyes outnumbered the largest army, and they besieged everyone who spilled blood—only now, when they are numbered so few, do they reserve their ire for only the worst offenders, men who kill their families.”

And he stood, pulling up the animal skin with him. He announced, “That is why we must go to the mainland, find my brother, and learn how to absolve you of this guilt.”

Isme scrambled to her own feet. “Leave our island? But—”

“Yes,” said her father, voice heavy. He was already in the back of