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

with them. It was as though this woman did not consider running with Artemis to be an honor. This left Isme even more confused.

“Would it not be an honor to serve a goddess?” She asked, but in her voice, without realizing as she spoke, she found herself indicating that the answer was yes.

“Until she finds a reason to cast you out,” said the new woman. She pawed at the cloth she held over her face, but the movement—while graceful and clearly calculated—reminded Isme of a squirrel lathering its face with spit.

Still, Isme was distracted by the golden bangles around the woman’s wrists, which jingled and winked in the sun. None of the other women were adorned so.

“Why would the great Artemis cast out one of her followers?” Isme asked, still not following the direction of the conversation.

“I imagine for the same reason she threw out Callisto,” said the new woman, and the tittering of the women now standing behind her grew louder. Some kind of bug whizzed by Isme’s ear, and she jerked a hand to swat the creature away. The noise was very similar to that these women were now making.

But at least now Isme had some sense of what this new woman was saying: the story of Callisto. A tale of one of Artemis’s nymphs, forcibly seduced by Zeus, who then lied to her mistress and companions until the imminent birth of her child could no longer be hidden. Cast out, Callisto raised her arms before Artemis to plead for mercy, and then she and her son were transformed into bears that were hung into the night sky as constellations—a terrible tale, tragic and wonderful and beautiful all at once.

Yet the behavior of the gold-haired woman suggested that she thought Isme did not know the tale—that a sort of insult was being offered which she expected Isme to not understand. And Isme did not understand—mostly, she was confused where the insult was.

She said, “Even so, to be Callisto is a great blessing.”

“Yes,” said the woman, “I imagine a country bumpkin would think so.”

“Well, they are in the stars, aren’t they?” said Isme. “Being a star would be better and more beautiful than walking in the mud here on earth with a cloth over your head.”

More tittering by the other women, but this time Isme thought they were loudest of all. Some even sounded congratulatory—and they struck their hands together, and struck their thighs repeatedly, slapping flesh sounds that boomed.

Isme watched, fascinated, as the new woman’s face began to redden just like the other women’s faces had—except, on her complexion the redness was vibrant, like the bloom of a new flower, extending from one ear all the way across her face to the other. Even her lips darkened. And Isme thought: this must be what the stories mean when they call women “Beautiful.”

Then, gritting her teeth, the woman hiked up the long trail of her garment and strode past Isme without looking at her, as though this was a terrible insult to bestow.

And Isme found that it was an insult: for she wished very much that the woman would have looked directly at her so she could see that lovely face closer.

A call came from the caravan front. “Walk, walk! Move again!”

Isme turned, but the gold-haired woman was already striding forward and all she could see was the cloth that covered the back of her head. It was woven through with lovely patterns that looked like vines and grapes and was dyed much more colorful besides. As Isme stared the woman did not turn or look back.

Someone grabbed at her arm, and Isme started, jerked her head to see Pelagia had linked together with her at the elbow. Pelagia said, “That’s the first I’ve seen a newcomer get the best of Kleto in insult matches. You play the country bumpkin well—you must teach me this sweet and innocent act of yours.”

Mystified, Isme could only nod as she was drawn onward.

Perhaps that had not been a total disaster, she thought. The other women seem to accept me. I suppose that is why she is holding on to me, anyway. But then her eyes trailed over the back of Kleto’s head, and she felt cold—yet, glancing up into the sky showed there were no clouds to cast shadows overhead.

~

Isme found the road was far less pleasant than walking in the woods or through scrub-grass or along the sands of beaches. The mud and filth were mortifying—and when the animals pulling the carts defecated, she was required to step through the leavings. Bugs swarmed and soon she was being bitten by insects she had no name for.

The other women did not seem to mind the trail as much. Instead, they kept scanning the land, as though expecting at any moment robbers would come bursting out of the trees surrounding the muddy path and would leap upon the whole caravan, overcoming every protector and carting the women away over their shoulders. Strangely, as Isme observed them, some of the women looked almost hopeful at the prospect.

Kleto did not turn or address them, not even once. Isme found the back of her head was the most fascinating thing on the trail.

They paused for breaks, and the women would start to talk. Lycander would come riding his animal and stand amongst them, perhaps to guard, but Isme also suspected he wanted to listen to them speak. She understood—they certainly seemed fascinating.

Much of the talk was of things that Isme could understand: stories. They discussed names and events that Isme knew, but in a way that she had never encountered on the island with her father. The lens of these stories was that of performance. They did not discuss Oedipus and his horror at the revelation of who his mother was: they discussed so-and-so’s performance of Oedipus versus such-and-such’s contrary artistic decisions, apparently in different iterations of an Oedipus play.

And so Isme could follow what they were saying but not join the conversation at all. She