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

She found herself twisting her fingers together, pinching the webbing between thumb and forefinger to avoid tapping her fingers or otherwise drawing attention, for she worried that inability to discuss these things would make her position more precarious, and she was not willing to risk the goodwill she had earned. Especially because she had not quite understood how she earned it.

The only other person who did not join these conversations was Kleto. She sat opposite from Isme among the women, and those few glances that Isme managed to steal revealed that Kleto’s eyes were on the horizon, gazing out at the wide end of the world.

The look on her face was such that Isme would have guessed that she was praying to Atlas. But such a prayer that Isme would have shuddered to hear: she looked like someone asking Atlas to toss the world into the void so that it fell and cracked like an egg.

~

Night descended before Isme realized the sun was setting. She had spent too much of the day looking down, trying to avoid stepping in the muck. Even so, her feet were filthy in a way they never had been on the island.

Everyone else wore something over their feet, sandals of some kind or at least a bundle of leather tied with a string. She resolved to make shoes like this for her own feet at the nearest opportunity.

Epimetheus came after the caravan halted at late evening. He handed Isme a full bladder of water, and she realized that she had drunken all her water over the course of the day. They were moving away from the sea. She could feel this in the air: as though the moisture was not from the sea, but from the sweat evaporating on their new companions. Isme did not know what to think about the land further inland. She supposed that it was unfair to judge the land based on traveling with this uncomfortable group.

“I will be sleeping with the men up front,” said her father. He leaned in and whispered, “Stay with the women. If one of them leaves, do not follow her. And do not go anywhere with any of the men...” And he paused, considering before continuing, “In truth, Isme, do not let any of the men get close to you this night. And if any of them grab at you, then scream as loud as you can.”

“Why would any of them grab at me?” asked Isme. But then she filled in the answer by herself, remembering the stories: her father was worried about these men playing at Zeus looking for a new son. And she asked, “Should I also be worried about animals?”

“Animals—?” her father blurted out, confused, and then he seemed to understand where her mind had gone. He said, “I doubt that any of the gods are disguising themselves as these nags tonight. But you needn’t worry about that. Worry about the ordinary men and leave the worrying about the gods to me.”

Isme thought of stories where fathers or mothers had tried to protect their daughters from the gods. Locking Danae away only to have her visited by a shower of gold. Placing guards around Persephone only to have Hades himself split open the Earth to swallow her up. Daphne fleeing from Apollon and crying to her father the river god for help. Compared to being turned into a tree, Isme supposed that she would rather become the mother of some divine half-breed.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Isme said. She felt as though she should reassure Epimetheus, he looked so worried. “If any of these men try something terrible, I will make him regret it.”

And she meant this, too. Her father’s warning from earlier still rang in her mind, his words—you will never match a man for strength, learn to use guile, out-think to outfight—but thought she knew where to strike; the eyes, or the genitals.

But her father fixed her with a glare. He said, “Of course, fight. But yell even if you do fight.” Surprised at his insistence, she nodded, and he softened. As he left for the front of the line, he said, “Stay with the women. You should be safe here.”

~

Isme tried to obey. She nestled with the other women and found herself invited into the pile of bodies. They all had the same idea: keep warm without a fire using nothing but sharing themselves. She found that sleeping with more than one person by her side was more comfortable, and their woven cloth was excellent for blankets. She drifted off before the moon began to rise.

The moon was halfway across the expanse when Isme woke in the darkness. For a moment she was disoriented, still mostly asleep, and the presence of others pressing on her with their own breathing seemed like she was swimming in the water of the sea but it was warm and alive. Then she recalled: she was lying on bodies. Living ones, not the cold dead shadows from the beach.

Shaking her head, she noticed the slumbering animal of Lycander in the grass on the other side of the mud path. It was asleep, but still standing up, head bowed as though doing obeisance to Lycander, who lay asleep in front of it, the leather line tied around its head looped around his wrist.

She became more awake when she realized why she had woken at all: despite having walked all day in the heat and sweated from every pore in her skin, her bladder still pressed against her insides. Holding back a groan of frustration, Isme struggled to unlock herself from the tangle of bodies and rose to her feet. Her father had said to remain with the women, but he had not said anything about this, so she supposed that she had no choice but to do what she had always done. She turned and walked into