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

She had set aside a suitable torch for the walk to the beach. Grabbing, her hands smooth and soft against the wood but also tight with tension, Isme stuck the end into the fire. Greedy as ever, fire clutched at the wood and Isme pulled it upright, held them both aloft. Fire simply continued chewing.

Reassuring herself again, she said, “Father will never know.”

The way through the woods was not so easy in the dark. The sun was gone before Isme reached the crest of the hills. She lifted each foot high, trying to avoid stubbing her toes, but she could not stop each footstep from landing on something: briars or twigs or uneven soil that made her ankles jut at odd angles. Fortunately, Isme’s feet were well-calloused and her wiry limbs were strong.

Any fear Isme contained, walking along in the darkness, she dispelled by telling herself one of her favorite stories:

A long time ago, there was a man named Orpheus, who was the son of the god Apollon, king of light, and Kalliope, muse of song. He was so skilled in music that when he sang and played, even wild animals would come to sit at his feet. There are many stories about him—but none so great as how he died for his love, Eurydice.

At their wedding, as she danced to Orpheus’s music, Eurydice trod on a snake and was bitten. Dying, her spirit fled down to Hades below.

But Orpheus did not give up on his love. Playing his lyre and singing of his loss, he found the entrance to the underworld. His music worked miracles. Charon, the greedy ferryman, shipped Orpheus across the river without payment. Cerberus, the watchdog, let him pass. And finally even Hades himself, god of the dead, was moved by Orpheus’s song, which caused Persephone to weep with sorrow. Merciless Hades agreed to let Orpheus have Eurydice’s soul, with one condition: that, as he led her soul back up to the world of the living, Orpheus should not turn and look at her.

And so Orpheus set out to do the impossible: bring his love back to life! He sang as he walked back up the cave trail to the living world. But as he walked, he began to doubt; was Eurydice really behind him? Or was this all a trick? A bad dream? At last he could withstand temptation and doubt no longer, and took a look behind. There stood the soul of Eurydice, following him, but the moment he saw her, she vanished.

He lost his chance—his love was gone.

Orpheus knew nothing could make him happy ever again. In grief he traveled the land, singing his sorrows, and at hearing his song even the stones would weep. Animals and brutes in the wilderness would come and lay at his feet and die from heartbreak.

But then one day some Maenads, women under the spell of Dionysos, god of wine, met him in the woods. They yelled at Orpheus to join them in partying, but he could not overcome his sadness. The Maenads screamed so loudly that they could not hear his song and so were unaffected. Eventually they became enraged and tore him into pieces, tossing his head into the river Hebrus.

But even then, Orpheus’s music did not die: the head continued to sing, even as it flowed down the river. The Hebrus carried his head all the way down to the sea—where, if you stand quiet on a beach and listen, you can still hear Orpheus singing to this day.

A macabre story, Isme thought, but in truth she liked it all the more for that.

By the time she crested the hill and started down, she could see much better, moonlight filtering through the trees. The moon was rising now—Isme must hurry.

She sent a thought to the turtles, words that she imagined weaving through the trees and sweeping down to the beach like wind—I’m coming, my friends.

When she began descent to the beach, Isme was no longer following the path. There was the sound of the ocean ahead of her, waves beating the shore. The turtles would surf the tide of the moon rising behind the island. When half the night was finished, they would follow its retreat as the ebbing pulled them back to sea.

The trees gave way, parting to reveal scrub-grass and bushes. In the dark they looked like half-trees, as if the vegetation was shrinking into the earth. Hurry picked up Isme’s steps; just over the ridge was the beach.

Sand gleamed in the moonlight, as if it too was made of water.

She froze there, at the height of the ridge, gazing out over the dunes. Isme imagined that the beach looked like what good dreams must be like. Soft and soothing. As she gazed out over the water, she tried to imagine what lay on the other side: woods, and cities, men and beasts. Her father had told her many stories of the outside world: stories of gods and monsters and heroes and war. He was fond of Hercules, who he said at least had some sense in him.

Her ears strained, trying to listen for Orpheus’s song, but the ocean only sighed.

Isme admired the untouched sand. There were no tracks here; no beasts, certainly no men. She was the lone living thing as far as could be seen. If the moon looked down on her, surely Selene thought that Isme was the last creature alive.

But I’m not alone, not really, thought Isme, and she stepped to the sea—toward the other lives that were waiting for her in the water. As she walked, she left behind her the evidence of her existence, tracks that marked her lifeblood. Motion equaled life.

She stood quietly, before weariness began to pull at her limbs and she sat, waiting for the moon to rise just a little higher, for the sea to reveal what she had come for. Isme would wait all night,