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

The trees there felt unfamiliar, as though not trees at all. The moon was struggling through wispy clouds, reducing her ability to see, especially with the spare branches of these not-quite-trees. Isme straightened afterwards and crept back towards camp, but found that she was walking for longer than expected.

Had she been turned around? Craning her head back, Isme tried to remember the position of the moon in the sky when she had set out into the woods. That was the way to navigate back in this darkness. Believing that she had remembered correctly, or at least hoping so, she turned to her left and began walking again.

That was when she heard it: the stealthy sound of footsteps.

Pausing, trying to orient sound in the dark, possibilities ranged through her mind. Some man in camp might have seen her leave and followed. She had not brought her staff and had no idea how far she had steered herself off course. Perhaps she should yell just in preparation. That might convince him not to try anything.

But what if it was not a man? Gods roamed the woods, too. Of course, if that was so then running was her only option. She doubted that shouting would deter a god.

These options—run, or shout—circled in her brain. As she stood in indecision, the footsteps began again and trailed closer, but still stopped out of sight. Or—that was not quite right. Based on where the sound had stopped, whoever was walking should have been standing right behind her, yet there was no one there.

And then Isme realized.

“You are still here?” She asked, praying for there to be no answer.

Before her, empty woods replied: “Did I not promise I would follow you always?”

Then Isme was running—without thinking, feeling only muscles burn in the cold air, hearing only her heart beating against her eardrums—she fled blindly, she hoped toward the camp. The darkness was oppressive, heavy, like a hand on her shoulder—

When she collided with something hard, Isme’s first impression was that she had struck a tree that was uprooted and moving in the night. But then as she lay prone and still, she felt the tree breathing and the warmth of someone pressed against her side, the two of them sprawled over and stunned by the collision.

“What is this? Who are you?” came the voice of the other person, and despite only hearing it once Isme found it unforgettable. The new woman from earlier—Kleto, the beautiful one. Isme regretted that in the dark she could not see her face.

Not thinking, Isme asked: “What are you doing in the woods?”

The only response from Kleto was to gasp. And that sound was enough to press some sense back into Isme’s brain: surely, this woman would be furious with her, for the collision if for nothing else, and for all Isme knew the voice in the woods was still following, and who knew what the voice seeing them together would do or be. Then, feeling herself chased twice, Isme flung herself upright and scrambled forward until she was at the camp.

SIX.

~

The pale fingers of dawn, rose-colored, stirred the camp to life. The moon had set some time ago and, with everyone else returning to consciousness, Isme no longer had to pretend to be asleep. Yet as the other women unentangled themselves and stretched and yawned and rubbed the corners of their eyes, Isme found herself resentful they were moving, jostling her among the pile. She had no reason to think that today was going to be any different from yesterday: a long day of hard walking.

Just before they started out, Epimetheus appeared from the front of the line. He stood before Isme and looked her over, as though trying to tell whether anything had happened in the night. Lycander, who had leaped astride his drowsy animal with the ease of a child skipping, noticed her father had come to see her.

Lycander called, “Nothing happened, Sir. I’m a good watchman.”

Epimetheus tilted his flat smooth head and regarded the boy with a fierce expression. Lycander held very still in a way that reminded Isme of an animal. But she could not tell whether this was the freeze of prey realizing it was being stalked, or of a predator waiting for the prey to mistake it was safe before pouncing.

Apparently her father could not tell the difference either, because he glanced back in Isme’s direction. Subtly as she could, Isme nodded. This seemed to satisfy him.

As her father walked away, Isme’s eyes followed his back—and caught on the face of Kleto as he walked past her. Now Isme was the one who froze: for Kleto’s own eyes were locked on Isme’s form. Her gaze was easily understood. She was a predator.

~

This day, as they walked, Isme was occupied by many questions.

What was the voice in the woods? How had it travelled to the mainland? Isme felt sure that it had some kind of body, albeit an invisible one. After all, how else could it have the weight to make audible footsteps? But, if it had weight, then it could not have gone across the water, because it would have sunk into the ocean.

Isme tried to avoid thinking about the possibility that the voice in the woods had ridden in the paddle boat with her and her father. The thought of sharing such a small space with the creature made the skin on her arms tighten into little bumps, despite the rising heat of the day. Yet her mind could not stop chewing on the possibility until her teeth ached from grinding: after all, she reasoned, if it was invisible perhaps it could have been sitting near her in the bow the entire time. She would never have known.

Just like now, when it probably was following them. At this very moment it was trailing behind the caravan, like a predator stalking a herd, its eyes fixed on Isme.

She made the mistake of glancing behind—and was confronted with eyes indeed fixed on her