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

Perhaps talking to these mainlanders was not hard after all. If she pretended like she was someone in a story, engaged with wit and wordplay, maybe she could simply fit in. She would probably forever be a little odd to their eyes, but she was managing to navigate human relationships well enough, or so she told herself.

Until, sinking back into her crouch, her eyes strayed to Kleto, further down the line of the caravan. Immediately Isme flinched—for Kleto looked aflame with anger, flushed red with passion as though she might tear forward like an arrow through air—straight for Isme’s throat.

Instinct told Isme that meeting Kleto’s eyes was dangerous, so she let herself look away, but kept the other woman in her peripheral awareness, ready to bolt if Kleto so much as stirred in her seat.

At the same time, however, she felt something vicious rise within her—a small roar that trumpeted: Come, beautiful woman with gold hair, come charge at me—I will meet you and strike back twice as hard, but surely you will look lovely as you attack. She imagined those veiled locks streaming in the air like the shower of gold Zeus had become while visiting Danae—

“You needn’t worry about her,” said Pelagia’s voice, and Isme glanced over to see the other woman had approached and sunk down to crouch beside her. “Kleto is the kind who strikes another and breaks her own finger.”

“I am not afraid,” said Isme. “I simply don’t understand why she does what she does.” And then, deciding to take a risk, she added, “Like yesterday. I had never met her before, but when she came—” and this was the risk, as she was assuming that she knew what Kleto had been intending— “The first thing she did was insult me.”

“Oh,” sighed Pelagia, “That is what Kleto does. When Eutropios calls her for something, she takes it out on us. And besides,” and now there was a look of mischief come over Pelagia’s features—Isme was startled by this expression, so recognizable because she had seen it before on her own face— “She sees you as competition for Lycander, even if you do nothing yourself to attract him.”

Isme frowned, scrunching her nose as though an insect had buzzed between her nostrils. She decided on honesty, “I don’t understand what you’re saying either.”

Pelagia scooted closer and in a loud whisper, “You are a country bumpkin, aren’t you? Let me guess: the only males you’ve ever known is your father and the goats.”

Isme felt heat stretch across her shoulders and bridge over her nose. But before she could say anything, Pelagia continued, “At the very least you should have an understanding from your herd,” and she began to grin in a way that made her teeth look sharp, “You know, when rutting season comes for the bucks.”

Now Isme’s shoulders and nose felt like a burn from a campfire. Isme lifted stared at Kleto in shock, only realizing that Kleto must have understood what Pelagia was telling her when Kleto’s angry glare tipped over into rage. Isme could see the moment this occurred on the map of Kleto’s pale face: anger and embarrassment had made her run red, but rage drained the blood down to her insides, her heart and lungs which she would need in a fight.

Kleto wrenched up from her seat with such force that Isme almost thought the stone under her would be dislodged and roll away. Isme nearly believed that Kleto could rend someone limb from limb. She held very still, the prey instinct returning to her even though now it was probably useless.

But Kleto did not come. She stood still as if to show Isme how she wanted to attack, but then turned and strode into the woods.

Glancing to her side, Isme found Pelagia staring in Kleto’s wake, and if she had to put a label on the other woman’s face, she would have called it “satisfaction.”

Now I’m even more confused, thought Isme. So much for understanding mainlander people—I was foolish to think I had mastered them so quickly. Or, perhaps there was a difference between men and women that made the one harder to grasp.

“You mean that she wants Lycander to—” and Isme considered her language, settling for words that matched the metaphor, “Become the buck of her herd?”

Pelagia was more amused now. She said, “Not quite. Perhaps she dreams of that. She knows it’s impossible, so mostly she just likes to make sure that she can get as close as she can. That means he’s not allowed to have eyes for anyone but her.”

“But he is only a boy,” said Isme, surprise curling through her. She had trouble imagining why someone would want to possess a child like a man. That seemed wrong, unnatural, like looking upon an animal with love as more than a metaphor.

And Pelagia laughed, a big loud bark. “A boy? Oh, no. Lycander is a young man. He has made most of his journey over already. Can’t you see his hairy legs?”

“Journey?” asked Isme, confused. “As if to go from one place to another, over a long time? Do men take a long time? Why is there not just one day, and then they become a man? It’s that way for us women.”

“Because men are slow,” shrugged Pelagia. “They do everything slowly. And then they complain when in the meantime women reconsider past decisions and come to different conclusions—which we would never be able to do if they took the proper time for things. It’s because they’re slow they complain we’re fast and changeable.”

Isme had the impression that Pelagia was explaining to her as though she was a child, but felt no offense. Mostly because she still did not understand what Pelagia was talking about. She half believed that Pelagia was playing a trick, still focused in her thoughts on Lycander. She said, “But Lycander does not have a beard.”

“Oh—” said Pelagia, letting the syllable extend, “So that is what confuses you. Well, that is understandable. Not to