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

“Then I will pay this one,” said Isme, but she knew the double-meaning, and a spur of resentment flared at the creature’s words: she had not known breaking her father’s rules and singing to the turtles would kill all those men. Why then should she be held responsible? But even as she thought this, she knew the sentiment was just her self-justification: regardless of her level of awareness, those men were still dead. And she could not even claim to be completely unaware, for she knew her father’s rules.

“You can’t say that,” said the voice in the woods. Somehow it had followed along with her trail of thought. “Not when your reason for being here is to escape the consequences of your actions. Absolve your blood guilt? I wonder what those sailors would say about you wanting to deny responsibility for what happened to them.”

Gritting her teeth, Isme whirled to confront the thing. But the woods were empty.

She was not fooled. She said, “Maybe I’m just doing what I’ve been told: in stories people don’t let other people, even strangers, be dragged away by robbers.”

“But this is not a story,” said the voice in the woods, sounding quite reasonable. “Stories are not quite the same as real life. And this time it’s your own neck on the line.”

Isme wanted to argue. She felt the spirit of Kalliope rising in her, the goddess of song wanting to counter-point: No, stories are more real that so-called real life.

Arguing with this voice was pointless. Forcing herself back to task, Isme said, “Maybe. But I also have a prophecy—I will see the end of the world. I can’t die here, or the gods and prophets are all wrong.” This was a stretch that sounded true in her own ears.

“Perhaps,” said the voice. “But the prophecy about you only says you will see and understand the end of the world. It does not say you have to be in one piece.”

Before Isme could retort, there was a crash in the woods behind her. The first thought that came was that the voice in the woods was playing some kind of trick, breaking branches and sticks to distract. But then Isme heard the shriek of a woman—muffled—and realized: she was the one being followed.

Isme raised her staff as two figures appeared through the trees: a man, and held tight by him was not Kleto but Pelagia, gagged with his hand. Isme did not see him holding a weapon, but that was little comfort when she knew that he likely had one anyway, and besides could still hurt Pelagia with his bare hands.

“Lower the staff,” the man said, “You can’t use it, woman.”

And Isme was certain that the voice in the woods wanted to say something, but it did not speak when another was present. Still, she felt bitterness boil through her that the creature was watching as she was forced to lower her weapon.

SEVEN.

~

Being tied up meant the bugs were unbearable. Without hands to swat or feet to lead her from the buzzing, Isme had to sit in her own shadow and endure, occasionally flicking her muscles or stirring in her seat to scatter the swarm like an animal.

Beside her, Pelagia kept her head low. Even under the touch of the flies she was still. Although Isme had the impression that she was mostly avoiding the gaze of the robber who had dragged them to this outcrop of rocks. A puddle of brackish water lingered by the stones, which Isme hoped these robbers did not use as drinking water. For that matter, she hoped that these stones were not their home, either, because nobody deserved to live under such pestilence.

Shifting again, Isme leaned her head in to Pelagia, and said, “How were you caught? You were under the wagon.”

She did not want to believe that the men in the caravan had been overpowered during that short time she had been running along Kleto’s trail and bickering with the voice in the woods. Her thoughts circled around her father. She told herself, Epimetheus is a Titan—that makes him immortal, right?

In the stories, the gods never died. They faded, like the sky-god Ouranos after being castrated by his son Kronos, the time-god, who in turn was defeated by his son Zeus. But the far-flung sky was still there, and so was time itself, so both Ouranos and Kronos were still around. Not to mention that some stories claimed the former gods, the Titans, were in the deepest pit of the underworld. They were not dead—only imprisoned. This gave her the impression that if released they could simply walk back up into the living world. So, hypothetically, her father was immortal.

But the claims from the voice in the woods about her own prophecy worried her. You will see the end of the world, it had said, but that does not guarantee you will be in one piece. Perhaps the same could be said about an immortal being like her father.

If, indeed, gods were immortal at all.

When Pelagia did not respond to her question, Isme nudged her again. “How are you here instead of under the wagon?”

The robber sitting away from them interrupted with a snort, “Because she chased after you, stupid woman. Don’t know why you ran into the woods in the first place. Almost like you wanted to get caught—were they taking you to sell?”

Isme lifted her head and glared. “I was not talking to you.” Without thinking, she added, “I would not expect a man of low honor like yourself to understand my reasons.”

The robber perched on a tall stone that looked like an elongated egg. He gazed down at Isme with something like surprise on his face. She thought that he would become angry at her accusation, but instead he became contemplative.

Lifting a hand to scratch his beard, as though pondering an answer to himself, he said, “You are some kind of foreign