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

she preferred anger. She would rather Kleto howl and claw at her than give up, much as though the story of Procne and Philomel has bled into them both. She watches as Kleto reaches some kind of decision.

Kleto stands tall. She holds the knife high, like a torch, a priestess at an altar. Every man in the room leans away, as if she is calling down lightning.

Kleto scans the room, looking into each face, which blanches as she observes it. Then she tilts her hand holding the knife like the point is an arrow, just the tip striking in a straight line toward one of the men, holding herself still as a statue so everyone in the room can see that he has been chosen.

Isme sees that it is the man who had captured her and Pelagia in the forest, although of course she doubts that Kleto knows.

“Go sit on the table,” Kleto says, a low order.

The men waver in indecision, tied to the one chosen by Kleto: will he agree and join the performance, or rebel? Isme feels the coolness in the room again, knowing that if this man chooses wrong, then the performance will be over, Kleto’s spell broken, and then the story of Procne and Philomel truly will be enacted, on Isme and Kleto and Pelagia themselves. She wonders what Kleto was thinking, letting a robber make the decision about their fates.

Except that was always the case, she realized. If the men had not been willing to hear Kleto’s performance, had not been convinced that she was going to entertain them, then this illusion of control would never have come in the first place, because the men would have simply destroyed the three of them by now.

But the man is willing. Perhaps for him this is just another moment of amusement, albeit an unusual one. He probably spends his life hiding on the sides of roads, swatting at bugs in ditches, standing on rocky outcrops and straining eyes for the sign of other people, who he does not regard as people, but rather as forms of spoil, the human shape meaning nothing but money. No connections, no friendships, no father to teach him how to light fires in different ways and to scold him when he relies on a cheating method. All he has left is amusement—and this is amusing.

He sits a little too close to Pelagia, who flinches. She glances across the room at Kleto, a question in her eyes, and Kleto nods at her. Isme can only wonder what instruction that nod contains.

Then Pelagia begins to strum again, a light and airy tune like something that would call up the morning. Isme is reminded of the island birds who sing at sunrise.

Kleto moves so that she is standing in front of the man sitting, blocking Isme from his direct line of sight. And she sings:

My husband, darling Tereus,

Bringer of light and joy—

I have for you a great ceremony

Practiced by my people.

Will you not send away

All the servants, so we may partake?

We skipped it, realized Isme. We skipped what happened to Itys, Procne and Tereus’s son.

Around her the men are snickering, and no wonder because Kleto is brandishing her knife, then openly hiding it behind her back, in an exaggerated way that shows the audience what she is doing. They do not seem to think the story is out of joint—or perhaps they realize that something has been intentionally hidden from them, the same way that Procne is hiding her knife from Tereus. Something that will be revealed soon: they are like little children clapping because they just cannot wait to find out what their gift is.

Kleto does not glance back at Isme, but instead prances to the man drafted into playing Tereus. Isme sees only one hesitation from him, a slight shift back as he seems to remember that she has a weapon, but then when she reaches out a hand and strokes the air around his arm, playfully, he smiles and chortles along. Isme can tell that some of the men are jealous of his position.

Then Kleto climbs back atop the table, giving only a jerk of her head to Isme, directing her to hold still. Isme wishes that she had something, some kind of object that she could throw in this man’s face just like Philomel in the story. She will have to make do with air and determination.

Kleto sings how Procne prepares food for Tereus, and as she does the words melt into many different meanings, her gestures becoming sharp and sensuous in turn, basic cooking pantomimes mixed with crude innuendo. The men are laughing and cheering as she holds out her hand like a fist and pumps the air as though turning a spit and roasting meat. Sitting at her feet, her pretend husband looks increasingly amused.

Smiling down at him, Kleto nudges him with her foot. She says, breaking routine, “Well, husband-in-a-play, I made all this meal for you, aren’t you going to eat it?”

The man raises his eyebrows, and she begins to pantomime the act of eating. There are calls from the audience to play along, Don’t disappoint her, I’ll take your place if you’re not hungry, and then he joins in, pretending to eat the leg of an animal. Behind him Kleto twirls her knife and make several stabbing gestures toward his head in midair, over exaggerated, and the men roar with delight.

What goodwill they had toward Tereus, admiration of his crafty lie and that he has kept Philomel for himself, is all gone—they have no loyalty to him now.

Then Kleto sings:

Tereus eats his fill and praises Procne,

Wonderful cooked meat, my dear wife,

Now where is Itys, our sweet boy?

Fetch him—fetch him—fetch him now

To share in his parents’ celebrations!

“Well,” she ends, foot nudging the man, “Do you want your son, husband?”

Playing his part faithfully, now, the man smiles and gestures and Isme can barely hear, through the noise of the audience, as he says something in the affirmative.

“But he is