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

“Dionysos favors us,” replied Kleto, tossing her head, and under her usual scarf, the outline of her golden hair could be glimpsed. Isme regretted that it was not free, so that Kleto could toss her head like Lycander’s horse. “You men can keep Apollon.”

“Of course,” Lycander said. “You women are always rejecting poor Apollon. The god of logic, music, and light—of course you find him completely repellent!”

“Yes,” chided Kleto. “We much prefer our wild revels full of dancing and wine. So we ought to go up on stage instead of you in honor of Dionysos.”

Lycander nudged his horse, calling, “Careful, woman, I have to play one of you later tonight, and who knows what I’ll tell everyone about your revels—licentiousness, murder, cannibalism—we all know quite well what happens to men at your little parties! For myself, I prefer to stay away and keep my head rather than be a second Orpheus!”

Isme started, hearing her birth father’s name. But Lycander was already riding away, and when she glanced at Kleto, she saw the reason Kleto had gone silent: a small smile with upon her face, like a woman who had just finished a good meal.

Having observed these interactions for some days now, she knew this was not unusual. Nor was it strange when Kleto’s eyes returned to some sense and immediately found her own. Kleto said, “You must see him perform. I mean truly perform, not just jest. You would think he was a kind of woman, more so than any of us.”

I doubt that, thought Isme, gazing at Kleto’s lovely earnest face, but said, “I’ll try.”

“There is something else you must try, too,” said Kleto. Isme saw the way her face remained lightened, like they were continuing to joke, but something in her was claiming that this was an act, although that something was also always claiming that Kleto was acting, simply because Kleto always was.

Seeing Isme’s attention upon her, Kleto continued: “You simply must try singing with us. Even if only once.”

Isme’s limbs tightened, like there were strings connected to her wrists through her arms to her shoulders and from her ankles to her hips, and they all had just been pulled taut. She made excuses, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I don’t… sing in front of people.”

This was a poor lie, for she had sung to the robbers. And yet her singing then had to be what Kleto was thinking of: for Isme had the suspicion that Kleto knew there was something other than chance or fate that had caused the birds to spurt into the room and scatter the men like seeds. As long as one accepted that premise, it was easy enough to recognize that Isme’s voice was the most likely cause. And from there it was easy to surmise that Isme’s secret extended far beyond occasionally summoning birds.

Isme had thought about this throughout these days of walking. Her father’s promise hung about her head like the bugs that she had begun to ignore. Only if someone risked her life for her—that was the condition needed for her to reveal her voice. Kleto satisfied it—after all, she had faced down those robbers so Isme and Pelagia could escape.

Yet that situation had been forced. Kleto had no choice either, since she had been captured too. And so Isme’s promise held her back, her own voice still echoing, I promise, I promise…

As it echoed now, with Kleto carefully observing Isme’s face. As it continued to echo when Kleto seemed to accept Isme’s poor excuse and said, “Everyone gets stage fright. But sometimes we have to face the thing that we fear the most in order to grow.”

That was the kind of moral that appeared at the end of a story, thought Isme. The kind where things ended badly for the hero, but in such a way that one could not help but admire him. Still, Isme preferred her own story to have a happy ending. So she said, “Of course. But singing really isn’t that important in my life anyway.”

Kleto raised her brows, but just barely. Isme thought, I simply must get better at lying. Nobody who had heard her sing would believe that singing was nothing to her; and, given everything that happened, those long years alone on the island with her father, learning of her heritage, and the men on the beach—

No. Isme knew that her singing was the most important thing. Perhaps even more important than the coming end of the world.

Kleto shrugged, said, “All I’m saying is, give it a try.” And then she moved along.

Isme stood for a moment and watched her walk, before a fear like being left behind came to her, sneaking up the ladder of her spine. Glancing at the way the path had come, the line that marked the edge of the woods which receded into mountainside as the caravan proceeded along, Isme hurried to catch up with Kleto.

She had not heard the voice in the woods for days, but she also had not been alone.

~

Her father came not long after they arrived in the town. Epimetheus looped her by the wrist and drew her away, telling her, “Say a goodbye to your new friends.”

Isme was surprised at his choice of words. She glanced hesitantly at Kleto and Pelagia. Friends. Yes, she realized, this was what the stories meant when they used that word.

“You will see us later,” said Kleto, and without any more words stalked away. Isme stared after, wondering if she should follow and demand what Kleto meant by this—because, unsuited to the mainland as she still was, even she knew this was rude.

As though she could tell what Isme wondered, Pelagia scooted closer and said, “You really will come see the performances, right? There will be celebrations for Apollon when the Oracle of Delphi is opened. It’s only open for a few days each year, so everyone from Greece is here—and of course we must all celebrate.”

The women