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

may not be on stage, Isme thought, but they will be there during the theater. Glancing at her father, who nodded at her, she said, “I will.”

Pelagia reached out and wrapped her arms around Isme’s middle. She was only a little bit taller than Isme, so this was not stifling, although Isme could not help but tense. She heard Pelagia whisper, “You simply must come. I have never seen Kleto take so to a stranger met on the road. Although,” and she sighed, “It’s best you have your own ways, rather than joining us as a singer.”

Isme did not get the chance to reply. When Pelagia pulled away, Isme thought that she saw a glimmer in the corner of her eye, and then Pelagia had run off in the steps of Kleto. Isme was left to wonder if all goodbyes were like this.

Turning, she followed her father as he wove into the city, knowing without him saying that she should stay close by his side around people.

After all, if the last few days had proved anything, it was that her father’s stories—brutal as they were sometimes—were nothing compared to reality on the mainland.

~

The city in the lower parts of Mount Parnassus that shared the name of Delphi but did not house the Oracle itself. Instead it was a trading post. Isme knew as much from her father’s claims about the place, since he had once told her that he had been to Delphi and she had begged for insider information.

The town lay inside a low wall, perhaps the height and a half of an average man, constructed as much from wood as stone. It seemed like every other step was a gate instead of wall—Isme guessed that the town did not have much to fear from raiders, because who would dare attack a place so blessed by the gods?

Inside the city was a jumble of sounds and sights whirling and flickering before Isme’s eyes, so many people churning like fish in a school, chasing about. The noise of so many people talking was like the low roar of an endless wave that never receded. Men dressed in cloth, everywhere. Animals dragging or carrying and sometimes complaining under their loads. Small children shrieking.

Only occasionally did Isme sight someone who was also dressed in animal skins. Their eyes also seemed to seek out Isme and her father in the crowd, and sometimes without speaking they would nod. Isme nodded back. She supposed they would approve, as though they also were wild men and together she and they were relieved just for a moment to see another of their kind in this forest of people.

Among all the bustle was a man nearly in the nude, loincloth hanging from his hips, beard scraggled. He lifted arms in wild gesticulations at the sky, and chanted:

“All is illusion! All is just shadows on the wall of a cave—men think they are seeing reality, but they see only hand puppetry! Even the gods are deluded, believing they are the forms of men—when really they too are shadows, unable to see the forms they mimic! Flee too much knowledge, for it ends in death! You will see you are in the cave!”

Isme wrinkled her nose at him, for he was not speaking sense—though he paused to stare at her. She hurried to catch up to her father’s plodding shape and away from the madman’s eyes.

Epimetheus led her to a small hut that bordered the wall of the city on one end, stopping before the doorpost, which was of such poverty that the door frame held only a cloth, not wood or even a gate. He told her, “This is a good house for people like us. When you come back here, if you do, then this would be the house to stay in.”

“What do you mean?” Isme asked.

Her father paused, as if considering how to explain. “I am not sure why. Perhaps it’s that when gods come visiting, they always just come to this house, and now the house finds receiving the gods and their visitors a sort of habit. No matter who lives here.”

“The gods?” said Isme, her voice rising. She felt a wild wind rise up within her, as though the waters in the well of her soul had been disturbed. She thought, Grandmother Kalliope, please let us go unnoticed by anyone who hates me or my father in this place.

She had no idea whether the other gods blamed Epimetheus for Prometheus’s crime; they were brothers, after all. And she and her father were here to find him...

With the way her father told the story of Prometheus… surely he approved of his brother’s actions. He was the god who gave mankind the mind of the gods—and the one who had brought men fire. Isme thought of the many ways Epimetheus had taught her to survive, the use of sticks, flint, kilns, cooking—all centered on fire. At times Epimetheus had settled down before the flames and stared into them as though asking them questions.

Now that she knew the name her father carried among men, Isme wondered if he was not thinking of his brother in all those moments.

Epimetheus remained paused before the door. He watched her, waiting for more questions. Isme was always questioning him, she thought, always asking why, asking for more, and he was always answering. She felt a surge of warmth run through her when she realized that he was not going to continue until she was done asking.

Somehow, this trait of his—she had not paid attention to it, before. She had simply thought that this was the way he was and not even noticed she was being ungrateful. But she had people now to compare him to and she saw that not everyone was willing to indulge her like he had for all her years.

So she asked the question: “Should we fear any of the gods while we are here?”

Her father frowned, wide lips pursing as he considered. He said, “I should suppose