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

further into the scrub-grass, keeping low, approaching the crest of the ridge and beach. She would check if any of the man’s companions were around. If so, they could gather the body while she went back to the watcher stones and safety. If not, Isme would have to take care of him herself.

But there were more shapes on the beach. Shadows. Strange lumps in the sand that she had never seen before—except that she had, and he was lying still behind her in the scrub-grass.

Isme felt her spine straighten, her feet continuing to walk, without permission, tumbling on, the ready stiff position of her hands clutching the staff loosening, until she was dragging the end behind her on the grass. She halted at the line of the sand and stared out, counting. One, two—four, five—not even halfway there. More.

Strewn about them were driftwood and waterlogged cloth. More than one was face-down in the water, dashed back and again by the waves, much like the turtles had flung themselves ashore in the night. And overtop crawled the crabs, while overhead gulls whirled and screamed for joy. But there was no motion in the shapes underneath.

Beyond the beach the low tide of the sea whispered, without a ship in sight, gray skies continuing out along the horizon forever. The sun was hiding his face.

TWO.

~

Isme did not remember what happened next very well.

Perhaps she walked the length of the beach, stopping at each shadow to test if there was any life left within them, and repeated her prayer to Hermes at each when she found none. Perhaps she stood in place and scanned the horizon until her eyes hurt, seeing if someone would come, the other ship men, her father, anyone. Perhaps she dropped to her knees and keened and sobbed like some wild thing, and for once the deep space within her, the place from which songs welled up, was silent and dry.

Isme did have one memory, later, and that began with great activity: running back and forth along the sand, feet sinking ankle-deep with every step, but slogging on, yelling and waving her arms and walking stick to drive away the gulls.

What did one do for the dead? In stories, women wailed, some kind of ceremony, words she did not know. How did one wail, anyway? Isme was a woman now. She ought to know this, because stories made it seem this was important. But her father was a man and had not taught her to wail and might not know how himself.

One was supposed to burn or bury them. Isme locked her knees and stood, reluctant to sit as though on holy ground, contemplating how. These considerations seemed very mundane compared to the lumpen forms around her. And then memory peeled away from her again: when she thought back over the next few days, what came to her were only snippets, sensory details that were pieces of an unknown whole.

She recalled dipping heavy flat shadows into the sea water, thinking that this was the best she could do to clean and bathe them in preparation. The burn and strain in her muscles as she pulled them up through the scrub grass, where even the crabs were reluctant to follow. Chasing away more gulls. Always gulls. Birds screaming at her in anger and frustration. Herself screaming in anger and frustration as she realized she could not burn them, not with the sole campfire, not before the number of them began to rot, and so she decided to dig, but had to return them to the sand to do so.

This gray day continued forever.

That sunset, Isme sat among the sandy mounds and watched, waiting, as always. She told the mounds of her father’s prophecy and what she was waiting for: to see if the world would end. Perhaps, she said to them, it will end tonight.

But the end did not come.

When the sun finally dipped his head under the sea, she felt a song well up within her, but this time, for the first time in her life, she could not call the words. Forgive me, Grandmother Kalliope—What if someone heard? She no longer feared that men would come to the beach and hurt her. She feared for men, rather than for herself. If she sang then perhaps in the morning there would be more shadows lying still and dark.

Isme never actually counted how many there were.

~

Over the next days, Isme finished only half her chores. There were many tasks to keep her father’s cave in working order: staves to be oiled, animal skins to be scraped with fat to ensure they remained supple, chert to gather, sort, knap into new knives or arrowheads. And the care of the garden, gathering of olives and nuts, hunting of birds and squirrels for food each day, the salting and burial of food for the winter.

Normally, Isme was diligent. But now she found her feet leading her towards the beach. Sometimes she would stop these disobedient feet, turn around, and force herself back to task. Other times she would stand in the woods. She did not know how long—she would only look out toward the beach, and the arrival of evening’s red sky would startle her back into awareness of herself. She neglected to light her night fires.

At sunset she sat on the sand and watched the sun go down. Waiting for the end of the world. She hoped it would come soon. When the world did not end, she would remain, waiting. The moon was still full enough that the turtles would come in the night.

Isme did not sing to them. She did not sing anymore. But the turtles did not seem to mind. They hauled themselves onto the sand and crept up to her and rested their soft smooth wet heads on her knees, gazing at her as she gazed back. Without words their orb eyes seemed to say: Things will be all right. Your father will return soon.

~

The turtles did