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

kept irregular mealtimes, dependent on when and where they caught meat and finished preparations, Isme was used to eating once daily. Traveling with a caravan of actors had made this worse because they had eaten on a set schedule. And so hunger forced her to her feet eventually.

Once upright, Isme padded into the front room of the house, found the one window that was only as wide as two hands’ breadth, and peered out through the hole.

The sky was cast orange—the sun was three quarters down.

Alarm rose, curling and scattering like smoke from a campfire. How long had she rested? How long had her father been gone—what was taking him such a long time?

No merchant would leave this late in the day. Even if her father had found food for them to take along the journey to the sea, to Lesbos, to Orpheus’s head... Her father must not have found a caravan and should have returned to her in this little house.

Something was wrong.

The impulse was to rush out and look for him. That was what she would have done on the island. But she checked herself, knowing she did not quite understand how to navigate the jumble of buildings and people in the city, and besides she supposed that a woman walking alone might be a target. They were still fading bruises on her forearms from when the robber had struck her, and she did not want to add to them.

And I promised, she thought. What if Father returns and I am gone? I’ve already broken so many promises. And each one has its consequence.

Except for Kleto. That stray thought came to her—and she realized that was truth. Singing before Kleto had freed them both. This voice she had inherited was wondrous. It could conjure up stories of long ago. She had always thought it ordinary, that everyone had something like a voice—or enormous strength or devious wits or amazing hunting skills. But now that she had seen ordinary people this was no longer her mistake.

And singing in front of Kleto could also have been a mistake, she thought. It may have freed us then, but I know for the rest of our time together Kleto was suspicious of me. Should I meet her again, it’s possible that there might be some consequence for breaking my promise to Father which has not yet come to pass.

But what if he is hurt? What if he has been attacked and kidnapped as a slave? What if Apollon has struck at him because I am somehow to be the new priestess?

There was no use making lists of all the things that could have gone wrong. And yet she could not stop herself, as she paced back and forth before the window.

Each time she peered out the orange sky was darker, trending towards red.

Perhaps, she thought, today will be the day. Perhaps the world will end.

Turning, she surveyed the room. It was small, smaller than her father’s cave, with no dedicated hearth. Except—there was a little hole in one of the walls with a nook. Crouching, Isme observed the insides and found them coated with ash.

Clever thing, she thought. So the fire does not get everywhere. Good for cooking. Not a normal campfire hearth.

But she was only attempting to distract herself. It was not working. Standing, she strode again to the window and found the sky was the color of blood. There were vague wisps of clouds that cast umber shadows streaked across the horizon.

Oh Grandmother Kalliope, prayed Isme. What should I do?

If she had gone missing, her father would look for her—no matter the danger. But he was a Titan. She did not know whether he could die. And knowing that he would try to find her anyway, even if it did mean death for him, was not much of a help. All this told her was that he would be even more upset with her if she left.

Am I to stay here all night? thought Isme. How long do I wait?

On the horizon, a creeping shade of purple, soon to be indigo, then black.

And Isme concluded: This is how long. I’ve waited enough.

~

She emerged from the doorway like a mouse from a hole, peering at the wider world. Most of the path along the house was deserted, only the old man with a scraggly beard on the far end. He was no longer chanting about shadows and illusions. She strode from the house, deciding that pretending to confidence was one way to make herself look bigger, stronger, more hassle than she was worth. But her clothes would always mark her as a foreigner.

Yet as she continued to walk, the old man was the only soul she passed. She turned the corner on the street, following the lines of the houses in this maze of a city, and everything was empty, disserted. Above, the sky was a rainbow of red, purple, black.

Where was everyone?

The festivals had to begin tonight, same as the last night. Tomorrow was the day when the Temple of Delphi would open. Surely the celebrations would be even more than the prior days—the excitement of all these people should be growing...

Turning another alley, Isme paused when she saw that it, too, was empty. She hesitated, then double-backed on her steps. Perhaps she had made a wrong turn—the merchants were all together in one area selling food, she had seen as much when she and her father had left the actors’ caravan and gone to the house.

Behind her, a sound, soft, like the padding feet of a child.

Isme whirled, expecting to find someone tracking behind her, perhaps someone looking for trouble, but there was no figure standing anywhere, the street still empty.

No, she realized. Not empty.

She said, “What have you been doing all this time?”

And the voice from the woods answered, “What do you think? Same as always.”

Curiosity and fear reared up from Isme’s belly. “Were you in the house with me?”

“Of course,” said the voice. “I am with you