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

of Epimetheus, and suspected that most other people knew who they were, too. The words seemed mysterious in that way that was self-conscious of their own mystery. Like they were trying too hard to be impressive.

Isme did not have long to ponder this, for she was drawn up over the courtyard and through the doors. They shut behind her.

~

The grip of the burly men tightened so that Isme knew her skin was bruising. This was unexpected, because she thought they might release her once she was inside—but then she realized that they did not know she would no longer try to run. With the door shut, running was pointless...

Unless they were aware that something even worse was about to happen, and so she would try to run anyway.

The inside of the temple was large, bigger than anything Isme had seen outside of a natural formation. The walls were stone and the only light was spare and came from windows that were at the top of the columns, where the walls met the ceiling. The hush in this place was belied by the ricochet produced by the stone. Isme could hear her own panting echoing back to her.

The old woman surveyed the room, and then turned and stepped back to Isme. Her gnarled hands reached forth and Isme flinched back but could not escape. With hands on the sides of her face she felt bridled. Yet the hands were soft like wet sand on the beach.

Peering into Isme’s face, tilting her head back and forth to see different angles, the old woman said, “You certainly have the look.”

Isme’s face was released. She said, “The look of what?”

“Our Lord Apollon,” said the old woman. There was no reverence in her voice, which Isme found strange because she always tried to speak with reverence to the gods herself, and yet this priestess spoke about Apollon as though he was an ingredient for dinner.

She did not ponder this long, because the old woman jerked her head and strode away. With the impossible grip on her arms, the burly men forced Isme to follow. They moved further into the temple, where there was a column-set door with an arch and gold-inlaid symbols that radiated like sunbeams. Isme knew that Apollon was associated with the sun—and perhaps this was the sacred inner sanctum of the temple.

Isme held her breath as she was pulled through the threshold—but on the other side was not a room, just another threshold. This time the doorway was a mouth made of uncut stone. Isme knew caves well. Her time on the island with her father had taught her a great deal about which caves were good and which poor. There was a sweetness coming from this cave, a moist scent of something rotting, which would have caused her to reject it. Anyone who slept in such a cave would die on the damp cold nights. But now she had little choice and was dragged through.

She expected to be enveloped in darkness. And yet somehow was not—there were little carvings of window nooks and the sides of the upper ceilings of the cave, and from them spilled light the same as in the temple proper. They had walked forward for some time before Isme realized that this was unusual—for although gradual, she could feel the uneven plunge of the floor, knew they were descending down into the pit of the earth. And yet the sunlight from outside did not wane. Even though it was sunset above.

Dampness of the air grew until Isme was reminded of before a summer storm: heavy with water that her lungs rejected as she breathed. The sickly sweet smell was becoming overpowering. She felt her nose wrinkle but could not manage to sneeze. Something indeed was rotting here in the underground.

Up ahead, the cave turned. The old woman paused and Isme, too.

“What you see will seem alarming,” said the old woman. “But do not be afraid. Lord Apollon is the god of light and reason, of logic, order. Fear has no place here, especially with his own granddaughter visiting her home once again.”

This brought up so many questions Isme felt she would burst. “If you know that I am daughter to Orpheus, and so granddaughter of great Apollon, why have you treated me this way?”

When the old woman turned back to look at her, Isme saw just the slightest flicker of surprise present. Then the old woman turned evaluative, speculative. She said, “I did not expect that you would know where you came from. Who told you?”

“My father did,” said Isme, she realized this must be the wrong thing to say—for a look of rage shaded over on the old woman’s face, though was quickly hidden. Isme had spent too long with the caravan of Lycander and Kleto not to recognize:

The old woman was acting. Hiding something.

“I see,” said the woman. “Then you are ready for your service.”

Isme tried to think, but all she could blurt out was, “What?”

And the old woman smiled. “So he did not tell you everything.”

She waved to the men. They released Isme, who for the briefest flash considered running back down the tunnel. Impossible, of course. She would be caught long before she reached the surface, and the door still barred the way out. But there was something else—something lingering from the old woman’s claim...

My father did tell me everything, Isme thought, rejecting the old woman’s statement. But she was also recalling that night after the storm, how her father had first explained why he had not told her of her origins. He had only told her then because she had killed those men. It was necessary for her to know. But if she had not killed them—when would he have told her? Would he have?

Of course he would, Isme told herself. My father has always been good to me.

When the old woman beckoned, Isme hesitated—long enough for the woman to say, “You think you know who you are, where you come from,