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

few had ever done—escaped Apollon, son of Zeus. She tried not to think of all the women who had done the same before, and how badly each of them had fared after... turned into trees, cursed with prophetic foresight that nobody would believe...

Behind her, the sound of footsteps. Familiar.

A small thrill of exhilaration still trembling in her limbs, Isme turned to look back into the cave, expecting her father to follow her out; surely he was not so foolish to do much but merely distract one of the twelve Olympians. They had both escaped—

But nobody behind her. A moment’s pause, and understanding: of course there was audible footsteps belonging to invisible feet coming from behind. Of course.

And Isme realized, then, that what Apollon had said was true: love was the god-killer, and her father Epimetheus was going to die of his love for her.

SIXTEEN.

~

All night Isme sat outside the cave. Waiting to see what would emerge from the mouth of the God Under the Mountain. Perhaps Apollon would, perhaps the old woman—whether the one prophetess or the other, or perhaps they were the same—or the Python’s shade, demanding that Isme return to the mist.

She was waiting for her father.

Time moved on, though she did not feel as though time meant much of anything. The moon emerged at the east just ahead of the rays of the sun—and Isme sat thinking of the beach, but not of the nights of the turtles or with the sailors, instead about all the other moments. She recalled good days of rain and sun—and of her mind’s eye she dove into the water, swam out far, and turned back to look at the shore. Her father was a small dot standing on the sand, one stick arm waving out to her.

I do not know if he is dead are not, she argued with herself. The conviction that Epimetheus was gone was as strong as ever, but she had taken to rejecting it. After all, Epimetheus was a Titan—a primordial god. He should be an immortal thing.

But this was Apollon. One of the twelve Olympians. Perhaps second only to Zeus.

At last the circling of her thoughts, turning in upon themselves to attack different pieces of her mind—all seemed unbearable. Rising to her feet, Isme felt herself sway even though there was no breeze. She had to do something.

Turning back to the cave, she approached like it was a wild animal. The dark mouth opened wide as she moved closer. She paused before the entrance and tried to think about what reentering might mean. Perhaps her father was even now walking towards the exit, towards her, and would be furious if he met her inside. He had just risked his life. Or perhaps he was hurt and needed help.

She tried not to think about the third option.

The dark innards of the cave loomed before her. She could feel the difference in the soil beneath her feet, the ground outside warmed by the sun and the floor of the cave cool. The mist from the dead Python had been so cold. Was that what death was like? One day she would find out. Perhaps if she went in now—

She had a choice to make, but Isme found herself suddenly angry, not so much at Apollon or her father, but merely at choice itself. Why must living be so difficult? Stories always featured people who either knew what to do or would soon receive revelation. Why was her own story so hard to navigate?

Perhaps she would have gone into the cave further, maybe even to ask this question—to her father, or Apollon, or the God Under the Mountain, or even herself—but then in the darkness she saw a shape—a moving shadow, creeping against a wall that already had no light and should have been completely dark—

Except this thing was darker than dark—it was not human. Nor was it the voice from the woods—which was invisible... and Isme heard an indrawn breath that was not her own.

Isme did not pause to question what it was. She was already running down the side of the mountain, the scabs on her feet reopening—leaving a bloodied trail—perhaps one that her father would follow.

~

How she managed to run so far without falling and beating herself to death on the stone cliffside, Isme later wondered. At last she stopped only at the outskirts of Delphi, where a small grove of twisted wild olives provided her nominal cover.

If she was worried about Apollon being inside the cave, she knew she should be doubly worried about his presence at the temple of Delphi, where all those people had followed as she was dragged into the temple itself. Yet when she peered around the trees, the only people that were standing were the statues, silent and still.

“That can’t be,” she said, and only realized she was talking aloud to herself when the voice from the woods replied, startling her,

“What do you mean?”

And Isme said, “I was just here. All those people did not have time to leave and go back down the mountain before now. How is it the temple is empty?”

“It isn’t empty,” said the voice.

“I know that,” said Isme crossly, “But those are just statues. Not real people.”

“Are they?” said the voice, and rather than argue Isme fixed herself on the distant figures. Perhaps she had been mistaken and people from the city were there after all—

With her new attention Isme saw that the figures were indeed moving, like that of people standing at attention, shifting weight from foot to foot. Yet she began to notice that despite these familiar movements they were still not normal men. Some were too large, others too small. Odd proportions, like squat heads on over-wide shoulders and forearms long enough to drape the knuckles on the ground. But the statues were alive.

What are they? The question was nearly at her lips, contained within the space between her teeth and the walls of her mouth, but Isme swallowed it.