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

She understood that she actually did not want to know the answer. Instead she asked, “How do I pass?”

“If you go to the left of the temple,” said the voice from the woods, answering, “you will miss them entirely. And you will meet someone who you know.”

Hesitating, Isme asked, “Someone who I want to meet?”

“That depends,” said the voice from the woods. “Who we want to meet, and when and where and how, depends entirely on our circumstances and choices.”

Unhelpful as ever, Isme thought, feeling her bleeding feet throb. Isme had good callused feet that would have been impervious to almost everything except the sharp bones in that cave. She did not look down, did not want to see her own wounds.

Someone she might want to meet—she thought of her father. And walked on.

~

She saw him at a distance, and first his shape divided her in two: for he was both familiar and not. As she approached cautiously, gazing at his back, it came to her that he should have been astride some kind of animal, and that was when she realized who he was—before she even truly realized that he was a man.

“Lycander!” Isme called, and the boy-man turned his face to her. She was within an easy stone’s toss and approaching as she said, “What are you doing here?”

“What am I—?” Lycander said, and something in his tone told Isme that while he was happy to see her he was also surprised—and somehow relieved. “I was here to see the temple one more time... we will leave in a few days after Dionysos has his due.”

She halted beside him, and as she spoke, she watched his eyes taking her in, from the new ragged rips in her hair down across her scraped and torn animal hides, all the way to her bloodied feet which were now swollen with abuse. By the time his eyes reached the ground he was frowning, and she wondered he if he was even listening as she said, “What do you mean—Dionysos? This is Delphi and Apollon’s time on earth.”

Lycander said, “Isme, the six days of Apollon are over. Delphi ended for the year.”

She waited for Lycander’s face to break back into a smile as he said, Did you like that? Am I not a great actor? Because what he was describing was impossible—and yet he seemed entirely sincere. She could not think of anything to say—how does one try to correct someone that only a short time had passed, not six days—and with everything in her head all she could think to do was stare.

Lycander’s face darkened—not even his acting could hide that from Isme. But he did not seem angry with her. He lifted a hand behind her back, but not touching her, just hovering, and with the other he gestured down the mountainside to the city below Delphi. “Come. When a woman is hurt, she should be with other women.”

~

One reason Isme was so reluctant to sit off her feet was because she knew the moment she let them rest, the pain from her wounds would arrive. But she could not keep walking on them forever, especially when she entered the women’s tent and found Pelagia and Kleto there, the both startling at her arrival.

Pelagia said, “Isme—you’re back—you’re all right—your feet!”

And then Isme was leapt upon and practically wrestled to the ground so that the other woman could take a look. Without a word Kleto, who was on her knees, huddled closer and inspected the other foot while Pelagia took one and complained.

“I don’t see how you could be walking on these—you wild women must be some kind of animal without pain—I’ve got to get some wine and bandage these up—” Like a hungry fox leaping, Pelagia hurtled upright and dashed out of the tent for supplies.

Alone now with Kleto, Isme waited for her to say something. But Kleto’s golden eyes were still lowered and soundlessly she picked at one of the open gashes between Isme’s toes. What had been numb before seemed to have come alive. Isme flinched.

Kleto paused, though from caution or satisfaction at having caused the reaction, Isme did not know. Finally, Kleto spoke: “Did your song save you again?”

Isme could have said a lot of things—perhaps tried to obey her father and deny everything once again. But settled for honesty. “No. My father did.”

At that Kleto’s eyes, luminous, raised to Isme’s face and studied the expression there. She seemed without Isme speaking to interpret that there was more to the story than just Isme’s one statement. She said, lowly, “Then you fought back.”

And Isme saw her lip had healed. There was only the smallest fleck of blood in the corner of one of her eyes, like she had gotten struck across the face again and had re-healed to this point. Isme thought, Six days for the Temple at Delphi to open every year—and realized that Lycander had not been lying on the mountainside.

She said, “Choices were made for me and I had to unmake them.”

Kleto looked satisfied.

~

Apparently there was a three day pause as the ceremonies of Apollon at Delphi ended before the ceremonies of Dionysos in the valley began. Isme spent these days in the tent, her feet tended morning and night. The second day she woke feeling heat on her brow, creeping amongst her heels and toes and calluses, prickling. She asked that her feet should be washed with water but was told that was unclean. Instead they kept pouring wine, which smarted every time, and caused her scabs to crack.

“I can get olive oil instead,” Pelagia said when Isme complained.

Periodically Lycander would stick his head into the tent, looking strangely like some kind of upside-down creature, or at least Isme thought from her perspective lying prone with fever. Each time he was answered by Pelagia shrieking and Kleto’s cold warning, “Men who gaze into women’s tents are never satisfied in bed.”

Consumed in fever Isme heard many things. The ceremonies of Dionysos began, and the