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

“Haven’t you?” replied the voice. Scornful, as though she had disappointed it somehow, or perhaps more accurately had proven its worst suspicions about her true, living up to some bad reputation. Isme felt the shame of the lie heat up her face, had no doubt that she was turning red like she had eaten too many fermented grapes.

Isme did not know what to say, and so she remained silent.

The voice waited as though it expected her to speak. When she did not, and the moment stretched long, it said: “I can see you. Watcher stones do not work on me.”

Some part of Isme had been holding on to hope, although another part of her mind had told her that she was in more danger than she thought, because this invisible thing should not have been able to talk to her in the first place.

Fear raised Isme to her feet as if levitating. Brandishing the pole, she cried, “Go away! Get out of here—go away! Leave me alone!”

“I will never leave you any more than those men will,” the voice said like a promise.

And then there was the sound of steps—Isme swung her staff, but blindly, unable to see well in the dark, and besides there seemed to be no body attached to the sounds. Perhaps the thing was solid enough she could hit it if she tried—or maybe was insubstantial enough that she did not need to worry about it hitting her.

In her panic, she did not notice that the sound of footsteps was coming from farther off. But then a man’s head emerged from the trees surrounding the campsite.

“Isme?” the man said, confused. And even in the dark she realized who he was.

“Father,” Isme said. She lowered her staff and then, as though connected to the wood, her own knees sagged and she sank down to sit against the hard ground.

“What’s wrong?” Her father said, lowering the pack he carried on his shoulders and rushing to her. “Isme? Are you all right—you’re trembling...”

~

Isme could not bring herself to tell him anything. Not about breaking the rules, visiting the beach, the turtles, the shadows in the sand, or even the voice in the woods. She had the impression that the voice was still out there and was listening to everything.

Her father was confused and remained so. Where is the night fire? He kept asking. It’s cold and dark here—Why don’t you use your cheating method?

And for the first time in days that felt like forever, Isme settled down next to the fire pit and closed her eyes and looked for fire. Grandmother Kalliope was quieter than Isme could ever remember. Took longer than usual for her to receive a song that fire wanted, but she did find it and then there was flames in the stone hearth, by which she saw that there was no one else but her father.

Her father was a short stout man about Isme’s own height, but she had no way of knowing whether this made him tall or short. But she knew that he was broad—far broader than herself, so much that he almost reached the span between both her elbows at his waist. He was covered in bulging muscles that allowed him to move rock and stone, and his hands were big flat slabs like fish, fingers fat like eels. He had a flat-topped balding head and a nose that was scrunched up to reveal the insides of his nostrils. But above that were two beady eyes which normally twinkled, yet sagged in the corners whenever Isme was sad—as they were right now.

“I’ve brought you something,” said her father. “You’ll like this.” He unwrapped an envelope of cloth to hand a small piece to her, and she took and chewed it. Somehow, it was both crumbly and smooth. Tasted like salt from the sea.

“This is called cheese,” said her father. “Perhaps in another year I will come back with goats and then we can eat it together from now on. It’s good, yes?”

Isme found that she had no opinion one way or another, some numb hollow inside herself where the well of songs used to be, or perhaps that was simply relief at no longer being alone. She nodded because he seemed like he expected her to.

~

The next morning Isme saw that her father was watching her carefully. He was subtle but she knew him too well for him to get away with this for long. Of course, she understood that he knew her just as well as she knew him: doubtless, he had figured out that she was hiding something. Still she did not tell him anything.

And so everything became a dance. She followed him around when he mentioned checking the garden, and continued at his heels even after. This could be excused because she had not seen him for a long time. But as she continued to follow him around for the rest of the day the excuse stretched credulity.

Yet Isme’s father did not question her directly, nor did he stop her by declaring she should finish her own chores. He seemed aware that something was wrong. She caught him staring at her with a frown on his lumpen face, as though trying to understand something, but he seemed as reluctant to ask as she was to answer.

As the day began to ebb, from the west the prevailing winds came stronger. Dark hulking shapes could be seen in the sky, low rumbles from far off.

Squinting his bead-eyes, Isme’s father chewed his lower lip. He glanced at her from where she was emptying the ash from the fire hearth. And he said, “Sea storm. There will be no night fire tonight, so we best keep dry, stay away from the beach.”

Feeling relief swell within her, Isme nodded, perhaps a little too enthusiastically.

~

At sunset they settled into the cave under a blanket made from seal-skin, having weighed down with stones another seal-skin cloth at the entrance of the cave. Both of