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

with water, on account that only barbarians drank wine straight, but this did not seem so much of a cutting in that sense—far more literal. Isme had cut and killed many animals, sliced her own fingers—but never intentionally.

Shaking her head, the pausing for the world to stop swirling, she placed the blade against her left thumb and sliced. It slid through skin like water. She felt nothing.

More than one drop fell in, and Kleto’s hand was on her own, saying, “Not too deep.”

Relinquishing the knife, Isme stared into the urn. She forgot to say her line; instead, in her mind words echoed—For you, the men on the beach, and my friends the turtles...

And you, Father.

A collective sigh from all the women around the urn, and then gazing at each other, waiting to see who moved first. One by one they all coalesced on Kleto, like pebbles rolling downhill into a divot to the lowest point—or perhaps they were moths and she was the candle flame. Certainly her eyes were fire as she dipped her hand once more into the urn. The women inhaled as she sipped.

Kleto swirled in her mouth, contemplative. She said, “It’s better.”

This time there was also a rush, but muted, as though the women were ashamed to be seen as too eager, this being something that should be treated with more respect. Isme did not need to be prompted—she waited until there were fewer hands and then scooped with two fingers once more. No more chatter—all the woods were silent.

Now the wine was very sweet. Too sweet. Isme almost gagged.

Around her women were closing their eyes, smiling to themselves. Kleto’s own gaze was like a hawk moving from figure to figure, measuring, but somehow with an absence, as though she was not really present as her eye took in these observations. Isme felt warmth spreading up through her body like a small fire.

She closed her eyes and reached down into herself, only little hesitant because she had not done this in a while, was afraid that perhaps what Apollon had done to the ceiling of the cavern in her mind had permanently altered the well of songs. And before that she had spent days upon days not reaching into this place—for her promise to her father meant she could not sing. This despite having sung every day before... she missed her well of songs.

Inside, the damage was not as bad as she feared—just cracks along the cavern ceiling, on the other side of which lay her soul—and she was distracted by the well of songs itself. The water was boiling. Steam rose and had she been there, fully present the way she had with Apollon, she imagined that she would be choking for air.

But you are here, the words drifted to her—and she knew that she was in the presence of another god, not like with Apollon but a presence nonetheless. Or perhaps more than with Apollon—for this god felt like he was everywhere, pulsing through her.

Dionysos? She asked, and his laughter was enough answer.

There were so many things she wanted to ask, yet so many answers she feared to receive. But she felt as though he reached out and hushed her. His words danced among the steam: Why are you so stressed and worried, my daughter? You are a child of wildness—this is the place for forgetting troubles, not adding to them. Let yourself enjoy. Tonight you are not a thinking creature—the soul is for troubles, but the body for experiencing. Revel.

And Isme opened her eyes. The group of women around her smiled and sighed together. She heard one last echo from within: Know this—everything is permitted.

Glancing, Isme saw even Kleto smiling, reaching out, grabbing Isme by the wrist, pulling, Pelagia trailing behind, the whole mass of women everywhere moving—and not just outward, but shifting among themselves, too, pulling at their hair, the cloth over their bodies, the forest ground strewn with wool and flax—

Isme tore her animal skins, shredding them apart; Kleto ripped her own garment—

And then they were running through the woods, laughing and singing, Isme’s feet sure and strong like they had always been—the air cool and pleasant against her feverish skin. Kleto’s hair had come undone from its usual knotting, and streamed like gold starlight in the darkness. Isme would follow that glittering beacon anywhere.

From around the woods came singing, Isme joining, words reaching the stars:

Tonight it is we—who are the terror!

Let us rejoice and sing of women

Bound under no rules or roles,

Not even the ones we agreed to—

We become monsters of will and fate

And beware anyone who interrupts

Who does not revel and celebrate—

For all things are permitted!

To her left, shrieks of joy as something stirred from the underbrush and fled—Isme recognized the deer, but the shape was far bigger than the ones of her island, almost to her own waist. On four legs she should have been impossible to catch, but with great whooping that carried through the forest the women hurtled after her.

Isme laughed, knowing that they would run the doe down, catch her with bare hands and feast raw like they were wolves. Doubtless the best meal they had ever had.

She was not the least bit tempted to join—she was too busy following Kleto.

They splashed through a stream, hit the edge of the woods and circled, half giving chase whenever hares or birds were startled from their hiding places. Isme saw the shadow-women bounding playfully beside them, Pelagia screamed with merriment as she collided with one, laughing as they bounced off one another.

Yet then shrieking—not joy, not fear, but rage—from nearby—

“A man!” yelled a female voice. “Violator, trespasser—tonight you feed Dionysos!”

Isme could feel the fist of her heart beat so violently in her chest that she thought it might bruise itself. Rage spread like a sunburn across her skin, yet the burn was pleasant, far better than a warm sunny day, and she raged all the hotter. Turning with Kleto, Pelagia at her heels, they charged toward the voice,