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

“That is not all,” said Isme, focused on a small assembly of sticks, and sang—

Tonight there will be no beasts

No robbers, no satyrs, no hunters

For you, O Fire, are always ours,

A helpful guardian sent by our father

The Great Prometheus, your lord

Honor him by honoring us, O Fire!

Flame leapt from nowhere, smoke curled as fire huffed and dug into its meal, resentful but happy to be alive. Kleto’s work on Isme’s hair paused, just a small hesitation, and then she returned to cutting. Isme heard her mutter, “If Eutropios had managed to sell you, there is no way he would have gotten the right price.”

The last few moments of daylight were spent gathering from the underbrush. Berries, nuts, a few choice tubers that Isme knew would pull out quickly from the ground. Fire was useful for cooking these. They sat and ate and Isme considered how tomorrow she would try to snatch a squirrel or bird before the sun was truly down.

Kleto placed another log on the fire and said, “It’s all true, is it?”

Blinking, partly sleepy, her mind faraway already to the other end of the sea, Isme said, “If you did not believe it was true, why did you want to come with me?”

Shrugging, Kleto sat back down. “I thought some of it was true. But the daughter of Orpheus part—that seemed a little farfetched. I can accept the end of the world and of course prophecies. But Orpheus—he is too famous. More legend than man.”

“Is he?” asked Isme, curiosity filtering through her. She had heard his story many times from her father, never questioning how he knew them, but now she knew that he was Epimetheus, the afterthought, and so he knew everything from the past.

“Yes,” said Kleto. “The stories say he traveled with Hercules on the Argo, out-singing all the Sirens on the sea, and that he tried to bring his wife back to life.”

Settling back against the side of a roll in the ground, Isme said, “Tell it to me.”

Kleto’s eyes widened, and then she launched into the story immediately:

Long ago, the son of Apollon and the muse Kalliope, Orpheus, fell in love. His bride Eurydice was the most beautiful woman in the land, her hair as golden as Helen’s, her feet as soft as Danae’s. As king of song Orpheus woos and wins her in a single night.

He decides to marry her and live in happiness. And so he invites all the great heroes, who all come to the wedding feast. After the ceremony, Orpheus sings for his joy and his bride dances—but as she does, Eurydice steps on a snake, and in wrath the serpent bites her ankle, and so she fell down dead.

Overwhelmed by grief, Orpheus refuses to bury her body. Instead he bring his lyre to the gate of the underworld, where he begins to sing. He sings of his love for Eurydice and his sorrow at losing her, his hope for her return.

Old Charon the pitiless weeps and paddles the boat across the river Styx for Orpheus. Cerberus’s quarrelling heads croon howls of mourning and let Orpheus pass. In the fields of Asphodel the dead lift their heads and wail, recalling their lives again. And on his throne merciless Hades glares wet-eyed as veiled Persephone sobs beside him. All the underworld is in an uproar—soon the dead will all awake to life again, and the world be upended—

At last, Hades the immovable is moved. He says Orpheus may guide his bride’s shade up to her body, if only he will not turn and look at her as he does. For the dead are not the living, nor the living are the dead, and the separation between the two must be for the cosmos to continue working. Orpheus agrees.

On Orpheus walks, singing, now with hope at having love restored, and it seems as though a second sun is shining down in the underworld, but he takes it with him as he leaves. Now he is singing a little quieter on the path, because he thinks maybe if he cannot look at her, he could hear her footsteps. Eagerness stretches his body taut. He trembles, voice faltering—can she be so close?

Yet behind there is no sounds. He falls silent, ears straining, but there is not the single footstep. Is she truly there? Hades, Lord of the Dead, is not a liar—but this seems like so great a boon, to be given the chance to live again—

Is she there? Perhaps she is walking so softly because she wants to hear him sing. His eyes at the corners but his head facing forward, he begs Eurydice to give him some sound, some sign that she is following him. Are you with me?

At last the light of the world above peers ahead through the entrance to the tunnel to the land of the dead. Orpheus is panting in anticipation and terror. How soon can he turn and look? How soon can she be in his arms again?

He steps into the world of the living and cannot bear any longer. If he does not look he will die. He turns—there she is—still within the mouth of the cave—her arms reach for him—but her mouth says only one word: Why?

And so the shade of Eurydice blows away like ash in the wind...

Kleto paused, and Isme stared up at her in wonder, because during this recitation Kleto rose from her seat and began to perform, dancing, gesturing, a routine she had memorized in every fibre of her body. Isme had leaned toward her like she was the fire.

Head shaking, Kleto said, “Foolish story. Nobody can come back to life again.”

Isme considered this, something like a sigh dying in her throat. She said, “But if only... if only that were true. How wonderful even this awful world would be.”

NINETEEN.

~

The moon rose later every day, now on the opposite side of the horizon from the