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

to throw them overboard, but they dared not waste the catch Lord Poseidon had provided, for he is temperamental.

At last there came along the God of Guidance, Hermes, busy with his duties to the underworld. And the sailors hatched upon a plan.

O Great Hermes, they said, lifting up the turtles. We gift these to you in sacrifice; eat as much as you would like.

But Hermes, God of Tricksters, can never be outwitted any more than Death can. He looked upon these men and said, No, every man should eat his own turtle. And then he flew away, and so the sailors were forced to eat.

“What a strange story,” said Kleto, when it became clear that Isme had finished and there was nothing left of the tale. “Are you trying to put me off eating dinner, by imagining some horrible meal that even the gods wouldn’t touch?”

“Is it working?” said Isme, and Kleto huffed. Isme stroked what of the golden hair she could, through the netting that Kleto kept it bound. She did not dare touch Kleto’s face, because she knew her hand would be swatted away.

“I like that story, myself,” Isme said. “It’s a simple little tale. Like some kind of fable. I think it means that you shouldn’t eat turtles because they are beautiful things.”

“No,” muttered Kleto, “that’s too cheerful. I think it means that when you do things, stupid or bad deeds, there’s no way out. You have to suffer the consequences.”

Scraping her tongue on the insides of her teeth, Isme considered. “Perhaps.”

~

Sometimes, Isme wondered at the things she could now see. In retrospect she believed that she had always seen them, the nymphs and dryads and other minor beings who could not reach the high heavens, but somehow had ignored them. She wondered what had changed to cause her awareness to extend to them, and decided that the drink Apollon had given her inside her well of songs had done the deed, or else other times that inhaling the vapors of the dead Python was responsible.

Other times, she scolded herself and thought that all and none of these was the cause. How and why the world had broken open for her was as mysterious as the world itself. Perhaps the root cause was even her blood father—Orpheus, son of Apollon.

Regardless of origin, the truth was that the seas and skies were populated with beings for which men had no names, and that Kleto’s eyes glowed brighter than before.

And yet only Isme seemed able to notice any of this.

Thus, when in the light of the nearly full moon in the distance came a shape—glittering, like a falling star, but elongated just a little like a segment of lightning, Isme thought she alone was seeing some new sky godling that was going about its way.

Until a shout was raised from the end of the ship—“Look, look!”

Commotion followed. Men ran to the side to see, others running to go below deck to where the rowing seats were, only a few slaves chained below. Isme saw two more little lights descending after the first, and the shout from the men was terror.

“Sirens! They are here—quick, the bucket and wax!”

At once Isme found Kleto at her side, clutching the rungs of the edge and paled again. They were guided toward the center of the ship, the lone mast with its square sheet for a sail, and she recalled what Kleto had thought of the bucket of wax and rags.

When the bucket was shoved under Isme’s own nose, she could not help but wince at the smell. Clearly the contents had been in use before, but she took two shares for her ears without complaint. It was Kleto who truly reared back in rejection.

“Take it,” the sailor snarled, “Take it, you damnable woman, or else we’ll be explaining to your master how you jumped overboard for love of a monster.”

Kleto snatched a handful from the bucket with a snarl of her own. Isme winced at the look of sheer distaste as Kleto raised the small bits of cloth to her ears, wax following to secure them. And yet when Isme copied these movements, she had one difference—she did not truly seal the inner ear, hoping now for her chance...

What songs can cause a man to drive himself overboard? Isme wondered, trusting that Kleto was not thinking the same thing, or at least was willing to put up with her disgust to save her life. More than that—hoping that she, Isme daughter of Orpheus, would be immune somehow, and would learn a song to end all songs.

After all, she thought, my song killed those men on the island, and was not meant for that at all—I was merely singing to the turtles. What drew the men? What would an intentional song be?

The waves became choppier, the shouting of the men died down, everyone tense and silent, unheard. The small exposed reef of the sirens was being passed, now—and then—

From the distance, small flickering sunlight-colored bodies, like the feathers of exotic birds were covering their skin, three women figures were huddled together in an embrace. They paid no notice of the ship as it passed—consumed with each other.

Three heads tilted back, voices smooth like moonlight on water—

Oh, sing of this world

Back broken, limbs twisted

The sorrowful half-dead thing—

At birth you come out screaming

At death you go the same way

And in-between are sorrows

Such that you feared at the start

With little joys to keep you thinking,

‘Maybe tomorrow will be better’

But always that tomorrow is the same

As the one you hoped for yesterday—

Better to never be born

Than to see what lies ahead of you

Better to not remember before

Than to recall the heart’s ache

But once you live, there’s no choice—

You must go on knowing you are alive.

Indeed joy is just a lie

Hope, love, happiness are illusion

Fleeting things that pretend to sweetness

In order to make the bitter all the worse

This world is a never-ending trap

And death is no release—

So even the gods delude themselves

And upon occasion weep.

And on the song went,