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

air became oppressive to walking. The moon blotted out. Time passed and Isme thought to herself that perhaps the sun should have risen by now, but the air was dark and cold and growing colder. She and Kleto were lashed to the ship’s side and the men talked of a storm coming.

Poseidon is angry, someone shouted above the wind, and another called, Yes, we clearly know that, but a third asked, Why is he angry with us, now? And the first replied, Because his sirens are dead—we must appease him with blood—

And Isme had just long enough to feel prickles on her skin before the rest of the crew hushed the first sailor, shouting, Do you want to blame the boy who saved our lives? How dare you—it will be you we sacrifice to the sea, not him!

Bowing her head, half wishing that her hair was still long enough to hide her face, Isme endured as the storm began. Kleto clung to her as the ship heaved and dove, the balance of the world unsteady, and in her mind’s eye Isme saw these sailors as different men, other sailors who had been having a peaceful night under the first full moon of spring, and who had heard a song and somehow cast themselves overboard—

Perhaps it was not Poseidon causing the storm, she thought. Perhaps it is them, the men I killed, either they heard me sing or the sirens went down to the depths and told them, I don’t know, or perhaps it is Poseidon who is angry, twice now he’s seen me kill...

She had heard enough stories of sailors throwing sacrifices to the sea not to follow the play of intent as it came. First they threw cups of wine—and when that did not work, they threw a still-lit torch—and then they were throwing a bucket of flour—and then one of the live goats they had brought aboard—and then—

When they turned to her with apologies and terror, Isme could not think to refuse them, not that anything would have helped. Deck pitching underfoot, they cut her bonds and she was dashed hard against the rising wood, bashing the underside of her chin. Vision spotting, Isme hardly felt hands under her arms and buttocks, she was flying—

The ocean stung like the lash of a jellyfish, beating her pebbled skin raw. Isme was pulled under—but she had spent a lifetime on the edge of the sea, had fought off hungry mother seals underwater, and falling into ocean was not enough to bring her down. Kicking the woven sandals from her feet without hesitation, she made for the surface without needing to question which way was up.

Yet the waves were a problem. She hit air and managed a breath before being struck from behind by a wall of water. Plunged under again, some part of herself acknowledged that the end here was of exhaustion—she would keep afloat only as long as her body could endure—and already she was shivering, and from the time in the river on the mainland knew that she would soon feel warm, but that was deception, for that was how one froze to death.

Before her was the ship, already peeling away, and that was good, for Isme knew another danger was to be dashed senseless against the hull, and then down she would go without ever knowing her own end. And yet—

In the dark of the clouds, wind, rain—there was a face over the side of the rail, a beardless face, but what Isme truly recognized were the eyes of pale gold, lit from within like they were embers from a dying fire—the face opened its mouth and yelled something, and then was heaving itself over the side—

No, Isme wanted to call, stay onboard, stay back, I’ll have enough trouble—you’ll never survive—and the sailors nearby had noticed, were grabbing and pulling the figure back to safety—

But Kleto had always been a fighter. She bent, sunk her teeth into an arm, and a man’s howling could be heard above the wind as he pulled away. For a single eyeblink Kleto stood tall on the rail, and then she dove straight into the water, down, down—

Isme did not much recall what happened between that sight and the feel of Kleto clinging to her, wet skin on wet skin, the both of them tumbling over like a wheel in the waves, but whether that reunion had taken mere breaths or half the day, that did not matter, they were together now and would not be broken apart—

Until they struck the side of a beach, impact like falling from the sky, their sides bruised and heaving as they crawled and pulled each other up out of the waves.

TWENTY.

~

Isme came back to herself with Kleto shouting, “No, no, get away, I’ll do it! Don’t touch him!” This was followed by a splash.

Eyes opening, she found Kleto standing above her brandishing an empty bucket, and a group of people—men, women, she had trouble recognizing, for they were bundled in furs and cloth—wet and cowering under Kleto’s shadow.

Isme pulled herself into a seated position and stared out at a well-tended cave. There was sand underfoot, fine like powder, perfect for sleeping, and the walls had been scraped to remove sharp or annoying protrusions. A series of torches ringed the room and brought the dark-eyed collection of people into contrast with the shadows—and made Kleto’s hair glitter like the stars.

“What is this?” Isme asked, half to Kleto and half to the others.

“Don’t bother,” Kleto said, still brandishing the bucket. “I think they want to clean you, they brought water and some squishy thing that they tried to rub on me. They’re some kind of barbarian. It’s lucky if I understand one word in twenty.”

When Isme’s attention switched back over to them, one stood forward, and began to speak—and Isme understood the label that Kleto had applied, because instead of words they were repetitive sounds, most prominent of which was ‘bar, bar.’

Straightening, Isme spotted a