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

dead world with black cloth obscuring everything—like being blind. She spoke without thinking, “It must be a relief to return to the surface above for the spring and summer, my lady.”

“That is only a story,” said Persephone. “I am never permitted to return above.”

Isme’s could find no words. Her head jerked like a hand in her hair pulled her back, and she stared at the figure, which held still. Only then did Isme realize her own rudeness, but she could not stop herself from saying, “When I return above, my lady, I will correct the storytellers—everyone will know the truth...” and we will mourn for you, she would have added, but held off at the last moment.

“No,” said Persephone. “Let them have their story. It is a good one.”

Resisting the urge to swallow, knowing she would only drink down more of the honey-and-cedar taste, Isme said, “I have a gift for you, my lady, and a request.”

The figure tilted to the side, ever so slightly. The voice was curious: “A gift?”

How can you know I was coming but not know about this? Isme did not ask aloud. But she un-cupped the palms at her breast, revealing white waterlogged flowers.

A harsh breath from the seated figure, and then rippling like water in the surface of the veil as a hand reached out, demanding. Isme sprang up and handed over the plant, feeling through the thin sheet of the veil the other woman’s fingers trembling, barely able to grasp the plant through the shroud, but clutching nonetheless.

Isme backed away, settled back down to kneeling, but the goddess paid her no attention, wrapped head staring at the small flowers like they were the sun. Soggy and broken as they were, the white of the petals was still the brightest color in the room. Isme gnawed her tongue, wanting to speak, say anything, but held quiet.

At length the Lady of the Dead spoke. “Ask your favor.”

“I am fated to understand the end of the world,” said Isme. “And I have heard terrible rumors of what will happen.” She paused, considering words carefully. “And... some time ago, ignorant, I sang to turtles on my island, but caused a passing ship of men to die. I have borne that blood guilt ever since—and worse things have been done. Tell me, please, if there is any way to be absolved.”

A pause, and Persephone spoke. “From your perspective, the end of the world will be a long time from now. I have heard the groans from the earth, Gaea in birthing pains again, and my husband interprets them one way, I another. Will it be a stillborn that kills the mother? In my opinion you will only find the true answer in the world to come. But it is possible that the shades of the dead, accumulating wisdom, have another answer.”

Holding out the flowers like a torch, the center of light and life from Prometheus himself, Persephone said, “I have no power to bless or cure. These are not part of the realm of death, which is itself a cure simply by being the worst of all ills. But I have within me the power to curse—and with a curse I can give you what you seek.”

Isme held still, did not dare object, though the idea of a curse made her tremble.

“I curse you now,” said Persephone, “and remain silent until I am finished.” And she shook the flowers, like a death rattle, over Isme’s shape, and pronounced:

I curse you with the worst of all curses:

I curse you with unfulfilled ignorance.

Death brings knowledge, so you will not die.

As long as you are unknowing, you will wander

The world above and the world below,

Seeking answers to questions burning within.

The day will come when you learn the truth—

One answer to two questions—both

The end of the world, and absolution—

And when you learn it, then you will die.

For death is the price of knowledge.

Isme could hear air moving through her lungs, but she felt as though suffocating. Persephone finished, and breathed, “As long as men die, this curse will still hold.”

Working her jaw, Isme tried to speak: “I—” and yet words would not come. If they did, she was uncertain what shape they would take, but for devoutness’s sake they would probably be a thanks, no matter how she truly felt—one did not insult gods...

“Do not thank me,” said Persephone. “This is not the sort of thing one is thankful for. There will be times you will revel in this curse, thrilled at living without death, because the ignorance of yourself rises and you forget the consequences; you will forget that it is a curse, not a blessing. And other times you will wish to curse me.”

“I would never curse you, my lady, a goddess,” said Isme, quickly, and startled when Persephone laughed.

“You defy Apollon and Dionysos twice, and once on the same day, and yet will not curse me after I curse you,” Persephone mused, something like the edge of delight in her voice. “Very well, you will not suffer as much from this as you could, not with that attitude. You are someone who sees new things and accepts them as they come, good and bad, viewing things as complete of themselves and not for or against you. Appropriate for someone trained for the end of the world, to see all angles of things and make use of what is necessary when necessary. Your father Epimetheus may be unable to view the future clearly, but he has taught you to view the past well.”

And Isme felt her heart grow warm at the acknowledgement of Epimetheus as her father, the first of all the gods, beyond Orpheus, to do so. Whatever misgivings she had about being cursed, all of them melted away, and she knew that any obeisance to Persephone in the future would not merely be formality on her part.

The figure pulled in her limbs, clutching the flowers close. The queen said, “Very well. You may remain in our realm as