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

he could see her, “King Nestor, can you please tell me, How does one absolve blood guilt for murder?”

“I thought I knew,” said Nestor, his eyelids lowed so that just a peek of white could be seen. “I thought I knew everything—about life, death, love, what you will, I thought life and experience taught all. But now I see that I know nothing.”

Isme demanded, “You must know something, Sir.”

“Nothing,” repeated Nestor. “I know nothing. Nobody knows anything.”

And he gazed at Isme for a long moment, his eyes riveted to the wrist she was pressing against her own skin to stem as much bleeding as she could, but then just as Isme thought she might have to fight him off, that he might try to lunge for more—he broke his gaze and began to wander off. As though the amount of blood she had given him was used up, expired, like a log on a campfire—burned through and gone.

Isme stood and watched him, feeling cold prickles across her back, spreading like wings—the realization that as he was now, someday she would be. An empty thing.

At last Isme turned to another man—but had he not been nude, Isme would never quite have figured this out, not just because of his smooth face but also because there were two flat lumps on his chest that could have been mistaken as female.

Reaching out with the knife, an apology, she nearly flicked it against his arm, testing to see his name, but then the shade turned—and looked directly at her.

There was something like a smile on his lips.

Isme froze. The man seemed to find her petrified reaction humorous. He said, dry lips cracking, “Go on, girl. Scratch me and ask your question.”

“I—” Isme hesitated again, lifting the knife, then letting it fall by her side. “But you can already speak—why do I have to—”

“It is the way of things,” said the old man. “Besides, I will count it a new experience.”

Hesitating the one last time, Isme placed the knife against his collarbone, and watched with something between horror and fascination as the blade bit into his skin.

The sigh came: Tiresias.

Inhaling sharply, Isme raised her bleeding wrist to the shade’s face, offering the old prophet her life, but the man said, “Oh, leave off. You’ll need your blood soon enough. Besides, I’m just now gorged with cattle sacrificed by Odysseus, who had the same idea as you about consulting the dead. Poor man has a long way home.”

Only then did Isme notice that the insides of the old prophet’s mouth were red, flesh-like, not the pale color of old bone like all the others. She nodded.

“I already know your question,” said the prophet. He was kindly, but matter-of-fact, in a way that told Isme he was prepared for objections and not at all willing to hear or contemplate them. Perhaps being dead had taught him not to bother anymore.

“Now, you could go about it the way you’re already going to, or you could simply listen to me describe it,” said Tiresias. With a worn hand he lifted and pointed to a succession of shades, trailing to the distance. “You’ll find Hector here, then Agamemnon, Sarpedon, Ajax the Lesser, and Oedipus after. Then at the end you will find your father’s bride. And at last, when you are ready, you will speak to something you do not expect, and learn the truth.”

Isme opened her mouth to object, that surely as great a prophet as Tiresias already knew the truth, but his demeanor told her that she would get no more. And so she thanked him, and bowed, and advanced closer to the shore. To home.

His last words to her were, “When you get a chance, come back and see me again—I should like to talk to someone who asks questions and truly wants answers...”

TWENTY-FOUR.

~

Down the line Isme went, lifting her wrist to pale sets of lips which were open, numb and maybe mumbling or gibbering nonsense, until they touched her flesh and then would latch and suckle like starving men. More than once she had to wrest away, which was easy enough for they had the strength of grass.

Blood guilt, Isme would ask, How can I be absolved from it?

Hector of Troy genuinely tried for a good answer, stating: The best way would be to not incur guilt in the first place. Do your best—beyond your best—to live a virtuous life, not incurring hate or wrath from anyone, so even your enemies honor you. Then you will have no blood guilt to absolve, and the problem never occur.

Agamemnon looked up thunderous to the dead sky, saying: No matter what, blood guilt is unavoidable. You try your best, but some god will always have wrath reserved for you, and then when you do that god’s bidding someone will blame you and take on herself the duty to punish you. So blood guilt is a common lot to us all—and the gods don’t actually punish for it, lest everyone be in Tartarus!

Sarpedon, son of Zeus and fallen hero at Troy, added: Blood guilt is dishonorable killing, and so you ought to avoid that at all costs—and yet, I also believe sometimes that any killing, no matter how small, is enough to incur the ban. But in life killing is unavoidable. The best one can do is do as little as possible, and in the meantime show yourself respectable—honor the gods, your parents, uphold your responsibilities—so that perhaps the good you do outweighs the bad, and your life judged fairly.

Ajax the Lesser tossed his head back and demanded, What blood guilt? There’s no guilt in killing any more than in being killed—the strong do what they will, the weak endure. That is the way of things and always has been. Don’t feel guilt over fools.

Oedipus only opened his mouth and screamed.

Isme found the sound horrible enough to throw her hands over her ears, keeping them there until the life from her blood was finally gone, Oedipus’s eyes become