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

glassy once more—with something like a flash of relief within them as he faded back to a shadow of his former self, and stumbled on, numb to the world.

Blood tickled the inside of Isme’s elbow, a steady trickle that dropped to the soil below. The asphodel was the same as the shades—it sucked up the life and began to bloom, puffing out to beautiful golden lilies—but then crumbled and faded back to ash.

Light-headed, Isme removed her hands from her ears and pressed her palm against the cut. She had sliced deeper a few times, since the flow had clotted and stopped. How many souls had she spoken to? The number seemed insignificant.

From far off she saw her—and, reminded of Tiresias’s words, Isme pressed on.

The woman was a skeleton, bones jutting from wrists, elbows, knees, ankles. Yet there was something gold in her hair—the palest shade of yellow threaded in the ashen strands, so that sunken cheeks seemed to have a small glow of life still present. Isme shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts, which were on Kleto.

A nick of her knife, and the sigh from the woman’s skin: Eurydice.

Isme gazed on the sunken eyes, the lips moving to babble nothing, and thought: If things had been different, you are the woman who would have been my mother.

What a strange idea—a mother. Isme had only ever had her father, and her Grandmother Kalliope. There were other goddesses, of course—and Kleto. But nothing like a mother. Her mind trailed back to the older woman with the stripe of grey in her hair at the ceremonies of Dionysos, and she stood a moment pondering.

Then she lifted her bloodied arm to the woman’s lips.

The touch on her skin was softer than with the men. As the mouth drew out life, Isme watched, fascinated, as color seemed to blossom over the shade’s gaunt frame. There was a tilt of seashell on the skin, a blush of red back into the cheeks, the corners of eyes, the lips. The hair became glossy, glittering with gold.

Only gradually did Isme become aware that the blue eyes were staring at her, observing, though the mouth kept sucking and drawing more. With reluctance, vision spinning and spiraling around that face, Isme pulled away.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

Eurydice worked her mouth, savoring the taste. She said, “Daughter of Orpheus.”

“Do you—” Isme hesitated, about to ask about relieving blood guilt, but that seemed out of place, somehow, for she doubted Eurydice had ever killed anyone. Puzzled, she asked herself, Why then did I revive her? And then she saw how Eurydice studied her face, and the answer came to her; another question to ask.

“You look like him,” said Eurydice. “He always favored his mother.”

And Isme said, “I know my father’s story. Can you tell me yours?”

Eurydice blinked, but slowly, lazily, and a smile spread over those full lips. She began a performance, and in those moments what little of death remained in her melted away, until she was full-bodied and alive, flesh ripe and firm like a child:

I grew up in the mountains, on the hillsides where the songs of birds greeted every morning. I would sing back, and they would tell me of many things: of Olympus, palace of the gods—of Ouranos, stretched above in eternal agony—of Hades, the tenderest and most merciful of gods...

Then one day I heard a voice in the woods singing. I thought a bird, so pleasant was the song—but like a fish on a lure I came closer, to find a beautiful figure weaving through the woods. All I had was myself, my mother, and the birds—and stories, of nymphs and dryads, and I thought this one of them.

I came upon her and said, Sweet lady, of what are you singing?

She smiled and explained, told songs of mighty heroes. I listened to all these and my heart yearned to fly up like a bird and see them for myself. Most of all I loved the stories of their deaths, for then I knew that they had found peace.

For a long time I met her in the woods. One day I asked how she knew all these things, and she said she had done many of them. I asked why she was now on the mountain—and she said that she had seen me in the woods, and had come here to win me for herself. Only then did I realize the truth: what I thought was a woman, never having seen a man before, was not.

This was Orpheus, and he made such a case that I acceded to wed him.

Yet when I told my mother of my decision, she cried out in a loud voice that I should stop. When I was newborn she had taken me to Tiresias, most honest of all prophets, for a story of my life. He had explained that the day I marry would be the day I died. And so in fear my mother had taken me to the mountain, where I should live a full life, never meeting a man.

Still, when I heard this, I thought of Orpheus and his wonderful stories, and I accepted everything. For our lives are only brief flames in oil lamps—eventually the oil burns dry, the lamp douses out, and such is the end but one long trail of smoke. Therefore let us burn brightly and enjoy what we can before Hades comes and brings us to eternal sleep, where no sorrow afflicts us.

This I explained to Orpheus, who, hearing the prophecy, laughed that he defied the fates and would brave death itself should I ever be parted from him. But I, who knew of the peace of death, made him promise not to do such things.

I made my choice: better one day of love than a full life of regret, for all lives end the same way—the rest of Hades, most merciful and kind.

The wedding was a joy—we did indeed burn bright. He sang, I danced, and well you