Everyone Should Eat His Own Turtle (A Greek Myth Novel)

by H. C. Southwark

  That was impossible with the watcher stones.

  Isme pulled back the cloth and looked. Everything was in order. The sun still shone gray, but that was due to the cloudy skies, distorting all light to the paler ends of the spectrum. Isme’s eyes traced over the circle where her father had buried the watcher stones. She knew what they looked like: faces, carved in stone, set upside-down with their chins pointing upward.

  Each stone had two faces on it—a face looking inside the circle toward her father’s cave, and another face looking outward to the rest of the world. The ones facing outside had their eyes open; but the ones facing inward had their eyes shut. Every few years, Isme and her father had to dig them up and move them about, to ensure that they stayed aware at their posts, her father said, like changing the guard of a city.

  “But I don’t even know if they work,” said Isme. After all, no man had ever arrived at the island to test the watcher stones. She had only her father’s claims about the stones as proof they would work. But if she trusted her father about the coming end of the world, then surely she could trust him about the watcher stones.

  Stepping cautiously, Isme surveyed everything. Nobody in sight. The birds of the island were singing. She imagined that they would fall quiet if something was in the woods.

  Approaching the fire, Isme made sure it was completely out. The sky may be gray today, but a column of smoke could still be seen from the ocean. Smoke was different from clouds, darker, less fanciful, reeking of death rather than rain. Fortunately, the embers of the fire were long dead. Yet as Isme considered this, she realized:

  Last night she had left her torch on the beach.

  Anyone on the beach could find it. She had not hidden the torch; she had just stabbed the handle into the sand while awaiting the turtles. Again, her thoughts in the previous night came to her: turtles do not make fire. Only gods and men do.

  If anyone saw her torch then they would reach the same conclusion. The torch was burnt out, but might as well be alight. It would guide men to shore.

  “I don’t have a choice,” she said, ducking into her father’s cave to take one of the walking sticks he had carved and hardened in the fire. She had often tumbled staves with her father but never won. Yet this was better than nothing to defend herself with.

  She paused at the watcher stones, sent up a silent song—Kalliope, let the song of this journey be of a foolish new-woman who encountered nothing but only scared herself.

  The walk through the woods was much more treacherous this time. Isme moved slowly, aware that if someone was in the woods, whoever spotted the other first would have an advantage. The overcast sky dulled everything. She rubbed gray ash over herself before leaving, hoping this would camouflage her.

  Cresting the hill toward the beach, Isme noticed something unusual through the trees. She crouched, crawling to get a better line of sight, and found herself confused.

  There was a dark shape lying in the scrub-grass, about the size of a human being. Isme pieced together the figure’s shape and position: a man, lying face down, one arm splayed out over his head and the other tucked under his body.

  How unpleasant, Isme thought. The scrub-grass had burrs in it.

  Something was wrong.

  The question came: continue on toward this man, with the risk that could involve, or return to her father’s cave and safety? Isme gripped her staff and drew a line in the dirt with her toe. She gazed out over the rest of the scrub-grass, not quite able to see the beach beyond the ridge. Anyone and anything could be out there.

  He might be hurt, thought Isme. Father would know what to do. But he isn’t here. This is my decision—just like going to the beach last night. I am not supposed to reveal myself to people. But Father doesn’t have a rule about what to do when a man is hurt.

  And she thought: in stories, when people are hurt, someone always helps.

  That thought spurred her, and she left the safety of the trees, keeping herself crouched low, but approaching the man. About two arm’s length, she thought better of coming within grabbing distance, and instead called, “Sir, are you awake?”

  The man did not stir. This close, she could see that his hand stretched out above his head had fingers bent in ways that they should not bend. Deciding that a wounded man was less of a threat, she took a step forward and poked him with her stick. No reaction. Reaching out, she touched his head. His skin was cold and wet. Worried now, she rolled him over and found his eyes were open, unblinking, limbs stiff like driftwood.

  He was dead.

  Isme had never seen a dead man before, let alone a live one besides herself and her father. He did not look as ugly as she had supposed men would. In stories, women wailed for the dead. But making noise seemed dangerous if Isme did not know whether anyone else was on the beach over the ridge.

  The only thing Isme could think to say was a quick prayer: “Lord Hermes, guide of the dead, take this man’s soul to the underworld and let him pass the river in peace.”

  Carefully, Isme turned and stepped further into the scrub-grass, keeping low, approaching the crest of the ridge and beach. She would check if any of the man’s companions were around. If so, they could gather the body while she went back to the watcher stones and safety. If not, Isme would have to take care of him herself.

  But there were more shapes on the beach. Shadows. Strange lumps in the sand that she had never seen before—except that she had, and he was lying still behind her in the scrub-grass.

  Isme felt her spine straighten, her feet continuing to walk, without permission, tumbling on, the ready stiff position of her hands clutching the staff loosening, until she was dragging the end behind her on the grass. She halted at the line of the sand and stared out, counting. One, two—four, five—not even halfway there. More.

  Strewn about them were driftwood and waterlogged cloth. More than one was face-down in the water, dashed back and again by the waves, much like the turtles had flung themselves ashore in the night. And overtop crawled the crabs, while overhead gulls whirled and screamed for joy. But there was no motion in the shapes underneath.

  Beyond the beach the low tide of the sea whispered, without a ship in sight, gray skies continuing out along the horizon forever. The sun was hiding his face.

  TWO.

  ~

  Isme did not remember what happened next very well.

  Perhaps she walked the length of the beach, stopping at each shadow to test if there was any life left within them, and repeated her prayer to Hermes at each when she found none. Perhaps she stood in place and scanned the horizon until her eyes hurt, seeing if someone would come, the other ship men, her father, anyone. Perhaps she dropped to her knees and keened and sobbed like some wild thing, and for once the deep space within her, the place from which songs welled up, was silent and dry.

  Isme did have one memory, later, and that began with great activity: running back and forth along the sand, feet sinking ankle-deep with every step, but slogging on, yelling and waving her arms and walking stick to drive away the gulls.

  What did one do for the dead? In stories, women wailed, some kind of ceremony, words she did not know. How did one wail, anyway? Isme was a woman now. She ought to know this, because stories made it seem this was important. But her father was a man and had not taught her to wail and might not know how himself.

  One was supposed to burn or bury them. Isme locked her knees and stood, reluctant to sit as though on holy ground, contemplating how. These considerations seemed very mundane compared to the lumpen forms around her. And then memory peeled away from her again: when she thought back over the next few days, what came to her were only snippets, sensory details that were pieces of an unknown whole.

  She recalled dipping heavy flat shadows into the sea water, thinking that this was the best she could do to clean and bathe them in preparation. The burn and strain in her muscles as she pulled them up through the scrub grass, where even the crabs were reluctant to follow. Chasing away more gulls. A
lways gulls. Birds screaming at her in anger and frustration. Herself screaming in anger and frustration as she realized she could not burn them, not with the sole campfire, not before the number of them began to rot, and so she decided to dig, but had to return them to the sand to do so.

  This gray day continued forever.

  That sunset, Isme sat among the sandy mounds and watched, waiting, as always. She told the mounds of her father’s prophecy and what she was waiting for: to see if the world would end. Perhaps, she said to them, it will end tonight.

  But the end did not come.

  When the sun finally dipped his head under the sea, she felt a song well up within her, but this time, for the first time in her life, she could not call the words. Forgive me, Grandmother Kalliope—What if someone heard? She no longer feared that men would come to the beach and hurt her. She feared for men, rather than for herself. If she sang then perhaps in the morning there would be more shadows lying still and dark.

  Isme never actually counted how many there were.

  ~

  Over the next days, Isme finished only half her chores. There were many tasks to keep her father’s cave in working order: staves to be oiled, animal skins to be scraped with fat to ensure they remained supple, chert to gather, sort, knap into new knives or arrowheads. And the care of the garden, gathering of olives and nuts, hunting of birds and squirrels for food each day, the salting and burial of food for the winter.

  Normally, Isme was diligent. But now she found her feet leading her towards the beach. Sometimes she would stop these disobedient feet, turn around, and force herself back to task. Other times she would stand in the woods. She did not know how long—she would only look out toward the beach, and the arrival of evening’s red sky would startle her back into awareness of herself. She neglected to light her night fires.

  At sunset she sat on the sand and watched the sun go down. Waiting for the end of the world. She hoped it would come soon. When the world did not end, she would remain, waiting. The moon was still full enough that the turtles would come in the night.

  Isme did not sing to them. She did not sing anymore. But the turtles did not seem to mind. They hauled themselves onto the sand and crept up to her and rested their soft smooth wet heads on her knees, gazing at her as she gazed back. Without words their orb eyes seemed to say: Things will be all right. Your father will return soon.

  ~

  The turtles did not stay the entire night. When the tide began to empty, they would be drawn along, as though the sea was a net and they were caught in its grasp. Isme would watch them until the little humps of their shells were indistinguishable from the waves. Then she would turn and trudge back to her father’s cave, between the mounds of men whose names she did not know but who had doubtless heard her song.

  Yet, this night as she walked to the cave there was a strange noise behind her.

  Isme would not have noticed it, except that she knew every sound on the island and this matched one of her own: footsteps. But odd footsteps, which echoed her own strides, as though someone was walking step by step along with her without being quite in sync. She and her father had done this sometimes as practice in hunting.

  But her father was not here.

  Pausing, Isme heard the echo-steps stop as well. She stood in the woods and considered. Must be imagining things. Even if there was a man in the woods, someone who had not died on the beach, or perhaps someone who she had thought dead and buried but had been wrong and he had dug himself out and come back—even then, such a person could not make these footsteps. People needed much practice and to know each other’s sort of walk.

  When did I last sleep? Isme wondered. She felt as if time had been strange ever since she had seen all of the shadows on the beach. Circular. Like if she turned around and walked back, she would find them all there again, unburied, waiting for her.

  Oh, she thought, Kalliope—If only time had stopped earlier. It could have halted with the turtles arriving at the first full moon and then none of this would have ever happened. Maybe that was what the end of the world was, the cessation of time.

  I must sleep, thought Isme. I must. And she began to walk again.

  The echoing footsteps started again as well. Isme wove her way through the trees and told herself this was just her tired brain mixing sounds in the empty night air.

  She reached the top of the hills and was beginning the descent to her father’s cave when these echoing footsteps began to chafe her ears. But this time, when she stopped, the sounds did not halt immediately. They continued for a few extra steps.

  If this is a trick of my mind, Isme thought, I’m being cruel to myself tonight.

  Still, she could not resist calling out: “Who are you? Why are you following me?”

  Obviously, Isme expected no answer. All her life, only she and her father had lived on this island; there were no neighbors. Her father had specifically chosen this place because of the isolation. She had never met anyone else—alive, that was.

  Yet behind her in the woods came a voice: “You know why.”

  Isme drew in breath. And—without thinking—without knowing she was lifting her own feet—she fled—faster than she had ever run—toward the watcher stones—

  Trees blurred to long streaks of gray—she could not hear those feet echoing behind her—she only heard her own lungs, gasp, gasp—and under those breaths the thud of something in her torso that sounded like the beat of a drum, lower than her heart, as though her heart had fallen further down into her insides—

  Isme reached where she knew the circle of the watcher stones was and an extra burst of speed sent her toppling over the line. Inside. Safe. Invisible—only people who knew the cave was there already could cross the line, unless invited—

  But she was not thinking. She was on hands and knees scrambling toward the fire pit and the staves she had oiled and set out to dry earlier that morning.

  Grabbing one of the walking sticks, hardly able to hold it for all her own trembling, and rolling over to her buttocks—Isme brandished the stick and threatened.

  But there was nothing at the treeline, no figure standing and watching or hunting for her now that she was invisible. Only the trees, swaying in the breeze with sighs.

  Isme felt the thudding in her stomach slowing. Not because she was no longer frightened, but only that it was simply not possible to maintain that level of strain. Instead, she sank into awareness, the alertness of a hunt, waiting to see if an animal would emerge where she had heard rustling in the bushes.

  Sure enough, there came a sound from the woods. Footsteps. They were light, airy, as if whatever was walking was not much heavier than Isme herself.

  Yet nothing emerged from amongst the branches. The noises, the footsteps, if that was what they were—they stopped just outside the line of the watcher stones.

  The staff in her hands was heavy. Holding it ready made her limbs strain with effort. Isme’s chores had her in good shape, but she was still not completely recovered from lifting and dragging the men up off the beach, then to back down to the beach, digging pits for them, and putting soil overtop to blot them out from the sky.

  Still, Isme did not lower the stick. She was not foolish enough to deny her senses. She had heard a voice in the woods and now something—even if she could not see what—was standing before the circle. A man or a nature spirit or even a god.

  Isme waited for it to speak again, but there was only silence. At last, she said: “What are you? What are you doing here—” and she stuttered, “What do you want?”

  Truthfully, the voice should not have been able to respond to her. Isme was inside the circle of the watcher stones. But, like it was standing mere feet away, the voice replied.

  “I know what you’ve done. You should have obeyed your father—then none of this would have happened and those men would be alive and I would not be here.”

  In a wild moment, without thinking, Isme denied everything: “I don’t know what you’re talk
ing about. I haven’t done anything.”

  “Haven’t you?” replied the voice. Scornful, as though she had disappointed it somehow, or perhaps more accurately had proven its worst suspicions about her true, living up to some bad reputation. Isme felt the shame of the lie heat up her face, had no doubt that she was turning red like she had eaten too many fermented grapes.

  Isme did not know what to say, and so she remained silent.

  The voice waited as though it expected her to speak. When she did not, and the moment stretched long, it said: “I can see you. Watcher stones do not work on me.”

  Some part of Isme had been holding on to hope, although another part of her mind had told her that she was in more danger than she thought, because this invisible thing should not have been able to talk to her in the first place.

  Fear raised Isme to her feet as if levitating. Brandishing the pole, she cried, “Go away! Get out of here—go away! Leave me alone!”

  “I will never leave you any more than those men will,” the voice said like a promise.

  And then there was the sound of steps—Isme swung her staff, but blindly, unable to see well in the dark, and besides there seemed to be no body attached to the sounds. Perhaps the thing was solid enough she could hit it if she tried—or maybe was insubstantial enough that she did not need to worry about it hitting her.

  In her panic, she did not notice that the sound of footsteps was coming from farther off. But then a man’s head emerged from the trees surrounding the campsite.

  “Isme?” the man said, confused. And even in the dark she realized who he was.

  “Father,” Isme said. She lowered her staff and then, as though connected to the wood, her own knees sagged and she sank down to sit against the hard ground.

  “What’s wrong?” Her father said, lowering the pack he carried on his shoulders and rushing to her. “Isme? Are you all right—you’re trembling...”