SIX.
~
The pale fingers of dawn, rose-colored, stirred the camp to life. The moon had set some time ago and, with everyone else returning to consciousness, Isme no longer had to pretend to be asleep. Yet as the other women unentangled themselves and stretched and yawned and rubbed the corners of their eyes, Isme found herself resentful they were moving, jostling her among the pile. She had no reason to think that today was going to be any different from yesterday: a long day of hard walking.
Just before they started out, Epimetheus appeared from the front of the line. He stood before Isme and looked her over, as though trying to tell whether anything had happened in the night. Lycander, who had leaped astride his drowsy animal with the ease of a child skipping, noticed her father had come to see her.
Lycander called, “Nothing happened, Sir. I’m a good watchman.”
Epimetheus tilted his flat smooth head and regarded the boy with a fierce expression. Lycander held very still in a way that reminded Isme of an animal. But she could not tell whether this was the freeze of prey realizing it was being stalked, or of a predator waiting for the prey to mistake it was safe before pouncing.
Apparently her father could not tell the difference either, because he glanced back in Isme’s direction. Subtly as she could, Isme nodded. This seemed to satisfy him.
As her father walked away, Isme’s eyes followed his back—and caught on the face of Kleto as he walked past her. Now Isme was the one who froze: for Kleto’s own eyes were locked on Isme’s form. Her gaze was easily understood. She was a predator.
~
This day, as they walked, Isme was occupied by many questions.
What was the voice in the woods? How had it travelled to the mainland? Isme felt sure that it had some kind of body, albeit an invisible one. After all, how else could it have the weight to make audible footsteps? But, if it had weight, then it could not have gone across the water, because it would have sunk into the ocean.
Isme tried to avoid thinking about the possibility that the voice in the woods had ridden in the paddle boat with her and her father. The thought of sharing such a small space with the creature made the skin on her arms tighten into little bumps, despite the rising heat of the day. Yet her mind could not stop chewing on the possibility until her teeth ached from grinding: after all, she reasoned, if it was invisible perhaps it could have been sitting near her in the bow the entire time. She would never have known.
Just like now, when it probably was following them. At this very moment it was trailing behind the caravan, like a predator stalking a herd, its eyes fixed on Isme.
She made the mistake of glancing behind—and was confronted with eyes indeed fixed on her back. Kleto held her dark cloth to shade her face, and her pale golden eyes looked like reflections of small moons in water, startlingly bright in the shadow. She did not look away when Isme caught her staring. Instead she just glared.
Isme did not look back again. She did not need to: those eyes were warm like fire on her back.
~
Isme was not the only one who noticed Kleto’s eyes.
On their first break for the day, Lycander rode up on his animal. Finding no place to sit since any stones on the side of the road had already been taken, Isme had crouched to place her body’s weight on her knees, instead of sitting in the mud. She was surprised when a bladder of water dangled in front of her nose. Glancing to her side, where the hooves of the animal were tangled with dirt, she let her eyes rest on the furry legs of the boy, following them up until she saw Lycander held the bladder before her by its strap.
“Do I look fine, even to a wild woman’s taste?” asked Lycander. Sweat on the bridge of his nose gleamed, reflecting in his eyes. They were an odd color, Isme noticed. Somewhere between green, blue, and brown. She had not known that the eyes of men could be anything but the brown of herself and her father and the blue possessed by beautiful women in stories.
Even thinking of eyes, however, had her glancing over to where Kleto had found a seat on a rock the size of a man’s torso, and she discovered that she was still being glared at. If anything, the glare produced by Kleto was the worst yet.
Lycander sighed, and Isme’s glance darted to him, where she saw that he had tracked her own line of vision and noticed Kleto as well. He shook his head, muttered something that included the words “women” and “unstable,” but then shook the strap of the water bladder, causing it to dance in the air in front of Isme.
“Do you want some, wild woman? I noticed you often drink.”
Isme seized the dancing water bladder. Her quickness must have startled the boy, for he released the strap. She had already taken a first gulp before she remembered there was such a thing as manners, and blabbered out, “Thank you, Sir.”
“You are welcome,” said Lycander, not sounding offended. He shifted on the animal’s back, and Isme observed the blanket he sat on. It was thick, off-white in color with no dye on the fibers, except for yellow stains where his sweat had been absorbed into the material over and over. This made Lycander look as though he had a yellow shadow lurking underneath him.
As before, he caught on to where she was looking. He said, in a tone that implied some kind of joke, “Your first time being so close to a ridden horse, wild woman?”
“Why do you call me that?” Isme asked, without thinking first. Soon as the words left her mouth, she felt worry creep up along her spine; it could not be a good thing to talk without planning ahead, she knew so little of mainland customs. Her father’s advice still rang in her ears: Better to listen than talk.
I simply must get control over myself, she thought. This is not the island where I can say anything I want and no living soul will hear me. If the men from the mainland ever heard me speak to myself, perhaps they will think I am mad.
But Lycander did not seem surprised by her question. He said, “Because although your father claims you as a goatherd, I see no goats around.”
Isme defended her father’s lie. “We left the goats behind.”
“Aye,” said Lycander, “In your wilderness so far away from any city that you do not even have a name for where it is.” He tilted his head as though to better gaze down at Isme. “Or so your father says. Seems to me that you were not herding goats there, but doing something else—something outdoors that stained you as dark as a slave girl in the fields of some barbarian.”
Isme glanced down at her arm and saw he was right—for she was far more sun-stained than any of the women in the caravan. She wondered if everyone on the mainland was this way, if her life of tending garden and hunting and lying on the beaches would always mark her more than any animal-skin clothing—an outsider, forever.
Except she was not completely an outsider. As she observed Lycander, she realized that his own flesh was near her color—and this made sense because men spent more time outside in action than women inside, spinning and cooking.
It is not that I am dark, she understood, a flash of insight. It is that I am a woman. He is suspicious of Father’s story—because I would be a woman goatherd… I must distract him from asking too many questions. He’s come here to learn details from me, I’m sure. Oh, if only I and Father had conspired better.
Placing her hand against his knee to observe the similarity in skin tone, she said, “You are right. I did not get this way by herding goats.” Lycander’s eyebrows rose like those of his uncle, Eutropios, the previous day. She told him, “I got this way through horse-riding and hunting boars and winning first prize in funeral games.”
She had listed all of the things she remembered men doing from stories, pastimes and other glorious deeds done out in the sun. Perhaps, she thought, I will convince him this subject is pointless, and whatever suspicions he has about my father’s story will fade in comparison to these ridiculous things.
And she was right, for Lycander snorted like the animal he was riding, and with a laugh kicked the creature’s side, knocking her hand away. As the animal amb
led off, he called, “I shall like to hear of these prizes some later time, wild woman.”
Isme felt triumph rise—she had been successful. Perhaps talking to these mainlanders was not hard after all. If she pretended like she was someone in a story, engaged with wit and wordplay, maybe she could simply fit in. She would probably forever be a little odd to their eyes, but she was managing to navigate human relationships well enough, or so she told herself.
Until, sinking back into her crouch, her eyes strayed to Kleto, further down the line of the caravan. Immediately Isme flinched—for Kleto looked aflame with anger, flushed red with passion as though she might tear forward like an arrow through air—straight for Isme’s throat.
Instinct told Isme that meeting Kleto’s eyes was dangerous, so she let herself look away, but kept the other woman in her peripheral awareness, ready to bolt if Kleto so much as stirred in her seat.
At the same time, however, she felt something vicious rise within her—a small roar that trumpeted: Come, beautiful woman with gold hair, come charge at me—I will meet you and strike back twice as hard, but surely you will look lovely as you attack. She imagined those veiled locks streaming in the air like the shower of gold Zeus had become while visiting Danae—
“You needn’t worry about her,” said Pelagia’s voice, and Isme glanced over to see the other woman had approached and sunk down to crouch beside her. “Kleto is the kind who strikes another and breaks her own finger.”
“I am not afraid,” said Isme. “I simply don’t understand why she does what she does.” And then, deciding to take a risk, she added, “Like yesterday. I had never met her before, but when she came—” and this was the risk, as she was assuming that she knew what Kleto had been intending— “The first thing she did was insult me.”
“Oh,” sighed Pelagia, “That is what Kleto does. When Eutropios calls her for something, she takes it out on us. And besides,” and now there was a look of mischief come over Pelagia’s features—Isme was startled by this expression, so recognizable because she had seen it before on her own face— “She sees you as competition for Lycander, even if you do nothing yourself to attract him.”
Isme frowned, scrunching her nose as though an insect had buzzed between her nostrils. She decided on honesty, “I don’t understand what you’re saying either.”
Pelagia scooted closer and in a loud whisper, “You are a country bumpkin, aren’t you? Let me guess: the only males you’ve ever known is your father and the goats.”
Isme felt heat stretch across her shoulders and bridge over her nose. But before she could say anything, Pelagia continued, “At the very least you should have an understanding from your herd,” and she began to grin in a way that made her teeth look sharp, “You know, when rutting season comes for the bucks.”
Now Isme’s shoulders and nose felt like a burn from a campfire. Isme lifted stared at Kleto in shock, only realizing that Kleto must have understood what Pelagia was telling her when Kleto’s angry glare tipped over into rage. Isme could see the moment this occurred on the map of Kleto’s pale face: anger and embarrassment had made her run red, but rage drained the blood down to her insides, her heart and lungs which she would need in a fight.
Kleto wrenched up from her seat with such force that Isme almost thought the stone under her would be dislodged and roll away. Isme nearly believed that Kleto could rend someone limb from limb. She held very still, the prey instinct returning to her even though now it was probably useless.
But Kleto did not come. She stood still as if to show Isme how she wanted to attack, but then turned and strode into the woods.
Glancing to her side, Isme found Pelagia staring in Kleto’s wake, and if she had to put a label on the other woman’s face, she would have called it “satisfaction.”
Now I’m even more confused, thought Isme. So much for understanding mainlander people—I was foolish to think I had mastered them so quickly. Or, perhaps there was a difference between men and women that made the one harder to grasp.
“You mean that she wants Lycander to—” and Isme considered her language, settling for words that matched the metaphor, “Become the buck of her herd?”
Pelagia was more amused now. She said, “Not quite. Perhaps she dreams of that. She knows it’s impossible, so mostly she just likes to make sure that she can get as close as she can. That means he’s not allowed to have eyes for anyone but her.”
“But he is only a boy,” said Isme, surprise curling through her. She had trouble imagining why someone would want to possess a child like a man. That seemed wrong, unnatural, like looking upon an animal with love as more than a metaphor.
And Pelagia laughed, a big loud bark. “A boy? Oh, no. Lycander is a young man. He has made most of his journey over already. Can’t you see his hairy legs?”
“Journey?” asked Isme, confused. “As if to go from one place to another, over a long time? Do men take a long time? Why is there not just one day, and then they become a man? It’s that way for us women.”
“Because men are slow,” shrugged Pelagia. “They do everything slowly. And then they complain when in the meantime women reconsider past decisions and come to different conclusions—which we would never be able to do if they took the proper time for things. It’s because they’re slow they complain we’re fast and changeable.”
Isme had the impression that Pelagia was explaining to her as though she was a child, but felt no offense. Mostly because she still did not understand what Pelagia was talking about. She half believed that Pelagia was playing a trick, still focused in her thoughts on Lycander. She said, “But Lycander does not have a beard.”
“Oh—” said Pelagia, letting the syllable extend, “So that is what confuses you. Well, that is understandable. Not to mention you haven’t seen him stand by his horse—you’d never mistake him as a child then.” She shrugged. “He’s smooth-faced because he is an actor. He plays the women in theatre, so he shaves—they can’t have real women on stage, of course,” she added, as an afterthought.
But when Isme did not immediately respond, Pelagia’s surprise cast over her features. “You really are completely innocent, aren’t you? All you must know is goats!”
Isme was going to play along, hoping that this would make Pelagia explain why a boy would be needed to play women on stage when there were perfectly good women standing about, but in the distance someone began shouting.
Everyone was on their feet. Pelagia stood and looked about wildly; but when Isme rose from her crouch, she had eyes for only one thing. Her father. Where was her father? She focused toward the front of the caravan: surely he had to be up there…
Her thoughts were interrupted by the scream of an animal, followed by men’s voices yelling and threatening, all simultaneous so Isme had trouble telling the words apart. She had never had to listen to more voices than her own and her father’s at the same time. Pelagia seized Isme by the wrist, more distraction—
“Come,” she cried, “We must hide under the wagons, this must be robbers!”
And she dragged Isme, who realized that she was to play along with mainlanders: if women hid, that was what Isme should do too. Pelagia hurried her to the nearest wagon, and she recalled her father’s words: if a man knows what he is doing, you will never defeat him with staves... Outthink to outfight...
A hard thing to do, thought Isme, if I hide under a wagon.
Yet as Pelagia crouched on hands and knees in the mud to crawl under, Isme glanced into the woods, hoping to see whether the attackers were many or few, and her eyes fell on the stone where Kleto had been sitting.
Kleto, who had stomped away into the woods and not returned.
If there are robbers in the woods, Isme considered, surely a woman would be a good prize. They may even have taken her already and nobody will ever know...
Much as Kleto seemed opposed to Isme, she had not done anything to her. The thought of having seen that golden hair for the last time, and only a few times at that, and al
l of those times with the hair bundled under that veil—it seemed intolerable. Isme wanted to see if it was as long as her own hair—all the way to the waist—which was hard to do when all of the women here had their hair tied in knots.
Something seized Isme’s ankle and she nearly kicked out, stopping when she realized it was Pelagia. Under the cart, Pelagia cowered and tugged Isme’s limb again. She said, “What are you doing? Are you mad? Get under here, goatherd girl—”
And Isme concluded: nobody else remembered where Kleto was. This made up her mind. She kicked, escaping Pelagia’s grip and seized her staff from the back of the wagon where she had placed it. Then she turned to the woods.
Besides, she thought, Isn’t this what people do in the stories?
They always rescued each other from trouble...
~
The woods were darker than the sunlit road. The trees were all unfamiliar—and Isme realized she knew the island so well she could navigate simply by the placement of the trees in the woods. But that skill was a distraction now because she felt disoriented in location—she should turn here, only that was wrong, the pattern of trunks all wrong...
Crouching low, Isme crept parallel to the road, looking for where Kleto had entered the woods. The woman had stomped away so her trail should not be hard to find. There—an overturned leaf and a broken twig, perfect size for a human foot. Skirting the trail, Isme hoped to stay at a distance to spot before being spotted. An absent thought: her father would be angry over her running into this.
An irregular thumping noise. Isme thought it was feet, and then when she paused, listening, she concluded the noise was her own heartbeat. Placing a hand between her breasts, she told herself to go still and silent like the stalking fox.
Everyone Should Eat His Own Turtle (A Greek Myth Novel) Page 7
