But under her palm was not the frantic fluttering that she expected. And she understood: she had been more right with her first idea. These were footsteps.
Behind came the voice in the woods: “What are you doing?”
The impulse to flee rose up in Isme like nausea, but she swallowed it down like vomit. Now was not the time to go tearing through the woods toward the caravan. For all she knew the men there would think her one of the attackers and strike first.
Besides, the voice in the woods did not sound cruel, she realized. It sounded curious, like a child inquiring what happened next in a story. Isme resisted the urge to turn around and look, knowing that there would be nothing among the trees.
Still, there was no reason beyond her own fear why she could not speak to the thing. It had understood her before. She said, “Did you see a woman walk through here?”
A pause as the voice in the woods contemplated her question. Isme crept forward at an angle to the path that Kleto must have cut into the forest, assured herself that the voice in the woods would follow. That seemed to be the one constant about the creature.
At last, the voice in the woods said, “You know this is foolish.”
“What choice do I have?” Isme asked. “Nobody else noticed her. I can’t just do nothing—it’s not as if we are enemies, she is just very confusing.” Although, Isme amended without speaking aloud, perhaps Kleto considers us enemies. But that’s no reason I should be forced to agree with her.
“Everyone has choices,” said the voice in the woods. “Saying things like ‘I have no choice’ is an excuse to escape the consequences of decisions. But the gods will not look upon your choices that way. Everything you do has its cost.”
“Then I will pay this one,” said Isme, but she knew the double-meaning, and a spur of resentment flared at the creature’s words: she had not known breaking her father’s rules and singing to the turtles would kill all those men. Why then should she be held responsible? But even as she thought this, she knew the sentiment was just her self-justification: regardless of her level of awareness, those men were still dead. And she could not even claim to be completely unaware, for she knew her father’s rules.
“You can’t say that,” said the voice in the woods. Somehow it had followed along with her trail of thought. “Not when your reason for being here is to escape the consequences of your actions. Absolve your blood guilt? I wonder what those sailors would say about you wanting to deny responsibility for what happened to them.”
Gritting her teeth, Isme whirled to confront the thing. But the woods were empty.
She was not fooled. She said, “Maybe I’m just doing what I’ve been told: in stories people don’t let other people, even strangers, be dragged away by robbers.”
“But this is not a story,” said the voice in the woods, sounding quite reasonable. “Stories are not quite the same as real life. And this time it’s your own neck on the line.”
Isme wanted to argue. She felt the spirit of Kalliope rising in her, the goddess of song wanting to counter-point: No, stories are more real that so-called real life.
Arguing with this voice was pointless. Forcing herself back to task, Isme said, “Maybe. But I also have a prophecy—I will see the end of the world. I can’t die here, or the gods and prophets are all wrong.” This was a stretch that sounded true in her own ears.
“Perhaps,” said the voice. “But the prophecy about you only says you will see and understand the end of the world. It does not say you have to be in one piece.”
Before Isme could retort, there was a crash in the woods behind her. The first thought that came was that the voice in the woods was playing some kind of trick, breaking branches and sticks to distract. But then Isme heard the shriek of a woman—muffled—and realized: she was the one being followed.
Isme raised her staff as two figures appeared through the trees: a man, and held tight by him was not Kleto but Pelagia, gagged with his hand. Isme did not see him holding a weapon, but that was little comfort when she knew that he likely had one anyway, and besides could still hurt Pelagia with his bare hands.
“Lower the staff,” the man said, “You can’t use it, woman.”
And Isme was certain that the voice in the woods wanted to say something, but it did not speak when another was present. Still, she felt bitterness boil through her that the creature was watching as she was forced to lower her weapon.
SEVEN.
~
Being tied up meant the bugs were unbearable. Without hands to swat or feet to lead her from the buzzing, Isme had to sit in her own shadow and endure, occasionally flicking her muscles or stirring in her seat to scatter the swarm like an animal.
Beside her, Pelagia kept her head low. Even under the touch of the flies she was still. Although Isme had the impression that she was mostly avoiding the gaze of the robber who had dragged them to this outcrop of rocks. A puddle of brackish water lingered by the stones, which Isme hoped these robbers did not use as drinking water. For that matter, she hoped that these stones were not their home, either, because nobody deserved to live under such pestilence.
Shifting again, Isme leaned her head in to Pelagia, and said, “How were you caught? You were under the wagon.”
She did not want to believe that the men in the caravan had been overpowered during that short time she had been running along Kleto’s trail and bickering with the voice in the woods. Her thoughts circled around her father. She told herself, Epimetheus is a Titan—that makes him immortal, right?
In the stories, the gods never died. They faded, like the sky-god Ouranos after being castrated by his son Kronos, the time-god, who in turn was defeated by his son Zeus. But the far-flung sky was still there, and so was time itself, so both Ouranos and Kronos were still around. Not to mention that some stories claimed the former gods, the Titans, were in the deepest pit of the underworld. They were not dead—only imprisoned. This gave her the impression that if released they could simply walk back up into the living world. So, hypothetically, her father was immortal.
But the claims from the voice in the woods about her own prophecy worried her. You will see the end of the world, it had said, but that does not guarantee you will be in one piece. Perhaps the same could be said about an immortal being like her father.
If, indeed, gods were immortal at all.
When Pelagia did not respond to her question, Isme nudged her again. “How are you here instead of under the wagon?”
The robber sitting away from them interrupted with a snort, “Because she chased after you, stupid woman. Don’t know why you ran into the woods in the first place. Almost like you wanted to get caught—were they taking you to sell?”
Isme lifted her head and glared. “I was not talking to you.” Without thinking, she added, “I would not expect a man of low honor like yourself to understand my reasons.”
The robber perched on a tall stone that looked like an elongated egg. He gazed down at Isme with something like surprise on his face. She thought that he would become angry at her accusation, but instead he became contemplative.
Lifting a hand to scratch his beard, as though pondering an answer to himself, he said, “You are some kind of foreign wild woman, aren’t you?”
The same nickname applied again made Isme huff. Unable to endure the crawl of the flies, she shifted in her seat, new position giving her neck some relief as she continued to glare up at him. She said, “What do you intend to do with us?”
The robber snorted again. “What do you think, stupid woman? We are going to take you back to camp, have sport with you—” and here his face did not change at all, but somehow Isme caught what he was implying, and something cold splashed down her spine— “And then cart you off to sell. Though a wild, mouthy woman might not fetch too high a price, so we might just keep you.”
Isme worked her jaw, then said, “How can a man of such low honor like you endure one moment of his own company?”
She thought back to the
island, to when she had done that great wrong, and how at the time she had not known what was going to happen. If she had known, she would never—and yet here was someone who was willing to live wickedly—intentionally—
The man did not seem any more upset by Isme’s insults than he was by the flies buzzing around them. He settled a little further back on his haunches, somehow perplexed and amused at the same time. He said, “I’ve heard of wild folk having weird ideas, but never anything like this. What do you think me dishonorable?”
Isme stared at him. “You kidnap people and sell them for money. You force yourself on women. These strike you as ordinary?”
And the man laughed. “They don’t seem so to you?”
When Isme did not respond, he leaned forward on his rock, and said, “A man’s only as good as his strength. Here now I have captured two women in a single day—what honor! And I stole you straight away. If you blame anyone, blame your men for not keeping you well. I have accomplished a great deed and my companions will laugh and sing about it in years to come when you are old and grey—there is honor in my strength, what I have taken is proof.”
And Isme found that she had no answer to any of that, because she thought to the stories of her father, and the many things that the heroes in them had done, and how some of them were not quite so honorable, either. And yet they were heroes.
If this man defined ‘honor’ by strength, what claim did she have against that? She did not even have her own definition of the word—just a vague idea that, until now, she had never questioned. She had never thought honor might mean bad things for herself.
Indeed, as she sat with her mind turning over the question, examining the many angles, she found that she could not say where her idea of ‘honor’ had come from, except that it was a wonderful thing that everyone in the stories wanted.
But that was also not quite true. When her father told those stories, he did so in ways that told her things without direct words. She recalled how he spoke about the centaur Nessus carrying off Deianeira, bride of Hercules, and how wicked Nessus was for this. And not just because Deianeira belonged to Hercules, hero of the story—but rather because carrying away women was wrong.
Epimetheus had never said something about strength and dishonor when it came to Isme hiding from men on ships. Epimetheus had never said ‘stay away from them because they might be stronger than me and I don’t want to lose you to a better man,’ he had always said, ‘hide when men approach because they might be dangerous and hurt you.’ And she had known when he spoke that his concern was for her, not himself—or his honor.
Isme thought, What my father said is true. I know very little of the world or how the minds of men work. I should listen more than talk—and decide for myself.
Pelagia stirred, but only to huddle in on herself, though her hands were tied behind her back. Isme glanced at her, concerned.
I will live through this, thought Isme, no matter what happens. Even if I am not in one piece. But Pelagia—she has no guarantees. Of course, she also got herself into this... She should have stayed under the wagons, she did not have to follow me.
Then, remembering her actions on the night with the turtles, Isme felt herself soften. She revised: Then again, we all hardly know what the real consequences of our actions will be at the time.
Rustling and footsteps from the woods. Perched atop his egg rock, the robber sat straighter, pulled a knife from a strap on his thigh. His chiton was unfortunately short, and Isme could see from her position that his undergarments needed a good wash. Yet while he was alert, he was not that worried—perhaps the reason the people in the woods were making noise was because they were his companions and were expected.
Emerging from the woods came three men surrounding a single figure. Isme’s throat tightened in anger, when she saw that Kleto was also bound: but more than that, Kleto had a bruise against the side of her face, stark among that ivory skin, and the veil had been torn off her hair, which hung lopsided in pulled ringlets. This made her head to look heavier on one side than the other. But she was still observant, and her eyes flashed with fire as they caught on Isme.
There were two men on either side of her, their fingers wound tight around her elbows, so that she was pulled back and forth with each step they took. This seemed like overmuch for one woman prisoner—yet they also regarded her cautiously.
And Isme realized: Kleto had fought.
The men on either side of her had scratches on their faces, as though they had been clawed around the eyes. The one bringing up the rear was the same, only he was bloody and one eye was squinting and flickering like a grain of sand was in it.
“What happened to you?” chortled the robber on the egg rock. “What—one woman?” He jabbed over at the other two captives—“Look, I got two for half the effort.”
Kleto’s glare deepened, and Isme felt the warmth of shame across her cheeks again, for she knew that now Kleto knew:
Isme had not fought.
~
They were forced to march through the trees and the swarms of pests that followed, so that Isme wondered whether the men from the caravan would be able to track them simply by following this horde of insects. She had thought the heat was oppressive in the mud of the road among the grinding wheels and groans of animals pulling wagons. But in the deep forest the heat was worse. The shadows were no help; it was as though the Earth itself had become warm like the stones under a hearth, and the branches of the trees above merely trapped the heat, multiplying it.
In the spare flashes of sunlight, Isme caught sight of her companions: Pelagia struggling to hold her head up, sweat on her brow like her flesh was melting, and often she nearly tripped. Kleto was much the same—her skin had so many droplets that glistened like pearls—but her eyes were level to the horizon and her face was set like the stone crags that Isme knew from home: jutting from the sand, holding fast while other rocks wore away.
Stepping closer to Pelagia, so the other could lean on her and keep upright, Isme caught Kleto’s eyes. Those fires were nowhere near to simmering out.
Without words Kleto seemed to say: I have walked this far and I will walk further and I will keep walking until every last one of you has been worn down to dust—if that is what it takes to prove I am better than all of you.
Having received this message, Isme was fairly certain that the last part of that sentence especially applied to herself.
~
The sky was fiery when they reached the robbers’ lair. Old buildings, not well kept, made of stone and patched over with daubing. Isme felt too tired to inspect this new mainlander construction, wishing for her father’s cave on the island, made by nothing but the winds and Mother Gaia. The three women were tossed into the corner that was farthest from the door.
Pelagia scrunched into as small a bundle as she could manage. Isme hunched her shoulders, though she told herself this was in preparation rather than fear. For when she looked up she could see at the robbers already present kept glancing at them, and then not glancing—staring—or not staring—more. There was something ugly hidden behind their faces, like their brains were beginning to boil. Even as they turned to discussion and moved chairs and tables about, they kept turning their attention to the three women, like foxes fanning out around a hare.
Make sport, the robber had said.
Isme’s first thought was that she should fight. Living on the island, hunting meant sometimes prey tried to turn the tables, to strike back. Even the little deer that reached her knees had bucks with sharp horns. The trick was to be even fiercer than an animal fighting for its own life. Then, at the very least, she could expect the deer to run. The same was true with seals in the water, which were much more threatening. More than once as a child she had been dragged under and fought for her life.
Epimetheus’s words returned: The goal of being a robber is to do less work for more gain—if you make yourself more work for less gain, they will leave you alone.
So per
haps, Isme could fight them off.
But there were more words from Epimetheus to remember. I cannot match them for strength, she thought. Isme had always assumed that her father’s greater strength was just one of his talents. When she saw the women in the caravan, she assumed they simply lived easy lives. Yet she could see that now there was a difference; these were hard men who lived hard lives, similar to her own, if not even worse—for they fought men, not seals or little stags—and their strength was many times her own.
They mean to sell us, she thought. So they will not kill us. But if I fight, even if I do not win, perhaps they will do worse—would they kill me? Beat me? Is it worse to be beaten? Many women in stories have been ravaged and lived afterwards.
These questions felt strange, all at once—as though she was contemplating a woman in a story, not her own fate. She had done this before—but always in the abstract, always someone in a story, and now that it was before her, Isme could not think outside of those old habits. This was something she had never considered for herself—that she might become like one of those women.
I see now, she thought, mind tracing back to times when she had found scorn at women who did not fight off their attackers—why did Deianeira not fight off Nessus herself, why did Hercules need to do it for her?—I see, she thought, that they had to make this calculation. And they made a choice between rocky and smooth roads, but all the while knowing that perhaps both paths led to the same place.
Glancing at her two companions, Isme saw that Pelagia was making a choice, perhaps had already made one when she had been caught in the woods, or when she had sat with Isme among those rock outcroppings, or during the march here, or perhaps even now, right now, had made the choice for the smooth road.
Who Isme found most distracting, however, was Kleto. Pelagia made every effort to avoid attention, but Kleto did not let her gaze drop from the men for even a moment. She seemed to be staring them down. Or perhaps, thought Isme wildly, daring them on?
Everyone Should Eat His Own Turtle (A Greek Myth Novel) Page 8
