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

by H. C. Southwark

  But that is always been the case, she realized. I am a mortal being. Ever since I was born, my end has been foreordained to the fields of asphodel. Lord Hades is truly the real king of the gods. And for just a second, she wondered: in this new world, would one day Lord Hades welcome his brother Zeus to his own realm?

  Could gods die?

  The woman seemed to be waiting for some sort of response. Isme realized that she had just been given a boon—an answer to a fourth question that she had not even asked. Turning back to face the woman, Isme bowed even lower, saying, “I understand. Thank you, O Oracle of the God Under the Mountain.”

  Then she followed her father back out through the cave.

  ~

  They made their way down the hillside. Laboriously, each footstep a peril that could send them slipping and tumbling to die from a thousand battered bruises in the dark. Though she felt like a day had passed in the cave—from the stars Isme could tell that the night was little over halfway done.

  They reached the temple at Delphi, and once again her father stood between her and the central structure, but this time they skirted around the outsides of the crowd, and no matter where Isme glanced she found that they were being ignored. All of these silent people were staring solely at Delphi.

  She could not blame them. Isme also kept casting glances at Apollon’s Temple.

  They were mostly back down when her father stopped.

  Isme glanced at the end of her own staff, which still smoldered the smallest embers from the cave at the top of the mountain. She knew without looking at her father’s face that he was troubled, could almost predict what he would say.

  “We will leave this place quickly,” said her father. “You cannot be present tomorrow, to avoid the priests of Apollon choosing you.”

  Isme asked, “Then what will we do? Your brother is still chained in the Caucasus Mountains, hidden. There is no other major Oracle to ask, only Delphi. Tiresias is dead.”

  “There are many oracles,” said her father. But then with his words hesitated. “But you are right—we are speaking of great things now. Any old fortuneteller will not do.”

  “Then there is no choice,” said Isme. “Delphi has never failed prophecy, Father.”

  Her father’s shoulders expanded and contracted, barely visible in the faintest glow from her spent torch. He said, “There is one more oracle. Across the sea.”

  Isme wondered why they should bother, for crossing the sea would be a perilous task and the answer they received would be the same, and the end result—her death—had already been foretold to be the same. They might as well save the trip.

  But curiosity had her. She asked, “What oracle?”

  Her father said, “At Lesbos, the Oracle of Orpheus’s head.”

  And now curiosity had crawled closer within Isme, reaching down almost into the well of songs. The head of Orpheus—even when he had died, dismembered, his head still sung of sorrows as the waters of the river Hebrus had carried it out to sea, far from the reach of the Muses, his nine mothers who had gathered up the remains of his body and buried the pieces about all the lands. It had landed on the island of Lesbos, and was said to sing when asked.

  But that was only one variation of the Orpheus story. The other, which Isme preferred, was that the head was never found, and drifted alone in the sea, singing, forever.

  Who knew which story was right?

  Yet Isme wondered, If Orpheus’s head is an oracle, what kind of song would it sing? Would I hear the same song in the same way that others, who cannot sing as I do? Would I be able to repeat the words back, to carry that song into the wide world with my own voice?

  Would my father’s head recognize me?

  And one more stray thought: I wonder if the turtles would like to hear that song.

  Isme said, “But the journey will be dangerous. What if the answer is the same?”

  “It will not be,” said Epimetheus. Isme regarded him in the dark, and then her mind stumbled on his reasons.

  She said, “You think because he is my father that his prophecy may be different.”

  Epimetheus did not answer, but his silence was answer enough.

  Isme said, “I do not think prophecy works that way. I think people talk about reality, rather than make it by talking.”

  And her father laughed. “Tell that to poor Oedipus.”

  Isme did not have a ready answer to that, so she was forced to settle for, “Perhaps if I stay outside of Delphi during this ceremony, then we can ask these questions when a new priestess is chosen and the six days of Apollon are being spent.”

  Her father heaved a big breath. “No, Isme. We cannot risk it. We leave tonight.”

  But if that was so, they would need to hurry—for they were not quite down the mountain, and there was the faintest beginnings of light in the east. Helios was awake.

  THIRTEEN.

  ~

  Thinking back on this day over the years, Isme would conclude with vicious certainty that one of the gods had been meddling, or perhaps two quarreling and the muddle was a trap she could not escape. Sometimes she would go to the turtles, then, and sing to them of that day, how cursed prophecies could be, and then would freeze with horror when she saw the effect of the story on her old friends.

  The turtles would weep.

  ~

  Tired as they were from scaling the mountain, Isme could see in the awakening dawn that her father was on high alert. Every look, every glance he gave back and forth, every new encounter with a person or bush, he was looking for whatever trouble would follow them. News of her death had spooked him.

  She thought, Why? I am a mortal and you are a Titan—you’ve known my fate all along...

  Still, she could not blame him. Her fingers and toes felt numb, had been since she had received the prophecy of the God Under the Mountain. When they reached the town beneath Delphi she realized that this was not because she was cold.

  The rising light of the sun was everywhere. The world had not ended last night, under the light of the stars there had been no darkness and no earthquake.

  Isme felt it was strange to think of that now. The end of this world had been hovering over her since before she could speak. She had always thought that some new world would be made and she would find a new way to live there. That was what she and her father had prepared for ever since she could remember.

  But apparently the prophecies of Prometheus and Delphi were incomplete: not only would this world end, not only would she understand how and why, but also such knowledge would kill her. Maybe not directly—but knowing would foretell her own death. That is, if the God Under the Mountain could be believed.

  Isme had heard too many stories about foolish people not believing prophets to make the same mistake herself.

  They skirted the border of the town’s walls, overhearing loud remnants of partying from the previous night. Isme wondered if the people native to the town found the days of Apollon’s Oracle stressful, if they wished the time would pass quickly so they could return to peace and quiet. Or perhaps towns were never quiet.

  They rounded the walls and came to the gate that led down the mountain. People were coming up, Isme saw, a long trail that led all the way back down into the valley and through the hills that she and her father had walked with the caravan. She wondered how many people would arrive before the six days of Apollon were over.

  Couldn’t be much more than this, she reasoned. How many people could there actually be in the world? Perhaps all of them all at once were here at Delphi.

  Her father said, “We need supplies for the journey.” And he was frowning at all the people heading up the side of the mountain. “I don’t want you to go inside of the town. We must avoid whatever ceremony will choose a new priestess for Apollon.”

  Isme said, “But Father, why do we need supplies? Let’s just make some hunting tools, live off the land until we get to the sea.”

  “We don’t dare,” said her father. “Remember,
the robbers do not celebrate at Delphi. They will be waiting in any woods or path we take, to ambush us. And if we went into the deep woods, the places where only the minor gods like nymphs go, who knows what could happen? You are only a mortal, Isme. Such places are not for you.”

  There was a stone rock ahead just perfect to sit upon. Isme sank down onto it and her father halted beside her. They both were out of breath, and Isme realized that she had been awake now for a day and a night, since they had risen the previous sunrise to arrive in Delphi. She felt as though her limbs might fall off.

  She said, “Would it not be possible to rest today, Father? We could just go into the fields and lie for a bit, and then join a caravan leaving Delphi later tonight.”

  “The caravans will not leave at night,” said her father. He reached up and rubbed his hand across the shine of sweat on his face. Isme saw that he too was exhausted—there was no chance he could be anything but. He continued, “We must bring our own food this time. There will not be many caravans leaving Delphi, so we have to make ourselves less of a burden in order for us to travel along.”

  He turned and gazed across the city, the walls with gates every few steps. Then he said, “I will find supplies quickly and secure us some merchant who is leaving the city. You will go to the house that receives the gods, and wait there and rest.”

  Isme wanted to object. It was true that her father was stronger than her, but he also was tired. She wanted to say that they both should just stay in that small house, that whatever ceremony was happening would probably happen elsewhere, and so the little house was probably safe. They could rest for a day.

  But her father’s expression told her arguing was pointless.

  He said, “Promise: you will not leave the house while I am gone.”

  Isme thought about her promise before landfall, about her many promises to her father over the years. She had broken them—disobeyed the rules of the island, and the sailors that night had paid the price. And she had also broken the promise she had made before landing on the mainland: for Kleto had seen her sing.

  However, Isme told herself, that doesn’t count. After all, my promise is about a man, not a woman like Kleto. And besides, Kleto and I risked our lives for each other in that robbers’ den. Granted, she probably was working for Pelagia, not me, but close enough. So the promise is still valid—I haven’t broken my word yet.

  Besides, her father did not need to know something that would just worry him.

  And so she nodded, heaving her unwilling body upright, and the two of them merged into the river of people flowing into the city. As they walked, her father’s hand reached out and grabbed hers. His skin was rough—but his touch was gentle.

  ~

  For the first part of the day, after her father left her in that little house, Isme laid insensate on the floor, not quite asleep but certainly not awake either. She lost track of time, and all her closed eyelids registered was that the glow of the sun was hardly noticeable in the cool darkness of the inner rooms.

  When she began to feel a little more herself, she lay and pondered many things: the nature of prophecy, the implications of her own prophecy at her birth, whether Kleto counted as breaking a promise, what sort of songs her birth-father’s head was singing—even now, at this very moment—was it singing?

  She wondered what the men on the beach would say when she finally arrived to be with them in the underworld. Then she recalled that the souls of the dead remembered nothing, for they drank the waters of the underworld river Lethe which caused them to forget. And she wondered whether this made her relieved or disappointed.

  Though she and her father kept irregular mealtimes, dependent on when and where they caught meat and finished preparations, Isme was used to eating once daily. Traveling with a caravan of actors had made this worse because they had eaten on a set schedule. And so hunger forced her to her feet eventually.

  Once upright, Isme padded into the front room of the house, found the one window that was only as wide as two hands’ breadth, and peered out through the hole.

  The sky was cast orange—the sun was three quarters down.

  Alarm rose, curling and scattering like smoke from a campfire. How long had she rested? How long had her father been gone—what was taking him such a long time?

  No merchant would leave this late in the day. Even if her father had found food for them to take along the journey to the sea, to Lesbos, to Orpheus’s head... Her father must not have found a caravan and should have returned to her in this little house.

  Something was wrong.

  The impulse was to rush out and look for him. That was what she would have done on the island. But she checked herself, knowing she did not quite understand how to navigate the jumble of buildings and people in the city, and besides she supposed that a woman walking alone might be a target. They were still fading bruises on her forearms from when the robber had struck her, and she did not want to add to them.

  And I promised, she thought. What if Father returns and I am gone? I’ve already broken so many promises. And each one has its consequence.

  Except for Kleto. That stray thought came to her—and she realized that was truth. Singing before Kleto had freed them both. This voice she had inherited was wondrous. It could conjure up stories of long ago. She had always thought it ordinary, that everyone had something like a voice—or enormous strength or devious wits or amazing hunting skills. But now that she had seen ordinary people this was no longer her mistake.

  And singing in front of Kleto could also have been a mistake, she thought. It may have freed us then, but I know for the rest of our time together Kleto was suspicious of me. Should I meet her again, it’s possible that there might be some consequence for breaking my promise to Father which has not yet come to pass.

  But what if he is hurt? What if he has been attacked and kidnapped as a slave? What if Apollon has struck at him because I am somehow to be the new priestess?

  There was no use making lists of all the things that could have gone wrong. And yet she could not stop herself, as she paced back and forth before the window.

  Each time she peered out the orange sky was darker, trending towards red.

  Perhaps, she thought, today will be the day. Perhaps the world will end.

  Turning, she surveyed the room. It was small, smaller than her father’s cave, with no dedicated hearth. Except—there was a little hole in one of the walls with a nook. Crouching, Isme observed the insides and found them coated with ash.

  Clever thing, she thought. So the fire does not get everywhere. Good for cooking. Not a normal campfire hearth.

  But she was only attempting to distract herself. It was not working. Standing, she strode again to the window and found the sky was the color of blood. There were vague wisps of clouds that cast umber shadows streaked across the horizon.

  Oh Grandmother Kalliope, prayed Isme. What should I do?

  If she had gone missing, her father would look for her—no matter the danger. But he was a Titan. She did not know whether he could die. And knowing that he would try to find her anyway, even if it did mean death for him, was not much of a help. All this told her was that he would be even more upset with her if she left.

  Am I to stay here all night? thought Isme. How long do I wait?

  On the horizon, a creeping shade of purple, soon to be indigo, then black.

  And Isme concluded: This is how long. I’ve waited enough.

  ~

  She emerged from the doorway like a mouse from a hole, peering at the wider world. Most of the path along the house was deserted, only the old man with a scraggly beard on the far end. He was no longer chanting about shadows and illusions. She strode from the house, deciding that pretending to confidence was one way to make herself look bigger, stronger, more hassle than she was worth. But her clothes would always mark her as a foreigner.

  Yet as she continued to walk, the old man was the only soul she passed. She turned the corner on the street, follo
wing the lines of the houses in this maze of a city, and everything was empty, disserted. Above, the sky was a rainbow of red, purple, black.

  Where was everyone?

  The festivals had to begin tonight, same as the last night. Tomorrow was the day when the Temple of Delphi would open. Surely the celebrations would be even more than the prior days—the excitement of all these people should be growing...

  Turning another alley, Isme paused when she saw that it, too, was empty. She hesitated, then double-backed on her steps. Perhaps she had made a wrong turn—the merchants were all together in one area selling food, she had seen as much when she and her father had left the actors’ caravan and gone to the house.

  Behind her, a sound, soft, like the padding feet of a child.

  Isme whirled, expecting to find someone tracking behind her, perhaps someone looking for trouble, but there was no figure standing anywhere, the street still empty.

  No, she realized. Not empty.

  She said, “What have you been doing all this time?”

  And the voice from the woods answered, “What do you think? Same as always.”

  Curiosity and fear reared up from Isme’s belly. “Were you in the house with me?”

  “Of course,” said the voice. “I am with you everywhere.”

  Isme found she had a dozen rebuttals, from insults to pleading for mercy, but instead she glanced at the still-fading sky and said, “Do you know where my father is?”

  “I am not following him,” said the voice. There was no condemnation, nor obviousness, in its tone. It was not reminding her of something it knew she already knew—it was simply stating a fact as though commenting on the weather.

  “I know that,” snapped Isme, surprised with her harshness. Heaving a breath, she forced her body to turn and expose her back to the thing, to step forward. “Can you help me find him? Or at least find a place where people can help me?” Her mind leapt, and she added, “The actors from the caravan—they would help.”