“I must,” said Isme, though what Kleto was describing seemed to loom over her. “I have no choice—I must absolve myself and discover the end of the world.”
Kleto eyed her, pursing her lips, raised a hand to Isme’s ratty hair. “Maybe. You are young enough you could cut this hair, bind your breasts, pass as a boy on the cusp of his voice breaking. But you’d never convince anyone because you can’t act. I can.”
“And you would not draw attention?” Isme replied. “You said yourself that you’re beautiful—the men would kill me and take you, or take us both, if I brought you along.”
“Not if I was the personal gift from one lord to another,” said Kleto, “a concubine for a lord on Lesbos from Menelaus, Lord of Sparta, fresh returned from war. And you would be a personal serving boy, stained dark from the sun while guarding sheep.”
That seemed like a bad story, Isme thought, and yet became aware that she did not know whether that was true. Perhaps it was possible. Only one concern remained...
“If they catch you,” Isme told her, “then they will punish you.” She did not know quite what the penalty for runaway slave women was, but surely even Kleto was not exempt. Must be horrendous, she thought, otherwise more women would run.
“I’m aware,” said Kleto. “But first they must realize I’m not dead.”
Isme realized: It will take days for them to learn that... for Lycander is dead, and if he is Eutropios’s nephew, he will need to be buried, which will take days also. There is no better time to run with a head start. But she could not bring herself to tell Kleto this.
And so hand in hand they merged into the woods.
~
They gathered what cloth they encountered on the way, and Kleto taught Isme how to wind the material about herself, pinching at the corners so it draped just so. The cloth was burdensome, and yet somehow lighter than her animal skins because it allowed wind to sweep through the cracks, cooling during a long walk.
“If only we had something to cut your hair,” Kleto said, “We could start working on the boy-illusion now.”
And so Isme kept an eye out for stones, found several candidates as they walked. In the evening as they stopped to rest she felt the outline of the blade within the stone, then with another rock removed the chalky exterior and went to work on the chert. Kleto watched, fascinated, as Isme hewed a cone-shape, and by bashing the top produced long slices of stone as sharp as metal knives.
“How did you know to do that?” Kleto asked, watching Isme slice the end of a stick, insert one of the stone blades, and tie them together with a strand of green bark.
“My father taught me many things for the end of the world,” said Isme, testing the balance of the new blade. “Metal will rust, no matter what. Every sharp thing grows dull. But if you know how then you can make new blades from nothing but rocks.”
She handed the knife to Kleto for her haircut. Kleto said, “It is almost like magic.”
“That is not all,” said Isme, focused on a small assembly of sticks, and sang—
Tonight there will be no beasts
No robbers, no satyrs, no hunters
For you, O Fire, are always ours,
A helpful guardian sent by our father
The Great Prometheus, your lord
Honor him by honoring us, O Fire!
Flame leapt from nowhere, smoke curled as fire huffed and dug into its meal, resentful but happy to be alive. Kleto’s work on Isme’s hair paused, just a small hesitation, and then she returned to cutting. Isme heard her mutter, “If Eutropios had managed to sell you, there is no way he would have gotten the right price.”
The last few moments of daylight were spent gathering from the underbrush. Berries, nuts, a few choice tubers that Isme knew would pull out quickly from the ground. Fire was useful for cooking these. They sat and ate and Isme considered how tomorrow she would try to snatch a squirrel or bird before the sun was truly down.
Kleto placed another log on the fire and said, “It’s all true, is it?”
Blinking, partly sleepy, her mind faraway already to the other end of the sea, Isme said, “If you did not believe it was true, why did you want to come with me?”
Shrugging, Kleto sat back down. “I thought some of it was true. But the daughter of Orpheus part—that seemed a little farfetched. I can accept the end of the world and of course prophecies. But Orpheus—he is too famous. More legend than man.”
“Is he?” asked Isme, curiosity filtering through her. She had heard his story many times from her father, never questioning how he knew them, but now she knew that he was Epimetheus, the afterthought, and so he knew everything from the past.
“Yes,” said Kleto. “The stories say he traveled with Hercules on the Argo, out-singing all the Sirens on the sea, and that he tried to bring his wife back to life.”
Settling back against the side of a roll in the ground, Isme said, “Tell it to me.”
Kleto’s eyes widened, and then she launched into the story immediately:
Long ago, the son of Apollon and the muse Kalliope, Orpheus, fell in love. His bride Eurydice was the most beautiful woman in the land, her hair as golden as Helen’s, her feet as soft as Danae’s. As king of song Orpheus woos and wins her in a single night.
He decides to marry her and live in happiness. And so he invites all the great heroes, who all come to the wedding feast. After the ceremony, Orpheus sings for his joy and his bride dances—but as she does, Eurydice steps on a snake, and in wrath the serpent bites her ankle, and so she fell down dead.
Overwhelmed by grief, Orpheus refuses to bury her body. Instead he bring his lyre to the gate of the underworld, where he begins to sing. He sings of his love for Eurydice and his sorrow at losing her, his hope for her return.
Old Charon the pitiless weeps and paddles the boat across the river Styx for Orpheus. Cerberus’s quarrelling heads croon howls of mourning and let Orpheus pass. In the fields of Asphodel the dead lift their heads and wail, recalling their lives again. And on his throne merciless Hades glares wet-eyed as veiled Persephone sobs beside him. All the underworld is in an uproar—soon the dead will all awake to life again, and the world be upended—
At last, Hades the immovable is moved. He says Orpheus may guide his bride’s shade up to her body, if only he will not turn and look at her as he does. For the dead are not the living, nor the living are the dead, and the separation between the two must be for the cosmos to continue working. Orpheus agrees.
On Orpheus walks, singing, now with hope at having love restored, and it seems as though a second sun is shining down in the underworld, but he takes it with him as he leaves. Now he is singing a little quieter on the path, because he thinks maybe if he cannot look at her, he could hear her footsteps. Eagerness stretches his body taut. He trembles, voice faltering—can she be so close?
Yet behind there is no sounds. He falls silent, ears straining, but there is not the single footstep. Is she truly there? Hades, Lord of the Dead, is not a liar—but this seems like so great a boon, to be given the chance to live again—
Is she there? Perhaps she is walking so softly because she wants to hear him sing. His eyes at the corners but his head facing forward, he begs Eurydice to give him some sound, some sign that she is following him. Are you with me?
At last the light of the world above peers ahead through the entrance to the tunnel to the land of the dead. Orpheus is panting in anticipation and terror. How soon can he turn and look? How soon can she be in his arms again?
He steps into the world of the living and cannot bear any longer. If he does not look he will die. He turns—there she is—still within the mouth of the cave—her arms reach for him—but her mouth says only one word: Why?
And so the shade of Eurydice blows away like ash in the wind...
Kleto paused, and Isme stared up at her in wonder, because during this recitation Kleto rose from her seat and began to perform, dancing, gesturing, a routine she had memorized in every fibre of her
body. Isme had leaned toward her like she was the fire.
Head shaking, Kleto said, “Foolish story. Nobody can come back to life again.”
Isme considered this, something like a sigh dying in her throat. She said, “But if only... if only that were true. How wonderful even this awful world would be.”
NINETEEN.
~
The moon rose later every day, now on the opposite side of the horizon from the setting sun. Isme turned her face to greet the disc across the prow of the ship, thinking how long and yet how little time had passed. Only three full faces of the moon ago, she had been on her father’s island getting ready to visit the turtles, and made the mistake of singing to a sea that was not empty of sailors...
And now I am going to see my blood father, O Father of my heart, Isme thought, watching the spray beat across the sides of the ship, waves ineffectual and yet always striving to bring the wooden hull down. She had resolved that, since Epimetheus was a primordial god, a Titan, he probably would hear her same as any other god, and if he was still alive out there then perhaps her prayers meant he knew where she was.
Then, lest her grandmother become jealous at her prayer, Isme added: Please protect and guide me, your granddaughter visiting your son, Lady of Song and Story...
“You will not believe the lies they have cooked for my attention,” Kleto complained, coming up behind Isme and settling with a grip against the side railing. She was as always nowadays a little green-tinted on the sides of her throat below her chin.
Isme turned her face against the wind, no longer cautious of her hair flying into her eyes—she had adjusted to the shortness, and the ease of the male chiton against her body was less cumbersome than the full female peplos, since it exposed her legs. Her sun-dark skin served her well in disguise, for no woman would have worn such short clothing for long enough to stain, and so despite some misgivings the ship captain had accepted that she was a boy—old enough to pretend to manhood, and young enough to fail at being convincing. The sailors did what the captain said.
Seeing she had Isme’s attention, Kleto complained, “The story is that around here are tribes of savages with ceremonies that civilized men have forgotten. They make strangers kings and queens for a day, then sacrifice them to the gods—and eat them!”
Delighted by a new story, Isme grinned. “They were telling me that there are sometimes rumors of sirens descending on rocks around here, and whole ships dying.”
“That part you should believe,” said Kleto, turning a bit more serious. “I saw that they had a jug of rags and wax—to stop their ears, just in case. Looked disgusting.”
“Sirens,” said Isme, repeating the word, and though she tried not to, her mind began to yearn—for although the safety of the ship and crew should have been paramount, in truth she wanted to hear what sort of song could drive a man to die.
~
A moon before, they traveled through the thickest part of the woods, through groves not even robbers would have dared. Sometimes with her new sight, Isme would see the shadows of nymphs peering out from trees, curious and stupefied at her and Kleto as they passed, never having seen men before. And satyrs would flee in terror—but deer were less cautious, would come right up to Kleto’s hands to sniff as if tame.
Are we still alive, Kleto had asked once. I feel as though we have crossed over to another world. But Isme had not answered, and if she had then she would have said that this was more like home than anything else she had seen on the mainland.
Or, perhaps she would have said: Maybe this is what the next world will be like.
It was a good dream: a world that was better than the ones before, not worse. Each world—golden, silver, bronze, iron—was baser than the last. How much worse could things become before they became better? And the answer of course was: everything can always become more horrible than before...
Yet in those woods, Isme had begun to feel the rise of something she had not known was missing until it came again to her: hope.
That was how she had lived on the island, she now saw. Years of hope. Being told that this world would end since she was very small, and yet preparing for that end every day, learning new skills, saving up supplies, listening to the stories. That last part was important. Someone had to carry the stories into the new world.
The world will end but a new one will come. And I’m prepared for anything.
When they had arrived in a small town, the change was a shock. Isme had gone silent for some days, but Kleto took over. She sang on the roads, took the small boons tossed to her. She disappeared once for a day and Isme half thought she was dead, but then Kleto had arrived back with money. Then there was the double-checking of Isme’s disguise, and coaching, and they were securing a boat on the way to Lesbos.
The first night aboard, Isme had watched the way Kleto’s body heaved, tipped over the side, but there was nothing to come up. The sailors said she would not be fed if all she was going to do was feed the fish, and so Isme hoped she would recover soon.
Paler than Isme had ever seen her, Kleto fell down into a crouch on the ship deck, and Isme settled beside her. Then as though herself a deer curling in for the night, Kleto slumped over Isme’s lap. Careful of the long golden hair wound into its basket, Isme adjusted the other woman’s head. She said, “Would a story distract you?”
“I’m hungry, tell me a story about food,” said Kleto. And Isme complied:
Once, long ago, there were some sailors on the ocean who could not catch any fish. They did not know it, but they were drifting overtop a great rent in the sea, where the creatures of water are taken below to the underworld same as the creatures of land. And so all the sailors were catching were turtles.
Trying to eat the turtles proved useless, for they tasted like dead things. Disgusted, the sailors wanted to throw them overboard, but they dared not waste the catch Lord Poseidon had provided, for he is temperamental.
At last there came along the God of Guidance, Hermes, busy with his duties to the underworld. And the sailors hatched upon a plan.
O Great Hermes, they said, lifting up the turtles. We gift these to you in sacrifice; eat as much as you would like.
But Hermes, God of Tricksters, can never be outwitted any more than Death can. He looked upon these men and said, No, every man should eat his own turtle. And then he flew away, and so the sailors were forced to eat.
“What a strange story,” said Kleto, when it became clear that Isme had finished and there was nothing left of the tale. “Are you trying to put me off eating dinner, by imagining some horrible meal that even the gods wouldn’t touch?”
“Is it working?” said Isme, and Kleto huffed. Isme stroked what of the golden hair she could, through the netting that Kleto kept it bound. She did not dare touch Kleto’s face, because she knew her hand would be swatted away.
“I like that story, myself,” Isme said. “It’s a simple little tale. Like some kind of fable. I think it means that you shouldn’t eat turtles because they are beautiful things.”
“No,” muttered Kleto, “that’s too cheerful. I think it means that when you do things, stupid or bad deeds, there’s no way out. You have to suffer the consequences.”
Scraping her tongue on the insides of her teeth, Isme considered. “Perhaps.”
~
Sometimes, Isme wondered at the things she could now see. In retrospect she believed that she had always seen them, the nymphs and dryads and other minor beings who could not reach the high heavens, but somehow had ignored them. She wondered what had changed to cause her awareness to extend to them, and decided that the drink Apollon had given her inside her well of songs had done the deed, or else other times that inhaling the vapors of the dead Python was responsible.
Other times, she scolded herself and thought that all and none of these was the cause. How and why the world had broken open for her was as mysterious as the world itself. Perhaps the root cause was even her blood father—Orpheus, son of Apollon.
And yet only Isme seemed able to notice any of this.
Thus, when in the light of the nearly full moon in the distance came a shape—glittering, like a falling star, but elongated just a little like a segment of lightning, Isme thought she alone was seeing some new sky godling that was going about its way.
Until a shout was raised from the end of the ship—“Look, look!”
Commotion followed. Men ran to the side to see, others running to go below deck to where the rowing seats were, only a few slaves chained below. Isme saw two more little lights descending after the first, and the shout from the men was terror.
“Sirens! They are here—quick, the bucket and wax!”
At once Isme found Kleto at her side, clutching the rungs of the edge and paled again. They were guided toward the center of the ship, the lone mast with its square sheet for a sail, and she recalled what Kleto had thought of the bucket of wax and rags.
When the bucket was shoved under Isme’s own nose, she could not help but wince at the smell. Clearly the contents had been in use before, but she took two shares for her ears without complaint. It was Kleto who truly reared back in rejection.
“Take it,” the sailor snarled, “Take it, you damnable woman, or else we’ll be explaining to your master how you jumped overboard for love of a monster.”
Kleto snatched a handful from the bucket with a snarl of her own. Isme winced at the look of sheer distaste as Kleto raised the small bits of cloth to her ears, wax following to secure them. And yet when Isme copied these movements, she had one difference—she did not truly seal the inner ear, hoping now for her chance...
Everyone Should Eat His Own Turtle (A Greek Myth Novel) Page 24
