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

by H. C. Southwark

  But she paused, frowned. “Wait. That cannot be truth. Isn’t Orpheus’s wife dead? He was not able to bring her back to the living because he broke Hades’s condition and looked back at her. He cannot be my father because then I would have no mother.”

  “You did,” said Epimetheus. He scratched at the back of one hand with the other. “She was queen of a small town near Thrace. And she was one of the maenads who tore Orpheus to pieces. You were born nine months later.”

  That sounded odd to Isme, because she did not understand how her birth father being torn apart could produce a child, but she accepted this as just another strange thing that happened in stories. She hypothesized, “And this queen’s husband was angry for his wife having such a child, so he had me exposed to die in the wilds, and you found me.”

  Her father chuckled. “You know the pattern of stories well, Isme.” He regained his troubled look. “But not quite. You see, your mother’s husband did not know. They had been trying for a child for many years and when you were born, you looked to be the only heir. Therefore, he took you to Delphi to hear about your fate. The priestess gave him this prophecy: that you would witness and understand the end of the world.”

  Somehow, while everything else had seemed like puzzle pieces falling into place, and therefore was not altogether that surprising, the news of this prophecy seemed to leap out at Isme like some kind of clawed animal. She felt all the muscles in her back, her arms, turn rigid and trembling from the strain.

  She had known of the prophecy ending the world since before she could speak.

  But—

  “The prophecy of the end of the world—it was mine?” she asked. “I thought... I thought that your brother had said the prophecy.” Even as she spoke, more understanding was coming to her—for if her father was Epimetheus, “the afterthought,” that meant his brother was Prometheus, “the forethought,” who could indeed prophesy.

  “There is more than one prophecy,” said Epimetheus. “There have been such prophecies being made for a hundred years, now; at Delphi, at Lesbos where Orpheus’s head is kept, and Apollon even struck down the prophet Tiresias for announcing one at the well of Tilphussa—but you are the first mortal to have received one about yourself. And you alone have this addition: that you not only will witness, but also understand.”

  As he said this, Isme realized that all her life she had felt like an addition to another story—as if the story of the end of the world actually belonged to her father, who heard the prophecy and taken his daughter to an island to await the end of the world. She had been a recorder, not the hero of the story, but instead the side character to watch the hero overcome his challenges and report on the story later to the wider world. She was not that important, herself.

  But, if she had a prophecy of her own, then there was more than just her father at the center of this story. Regardless of whether Epimetheus was a primeval god or not, she too had value and impact on the tale. This was also her story, same as his.

  Possibilities filled Isme’s mind, but she could grasp none of them. The world had seemed solid in the wake of her father’s prophecy: she always knew what was coming next, even if the end of the world was taking a while to arrive. And yet now, even though her prophecy was much the same—somehow, she felt unmoored, as if the next step was unknown and the ending to the tale, her story, could be almost anything at all.

  Her father was not finished. He said, “Of course, when this prophecy was revealed your parents were horrified. They thought that perhaps you might in some way be responsible for ending this world and they decided to be rid of you. They left you exposed in the wilderness to die, as you suspected...

  “But Orpheus’s mother, Kalliope the Muse—decided you would not die. She had heard of my brother Prometheus’s prophecy, and how I was beginning to prepare for the end. Since yours was like mine she gave you into my charge, for while Prometheus’s prophecy merely predicts the end of the world, yours says that you will actually see it happen. And so I took you in.”

  “And here I am,” said Isme. She was not surprised to hear Kalliope was her grandmother—she had called the song-goddess that for all her life, and what spark of joy she felt was the same she always did when she thought of Kalliope tending the well of endless songs. She felt like this was the way to end the story that her father had been telling. That was what this was—another story from Kalliope’s well. Such things were what the world was made of. And she added, because she felt like it: “The end.”

  “Not quite,” said her father. “For there is one last thing.”

  Shifting her weight to the side, feeling unease settle over her, much like her father’s deductions about how she had caused the men sailors to drown with her song—and then Isme realized that they were back onto that topic, the realization that the drowned sailors’ deaths would indeed have consequence.

  “My brother warned me, before the flood that ended the last world, not to accept any gift from Zeus,” said Epimetheus. “I did not listen, then—when I was given Pandora for wife, I thought of his prophecy only once, and then I saw she was beautiful and decided not to heed him. And now, as is my blessing and curse, in the afterthought of it all I can see how foolish I am...”

  His face clouded with regret, just for an instant, introspective. Then he fixed his eyes on Isme. “My brother told me something similar about you. That, should I ever have a child to call my own, she should never harm any living thing that could speak.”

  Isme’s breath caught, and she said in a rush, “Did he say why?”

  “No,” said Epimetheus. “My brother is not in the habit of telling the why. He has said that prophets are not believed unless they give an aura of mystery. I suppose that is why he says what he does when he does, rather than just saying straight out.”

  He paused once more, then said, “Then again, perhaps there is something about prophets being mysterious to protect themselves. Old Tiresias was perfectly happy to deliver news directly to people, and for that was beaten many times. Bad news is worse than no news to some people. Voices of bad news are like bad dreams.”

  Isme sat, remembering bad news herself, the sound of the voice in the woods saying: I will never leave you any more than those men will. That was more than simply bad news: it was a kind of curse. At last, she said, “Then we must find your brother and tell him what has happened, and what should be done. Maybe...” she hesitated, and then forced herself to proceed, “Maybe I am cursed now.”

  Her father regarded her with a grave look on his face. He said, “Those who shed blood are subject to blood guilt. An old curse from Mother Gaia, back in the days before Olympus, the days even before Zeus’s father Kronos, when there were more gods than men. In those days, her daughters the Erinyes outnumbered the largest army, and they besieged everyone who spilled blood—only now, when they are numbered so few, do they reserve their ire for only the worst offenders, men who kill their families.”

  And he stood, pulling up the animal skin with him. He announced, “That is why we must go to the mainland, find my brother, and learn how to absolve you of this guilt.”

  Isme scrambled to her own feet. “Leave our island? But—”

  “Yes,” said her father, voice heavy. He was already in the back of the cave, beginning to reassemble the bundle he had returned to the island with. “But if we do not go and find out what to do, the guilt will follow you to the ends of the Earth, even into the next world. And who knows if such blood guilt could be purged in the next world, when there might even not be the same gods as there are now?”

  “But—” said Isme, “What if the world ends while we are away? We will not have any supplies—and there are men on the mainland, who will kill us—you always say so.”

  “That is why we must hurry,” said her father. “We do not know when the world could end—” and he eyed her, speculatively, “But it will end while you are alive, if Delphi still speaks truth. You are a mortal woman who will live perhaps thirty more years. Or p
erhaps even more, perhaps as much as forty, or maybe up to sixty. So our time is limited—it could happen tomorrow, for all we know.”

  Isme, who had become a woman only last winter, was only thirteen summers old. She hoped that the world would end sooner, for then she could be young and strong enough to handle any obstacles in the upheaval of the new world. She dreaded the idea of being old and helpless as the world crumbled around her.

  But, she thought to herself, he is right. It is best if the world does not end while I am still under this guilt, while that thing—that voice in the woods, is still following me.

  And so she sent up a prayer: Oh high gods, great-grandfather Zeus, great-uncle Poseidon, you great twelve Olympians—let this world last a bit longer. Atlas, king of mountains, sturdy your shoulders and do not let the world fall down. Oh Kindly One, Rich Lord Hades under the earth—let off your hand for a while, neglect to shake the blanket of earth that hides your plains of Asphodel, oh Lord of the Dead and therefore over the living. And Oh, you unknown gods who wait to rule the world to come—wait now a bit more. Wait for me to accomplish this one task, and then when the earthquake and darkness come, I shall greet you at the first dawn of the new world.

  Below all of this was another prayer, a little whisper, which she knew would be heard regardless: Oh Grandmother Kalliope, sing me a good song and a good fate...

  “Isme,” said her father, pulling her from her trance. “Gather things that are necessary. We must set out as soon as this storm clears.” And Isme hurried to help her father pack.

  FOUR.

  ~

  The small paddle ship that her father used to carry goods back and forth from the island to the mainland was very cramped with the two of them. Yet now the days of rowing was finished and gone, as they had traveled from small island to small island, following the trail to a place which consisted of a long stretch of endless beach crowned with trees. Isme did not need to be told that this was the mainland: the size was enough.

  “Isme,” said her father. He stood contemplating the shore since they paused their rowing, and Isme thought that he had been looking for enemies. Now, as she squinted up at his face, she saw that he had regained that troubled look which had descended on him ever since he had realized that she was keeping something from him.

  “Yes, Father?” She responded. But he did not look down at her.

  “Before we join with this land,” said her father, “There is one last thing I must tell you, and one last thing you must do for me.” He glanced down at her. “First, you must promise me. You will not show anyone that you can sing, and certainly never do anything with your singing except for sing, while we are on the land.”

  Isme nodded. “I will not sing because it can hurt people.”

  “No, Isme,” said her father. “That is not the reason why you must never sing for someone from the mainland.” And he seemed to switch the subject. “Isme, did you ever wonder before now why you could sing things and make them happen and I could not?”

  And Isme could only shrug. “I always just supposed that singing was something I could do, just how you can do things like lift heavier rocks or catch more fish.”

  Her father was uneasy now. “But your singing never seemed strange?”

  “Why would it?” asked Isme. “Everyone has some talent. Hercules is very strong, Oedipus has his wits, and Perseus could even fly! And there are people who can sing like I can: Orpheus, and his brother Linus, and Marsyas—” and she finished, “And me. So some people can do things that other people cannot, that is just the way of things. Everyone has some special thing that only he can do as a gift from the gods, or perhaps from Prometheus himself.”

  “You are both right and wrong, my child,” said Epimetheus, voice heavy. “I see now that I have done you a disservice by telling you all these stories when I should have been telling you the boring things: the ways of life for ordinary people on the mainland.”

  Puzzled, Isme tilted her head like a bird. “I don’t understand.”

  “In stories,” said Epimetheus, “Such talents are very common. But among ordinary people they are not. So few people can do them that many ordinary people do not believe the stories that I have told you are true. Instead, they think that they are made up about people who never lived, or if they did live, then were not nearly so great but rather were ordinary men like themselves—everything wonderful in the stories is merely exaggeration.”

  “But—” Isme could not stop the frown spreading over her face. “But—you are the one who told me that there is a terrible war happening right now. Aren’t there men there who have amazing skills? Some of them are even the children of gods—isn’t there Achilles son of Themis and Sarpedon son of Zeus?”

  “That war has finally ended,” said Epimetheus. “And even there most men there did not believe such claims—they would think that Achilles was making some sort of boast, some claim to richer heritage than them. Men often make such claims, and most of them are false, just designed as propaganda to increase the status of their house.”

  “Then the gods should punish such people,” Isme declared, raising upright on her feet in the boat to stand. “They are lying about them and making it harder for people to believe when the gods’ own children are telling the truth.”

  “But if the gods did that,” said Epimetheus, “There might not be any house of kings or nobles left in all of the lands. Everyone is lying about their ancestry in this way.”

  “But the children of the gods have abilities that no one else has,” reasoned Isme. She trusted her father, but the idea that people did not believe the stories seemed so fantastical. “So, when someone claims to be the son of a god, he ought to be put to the test, and if he fails then he should die for lying and besmirching the honor of a god.”

  Epimetheus was shaking his head, but he had a small smile on his face as though Isme was being ridiculous. Or, perhaps he was directing that emotion towards himself, for he said: “Yes, I should have told you more about the ordinary man. Things are not so simple, Isme. The world is not made of such easily solved problems. For every solution you create more problems to solve—that is the way of the real world.”

  Isme did not know what to say to that, so she said nothing except: “What are you trying to say? That my singing will not be believed by people on the mainland?”

  “Exactly,” said Epimetheus. “They would believe you are lying, or you are a crazy woman who has seen illusions that no one else sees because of some sickness, some interruption in the humors of your brain, or perhaps a hostile spirit in your belly.”

  “Then I would just sing for them,” reasoned Isme. “They would see me start a fire or draw life back to an ailing plant. I could explain that I am the daughter of Orpheus and that my grandmother really is the goddess Kalliope. Then they would believe!”

  “Perhaps,” said Epimetheus. “Or perhaps they would believe that they also were seeing illusions, or that you were playing a trick, and those are the good options.”

  “Good options?” Isme felt the words flounder in her mouth. “What are the bad?”

  “I only think that the people who believed you, rather than disbelieved you, would be more dangerous. If they believed you then it is likely they would find some terrible thing that they wanted you to do and exploit you into doing it.”

  Terrible thing—those words flashed across Isme’s ears, and the sound of herself singing to the turtles, to the men she did not even know were there, echoed to her.

  “But I would not do that,” declared Isme. “I wouldn’t sing for a terrible purpose.”

  Her father sighed. He seemed very troubled and worried all at once, so much so that Isme realized that him being troubled before was nothing compared to now. And he said, “Again, Isme—the world is not so easy. There are things men can do to each other when they want things. You know this from all of my stories. Men are capable of being cruel when they want something.”

  “I don’t care what they would do t
o me,” Isme announced. In her mind’s eye she was traveling back to herself on that night, whispering that she should not sing to the turtles, and her unwise self was listening and stepping away. “I won’t sing unless I wish. And I would never sing for a bad reason. That is not what my songs are for.”

  She knew this the same way that she knew how to find the songs that came to her: that deep space inside of her—Kalliope, queen of songs, who spoke without words.

  But, some small part of her said: You sang to the turtles—and those men died. Perhaps you can sing for a bad purpose without even knowing what you are doing.

  Her father sighed again, said, “I know you are brave, but nevertheless you must forgive and accept a father’s concerns. You must make a promise to me, Isme.”

  Isme had made many such promises to him before, mostly about following the rules: lighting fires only at night, going down to the beach only when accompanied, practicing many ways of doing one task, and so forth. But I have broken those promises, thought Isme, and look what was the result. Men on the sea heard my song...

  And she could not finish that thought. Instead, she redirected herself to draw a lesson: From now on I will keep my promises. Then this will never happen again.

  And she nodded. Epimetheus’s face was inscrutable as he said:

  “When we get to the mainland, you must never show anyone what you can do with your voice—unless he has proven himself by risking his life for you.”

  Isme stared. Her mind tripped over the words, encircling them and focusing on the last part of her father’s request. Why would someone risk their life for me? Isme wanted to ask. But her father looked so serious. She knew he counted as one who risked for her, since he risked his life every time he left the island to come back with new things. At the very least that meant that under his demanded promise, her father would be exempt.