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

by H. C. Southwark

  Is this not what the robber on the egg rock had said? Isme wondered, mind lingering back. She recalled him declaring that his honor was in how much he could steal... And the deep well inside Isme, the place of song, reverberates back: No, that is not what honor is, honor is when... But there is no end to the echoing sentence.

  While the laugher continues, Kleto must pause, because otherwise she could not be heard above the noise. She pantomimes Tereus, dancing around Isme with savage, jerky movements, and the men cheer. With so much attention on herself, parting her lips, Isme tried to think of a line, but she did not know the song.

  All she remembers is the story: poor Philomel, unknowing, had pled likewise with her father to be allowed to go, hoping to meet her sister, helping seal her own fate...

  Like me, Isme realized, thinking how she had disobeyed and gone to the turtles. Only... Not like me. I broke my father’s rules. She broke none.

  Fortunately, Kleto was continuing, absorbing the audience’s participation and preventing Isme from bungling anything by speaking. She sweeps back and forth, chanting, “They travel—to his homeland!—Not to his palace—they go—to the woods!”

  The men cheer again, thumping their feet against the floor. They egg her on, jeering and hooting. Isme feels something like vomit against her teeth, but when she swallows, there is nothing. Not even spit in her mouth. Kleto is a typhoon, formed on the sea, wind whipping water until it hung in midair. She hops from table to table. Her hair flies up like a brush fire out of control, swirling, yet her face remains hidden.

  And Isme understood: Kleto was not Tereus. She was Tisiphone.

  Head bowed, Pelagia strums the lyre with such force Isme is surprised the strings do not break. Her head nods at her work—

  And then Kleto leaps on Isme like a wild animal—and Isme’s first reaction is to fight.

  She raises her hands, ready to batter Kleto’s face bruised, and only a huff from the other woman stops her, the reality that this is not an attack, this is part of the performance. Below all the jeering, Kleto urges, “Call some plea, for Hades’s sake—”

  My lines, Isme thought. This is a performance.

  And she shrieks: “No, brother-in-law! This is forbidden!”

  Isme has never heard her voice with such a broken tremor, high and reedy and not the least bit expressive, a melodrama that is so far removed from reality that it is like someone pretending to be someone pretending to be afraid. But the men do not care. They are a pack of animals now, howling and baying as if sighting blood.

  Through it all, Pelagia does not slow down the slightest.

  Kleto’s hands, about Isme’s waist, jerk her off balance into a dip, turning her from the men’s eyes. They roar louder. And yet somehow Isme still hears Kleto’s hiss in her ear, “Now after this part, you have to say something like—”

  Isme interrupts, kicking at the strain of being held at this strange angle, “I know!”

  She glares at Kleto, ranting without words: I know the story! I am good for that much—

  Underneath her own hair, Kleto’s eyebrows raise, her pupils contract, or perhaps that is merely a flicker of firelight—

  Then she hauls them both upright and tosses Isme into a spin, tugging her arm as she is flung away, so that Isme nearly trips and falls off the table into the crowd of yowling men below. She just barely manages to catch herself—who knows what would have happened had she fallen off and into the crowd—

  Raising her arms, Kleto calls: “Well, my lords, you know this part!”

  The shouting reaches the roof, hands flying up into the air, stomping and thumping like thunder under their feet. Pelagia still plays but not a single note can be overheard in the din.

  “But then—” Kleto shouts, and again, not breaking through the noise: “But then!”

  She jabs a finger at Isme, practically tossing the attention of everyone on the room to her—and the abrupt change in subject cuts off the noise, dozens of throats falling silent. Isme is all their focus, and she knows that she must speak or die.

  “You monster!” she yells. “I’ll tell everyone what you’ve done!”

  Partly she is upset at Kleto for placing her in this role. But mostly she is screaming at the men—and Kleto, with her hair thrown over that lovely face, is a convincing substitute.

  “Oh—?” said Kleto, a long drawn-out syllable, and the men snigger. Before they can raise their voices and drown her out again, however, she is saying some kind of prompt: “You wouldn’t dare tell anyone—think of your poor sister, my wife! Now she and you would fight over me—one husband, two women!”

  And Isme said the line, the one she had learned from her father’s sole telling of this tale, the one that she did not understand but Kleto seemed to be prompting: “I’ll tell everyone because you’ve made me into my own sister’s rival!”

  “Rival, indeed,” shouted Kleto, and the men called out, laughing again. But then Kleto moved quick as a spark from the fire, leaping down into the crowd and seizing a knife from the thigh-strap of the closest man, bounding back onto the table with the blade bared. It was dirty, but the spare speckles of rust made it look like glittering starlight in the cast from the hearth fire.

  The hush was immediate, the men’s bodies strained—toward Isme, toward Kleto, toward the violence, away from it. They seemed to believe Kleto was ready to kill Isme—and perhaps, Isme thinks, looking at Kleto’s covered face, they are right.

  “You won’t be telling anyone,” Kleto said, waving the blade, “Not if you don’t have a tongue to do the telling!”

  And she charged.

  Isme had just enough time to wonder if this is still performance—perhaps she has been tricked, and Kleto intends Isme’s death to be the distraction while she and Pelagia escape, or perhaps just to kill the other two women and deny these men their prize—or else is just mad—

  But then Isme has Kleto’s arm around her ears, is pulled into a headlock, facing away from the crowd, the knife in front of her face. Without thinking, she screams.

  This was not acting—though the knife does not come closer—

  As it hovers before her face, Isme thinks: I’m a fool.

  Or perhaps Kleto was simply that good of an actress.

  And then because she has not cut her scream off, Kleto’s hand covers her mouth. The men are cheering again, and under the resumed noise, Kleto’s harsh breath in her ear. Perhaps the moment runs long, the men are still riotous, that covers the hesitation. Against her side, Isme can feel Kleto’s own sides panting.

  Kleto whispers: “When I have them, take Pelagia and run.”

  Isme is tossed away, but not with the same force. She stands and tries to make sense of the strange, whirling world, but fortunately every eye in the room is back on Kleto. She has raised her hand with the knife, a pose of victory, calling:

  And so Tereus hides his dread deed!

  No tongue to speak means no tale to tell!

  Poor Philomel, little beheaded flower,

  Lies entrapped in a cabin in the woods.

  Tereus visits when he pleases,

  Then goes home to his pleasant wife.

  The men hoot like owls. Leading them on, Kleto is dancing again, but she has slipped the knife low and inverted in her grip, so that the blade lies along the bar of her arm. In the firelight it is hard for Isme to see that she is now—still—armed.

  But Philomel does a woman’s work,

  Weaving a cloth in purple and white, fine craft,

  Which in pictures tells of her own devastation!

  By a guard it is smuggled to Procne—

  Halting her dance, Kleto flings her hair back, becoming Procne again by exposing her face—

  And the look of horror there is painful to see.

  Even the whooping men fall silent.

  Kleto holds the pose one breath, perhaps that of a person swallowing, then says, flat, “Procne sees all. She goes to the woods and finds the cabin with her sister.”

  T
urning, she walks the lengths of the tables, to Isme’s half, and stands contemplating Isme like she is inspecting every flaw and finding too many to count. The men are silent, and Isme can feel curiosity rising from them like steam from a soup pot. Not many stories have women all alone like this—they must want to see what will happen, what women say when men are not around.

  In Pelagia’s hands, the lyre became like light, like her fingernails were strumming air. The notes wavered, then became translucent, soft on the ears like the whispers of a parent saying goodnight to a sleeping child. Isme knew, without even ever hearing one before, what these notes were: this was a love song.

  Letting the new music settle into the hearers, Kleto paces back toward Pelagia, contemplative, glancing at Isme. And Kleto sang, her voice low and soft like a lullaby:

  My sister, oh my sister, are you now my rival?

  Remember how we played in our father’s halls

  Laughing, dancing in our private games

  Shared by none but each other—

  And at night we lay in each other’s bed

  Counting all our woes and kissing them away.

  Kleto reached forward, and Isme without thinking lifted a hand, feeling herself spellbound, the words drawing her to Kleto like water flows downhill. She wanted nothing more than to touch Kleto’s fingers—is this still performance? The two of them stood reaching, the moment taut like the air was a bridge between them.

  But too far to touch. Kleto let her hand drop, empty.

  My sister, oh my sister, are you now my rival?

  What is a woman without her husband,

  The bringer of her children, her home, her worth.

  At any moment he may leave her for another

  And then she is nothing, oh my sister.

  So we must fight and scrape for every scrap

  Of affection, of attention, for all our lives.

  Clutching a fist, now, Kleto beat the air, and Isme let her own hand drop, stunned. She remembered then what the story entailed: how Philomel had been so worried that she was now Procne’s rival for her husband’s affection, and had begged her sister for forgiveness—something that Isme had not understood. After all, Philomel had not done anything to Procne, it was all Tereus’s doing.

  Yet when she asked her father why, he had said he did not understand himself, except that this was how the tale went...

  Now, Isme knew why. She had a cruel inkling blowing at her ear like the first winds of winter, leaving her shivering, wondering how the world could turn cold to warm to cold back again. Was Procne to have no choice, but to keep her happy life by following Tereus’s lead and throwing Philomel to the poor comfort of the world?

  Kleto was already conjuring up Procne for the bad news:

  My sister, oh my sister,

  Ask any old kitchen maid

  She’ll tell you the truth—

  Two women cannot share a man

  One will be hated and the other loved

  One will be scorned and the other adored

  One given wealth and the other left hungry.

  Now without words to plead your own cause,

  Oh, my sister, we are rivals

  Gone are those childhood days.

  And Kleto turned and held her face in her hands, shoulders hunched, as though she could not bear to look in Isme’s direction. She looked like a dying thing.

  No, Isme wanted to shout, No, don’t leave me! Yet she truly was without a tongue. There was nothing in her sight but Kleto, but later, as she thought back, she thought that she recalled motion in the corner of her eye, of the men watching, stirred—even they were wordlessly beseeching that Isme not be abandoned.

  But the line of Kleto’s body changed. A spark lit, she stiffened. Turned back to face Isme, and Isme could see tears in her eyes, wetness on her cheeks that was not just sweat from the hearth at her back, her face blending and weaving between anger and love, and somehow more terrifying and beautiful than either emotion alone.

  If this is acting, Isme later thought, then I could never learn such craft—but in the moment, when she saw Kleto like that, she fully believed everything.

  Kleto lifted out a hand again, straining—

  No! My sister! I cannot do what women do—

  The old maids will mock me,

  Our own mother would say I am a fool.

  But the whole world could call on me tomorrow

  Call me happy wife with the lordly husband,

  Bards sing of my faithfulness unto the ages,

  Hera herself praise me as wife—

  And I would still choose you!

  She moved like a flicker of flame from the hearth, so quickly and yet so silently that Isme felt almost that this was the pounce of a predator that would eat tonight, and yet the hand that grasped her own was warm and gentle. Their fingers interlocked.

  And then Kleto’s hand squeezed. She turned to the assembly, and the lines of her face blurred until she carried a look that belonged on lightning in a storm:

  Now is not the time for weeping,

  But for the sword!

  I am prepared for any wickedness

  There’s no deed I’ll not do—

  Burn down my own home with fire,

  Cut out my husband’s eyes and tongue,

  Piece by piece send Tereus’s soul

  Out through a thousand wounds!

  And Kleto threw her head back, not singing but screaming:

  Oh you nameless gods before

  The founding of the world—

  I call on you dread ones,

  Witness my oath!

  Our revenge will be unspeakable

  And the whole world bleed to hear!

  Let even the Furies quake

  And hide their faces crying,

  Horror, horror!

  Pelagia had halted her lyre, the air silent at this cry, except for the reaction after: every man in the building scrabbling and scrambling, leaning back, as though Kleto has held up the very face of Medusa. The air turned so cold that Isme sees her own breath.

  But in her hand, she and Kleto only grasp tighter. Warm.

  Pelagia picks up again, the strings so urgent that notes follow atop one another:

  Fast the sisters run to the palace,

  Procne cries, Bacchanal! Bacchanal!

  But even Dionysos flees before them.

  Kleto throws herself forward, dragging Isme from the table, both of them charge into the crowd of waiting men, who pelt around like sand kicked on the seashore.

  Isme feels energy in the room, rising wild heat, men stamping their feet and slapping thighs as they charge round the room, stirred like water in a pot, pell-mell, somehow thrilled at this change of events, this great inversion in the story that is changed from lust for woman to lust of blood by women, the men almost frolicking, frantic to join and yet to avoid the mayhem, Kleto still singing:

  They tear through the palace,

  Seeking a way to bring death!

  There’s no good sword,

  There’s no good poison,

  There’s no good net

  To catch Tereus like a fat fish—

  “—Until!” shouts Kleto, arresting mid-stride. The whole riotous room freezes, the prey instinct. Every hair on Isme’s body uprights, for she recalls what comes next—

  And Kleto says, gently, “In comes little Itys, son of Tereus, Procne’s own son.”

  A collective, indrawn breath. Even if those watching did not know where the story was walking before, now they do.

  Kleto reaches out a hand, gestures to the air, speaks, “The boy calls, Mommy, Mommy! I’ve been waiting for you to come back. Sing me a song, Mommy!”

  Her hand does not let go of Isme’s own, but her stance shifts. She is like a wolf, now, stalking, and Isme finds herself creeping behind. They tread toward the invisible child, who knows and suspects nothing. Every head strains atop its spine to follow their course. The lyre is plucked, the same note over and over... Isme feels the
pound of her heart reduced to that single repeating sound of alarm—

  Dashing forward, hand reaching, Kleto swings the knife out from where she had tucked it under her arm, brandishing, and the whole room draws back, leans forward, eagerly reluctant, unable to look away, desiring to see the imaginary blood.

  “Come, my little son,” says Kleto, and Isme shudders, so sweet is her voice. In Isme’s hand, Kleto squeezes. Just the once.

  Then Isme knows what Kleto will do. She knows that the gold-haired woman has set things perfectly; she is armed, and there is a man about to be stabbed, and she will. In the chaos she expects Isme to grab Pelagia and flee, but Isme also knows:

  If you do this, Kleto, you will die. These men will cut you apart.

  And so when Kleto gives her hand a gentle tug, trying to dislodge her, give her a signal, Isme only grips tighter. Another tug—and Isme turns her nails inward to pierce Kleto’s skin, a firm declaration: No, I won’t do it, I won’t let go of you.

  You are Procne choosing Philomel, Isme thought.

  So I’m choosing you.

  Somehow, Kleto does not break character. If anything she looks even more a Procne, even more dangerous than before. She glances at Isme and seems with those fiery eyes to be saying, Do you know what will happen if we don’t do this?

  And Isme hopes her own face answers back: I do.

  NINE.

  ~

  The moment stretches long. Isme sees Kleto’s eyes dart down to their joined hands, an indecision. Around them the robbers are leaning forward, waiting. And Isme thinks: either they or us will eat and the other be eaten. I have just doomed us both.

  There was only one thing left that Isme could do. She felt her soul reaching down, down, down into the well from which she had brought up a fire. Into a current that she did not know how to swim through, trying to plumb to the depth of songs—