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

by H. C. Southwark

  Only occasionally did Isme sight someone who was also dressed in animal skins. Their eyes also seemed to seek out Isme and her father in the crowd, and sometimes without speaking they would nod. Isme nodded back. She supposed they would approve, as though they also were wild men and together she and they were relieved just for a moment to see another of their kind in this forest of people.

  Among all the bustle was a man nearly in the nude, loincloth hanging from his hips, beard scraggled. He lifted arms in wild gesticulations at the sky, and chanted:

  “All is illusion! All is just shadows on the wall of a cave—men think they are seeing reality, but they see only hand puppetry! Even the gods are deluded, believing they are the forms of men—when really they too are shadows, unable to see the forms they mimic! Flee too much knowledge, for it ends in death! You will see you are in the cave!”

  Isme wrinkled her nose at him, for he was not speaking sense—though he paused to stare at her. She hurried to catch up to her father’s plodding shape and away from the madman’s eyes.

  Epimetheus led her to a small hut that bordered the wall of the city on one end, stopping before the doorpost, which was of such poverty that the door frame held only a cloth, not wood or even a gate. He told her, “This is a good house for people like us. When you come back here, if you do, then this would be the house to stay in.”

  “What do you mean?” Isme asked.

  Her father paused, as if considering how to explain. “I am not sure why. Perhaps it’s that when gods come visiting, they always just come to this house, and now the house finds receiving the gods and their visitors a sort of habit. No matter who lives here.”

  “The gods?” said Isme, her voice rising. She felt a wild wind rise up within her, as though the waters in the well of her soul had been disturbed. She thought, Grandmother Kalliope, please let us go unnoticed by anyone who hates me or my father in this place.

  She had no idea whether the other gods blamed Epimetheus for Prometheus’s crime; they were brothers, after all. And she and her father were here to find him...

  With the way her father told the story of Prometheus… surely he approved of his brother’s actions. He was the god who gave mankind the mind of the gods—and the one who had brought men fire. Isme thought of the many ways Epimetheus had taught her to survive, the use of sticks, flint, kilns, cooking—all centered on fire. At times Epimetheus had settled down before the flames and stared into them as though asking them questions.

  Now that she knew the name her father carried among men, Isme wondered if he was not thinking of his brother in all those moments.

  Epimetheus remained paused before the door. He watched her, waiting for more questions. Isme was always questioning him, she thought, always asking why, asking for more, and he was always answering. She felt a surge of warmth run through her when she realized that he was not going to continue until she was done asking.

  Somehow, this trait of his—she had not paid attention to it, before. She had simply thought that this was the way he was and not even noticed she was being ungrateful. But she had people now to compare him to and she saw that not everyone was willing to indulge her like he had for all her years.

  So she asked the question: “Should we fear any of the gods while we are here?”

  Her father frowned, wide lips pursing as he considered. He said, “I should suppose all of them, in truth. They do not much like people meddling with my brother.”

  Isme felt her feet very keenly where they rested on the ground. She said, “Then should we be here? Aren’t you going to ask the Oracle at Delphi where your brother is, so that we can find out how to absolve my blood guilt? Won’t that alert Apollon?”

  For they both knew—having slain the ancient serpent of Delphi, the Python, Apollon was now lord of prophecy here.

  And Epimetheus shook his head. “No,” he said, “Not Delphi. There is another place.” Then, carefully considering, he drew Isme close to him and whispered, “If you can, my daughter, avoid Delphi. Remember that your blood father is Orpheus, son of Apollon, and surely you will draw his attention. And absolutely do not sing.”

  Isme nodded, wondering. Apollon, god of light and medicine—he was a son of Zeus, who had the vendetta against Prometheus in the first place. And bad things tended to happen to his lovers, so he was a god most for women to avoid anyway.

  The gods did not much seem to care about family ties, except perhaps for a handful among them. Zeus had mounted some of his own granddaughters. Who knew if the son was like the father?—certainly Isme liked to think she was like Epimetheus.

  So she nodded, and her father turned to pull back the cloth door.

  ~

  They waited until after nightfall. Isme’s hands itched to find tinder and flint, her throat ached to find the song for fire and let it into the air, see the spark rise. But she held her peace. She spent her time in the dark hut observing what she could of her father. He sat on his haunches with his eyes closed, but did not sleep.

  She wondered what he thought. And wondered if he wondered what she thought.

  To pass the time, she thought of the story of her uncle, Prometheus—

  Long ago, after he and his brother finished their commission for making men, Prometheus had remained behind to observe them. He saw how they lived in their families and witnessed the skies with the eyes and minds of gods.

  And Prometheus fell in love with them.

  But he also saw how they struggled for life, because while they could think and reason, their bodies were thin and hairless and helpless.

  So Prometheus revealed himself to men and began to teach them many things. He taught them how to succor off animals, how to plant crops, build fences, make knives and leather, to write. He taught them as much as he could—but there was one thing he needed from the other gods. A heavenly gift that would save men from the dark and cold.

  O Zeus, he said, to his cousin, king of the Olympians. Let me bring down fire to mankind, which will grant them life, and you the boon of sacrifices.

  But Zeus refused. Fire belonged to the gods alone.

  Prometheus was a very crafty god, a Titan who had survived the war of the gods, for his gift of foresight had told him that the Olympians would win and so he and his brother Epimetheus crossed sides from Titans to Olympians and were saved. And so Prometheus stole fire from the heights of Mount Olympus and carried it to men.

  Behold, my children; behold, fire—the light of the gods.

  For this, Zeus had Prometheus punished. He was to be bound forever in chains on the tallest mountains far away, where every morning an eagle would alight to eat his liver... Some say, though, that great Herakles found and set him free, and where Prometheus is now, none knows...

  When the sun was completely gone, her father rose and said, “Let us go. Speak to no one and follow me through the town.”

  He hesitated, then said, “Tonight you will see something I cannot truly explain. You’ll feel it as well. When we leave the city, the Oracle of Delphi lies upon the ridge of the mountain as we travel up. I will walk between you and it as we pass, but when we are past, we are to climb the mountain. Then you will take the lead and I will follow your footsteps.”

  Isme frowned. “But Father, I don’t know the way.”

  “That is the mystery,” said her father. “You will know the way. You will know it and I will not—and if I try to lead us there, we will never arrive.”

  “But—” Isme tried for words, “That does not make any sense. Haven’t you been to this place before?”

  “Yes,” said her father. “That is how I know these are the rules.” And before she could complain again, he said, “This is just like a story, Isme. You must play your role. Remember: we must be completely silent on our climb.”

  And he was right, Isme realized. Somehow, when he had said these instructions to her, she had felt as though he was reiterating something that she already knew. But that could not be the case—she had never heard these word
s before. Yet as her father gathered up the two staves that he had taken from the caravan, she pondered this mystery without any answers.

  Only one thing she was certain of: that when they left this town, when they traveled up the mountain’s ridge, past Delphi, toward the summit, it did not matter that they would not be traveling through the woods. That bodiless voice would follow her anyway, all the way to the height of Mount Parnassus.

  ~

  They emerged from the darkness of the hut into the darkness of the night.

  Around them the city below Delphi, the city without its own name, was alive and moving. Isme saw wavering torches as extensions of human arms. A child passed her, laughing and waving his torch as his father beckoned him to keep up. Isme watched him toddle down the street, before turning her eyes onto the back of her own father and following.

  Epimetheus led her through streets, head down like a bull plowing a field, and the people parted for him much the same. They were here for the festival; it came only six days a year, when the priestess of Apollon would enter the inner sanctum at Delphi, emerging with the words of the god of music on her lips. Most of the people in the town were not natives—kings and princes and even paupers had come from all through the lands to ask their one single question, for the god only answered one each. If they chose poorly then they would have to wait an entire year to ask another.

  Through the light, the sparkles and sparks of torches, bonfires, women carrying lit lamps in one hand and bundling their clothing in the other, Isme followed her father to the town gates. There were few people here. It seemed as though the people had forgotten that they were here to celebrate what lay further up on the mountain; they were too busy partying.

  The climb to Delphi was long—they kept pressing higher, and Isme began to feel a small flutter behind her breastbone, something she would have attributed to nervousness—except her hands were not trembling and her feet were steady under her weight.

  Above, stars whirled overhead. The moon had long since waned and would only appear in the east moments before sunrise. All that was left was cool powdery stars in the darkness of the night. The Milky Way slashed across the dome like a scar.

  As they climbed, Isme remembered when she had asked her father what was up in the sky. She had not been puzzled by the stars as much as the Milky Way, which did not seem entirely as though it was made up of stars. Her father had said that it was once not there, but that long ago the war between the Olympians and the Titans had torn open the sky and this was the result. Isme had wondered then whether that was what had ended the first world, the golden world where mankind had prospered.

  Obeying her father’s command, Isme did not ask any questions now. They were climbing at too rapid of a pace anyway. Her father slowed, just enough that they were now walking abreast. Isme supposed this meant they were finally at Delphi.

  In the darkness she could not see very much, not without even the moon to light her way, and she kept stubbing her toes despite lifting her feet high. Yet even she could see the outline of tall buildings, long necks reaching up from the earth to uphold triangular rooftops. But, she thought with a start, there were—

  Shapes. People. A crowd of shadow men stood still and silent in the dark with their hands upraised in worship around the temple of Delphi. Isme opened her mouth to ask her father what they were, to tell him that they should take another road because clearly they were interrupting, but remembering his command of silence stopped her.

  And so they moved through this forest of men, who were silent and still as though dead. Isme felt her mind was paddling up a river with a strong current, and thus was only able to prevent herself from being swept away rather than advance. She could feel the hairs on her arms and legs raised and prickling as though the very dust in the air around her was necessary to sense and feel.

  Even as they left Delphi behind, Isme could not stop the feeling of being watched by shadowy men who stood still like stones: and she glanced back, wondering where the voice in the woods was, if it was down there with all those men.

  As she looked, every face from all the men at Delphi changed, every head swiveling as they began the ascent. Isme was reminded of the robbers staring at Kleto as she undid her hair in the lit shadows. She wondered if the bodiless voice of the woods was among them, its invisible head upright and staring.

  Shuddering at the sight of so many eyes upon her, Isme turned her face forward.

  Before, the world had been hilly at the town, and risen towards Delphi, but now it became a climb. Isme used her hands as much as her feet to advance. She could hear harsh breathing in her ears, an echo around her, and she wondered whether this was the sound of her father breathing ahead and the voice in the woods breathing behind. Under her touch the soil became rougher, less crumbly, more stone than topsoil. The grass was tough and full of briars.

  They must have climbed for half the night. At once Isme realized that she was ahead of her father. They had switched position sometime after leaving Delphi with its static throng of worshippers. She could not recall the exact moment when she had passed her father and taken the lead. Nor what had possessed her to do so.

  And yet here she was: scrabbling up the face of the mountain, working her way along the ridge towards the summit with her father at her heels. The breathing around behind her had not been the voice in the woods after all—but rather that Epimetheus was breathing behind her in big gulps. She was not much better herself.

  The world had become easier to see. Perhaps they were so high that the light of the stars was less muddled by the distance it had to travel to the bottoms of the earth. Isme felt as though she was carrying a torch with the flames out, but still aglow. Yet no glow had ever been like this: cool, whitened light without any flickering.

  She knew when they arrived. Standing before her was a blank hole, a negative space, a dark seam pierced into the earth. Her father halted behind, so close to her that she could feel his breath against her shoulder as he leaned around to peer at what lay ahead. The sweat gleamed on their bodies in this pale midnight.

  Before them: a cave. A small thrill down her spine, the recognition that this was home, just like home, but more than that was home itself. A cave meant safety and warmth. Isme knew without asking that this is where they had been headed all along.

  TWELVE.

  ~

  The ban on words was still in effect. In silence Isme approached the cave opening, eyes straining to see what little could be deciphered in the dark. As they came closer the outside of the cave became intelligible, for Isme could clearly see the stones rimming the mouth like broken teeth. But the insides of the cave became even darker and unknowable. As if light fled before them.

  Turning, Isme gave her father a questioning look, but one that was quickly dampened when he held out one of the staves to her.

  Reaching for the staff, Isme wondered who they might fight here. She knew this was a sacred place, the same way that she knew the turtles came at the sound of her song across the water—some deep instinct that felt as bred into her as her own skin. To shed blood on holy ground seemed the worst offense possible.

  But her father did not let go of the staff when she gripped and tugged. Isme released it to him, only to have him offer it to her again. She frowned under the starlight. What do you want me to do?

  Only when she had her hand around the staff a second time did Isme realize: the top of the staff had grass curled around, when it had not before. Her father had pulled up tufts of grass as they passed on their climb and woven them into the wood. She understood: if they were to burn something then it needed to be half from their world and half from this one, the sacred space in front of the cave.

  She spared him only one more questioning glance, and this time he relinquished the staff when she tugged. Staring at the little bird’s nest he had constructed, Isme thought, We did not bring tinder or flint. And yet she knew that they did not need them.

  The ban on speaking did not include singing,
apparently.

  Closing her eyes, the inside of her eyelids soft pink in the glow of the light from the stars, Isme reached down into the well of her soul. Fire, she thought, Where are you, fire? You must be holy fire, this time—be worthy of whatever god or goddess lies here, inside the top of this mountain which reaches towards the sky.

  Fire did not come easily. No words drifted to her from the well of songs, and Isme frowned, seeking deeper inside herself. She felt along the seam that connected her soul to her body, the far wall of the cavern that housed the well of imagination. And yet as she probed fire continued to elude her, just as she thought she had caught it, so would it dance away like a squirrel playing a game in one of the trees back in the island.

  But Isme knew how to catch squirrels. The greedy little things always came for nuts. What would lure fire? She pondered, called:

  If you come to us, then you will be the source of all we see. In every moment of our worship we will acknowledge you, O Fire.

  Above the water of her well of songs, Isme could feel a small glimmer like the flicker of a candle flame. Fire was listening, and she could almost see its ever-present eagerness. Fire loved to burn, was left entitled by its accustomed center of attention, the hearth in the center of every camp around which all activities flowed.

  So Isme flattered: O Fire, we will use you to honor the gods. It is you who burn the sacrifices and it will be you who rise up through the smoke to meet the makers and builders of the world. How pleased they will be to see you, O Fire!

  More than just a flicker now. All Isme had to do was reach out and touch—