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

by H. C. Southwark

  Yet when she did so, all she found was wet water. Pausing, exploring the boundaries of her imagination, she realized her mistake. Chuckling, she said, Truly you like a good show, O Fire, and then reached under the water and plucked the spark—

  The words came easily then:

  I call not on the hearth stones

  To light once more with fire,

  Or on the baking of bread.

  Let fire of the gods come!

  As fire was carried down

  By the hand of Prometheus,

  Let such fire come now!

  From the gods you came, O Fire,

  To the gods we now return you.

  Before her eyes opened, she could see that the insides of her eyelids had gone from pink to red, flickering back and forth. Isme let herself gaze into the fire, seeing shapes and forms of beasts that had died out long before man.

  Glancing at her father, Isme saw he too was entranced, but the edges of his face strained, like sometimes whenever he was tired and the fire was particularly warm. She knew then that he was thinking of his brother. Reaching out, Isme touched her father on the shoulder, and his face turned to her. His features cleared and he nodded.

  Isme advanced to the cave. The opening was breathing, wind inhaling and exhaling as they walked. Soon enough she could see little glittery things at her feet, like watery pebbles. Bending, Isme found small cubes made of bone, copper, tin. There were pieces of cloth, hand-sized squares in various states of decay. Offerings, she realized. The travelers to Delphi may have come solely for Apollon’s shrine, but the locals knew of this place.

  Generations since time began must have come here, leaving what treasures they could to the eyes of the gods under the mountain, hoping for favor, to be remembered by forgotten gods.

  As they walked, metal and cloth became rare—instead there was a prevalence of bone. The knuckles of animals, studded over with dots, long femurs that could belong to dogs or deer or sheep. And the skulls; foxes, goats, sheep, deer, cows—man.

  Isme paused before this human skull. She had seen only pictures of this drawn in the sand. Her eyes tracked over the bone, the way the skullcap was jagged, like many pieces being placed together, teeth interlocking. It was not very big, about the size to be held in her hand. An infant? She had never seen someone so small.

  Her father nudged her shoulder, but gently. They needed to continue. Isme opened her mouth to ask why men were included among with the animals, for these must be the remains of sacrifices, or gifts—same thing—but the ban for silence was in effect. So Isme tied her questions with a string under her tongue, for later.

  Deeper they went, further they walked, and as they did the coolness of the night air became cold. Isme began to wonder how far down this cave went. If they kept going, then eventually they would reach the underworld. Was this a cave for Hades himself? She knew such pits had to exist because Herakles had gone down...

  And Orpheus, she thought, my blood-father...

  But at last up ahead came another source of light—some other fire. Making their way through this forest of bone, they approached a low archway which opened into an upside-down bowl, free of stalactites. Sitting on a raised platform higher than Isme’s knee was an old woman. She was pale like day-old ash from a campfire.

  Knowing this was expected, Isme bowed. Epimetheus joined her.

  Her father spoke: “Great priestess under the mountain, we have come to ask the God Under the Mountain for an Oracle.”

  And he reached out, holding a leather bag, tugging the string holding it shut and tipping it over. Little dotted knuckle bones fell out and skipped across the stone floor.

  The old woman regarded them with sunken eyes, lidded over. Isme had the cold impression that this woman was not quite alive, and had this moment of silence stretched any longer she would have believed that the woman was entirely dead.

  At last, the old woman said, “Speak three questions.”

  Isme immediately wanted to ask why—why only three? or why three at all, considering that the Oracle at Delphi only answered one?—but quickly realized that would have been one of their questions. So she kept silence, glancing at her father for instruction.

  Epimetheus said, “Where is my brother, Prometheus?”

  “Hidden chained in the Caucasus Mountains,” said the old woman. Monotone, as though nothing could surprise her anymore, and contained within this sentence was an undercurrent of obviousness. As if Epimetheus should already know. But this seemed like an odd prophecy, thought Isme, for it was out of date—

  Her father frowned, “But that cannot be. A generation ago my brother was freed by Herakles and must now be free on the earth.”

  “He is not,” said the old woman. “He is chained. Zeus may have indulged Herakles for a small time, but he will never let Prometheus free.” The lids on her eyes raised just enough to make her look awake. “Prometheus. Forethought. King of prophecy. He knows Zeus’s secret, the great fear of the Olympian king. Even Delphi would be silent if asked what it was, in outrage for not knowing the answer.”

  Without thinking, Isme said, “And what is this answer?”

  The old woman cackled, a seagull that had just discovered a snail without a shell. When her sunken, lidded eyes locked on Isme, they contained open delight. She said, “What makes you think the God Under the Mountain knows the answer, girl? Did I not just say that this was a secret of Zeus, king of Olympus and head of the gods?”

  Feeling heat spread across her face and shoulders, Isme turned her gaze to the ground. She had just wasted one of their three questions. But the old woman deserved an answer. So Isme made her excuses, “Stories say there are gods older than the Olympians, Titans who escaped the great wars in the skies. I thought only that this God Under the Mountain might be one of them and might know.”

  Epimetheus placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, and Isme saw that he was not angry with her. Neither was the old woman. Isme’s presumption was not an insult. The old woman leaned back, contemplative, and closed her sunken eyes. Without their glimmer in her face, she resembled a skull herself.

  She said, “You are right. There are many gods all over the world who have been forgotten by men, but who once were worshipped long ago. Some of them have left this world. Others were taken.”

  And Isme wanted to ask, Taken where? By who? But she was not foolish enough to waste yet another question. Besides, the old woman was not finished.

  Leaning back, she opened her eyes and her head turned, tilting on the axis of its spine, eyes mere cracks beneath their lids, and yet they were like gesturing hands because Isme found her own head pivoting to follow. Only then did she realize that there were markings all over the cave walls: she had been so focused on this ash-woman that she had not noticed—

  Animals. Some she recognized, others she could only guess, trying to judge by the horns whether they were deer or bulls. They cavorted and tumbled about the walls, chasing and fleeing from each other. Whoever had drawn them was clever: for the artist had understood that the surface of the cavern walls was not flat, and had included the waves and juts of stone into the images. Only closer inspection revealed that the animals were not alone—for there were stick-men running amongst them with one arm longer than the other as though holding spears aloft.

  Isme felt as though the well of songs between her soul and body had gone still. This seemed like some kind of miracle, like walking with a cup full of water in her hands and the surface of the water remaining completely smooth despite her steps, or perhaps even going down to the shore and discovering the ocean had fallen still and flat like the surface of the sky. She wondered: If I reach down into the well of song, what might emerge in a place like this?

  But now was not the time for such questions. She and her father had only one question remaining, due to her foolishness. But apparently her own question was not yet answered to the old woman’s satisfaction, because when Isme’s eyes lit on her again the woman was observing her. Pursing her
lips, the old woman said:

  “Do you think old gods know the answer to what secret plagues young Zeus?”

  Feeling the presence of her father by her side, how he was not answering, Isme considered the question. Then she nodded.

  Something about the old woman changed. She sat less stiffly on her platform, and the lines of her face had eased. It was as though she had received a flattering comment. Perhaps she had. Perhaps Isme was the first person to whom she had asked that question in a long while, and the answer was everything she had hoped.

  “Then this is the answer: Zeus fears what all men fear,” said the old woman. Isme found herself leaning forward, wanting to know the secret that extended far beyond even the king of the Olympians. The old woman continued, “He fears replacement by his own son.”

  Isme frowned, considering. Then she recalled the tiny detail in-between the end of Zeus’s war against the Titans and the birth of Athena, who heralded the oncoming of the rest of the Olympians. For the pattern of the universe was thus: first the parent would birth the son, and then the son would replace him.

  Mother Gaia had birthed Ouranos, who had claimed kingship over her. From their union came the Titans, the first generation of gods. The youngest, Kronos, had attacked and castrated his father at the behest of Mother Gaia. Then came the age of Titans. Kronos had feared losing his throne to a son, and so he had eaten all the children produced by his wife Rhea. In desperation Rhea had turned to Mother Gaia and hatched a conspiracy to save the next child. This was Zeus, and at his coming the first world had ended.

  The detail after the story of Zeus’s ascent was this: he had married his first wife, Metis, for her sound advice during the war against the Titans. But after his rise to kingship, he had looked at the pattern of his ancestors and feared his own successor. Taking the habit from his own father, he inhaled and ate Metis. Thus, he gained all her wisdom inside himself—and prevented her from having a son who could later overthrow his father, as Zeus had once overthrown his, and as Kronos had overthrown Zeus’s grandfather...

  Later, when his new wife Hera had challenged him that women were more valuable than men because they were the ones who gave birth, he had split open his own head, using the wisdom gained from Metis to conceive a new goddess, Athena. Not long after that Hera had tried the same trick, to give birth without the assistance of the other sex, but she had only produced misshapen Hephaestus.

  And Isme saw then the reason why Athena, despite leaping from Zeus’s head, was a woman. Some stories insisted that men were more logical than women, and the head was the place where logic resided. So why was Athena, goddess of wisdom, a woman?

  Because she was the sole child of Zeus; without a non-wife mother to render her illegitimate, she was therefore a legitimate heir. Only her being a woman prevented her inheritance and eventual usurpation—she was a daughter, not a son, and would not replace her father. And the same was true for any child of Hera: with her, his wedded queen, Zeus had only conceived daughters—Hebe the golden cupbearer and the three graces. It was only with other women that he produced sons.

  Sons who could not inherit through their illegitimacy, whose power over the world was therefore tied to his own. And so had Zeus broken the cycle of chaos, the new overcoming the old and heralding new worlds into being—except, Isme knew, now every oracle across the earth was predicting the end of their world—

  So Isme said, “The son of the highest god—that must be who will end this world.”

  The old woman’s eyes flew open, so wide as though her eyelids had been flung from her body and the round orbs would pop out of their sockets. Isme started back—and realized that the old woman was not looking directly at her. She was blind.

  After a breath, the old woman calmed. Said, “And who is the highest god?”

  Isme would have answered with the name of Zeus, but that seemed far too obvious, or the question would not have been asked. So she said, “I don’t know.”

  The old woman calmed. “Nobody knows, these days.”

  She settled back onto her haunches. “I fear we will soon find out. It seems every Oracle is predicting the end of this world.”

  Isme nodded, unsurprised that the old woman was thinking along the same lines she had. Beside her, her father placed a hand on her shoulder again, and then said,

  “That is why we are here. The gods these days can absolve blood guilt, even if they do not always. We do not know what the next world will be like and whether any new gods will have any mercy. Therefore, since my brother is not able to answer, I ask you: how am I to absolve the blood guilt incurred by my daughter here?”

  The old woman was silent for a long time. Long enough for Isme to wonder whether her father had been heard. Or whether there was even an answer forthcoming—until the old woman said:

  “There is much wrong in your statement. The only truly correct thing is that we do not know what the next world will be like.”

  Isme gathered herself, piecing together all of her father’s statements that the old woman had just declared was a lie. The ability of the gods to absolve? That they did not always wipe away blood guilt? That Prometheus was not here? That Isme was not—not—not carrying the blood guilt?

  She was about to spew forth all of these questions in a rush, but the old woman’s eyes opened again, and she sighed with terrible weariness, as though this conversation had worn her down to the bone. Now her whole body looked deflated.

  “You will not find the way to absolve her here. You are incapable of doing any absolving, Epimetheus, afterthought, storyteller. Nor is she able to absolve herself.” And again, the old woman’s eyes found Isme’s face, and only now after she realized the old woman’s blindness did Isme shudder at being under such observation.

  “You may scour the whole of the wide world, my girl, and there will be no absolving for you. What is done is done. Not even the dead men in the underworld can help you, should they wish to forgive the one who sent them there.”

  Isme felt something like a low strangled cry creeping up her throat, but it died before she could give it life. She said, “Then how? How—how can I—”

  Sympathy smeared across the old woman’s face. She said, “You will go across the sea in search of an answer for this question, but you will find it only from the mouth of one that understands what it is like to bring harm without intent, but still harm. And then, when you have learned the secret of your absolution, you will die.”

  Beside Isme, her father’s form stiffened as though he was bracing against the wind. Yet Isme felt every muscle in her body begin to relax, as if she had gone past some limit of her own strength. In that moment her own mortality overshadowed her: she had always known that she was a man, and therefore not that different from the animals that she hunted, how many bird necks had she wrung, how many fish gutted while they still gasped for water instead of air, she knew all about death—

  And she knew what death on men looked like, the way their bodies had reclined supine on the sand. It was something deeper than sleep and far more terrible.

  But somehow her own death had always felt something in the abstract, a concept that was contradictory, such as the idea of a married virgin, or a sunlit midnight. How could someone alive truly contemplate death? She was mortal and would spend eternity in the asphodel fields, a shade without shape or mass, no memory of herself as herself, shrieking and gibbering nonsense in the language of the dead, forever.

  Somehow this had never seemed quite so terrible until now.

  Her father spoke, strangled, “How can we avoid this fate?”

  The old woman’s eyes closed. She did not bother saying aloud: you cannot.

  They were not going to get past this point, Isme realized. They had gained much, but obscure, like viewing an object from an angle rather than straight-on observation. Go across the sea—and yet learn nothing, except perhaps some version of the same answer—and then her own death, inevitable before but more so now...

  Yet they had
asked and received answers to all three questions.

  Glancing to her side, Isme could see that her father coming to the same conclusion. She recalled his statement, all those days ago, on prophets: they never say anything directly, they always leave you shrouded with mystery... Otherwise you would not believe, but instead would turn on them like Oedipus on old blind Tiresias...

  Yet this old woman had spoken forthrightly, Isme thought. Perhaps not as they wanted, but maybe there were also limits to prophecy that she did not understand. Isme was not a prophet. Just because she and her father had not gotten the answer that they wanted did not mean that the answers were useless or wrong.

  Stepping back with one foot, Isme bent her knees into a low bow. Beside her, Epimetheus started, and then did the same. He said, “Thank you for your time, O Oracle of the God Under the Mountain, may your days be blessed.”

  Isme nodded agreement. “May you always receive honor due to you, O Oracle.”

  The Oracle inclined her head, but at an odd angle, as though all at once her blindness prevented her from identifying exactly which place they were standing. They rose to their feet and turned to leave, but then the Oracle called: “Wait!”

  Feet arrested, Isme turned to see the Oracle working her old jaw, as though she had bitten down on something too hard for her teeth and was working to get a bone out of a piece of meat. At last she said: “Tomorrow there will be a ceremony. The old priestess at Delphi will choose a replacement. If you are there, daughter of Orpheus, you will be chosen.” And the Oracle lowered her head. “If you enter the temple and listen to Apollon, then you will learn secrets about this world that will come to an end.”

  Isme felt her breath catch as the old woman raised her head, sightless eyes matching her own. The Oracle said, “But at the same cost will be paid. You will find death under Delphi.”

  And her mind began to weigh options. Nothing good seemed left to her: just twin choices that ended the same way. Go across the sea, speak to this thing that committed the same evil, as unintentionally as she had, learn the way to cure herself but then die. Or stay here at Delphi, be chosen, and through Apollon learn the same, but then die. Either way, the underworld lay straight ahead of her.