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

by H. C. Southwark

  ~

  They were left alone for days. The wild men came with food and water, carrying out any waste. Kleto complained in clipped, snappish tones, but underneath was worry. Isme sometimes hoped that in the night when Kleto fell asleep the voice from the woods would appear, to break its silence—since she was assured that even now it was still here—but it did not speak.

  At last Kleto, unable to withstand the cave any longer, stood and strode through the door. Isme was forced to watch because she knew stopping Kleto was impossible. And yet nothing happened; a wild man was posted in the passage, seemingly to watch them, but he let them pass with only his head turning to follow them down the hall. They emerged into another passage, and there was light for them to follow, and found themselves outside.

  The cave lay on the foothills of mountains, not big mountains like Parnassus but worthy of the title nonetheless. Below was a cultivated slope, hand-hewn rows of dirt with sprigs of domesticated plants. Yet as they advanced down, they saw how yellow the crop was, pale and sunburnt. Kleto had never farmed, but Isme knew enough from the small crops on her island to recognize death.

  There is plenty of sun, she thought, plenty of water. Something else is the cause. Picking at nearby leaves, she could discern no bug, no creeping mold killer, and concluded that there was something within the plant itself—some vital lack in the spark of life, so that the whole crop did not die so much as failed to live.

  Seated in the rows, she considered. What would stop something from living? Life came from the gods—so famine... that was a sign of disfavor, but why? Her mind catalogued all the stories she knew, gods angry over some slight, punishments for murderers like with poor Oedipus, violations of some natural order, gods quarreling among themselves and using mortal men in some proxy war... the list went on...

  Kleto paced and muttered, and at last Isme gave in, rose and followed Kleto’s golden hair down the mountainside. They almost reached the sea before the dais became visible, a wood mound bristling with the chopped ends of logs like spears. The podium was about waist-height, and the configuration for air flow told Isme these logs were meant for burning.

  Lying atop the wooden pallets was a single figure, a man, that much Isme could discern from the clothing and beard. Taller, slenderer, contrasting in Isme’s mind between these wild men, who bore the square shape of her father Epimetheus, and all the fellow men she had seen of stone, who were thinner and shaped more like what she had seen of the Olympians, Apollon especially.

  “Murderers and cannibals,” Kleto whispered, “I just knew it—” and she reached into the pile, was about to pull one of the taller limbs free, no doubt to use as a spear against the wild men, but there was a cry of surprise on the other side of the pile as she jostled it.

  Rising from the other side, now in view, was a woman, and Isme saw by her whitened hair how aged she was, back bent forward. Only then by comparison did she realize that the figure on the pile was equally as old, his hair gone but beard white.

  “What are you doing?” the old woman said, in a voice that communicated she knew quite well what Kleto had in mind, and this was beyond outrageous or acceptable.

  Withdrawing her hand, Kleto said, “You speak like a Spartan.”

  “I am,” said the old woman, peering at them, and Isme realized that her vision was not well. “And you—I can’t place your birth, but you are from civilization.”

  “We are,” said Kleto.

  “It is you, then,” the old woman sank back to her seat, forcing Isme and Kleto to move around the pile to see her. “You will be the next king and queen.”

  Kleto gave Isme a glance that read what she thought of that, and silently Isme disagreed: these men of old cannot be cannibals eating kings and queens, because then why would only the king be dead, uneaten, on a funerary pyre? Surely they would have killed this woman, too.

  “Please explain,” Isme said aloud, and the old woman began to talk. Much of her ideas rambled, disjointed, out of order, and Isme considered how in stories older people lost their wits, and tried her best to understand—then again, as the man on the pyre was the woman’s husband, perhaps this was grief.

  The woman explained how she and her husband had been wrecked, long ago, landed on the island much as Isme and Kleto had. For the gods still sometimes had mercy on the wild men, all the same—because they were the forgotten men, the ones from before, and were not supposed to live in this new world, which refused to produce for them, the sun and water not enough for life—

  And so, the woman told them, the only way for such people to live is by the lives of those to whom this world belongs—us, the men of stone. When there is a king and queen of iron ruling, the crops grow, rains come, same as if the subjects themselves belonged to this world. But when one or both of these rulers dies, the cycle stops, and must be renewed with a new ruler and his wife.

  “It’s not so bad,” said the old woman, speaking to Isme. “I’ll bet you were some country goatherd, or a serving boy begging for scraps under your owner’s table. Here you will be king—and what a bride!” For she had clearly seen Kleto at least a little, and evaluated the plump, pale, golden-haired visage. “You’ll rule for years, how young you are—and at the end of life be sent to the underworld with ceremonies and honors.”

  “Sounds like paradise,” said Kleto, but when she glanced at Isme, the truth could be seen in those golden eyes. Isme reached the same conclusion: Yes, a paradise...

  If only Isme was truly a boy.

  ~

  “We cannot stay here,” Kleto said, once they were back in the cave room, but this time her voice hushed so the wild men could not hear, in case they understood.

  “But we can’t leave,” Isme responded, and Kleto looked at her like she was mad.

  “Why on earth not? You heard what that old hag said—and besides, you have a mission. Orpheus’s shrine at Lesbos, remember? The end of this world?”

  “But they are still people,” Isme said, fists clenching in firelight. “This world is ending soon, every oracle says so. As they are now—so we will be, Kleto, in the new world! They can’t live in this world, they need our help. And if we survive to the new world, then we’ll probably be the same way—we’ll need the new men’s help.”

  Kleto’s face was set like stone, and the only motion across it was the flickering of the torch lights. Isme finished, “How can we ask for help when we won’t give it?”

  “Do you not understand,” said Kleto, forcibly calm. “We couldn’t help them, even if you want to. Isme. You are not a man. They need a king and queen, and we can’t fit those roles. This isn’t a theatre where you can put on a mask and pretend. Whatever ceremony will happen, the gods will notice when you lie to them.”

  As far as arguments went, that was impossible to counter. Isme slumped, still trying to come up with some answer, pulling from stories she knew—Hermaphroditus, who was both man and woman; Tiresias, who switched between sexes at the behest of a snake; Iphis, raised as a boy and who prayed fervently enough to Aphrodite that she became the man her bride needed—but yet Isme knew the truth: she was a woman.

  She had become a woman a year ago. The moment she felt the blood on her hands, she had known who and what she was, clarity that struck like a blow opening a wound. Must be different for men, she thought—and pitied them, that they did not change at once, and must instead flounder like blind things toward some far goal.

  “We will find a way out,” Isme said, at last giving up, sending out only one prayer silently: Grandmother, please find another pair to help these people, for I cannot.

  Satisfied, Kleto rolled onto her back and closed her eyes. Isme found sleep tugging at the corners of her mind, too, but when she lay back she was full awake.

  In the smoking of the torches, Kleto asked, “How is it that I can be here at all? Sirens, and now this place, like something from a story—wild men, from the world before. Ever since I met you strange things seem to be happening. Is your life always like
this?”

  Watching the light from the flames play against the inside of her eyelids, Isme answered, “Yes, I suppose so.” She shifted to her side, curled inward, fetal. “I just didn’t know any different. I’ve never been to the mainland before now. It’s like my life is one of the stories my father used to tell me. I think sometimes I know the ending, have known all along, but then I can’t quite catch hold of it. Like there’s something about the nature of the world that I’m missing or don’t understand.” She frowned, eyes shut.

  Behind her, Kleto’s voice: “Then don’t worry about it. The world will end soon anyway.” Noise, as Kleto shifted. “Besides, you only live so long, so why worry?”

  ~

  They were woken in the middle of the night. The same group as before—covered in furs, and Isme knew now that they were an assortment of male and female. But all the same round faces peered down at her and Kleto like so many little moons, and Isme found herself thinking of the nymphs and dryads in the forests.

  Jabbering, they had Isme and Kleto by the arms, hauling them upright, and then pulled them through the doorway into the passage—but they took a different turn, hauling them deeper into the cave formations. Isme saw Kleto’s limbs tense, but with how many escorted them, perhaps she thought better of fighting.

  At the end of this passage was an enormous room lit by torches, and Isme startled, half thinking that she was back in either the cave of the God Under the Mountain or below Delphi. But there was no snake and no sign of the prophetess, just a large assembly of bronze men, every head swiveling to them as they were brought in.

  Two wild men waited, clay cups in hand, and held them out to Isme and Kleto.

  Looked like wine. But smelled like rust.

  “I won’t,” said Kleto, so low that Isme barely heard her. But contained within these words was still the same implacable spirit, and Isme knew then that Kleto would die before breaking this oath. Glancing over the crowd, Isme realized that there was one face missing: the old woman from the beach. Perhaps she was still out there, mourning for her husband, which Isme told herself made the most sense—and yet she had the sinking feeling that she would never see that old woman again. She too refused.

  The denial of the drink seemed to puzzle the assembly of wild men, as if they had no idea what Isme and Kleto feared. After proffering several times, the rejection must have been enough, and dejected they carried the cups away, but reverently, as though afraid to spill a single drop.

  Isme and Kleto were dragged forward, through the crowd to a stone outcropping that rose to about their knees. They were forcibly placed atop, and then the hands of their captors released, the men and women blending into the assembly, every head of which was staring up at them in what looked like anticipation.

  Yet now, from this new vantage point, Isme could see the assembly was more than just people watching—for they held clubs and axes and sharpened wood javelins. It occurred to Isme that this could be some test, and if she and Kleto failed then there would be consequences she did not want to contemplate.

  Ceremonies, the sailors had said. Rituals that the civilized world had forgotten.

  Ones that we are about to enact, Isme thought.

  TWENTY-ONE.

  ~

  “Now what?” muttered Kleto, and Isme tried to think of some answer—yet all that would come to mind was the robber’s den, when last she and Kleto had shared some makeshift stage, except now only the ghost of Pelagia was there for the lyre.

  The closest wild man to the stage raised a hand and pointed at Isme, saying a muddled word. The intonation told Isme it was an attempt at Greek, but then he was pointing at Kleto and saying another word, only this one must have been closer to his language, for Isme recognized a name: Pyrrha. Then he pointed at Isme again, repeating himself, and Isme’s mind supplied: Deucalion.

  “What was it you said about theatre last night?” Isme whispered to Kleto. “The gods will know if we lie? Well, I think they are telling us to perform. It’s the story from the end of the last world, their world—I’m to be Deucalion, you’re Pyrrha.”

  “Curse them to the underworld,” said Kleto, “There is no song of Deucalion and Pyrrha!”

  “Then we’ll make one,” Isme said, thinking how strange the mainland was, even now, that there would be no song of this—after all, this was the beginning of their world, the world of iron and stone. “You’re the lady Pyrrha, so you don’t need to say anything, you’ll be silent. I’ll be Deucalion, all right? I do all the action and you follow.”

  Kleto muttered about nonsense, and Isme thought she heard the name of Lycander, but though her pulse skipped she did not say more. Focus, she told herself. Oh Grandmother Kalliope, lend me the song of the last world, the world long gone. And someday may I sing a song of this world, in the world to come...

  Drawing herself higher, Isme pulled air into her lungs, held it, reaching down and down and down, and there was the well of songs, and there the cracks in the ceiling toward her soul, and there the water warm with the emphasis on her body, but still entire, still a well from which she could draw the songs of her grandmother.

  Later, she could not recall much of what she had sung. It was not a song for her, she realized—nor any other man of iron. It was a song only for the bronze men.

  I am Deucalion, she sang. The last of the men of bronze, though I don’t know it. Every day I go to the temples and honor the gods, seeking peace, a way out of this war. O Mother Gaia, please endure just a little longer, there will come an end to blood.

  But among the mountains lies my father, Great Prometheus, carrier of fire and one of the two fathers of us all. Through Hesione daughter of Okeanos, he bore me, and I among my fellow men—I alone—seek him to thank him for his deed of fire.

  Up the mountain I climb to his broken body. I pull the chains but they hold fast, the decree of Zeus unbreakable. On my way down he proclaims: my son, get wood, get pitch, build a boat—for Zeus will rain destruction on the world next moon. Save yourself! I, forethought, Prometheus, have seen the end of this world.

  Isme remembers gesturing to Kleto, but receiving the briefest shake of Kleto’s head—realizing that Kleto does not know this tale, or did not know it well enough to pretend to Pyrrha’s part. Even though the wild men cannot understand them—and yet, by how their eyes are rapt, the way there are little droplets in the corners, maybe the wild men do hear the story somehow.

  And so she sings Kleto’s part. Pyrrha, daughter of Epimetheus and Pandora. The faithful wife who tends the fire. Without fire, we are nothing, Pyrrha sings. Without fire, we will all die. Fire is life. My husband, I will go with you to bring fire to the new world.

  She skips the building of the boat. She sings something about war—some kind of great war before this world, which she cannot recall ever learning about even from her father’s stories, and later cannot remember details. She does remember the way the watching faces in the cavern grew pained, and then how the people wept.

  Of course they weep, Isme thought. This is the end of their world.

  Isme describes the water coming from the sky. The men at war killing each other and not noticing. Water to their ankles, their knees, waists. Still on they fight. When the water rises beyond their heads, as they drown they are tearing at each other, each warrior hoping to kill his enemy first, to make the other man his last victory.

  And Isme sings:

  Everything dies—

  Every tree, branch, root.

  All the creatures of the forest,

  Of the plain, of the mountain.

  The whole earth screams

  And falls silent.

  The ocean groans,

  So full of the dead

  That it has become

  A second underworld,

  And the dead drown forever.

  Now the song trails out of her like a string pulled from her throat, leaving tissue enflamed, lungs heaving, and she wonders just how long she has been singing, how much longer she will
be able to endure. The bronze men look like they could watch, spellbound, forever. But she cannot keep up much further. When she pauses to breathe, her tongue is raw.

  Then she sees them.

  They stand among the wild men, shoulders taller than human, their shapes far fairer, bronzed like the sun and flushed red like blushing with wine. Two of the Olympians.

  A fair performance, says Apollon, nude except the cloth thrown over his left shoulder. His right has the golden bow strung over it, but again there are no arrows.

  Indeed, responds Dionysos, nude except for the vines strung up his arm. He is dark colored around the edges, his hair and eyes, compared to Apollon’s sunbaked golden tones. He carries the thyrsus, the grape-cluster tipped club, which he holds like a weapon. I am pleased with good theatre, as you well know.

  As I am with song, says Apollon, with bite to those words.

  “Is this about me?” Isme says, hoarse, pausing her song—and though she wants to yell at them, demand answers on why Lycander died, or where her father is, she can hardly speak for the need of air, and besides that would surely bring their wrath upon her.

  She begins to suspect the wild men know they are there at least a little, for the assembly is no longer looking at her or Kleto, but instead are turning as though drawn to one god or the other, moving restlessly across the room as though in a trance.

  Perhaps it is just that Isme has been singing of war, but the way these people move—drawing to each side slowly—they look to her like what battle lines must be like.

  The two gods take a moment to evaluate each other, and then they belatedly turn their attention to her. Apollon says, You were given to me as a small child.