For now my time in anguish is complete,
And all my sufferings are paid, for I have you.
Isme opened her mouth, but there was nothing she could think to say at such words. And she could feel no song—herself was empty, but a glorious emptiness, as though weight and gloom had been dragged out from her. If she thought too deeply then all her worries would come back—she had been told to go to the realm of Hades—but for now, cradling her blood father’s head, she could have peace.
Enfolding the head, Isme felt herself breathe with it, and for some time relaxed.
Gradually she became aware that the moon was directly above, and the turtles had all fallen still, as though sleeping, though their round orb eyes blinked at her as she moved. Tilting the head, Isme found that it too looked to have fallen asleep.
What do I do with you? She would have asked, but the answer seemed obvious. She would never give the head back to the men of the temple, who had not wanted its messages anyway. There was only one place for the head that she knew.
Stumbling, wobbly, to her feet, she waded into the receded surf, and when water was at her waist, lifted the head to press her lips against the crown. It was lightweight—when she released it, watching the eyes track hers, it bobbed but floated in the waters of the sea. She thought she saw that faint smile again—and she sang:
Father, I give you back
To the place you belong
May you float endless
Below the stars—forever
Goodbye, Father, goodbye—
Whatever else she would have said, she broke off, for that high note began again, the low echoing sound that carried unbroken to the dome of the sky, and so the head drifted off to the sea, endlessly pealing that one note to the world. The song of love.
Isme stood until her body began to shiver, and, fearing the coming heat of freezing to death, turned and trudged out of the water. After all, the world had not yet ended—and for now, she had one more task to accomplish. An answer to find, and then she would rest... for her father’s song, the call of many wars, and a poet, and a conqueror, and Troy rising again—that must be a long time.
But how long? She could only wonder. Not as long as she supposed, after all, she was supposed to see the end of the world, and could only live for so long.
But there are men who were cursed to live longer, she thought—Tithonus, whom Eos the dawn fell in love with, and she asked Zeus for his immortality, but he continued to age and then became a cricket. And Memnon their son, king of Ethiopia, who was granted immortality by Zeus through the tears of Eos his mother. And also Endymion. Glancing up at the moon, Isme wondered—Lady Selene, where is your husband Endymion, whom you cursed with sleep, and thus lies deathless under your loving gaze forever?
Perhaps that was the key—Isme would fall asleep somehow, and then wake at the end of the world.
Shaking her head, she told herself: I’ll find out soon. She paced back up the beach, the turtles watching her, plodding along the sand until she came upon the plant.
Orchid flowers. They grew in sporadic clumps and were tasty to eat, but not too much, because they could turn bitter in the stomach. Each as small as a fingernail. Isme wove her hands through the strands, tracking down until she nearly found the roots, and then broke the stem, pulling a handful along with her.
He sang that I should carry you to the underworld—very well, she thought, holding it close to her chest. Returning to the turtles, Isme stood among them and pondered: The underworld would be the place to go, after all, it is the place of all knowledge—
Yet the thought of going there, walking among the dead, brought puckers to her skin that had nothing to do with cold night air. Isme remembered, at the last moment, not to grip the flowers too tightly, lest they be crushed. They were necessary somehow.
If only Kleto was still here, she thought. If only I was not alone.
And yet... she was not alone, not ever. Realization and memory flowed through her, and she whispered, “Are you still here? Will you come with me to the world of the dead?”
Behind, a voice answered, matter-of-fact as always: “Of course.”
Isme’s next breath was a sigh of relief. She bent down to the turtles nudging her toes, and the voice from the woods asked, “Just curious: how exactly are you getting there?”
“Like this,” Isme said, walking into the surf, the turtles following.
TWENTY-THREE.
~
In the world below, the living girl feels like she is dying, holding her breath so long. Yet the shells she clutches continue to plunge—down, down, down-down-down—
World in suspension—flash of a moment, only as long as that single realization erupts within her—and then everything backwards, down is up and up is down, and she is rising, higher with each beat of the paddles in the shells, and she remembers how the world had inverted inside of herself, when Apollon gave her ambrosia to drink—
Isme’s head surged from the water, shocked by the return of air, but she breathed deep and found her mouth full of a sweet taste—she was reminded of the only similar thing she knew, honey—sugary, thick, sweet—merged with smoke from a cedar-tree. Coughing, she tried to clean her lungs, but taste and smell were overpowering, and breathing more only made everything stronger.
Asphodel, she thought. The flower smelled like rotting. Like death—
Turning in the water, still clutching her friends’ shells, Isme gazed at the underworld—and was surprised to find it so similar and yet so different from the world of the living—
There was no ceiling. Land and water were underfoot, and above was a dark stretched dome, but pocked with stars like the living world, except these were no constellations that Isme had seen, their configurations wrong. Isme had the chilling idea that they were fixed in place somehow, would not turn around a central point nor change with the seasons like the stars above. As if they, too, were dead.
No sunrise or moonrise here. The sky would forever be empty.
The sea in which she floundered with the turtles was quiet, too, no waves or spats or gurgles, just utterly placid and calm, and heavier than Isme recalled water being. As if even the water was dead. In the distance she could see a little light, flickering like a torch, moving smooth and sure without dipping across the water, and by focusing she could make out a discoloration skating over the surface of the underworld sea.
No, she realized, river. That was a boat—it must have been Charon, or perhaps some other underworldly being, and if so, then this was the river Styx—except she felt as though the stories were wrong, for this had the feel of an ocean, not a river.
On the one side, the Styx stretched out over the horizon until her eyes could no longer reach that far—but on the other, the outline of a beach, and Isme began to swim, the turtles paddling along. For all her efforts, there was no splashing in the water, just ripples, smoothly breaking the dark glass surface of the dead sea.
The beach was dark sand, gritty, glittering in the little light cast by the stars. It barely rose from the meeting point of the ocean, and then was immediately taken over by plants the color of ash, long bladed grass with each strand tipped with a number of dark drooping flowers, crumpled, like they were old and decaying. The scent of honey and cedar grew as she moved closer, and though she coughed there was no escape.
Isme pulled herself onto the sand, body heavy and ready for rest, and peeked at the fistful of flowers she had taken from the world above. They were waterlogged, drooping, but shockingly white in this dim world of shadow and ash. Rolling over, she struggled to a seating position facing the turtles. “Thank you, my friends.”
The many luminous pairs of eyes blinked at her, and then Isme noticed how all of them refocused, to gaze at something behind. She rolled again. There was a figure, man-height, moving through the dark flat plain with intent, striding toward Isme.
“You had better go,” Isme told the turtles, and they disappeared without a sound, sliding into the still
waters without even a ripple.
Isme did not know what to say to the figure approaching; she was not arriving like her father, clothed in song and sun and striding like a conquering warrior, whether that was bluster or truth. Instead she was a wet shivering thing bearing nothing but flowers, stories, and questions. She supposed that would have to be enough.
Whatever she expected the figure to say, certainly it was not this: for the veiled thing declared, “You’re late,” and then began to walk off, expecting Isme to follow. Mystified, and yet more concerned instead of relieved, Isme pulled herself to her feet and trailed after, thinking on the creature’s voice—for it had been that of a woman.
~
They walked for what might have been days. The land was a long endless plain filled with asphodel, air blank and motionless like one’s mind before a thought emerged. Occasionally they passed tribes of roving people, thin and gaunt and haunt-eyed, who seemed to look at everything and see nothing. Whenever the shades of the dead moved—and they roamed constantly, like grazing animals, yet eating nothing—the asphodel was trampled underfoot and rose in puffed spiral columns of ash and smoke, circling in on itself before evaporating. More simply sprang up in its place.
As for Isme and her silent guide, however, there was no puffs of smoke when they walked—the plants underfoot were not even bent. It was as though they were the ghosts in this land, immaterial, and their passage was not even noticed.
At last in the distance came the sight of a peak in the plain, Isme’s eyes straining to see what might interrupt the flat horizon. They approached and in time the blip became more solid, became a building, but not made like any Isme had ever seen—for this was not quarried rock and stone, but rather like something punched upward from the earth, like the surface of the world was a stretched blanket and a hand was pressing up from below to create the walls for the structure. The doorway was an arch. No door.
They passed though without any ceremony or even a word.
~
The building was only one room. Every surface smooth, polished, and embedded in the walls were beautiful designs—Isme recognized colors, but dull, and surmised on the names for the stones—rubies, emeralds, topaz... Yet despite craftsmanship of the sort that men above could envy, the room still held the dim and dark look of ash and smoke; reds more mahogany, blues more indigo, nothing bright or vibrant.
Even the walls were dead, Isme thought.
In the middle of the room was a bench made of the same pressed-outward stone as the walls, and upon that sat a figure veiled in black. The look of it was hunched over, as if curled in on itself, but the head moved to watch as they entered.
Isme’s guide spoke, “Mother, I brought her.”
Another woman’s voice answered, “Come forth and let me see.”
The guide turned, gave Isme a clear path forward. She stepped cautiously, knowing she should show respect yet uncertain how much was required. Only when she saw the edges of the seated figure’s veil did not extend completely down, and there was the pale pink of toes that looked like flower buds peeking out, did she understand.
“Lady Persephone,” Isme said, kneeling in obeisance, hunching over her own knees. The figure did not look overly surprised by her conclusion, but then again she supposed that anything could be happening unknown behind the veil.
“You are Isme, daughter of Orpheus, and long in coming,” said Persephone, and Isme realized then that what she had surmised was true—the underworld was the source of knowledge. She wondered how long she had been expected, and whether the lady of the dead already knew how their conversation would say.
“I am,” said Isme, trying to keep her voice level. “Forgive me for not bowing immediately, my lady, I did not know it was you.”
“Few realize right away, without my husband by my side,” said Persephone. “But I am commanded by my husband to wear this shroud, for none shall see me but him.”
That sounds terrible, Isme thought, imagining wandering through this dead world with black cloth obscuring everything—like being blind. She spoke without thinking, “It must be a relief to return to the surface above for the spring and summer, my lady.”
“That is only a story,” said Persephone. “I am never permitted to return above.”
Isme’s could find no words. Her head jerked like a hand in her hair pulled her back, and she stared at the figure, which held still. Only then did Isme realize her own rudeness, but she could not stop herself from saying, “When I return above, my lady, I will correct the storytellers—everyone will know the truth...” and we will mourn for you, she would have added, but held off at the last moment.
“No,” said Persephone. “Let them have their story. It is a good one.”
Resisting the urge to swallow, knowing she would only drink down more of the honey-and-cedar taste, Isme said, “I have a gift for you, my lady, and a request.”
The figure tilted to the side, ever so slightly. The voice was curious: “A gift?”
How can you know I was coming but not know about this? Isme did not ask aloud. But she un-cupped the palms at her breast, revealing white waterlogged flowers.
A harsh breath from the seated figure, and then rippling like water in the surface of the veil as a hand reached out, demanding. Isme sprang up and handed over the plant, feeling through the thin sheet of the veil the other woman’s fingers trembling, barely able to grasp the plant through the shroud, but clutching nonetheless.
Isme backed away, settled back down to kneeling, but the goddess paid her no attention, wrapped head staring at the small flowers like they were the sun. Soggy and broken as they were, the white of the petals was still the brightest color in the room. Isme gnawed her tongue, wanting to speak, say anything, but held quiet.
At length the Lady of the Dead spoke. “Ask your favor.”
“I am fated to understand the end of the world,” said Isme. “And I have heard terrible rumors of what will happen.” She paused, considering words carefully. “And... some time ago, ignorant, I sang to turtles on my island, but caused a passing ship of men to die. I have borne that blood guilt ever since—and worse things have been done. Tell me, please, if there is any way to be absolved.”
A pause, and Persephone spoke. “From your perspective, the end of the world will be a long time from now. I have heard the groans from the earth, Gaea in birthing pains again, and my husband interprets them one way, I another. Will it be a stillborn that kills the mother? In my opinion you will only find the true answer in the world to come. But it is possible that the shades of the dead, accumulating wisdom, have another answer.”
Holding out the flowers like a torch, the center of light and life from Prometheus himself, Persephone said, “I have no power to bless or cure. These are not part of the realm of death, which is itself a cure simply by being the worst of all ills. But I have within me the power to curse—and with a curse I can give you what you seek.”
Isme held still, did not dare object, though the idea of a curse made her tremble.
“I curse you now,” said Persephone, “and remain silent until I am finished.” And she shook the flowers, like a death rattle, over Isme’s shape, and pronounced:
I curse you with the worst of all curses:
I curse you with unfulfilled ignorance.
Death brings knowledge, so you will not die.
As long as you are unknowing, you will wander
The world above and the world below,
Seeking answers to questions burning within.
The day will come when you learn the truth—
One answer to two questions—both
The end of the world, and absolution—
And when you learn it, then you will die.
For death is the price of knowledge.
Isme could hear air moving through her lungs, but she felt as though suffocating. Persephone finished, and breathed, “As long as men die, this curse will still hold.”
Working her jaw, Isme tri
ed to speak: “I—” and yet words would not come. If they did, she was uncertain what shape they would take, but for devoutness’s sake they would probably be a thanks, no matter how she truly felt—one did not insult gods...
“Do not thank me,” said Persephone. “This is not the sort of thing one is thankful for. There will be times you will revel in this curse, thrilled at living without death, because the ignorance of yourself rises and you forget the consequences; you will forget that it is a curse, not a blessing. And other times you will wish to curse me.”
“I would never curse you, my lady, a goddess,” said Isme, quickly, and startled when Persephone laughed.
“You defy Apollon and Dionysos twice, and once on the same day, and yet will not curse me after I curse you,” Persephone mused, something like the edge of delight in her voice. “Very well, you will not suffer as much from this as you could, not with that attitude. You are someone who sees new things and accepts them as they come, good and bad, viewing things as complete of themselves and not for or against you. Appropriate for someone trained for the end of the world, to see all angles of things and make use of what is necessary when necessary. Your father Epimetheus may be unable to view the future clearly, but he has taught you to view the past well.”
And Isme felt her heart grow warm at the acknowledgement of Epimetheus as her father, the first of all the gods, beyond Orpheus, to do so. Whatever misgivings she had about being cursed, all of them melted away, and she knew that any obeisance to Persephone in the future would not merely be formality on her part.
The figure pulled in her limbs, clutching the flowers close. The queen said, “Very well. You may remain in our realm as you wish. Speak to the shades, and they may have better answers for you—find your absolution, if you can, for the end of this world is not here yet, and will not be for some time. Mellinoe here will show you the way.”
“I thank you,” Isme said, and was escorted out.
Everyone Should Eat His Own Turtle (A Greek Myth Novel) Page 29