“That war has finally ended,” said Epimetheus. “And even there most men there did not believe such claims—they would think that Achilles was making some sort of boast, some claim to richer heritage than them. Men often make such claims, and most of them are false, just designed as propaganda to increase the status of their house.”
“Then the gods should punish such people,” Isme declared, raising upright on her feet in the boat to stand. “They are lying about them and making it harder for people to believe when the gods’ own children are telling the truth.”
“But if the gods did that,” said Epimetheus, “There might not be any house of kings or nobles left in all of the lands. Everyone is lying about their ancestry in this way.”
“But the children of the gods have abilities that no one else has,” reasoned Isme. She trusted her father, but the idea that people did not believe the stories seemed so fantastical. “So, when someone claims to be the son of a god, he ought to be put to the test, and if he fails then he should die for lying and besmirching the honor of a god.”
Epimetheus was shaking his head, but he had a small smile on his face as though Isme was being ridiculous. Or, perhaps he was directing that emotion towards himself, for he said: “Yes, I should have told you more about the ordinary man. Things are not so simple, Isme. The world is not made of such easily solved problems. For every solution you create more problems to solve—that is the way of the real world.”
Isme did not know what to say to that, so she said nothing except: “What are you trying to say? That my singing will not be believed by people on the mainland?”
“Exactly,” said Epimetheus. “They would believe you are lying, or you are a crazy woman who has seen illusions that no one else sees because of some sickness, some interruption in the humors of your brain, or perhaps a hostile spirit in your belly.”
“Then I would just sing for them,” reasoned Isme. “They would see me start a fire or draw life back to an ailing plant. I could explain that I am the daughter of Orpheus and that my grandmother really is the goddess Kalliope. Then they would believe!”
“Perhaps,” said Epimetheus. “Or perhaps they would believe that they also were seeing illusions, or that you were playing a trick, and those are the good options.”
“Good options?” Isme felt the words flounder in her mouth. “What are the bad?”
“I only think that the people who believed you, rather than disbelieved you, would be more dangerous. If they believed you then it is likely they would find some terrible thing that they wanted you to do and exploit you into doing it.”
Terrible thing—those words flashed across Isme’s ears, and the sound of herself singing to the turtles, to the men she did not even know were there, echoed to her.
“But I would not do that,” declared Isme. “I wouldn’t sing for a terrible purpose.”
Her father sighed. He seemed very troubled and worried all at once, so much so that Isme realized that him being troubled before was nothing compared to now. And he said, “Again, Isme—the world is not so easy. There are things men can do to each other when they want things. You know this from all of my stories. Men are capable of being cruel when they want something.”
“I don’t care what they would do to me,” Isme announced. In her mind’s eye she was traveling back to herself on that night, whispering that she should not sing to the turtles, and her unwise self was listening and stepping away. “I won’t sing unless I wish. And I would never sing for a bad reason. That is not what my songs are for.”
She knew this the same way that she knew how to find the songs that came to her: that deep space inside of her—Kalliope, queen of songs, who spoke without words.
But, some small part of her said: You sang to the turtles—and those men died. Perhaps you can sing for a bad purpose without even knowing what you are doing.
Her father sighed again, said, “I know you are brave, but nevertheless you must forgive and accept a father’s concerns. You must make a promise to me, Isme.”
Isme had made many such promises to him before, mostly about following the rules: lighting fires only at night, going down to the beach only when accompanied, practicing many ways of doing one task, and so forth. But I have broken those promises, thought Isme, and look what was the result. Men on the sea heard my song...
And she could not finish that thought. Instead, she redirected herself to draw a lesson: From now on I will keep my promises. Then this will never happen again.
And she nodded. Epimetheus’s face was inscrutable as he said:
“When we get to the mainland, you must never show anyone what you can do with your voice—unless he has proven himself by risking his life for you.”
Isme stared. Her mind tripped over the words, encircling them and focusing on the last part of her father’s request. Why would someone risk their life for me? Isme wanted to ask. But her father looked so serious. She knew he counted as one who risked for her, since he risked his life every time he left the island to come back with new things. At the very least that meant that under his demanded promise, her father would be exempt.
And Isme looked out at the mainland. This beach stretched from one horizon to the other, like the path of the sun and moon in the sky, as if the earth could equal the sky by extending over everything. Perhaps there was more land in the world than water? Maybe this was something people
