Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast

by Jane Yolen

  As they walked down the hallway, flanked by a pair of richly-garbed courtiers, there were murmurs of admiration.

  Gritting her teeth, Atalanta tried to keep up with the men and kept failing. A lock of her hair had come loose from one of the pins.

  Evenor dropped back to walk with her.

  “Remember, you have to bow before the king,” he reminded her in a whisper.

  She spit out a reply. “Why? Does he need to see the top of my head before he can talk to me?”

  Evenor sighed. “Really, Atalanta, you’re too stubborn for your own good. We have customs back in Eteos, too.”

  “Yes, I know, and they’re just as stupid,” she said. “Like making sacrifices to the gods when they don’t really need anything we can give them.”

  Evenor groaned. “By Hermes, don’t let the king hear you. They are big on sacrifices here.”

  “I don’t much like gods or kings,” said Atalanta, her voice tight. “And I don’t mind if any of them know it.” She remembered Pan laughing at her. “Not that they care.

  A set of double doors opened before them, and they were ushered into the presence of King Iasus. Armored soldiers lined up along the walls, their spears held out at arm’s length. A cluster of courtiers in colorful robes stood to one side of the king, whispering comments as the newcomers approached.

  Orion fell to one knee in front of the throne where Iasus, his beard curled into tight dark rings, watched them.

  “Welcome, Orion, son of Hyrieus,” said the king, holding out his hand.

  Atalanta felt a dig in her back from Evenor, but she couldn’t move. Her eyes were fixed upon the great crimson banner hanging behind the throne. Emblazoned upon it in gold was the stylized image of a boar—exactly the same image as that on the ring that was hanging around her neck and hidden only by the flimsy bodice of her dress.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHOSEN FEW

  THE KING CLAPPED HIS hands, the sound echoing in the great hall. “A banquet for my guests,” he called. “And send in the court poet.”

  Atalanta was relieved to hear there would be food, for they hadn’t eaten a thing since arriving in Tegea. She sat where instructed, on a bench next to Evenor with a long table in front of them. To her right was a woman with a cascade of blond hair pinned up with a red flower who seemed to shrink away from her.

  “I’m starving,” Atalanta whispered to Evenor. She could hear her stomach growling. Perhaps that was why the woman moved away. It didn’t matter. Once the food arrived, her belly would be quieted.

  However, the court poet arrived first—a small weasel-faced man, his skin as pitted as a stone wall. The food was delayed while he sang a poem in honor of Orion. His recitation went on and on, listing every beast Orion presumably had ever slain.

  Even the king began to look bored. Or hungry. Or both.

  When the song finally ended and the servants came in bearing great platters of food, the hall erupted into unrestrained cheers. Less for the singer and more for the food, Atalanta guessed, refusing to join in the applause.

  Instead, she gazed up again at the royal banner above King Iasus. Fingering the ring under her gown, she hardly dared to imagine what connection there was between herself and the royal house of Arcadia. Would the king know?

  Iasus suddenly laughed uproariously over some joke of Orion’s. The king’s laugh was loud and grating.

  Atalanta’s hand fell to her lap. Surely there was no connection at all. If she showed the ring, they’d all laugh as loudly as the king. Or arrest her for theft.

  Putting all thought of the ring aside, she turned to Evenor. “You’d think Orion would get tired of the fuss they make over him.”

  Evenor shrugged. “What else is there for him? He has no home, no family.”

  For a moment she stared at Orion across the table. No home and no family, she thought. How much we have in common. She hadn’t considered that before.

  Helping herself to a handful of olives from a wide platter, she washed them down with a sip of wine from a long-stemmed cup. She was just reaching for some bread when a young man two or three years older than she leaned over her shoulder. Pulling away from him, she scowled, but he just smiled in return.

  “You’re the wild girl, aren’t you?” he asked. “I’ve heard them talking about you.”

  “They should find something else to talk about,” said Atalanta. “Or you should find something else to listen to.”

  He laughed. “They’ve plenty of other things to talk about,” he said. “And most of it not worth repeating.”

  She must have looked surprised, for he smiled again. “I see you agree with me.”

  “I think I’d better keep my mouth shut. Except for eating,” she answered, ostentatiously popping another olive between her lips.

  “Good advice, I’d say, though others at court won’t.” He smiled. “I hear that you attacked the servants with a knife when they tried to wash you.”

  “I would have—but they ran away.”

  He laughed again. “I think I would have, too!” His eyes were merry and the color of olives. “My name’s Melanion, son of Amphidamas. I’m one of the royal cousins.” He swept back a shock of black curls that had fallen across his brow.

  Atalanta reached out for another olive. “That must be nice for you,” she murmured. Then it occurred to her that this might be her one chance to find out some more about the royal house, so she softened her voice. “If you’re one of them, then tell me who they are.”

  “I suppose living in the woods, you wouldn’t have much chance to know who’s who.” He smiled again. He seemed a young man of many smiles. He pointed to the king. “That’s Iasus, of course. To his right, beside Orion, is the king’s brother, Prince Ancaeus.”

  “I’ve met him,” said Atalanta impatiently.

  “Not long out of the woods and already an expert!” Melanion sounded as if nothing she said could insult him. “The woman on the king’s left is Queen Clymene and as you can see, soon to have a child.”

  Atalanta stared intently at the royal group, and as she did so she felt again the cold metal of the ring against her skin. Dared she suppose she might be one of them? Would she even want to be?

  “Do they have any other children?” Atalanta inquired lightly, trying her best not to sound too interested.

  “No,” Melanion replied, helping himself to one of the dates from her dish. “Though there was a rumor that…” For a moment he paused, than smiled again. “Everyone thought she was barren. So many years and no child. They wondered if the king would put her aside. But instead he called in a mage from the East, a Phoenician priest of the goddess Astarte. Within months, the queen was blooming. And the priest, for all his help, was sent home, his pockets—they say—bulging with gold from the royal coffers.”

  “How do you know all this?” Atalanta asked.

  He shrugged. “I’m a royal cousin. We hear all the best gossip.”

  She made a face at him. “If you’re a cousin of the royal house, shouldn’t you be sitting up there with the rest of them?”

  Melanion shook his head. “They don’t actually care much for me,” he said, sweeping his unruly curls back. “They consider me a troublemaker.”

  “Then go and trouble someone else,” said Atalanta, chewing on her bread. She doubted he had anything else of interest to tell.

  Ignoring her, Melanion squeezed onto the bench beside her. “They say you were raised by wolves,” he said amiably.

  Atalanta gazed studiously in the other direction. “Bear.”

  “They say you live out in the wild and eat nothing but snakes and honey.”

  This time she didn’t answer.

  “They say…”

  She turned on him. “They say an awful lot, don’t they.”

  “I like traveling about in the wild, too,” Melanion went on. “I don’t like being cooped up in the palace. I like to get out in the mountains and the forests.”

  “I don’t do it because
I like it,” said Atalanta. “I do it because…” She found herself stuck for a reason he could understand, adding lamely, “…because it’s the only way I know how to live.”

  Melanion’s face became serious. “It must be nice, though, not to have your father forcing you to come home, making you live up to your responsibilities.”

  Atalanta felt a sudden pang of loss. “I don’t have a father. He was killed by the Arcadian Beast. And since you like traveling so much, why don’t you go!” She gave him a shove with both hands and sent him sprawling.

  Undaunted, he got up and knelt beside her, suddenly serious. “I’m sorry about your father. I didn’t know. And as for going—well, that’s the very point I was getting to.” He took a deep breath and said in a rush, “I thought you might put in a good word for me with Orion. You know, get him to take me on the hunt.”

  “I don’t have any good words for you,” she said, and deliberately turned her back on him. “Go and talk to him yourself.” This last she said over her shoulder.

  At that moment King Iasus stood up. “A toast,” he declared, raising his cup, and all eyes turned to him. Even Atalanta’s. “To Orion, the greatest of all hunters, the savior of Arcadia.”

  “Orion! Orion! Orion!” It was a tide of voices as Orion’s name passed from mouth to mouth across the hall. Cups were raised in his honor.

  After swallowing a draught of the wine, King Iasus looked around at his people, a long, lingering gray-eyed gaze. “And now, brave hunters of Arcadia, which of you will accompany the great Orion on this quest?”

  For a moment there was silence. Then every man in the room leaped up, yelling out his name, calling to Orion. The women applauded and threw flowers at Orion’s feet.

  Orion waited, hands across his chest, till the tumult ended. Then he said, “Noble king, this beast has proved as elusive as it is deadly. If we send an army against it, it will simply run off to terrorize a different part of the kingdom. And our great force will be too encumbered to catch up.”

  The king had his hand on his cheek and looked deep in thought. He nodded at Orion’s words.

  “A hunt,” Orion continued, “is best carried out by a small party, a half dozen at most. They must be woods-wary and smart. They need courage, caution, and a good nose for game.”

  “Then take Nicon!” someone cried. “He’s got the biggest nose.”

  A laugh ran around the room and the man named Nicon made a rude gesture at his tormentor. It drew another laugh.

  Atalanta ignored the others, thinking: Orion is right.

  At once the Tegeans started calling out again.

  “Me! Take me!” cried one man, his right arm in the air.

  “I’ll go with you, Orion!” cried another, standing.

  Others leaped up, too, including the large-nosed Nicon.

  Orion raised both hands in the air to silence them.

  “I have already chosen my hunting party,” he said. “Firstly my companions, Evenor and Atalanta.”

  “A girl!” Prince Ancaeus erupted indignantly. “You refuse the army of Tegea and take a half-wild girl in its place?”

  “That’s my choice,” said Orion, staring the prince down. “I judge her worthy of a place in the hunt for my own reasons. You, of course, may come also, Ancaeus, to represent the royal house of Tegea. The king has told me of your eagerness.”

  This appeared to mollify the prince, who fell silent and returned to his wine.

  “To complete our company we’ll be joined by Hierax, the royal huntsman,” Orion announced. He gestured toward a hawk-faced man with a gray beard who was seated a few places to his left. There was a muted cheer from around the hall, but it did nothing to disturb the grim set of Hierax’s features.

  Melanion was on his feet like the rest of the Tegean men. Suddenly he vaulted onto the table in front of Atalanta, knocking her dish of fruit to the floor. “And me!” he cried.

  “Get down!” Atalanta yelled at him. “You look like a fool.”

  He whispered to her, “You said to talk to him myself.”

  Orion looked vaguely amused. “And who might you be?”

  Melanion pushed back his unruly hair once more. “Melanion, son of Amphidamas, your honor, kinsman to the king.”

  “The king might as well be kinsman to a donkey!” Ancaeus bellowed disdainfully. “You empty-headed vagabond, what use are you?”

  “No one knows the lay of the land like I do,” Melanion asserted confidently. “I know every rock and tree of Arcadia as well as you know the inside of a wine cup, Uncle.”

  “Why you arrogant stripling!” Ancaeus roared, leaping to his feet and drawing a knife.

  In one swift motion, almost too fast to see, Orion had whipped the knife out of the prince’s hand and tossed it onto the floor. “Be seated, my lord,” he said. “Remember your royal dignity.”

  Ancaeus bit back his anger. Slowly he sat down again.

  “I’ve been seeking out birds’ eggs and following deer trails since I was an infant,” said Melanion. “I’ve traveled from one end of Arcadia to the other and never taken the same route twice.”

  “Yes, to the despair of your father,” said the king, drawing a round of good-natured laughter from his subjects.

  “This land is unfamiliar to me,” Orion mused, rubbing his chin, “and a good hunter relies on good information.” He turned to Hierax. “What do you say, royal huntsman? Can the boy be of use to us?”

  “It’s true he’s traveled far and wide. Poked his nose where even shrews and weasels don’t go,” Hierax answered slowly. “Blindfold him, stop up his nose and ears, he could still find his way by the feel of the ground beneath his feet.”

  “Better than you, Hierax?” Orion asked.

  The old huntsman took a moment to answer, glancing grimly at the king first. “I know the royal hunting grounds better than any man alive,” he said. “But outside of that, the boy knows best.”

  Atalanta looked at Melanion with different eyes now. She jumped to her feet. “This mantiger is no respecter of property,” she said. “King’s land or farmer’s land is all the same to him. I say we take Melanion, too.” Then her cheeks reddened and she felt a sudden fever rushing to her brow, so she sat.

  Orion laughed. “Well said, my little huntress. I was thinking the same.” He turned to Melanion. “You can come, too, boy. But understand this: You obey my commands and go nowhere unless I tell you to.”

  “I shall be as obedient as a hound,” said Melanion with a bow.

  “And I hope as much use,” Atalanta muttered behind his back. And when he turned and winked at her, the flush—which had only been on her cheeks and brow—spread throughout her body and she feared she might be sick on the spot. So she left the room without so much as nodding at the king.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SECRET TEMPLE

  THAT NIGHT, ASLEEP IN a soft royal bed, Atalanta was visited by a dream. Like a voice in the wind, it called her from her room, beckoned her through the door and out into the hall. Strangely, there were no guards or servants to be seen, as if everyone in the palace had suddenly disappeared.

  Atalanta felt herself being drawn mysteriously to a dark staircase that went down and down to another passage. This in turn brought her to a spiral stair that descended into a damp and gloomy underground chamber that was lit only by a few oil lamps set in alcoves in the walls.

  Silently, she followed the lamps to a door that was standing ajar. She could hear voices on the far side of the door but couldn’t tell who they were.

  Slipping through the doorway, she found herself in an enormous domed room, the ceiling rising high overhead, with huge supporting pillars of stone.

  From the safety of one of the pillars, she peeked out and saw King Iasus pacing. His face was flushed and sweating, and he clenched and unclenched his fists with great agitation.

  Looming over him in the center of the room was a statue of a woman at least fifteen feet high. Her eyes and mouth were brightly painted and c
ow horns stuck out from the golden ringlets of her hair. Her belly was hugely swollen, and below it her stone skirts stretched to the floor in folds of purple and crimson. It was the goddess Astarte.

  “What else was I to do?” he protested. “I prayed to you and to Demeter and even to Hera, queen of the gods. But you gave me no help!” He seemed to be talking to the empty air, not to the statue in front of him.

  And the empty air answered him.

  “You were a fool.” A woman’s voice filled the chamber like the soughing of the wind. “By your own choice you dishonored the gods of Arcadia, making sacrifices to this painted statue of a foreign deity.”

  “All I wanted was a son,” Iasus insisted, raising his arms above his head as if entreating the air. “To carry on my name and my line.”

  “Did you really think you could call on barbarian gods and not pay a price?” the voice demanded, rising like a winter gale. “It is you, Iasus, who called down this curse upon your kingdom.”

  “I sent the Phoenician priest back to his own land,” Iasus pleaded. “Can’t you, in turn, Great Artemis, send the beast back from whence it came?”

  There was a silence as deep as doom and then a sigh. Atalanta leaned forward to hear.

  “But you kept the statue. The beast,” Artemis informed the king, “comes from the same desert lands as does this barbarian goddess. A fitting punishment for your sins, Iasus, and your pride.”

  “Can’t you stop it, O Artemis?”

  The air seemed to draw itself up. “Stop it? Why should I?” The voice laughed cruelly. “No man is ever cursed unless he brings it down upon his own head. This is the price you pay for invoking foreign gods and practicing their vile rituals, Iasus. This beast will destroy you and yours, and your kingdom will be brought to ruin.”

  Iasus shook his fist at the air. “Never. The great Orion is here now. He’ll kill the beast.”

  “Only your own blood can save the kingdom now,” the voice said coldly. “Orion has his own sins to pay for. He, too, has dishonored me.”