Quiver

“Stephanie Spinner evokes ancient Greece with such a sure hand that she might have been there herself.
Quiver
is a subtle, seamless work about a time full of soul and mystery.”

—Steven Pressfield, author of
Last of the Amazons

“
Quiver
has it all: spiteful gods, revenge, humor, romance, suspense, and a startling ending. Stephanie Spinner’s brilliant retelling of the legend of Atalanta reminds you why the Greek myths are still the best stories in the world.”

—Gloria Whelan, winner of the National

Book Award for
Homeless Bird

“Beautifully rendered.”

—
The San Jose Mercury News

When I was an infant, abandoned in the forest, Artemis the
Huntress sent a she-bear to nurse me. Soon after, a band of
hunters found me—naked, kicking, and slick with bear grease.
Knowing that only Artemis would save an infant girl in the wild
and eager to win the goddess’s favor, the hunters took me in.

As soon as I could walk, they taught me to hold a bow. On
the day of my first kill, they told me how the stern, beautiful
goddess had saved my life and showed me how to offer to her. I
did this solemnly, for I had long imagined her as my mother—
distant, yes, but strong and radiant as the moon. I knew her love
was bound to shine on me again, if only I were content to wait.

So I did.

PART ONE

The Hunt

ONE

The caw of a crow warned me first. Then it was their smell—so rank it made my eyes water.

I had never been so close to centaurs before, though of course I had seen them. There were many in my native Arcadia—wild, filthy creatures, notorious for their lack of restraint, and far more dangerous than satyrs. When they drank—as they often did, to excess—they would rape and beat whatever women they could find, which was why women never ventured into the forests alone.

I am not alone, I reminded myself, I am with the Hunt, in Calydon.

Yet the centaurs were at hand, and the other hunters were too far off to be of help, should I cry out.

I would not; I would rather die.

They came at a gallop, legs churning, chests heaving.

I could run as swiftly as they. Indeed, I could outrun most creatures, human or otherwise. But there were two of them, and they were lust-maddened.

I drew my bow.

On they came, one with a torn ear, the other with a bulbous, red-veined nose. They were large and coarse and frightening, with none of the capering insolence that made their goat brothers almost endearing. Both had rough piebald coats, long, matted tails, and hooves as big as mallets.

Their stink was fearsome.

I shot the one with the red nose first. He reared. I hit him again, and he fell, snorting blood. I loosed two arrows, then three, at the other. He was so close when he toppled that I could feel his heat. He cursed me, groaning and choking. I backed away. They were huge creatures, and their great hooves kicked out as they died.

“Safe crossing,” I whispered.

Then I heard a soft whistle that rose and fell like a question—Meleager, looking for me.

I signaled back and he emerged through the trees. As I moved toward him, I saw the concern in his dark eyes fade, and he smiled broadly.

He is relieved, I thought, knowing it was more than relief that lit up his face. We had met only days before, when the Hunt assembled at his father’s palace, and since then Meleager had paid me many small courtesies—inquiring after my comfort whenever we chanced to meet, asking my opinion of his weaponry, introducing me to his beloved hounds. I required no more than any of the men, yet he sought me out time after time.

I was flattered by his interest, for I liked him. He was straightforward and guileless, a man who preferred his hounds to his father’s courtiers. He was a decent hunter, too—very good with the javelin, and passable with a bow. The dark stories about his fate—some said he carried a birth curse—made me feel a kind of kinship with him.

Nevertheless, I had no desire for romantic entanglements. Like the men, I was here for glory. Moreover, I had taken a vow of chastity in honor of Artemis, and I intended to keep it. Seeing the yearning in Meleager’s eyes, I resolved to tell him of my vow as soon as I could.

I raised a finger in warning. I had lost the boar’s scent, but he was cunning, and might be nearby. The sight of the slain centaurs stopped Meleager, but when he looked at me inquiringly I shook my head; explanations would have to come later. I started back up the hillside and he followed.

Before long we could hear the others thrashing through the trees. Then all twenty-seven members of the Calydonian Boar Hunt came marching downhill in crescent formation, armed to the eyebrows. No living thing in the forest could miss hearing them, or seeing them, either. They moved without stealth, as if they were storming the walls of some hapless enemy city.

I was certain that the boar would attack soon, and now, as the great hunt party advanced, I knew I had missed the chance to flush him out myself. I might have done it, I thought, if not for those stinking centaurs. They had likely cost me the head and pelt, and now the prizes of the hunt would go to one of the men. More than half of them were Argonauts—the intrepid, battle-scarred band who had sailed with Jason in search of the Golden Fleece. The adventure had made them heroes, and in the manner of heroes, each one of them considered victory his due.

“Why did you leave?” whispered Meleager.

“I smelled him—” Then it came again, a heavy mix of smoke and fat and marshland mud, and with it, tremors like those that shake the earth before it rips apart. He was very near.

The hounds bayed. Then one of them screamed—a death cry. Meleager froze. His Laconian hounds were very dear to him.

“There!” I pointed to a place fifty paces off.

He was bigger than a bull, with bristles like skewers and filthy tusks as long as javelins. Steam came off his body like the foul nimbus of some underworld being; even in morning light, he seemed to stand in gloom. The hound on his tusk was dead, and he rid himself of it impatiently, tossing his massive head and stamping so that the ground shook. Then he wheeled—swiftly for all his bulk—to regard us with eyes as small and red as pomegranate seeds. It was the look of a beast without predators, who had never felt fear.

My arrow was nocked, but Echion ran at the boar shouting, and when he flung his spear, I hesitated. Even as the spear fell short, the boar charged. Echion’s twin, Erytus, along with Jason, Eupalamus, and Iphicles, scrambled away as the creature hurtled at them like a rock from a catapult, crushing everything in its path. It trampled hounds, flattened trees, and flung Eupalamus and Iphicles aside as if they were made of straw.

Then Jason threw, but his spear went wide. He flattened himself on the ground, drawing his great shield over him as if he were a giant tortoise. Erytus was nimble also, using his long spear to vault out of the beast’s way, and landing in a tree. Young Hippasus lacked the experience—and the luck—of his comrades; the boar veered suddenly and gored him before he could escape. He fell and lay still, arms and legs askew.

Undaunted, Mopsus rushed forward. It was said he was gifted with the Sight, and could understand the language of the birds. Now he cried out to Apollo, Lord of the Silver Bow.

“If I have been your faithful worshiper, great Apollo,” he cried, “grant me good aim!” He must have been heard; his spear flew straight and true.

Indeed, it should have killed the boar. Yet its jagged iron head came off in flight, and when its wooden shaft hit the boar’s neck, it bounced to the ground as harmlessly as a broom handle.

Meleager hissed in amazement.

The boar grunted, flicking its tail.

An all-consuming lightness, like heatless fever, came over me. My skin prickled as if a storm were coming, and my hearing grew so acute that I imagined I could hear the slow lap and surge of blood under my skin. I knew the signs; I had known them since girlhood.

The goddess, I thought. She is here.

Apollo had heard Mopsus. But Artemis, who had sent the boar to plague King Oeneus for failing to sacrifice to her, even now intervened.

Goddess, I am yours, I murmured. If it pleases you, guide my hand.

The boar lowered its head to charge at Mopsus, and at that instant my shot came clear. Flying as if Artemis herself had loosed it, my arrow struck the boar’s neck and pierced its bristled hide. Blood spurted where it hit. Whispering my thanks, I flushed with pleasure; there was honor in drawing first blood.

The beast shook its massive head, but the arrow stuck. Mopsus fled as the boar danced in fury, squealing.

“Do you see?” cried Meleager. His voice thrilled with such emotion that the shot might have been his. “Atalanta has hit the boar!”

Apollo:
You might have let Mopsus take that shot, you know. He did invoke me.

Artemis:
Yes, but she’s been praying to me for weeks. I had to give it to her.

Apollo:
Are you going to help her kill it, too? That would certainly cause an uproar.

Artemis:
It would. But there are other, even more interesting possibilities. And the hunt is far from over.

Apollo:
You frighten me sometimes.

Artemis:
I’m your older sister. I probably should.

TWO

Some on the Hunt objected to my presence, whispering that it would bring misfortune. Others simply stared at me as if I were a white crow, or a three-legged heifer.

For all its prowess, it was a rude bunch.

But I was used to such behavior, and to biding my time until a moment like this, when my shot hit home. It gave me joy to see the beast retreat, smashing into a thicket with my arrow piercing its neck, but I did not show it. Instead, I kept my face blank—a skill honed by years of practice— and sent another prayer of thanks to the goddess.

“Well done!” cried Meleager. Jason raised his eyebrows at me, smiling his wry smile. He always enjoyed the surprise of others when they first witnessed my skill with a bow, though few reacted with as much pleasure as Meleager. The usual response was a mixture of disbelief and indignation, which Jason found comical. I forgave him because he was a brotherly friend of long standing, and because he truly respected my shooting. He had once said that I could win against anyone, even the greatest archers in Hellas, if such a contest were ever held. I treasured the remark.

Ancaeus scowled and muttered something to Cepheus. The two were Arcadian, as I was, yet I felt no bond with them. Cepheus was a bully, a big man who walked with his jaw jutting out, as if challenging the world to disagree with him. Ancaeus was a braggart, even bigger and louder than Cepheus. Worse, he went about in a bearskin. A bear had saved my life, so I disliked Ancaeus as much for his cloak as for his bad character.

They had no affection for me, either. In their view, women were creatures of servitude, best kept hobbled. I had outrun and outshot them both, and this lack of deference they found impossible to forgive. They would not so much as acknowledge me on the tiny raft that took us from Achaea to Aetolia, and when the Hunt assembled before King Oeneus the following day, they threatened to leave if I did not. A woman had no place on the expedition, Ancaeus had growled, looking around the hall for assent. There were a few barely perceptible nods, but no man there was stupid enough to voice his agreement. To do so would surely anger Meleager, to judge by his frown, and possibly the king.

Oeneus had replied dourly that they could stay or go as they wished, it did not matter to him. So they had stayed, losing face, and disliking me even more.

Now Ancaeus brandished his big two-edged ax. “Here is a man’s weapon,” he shouted, “not some girl’s puny arrow! No goddess can protect the boar from this!”

I was aghast. Ancaeus could say what he liked about me, but insulting the goddess was reckless beyond measure. She was quick to take offense, and even quicker to take revenge. I thought of Actaeon, a young hunter who had glimpsed Artemis bathing with her nymphs. He had not meant to see her naked; yet she was the last thing he saw as a man. Enraged that her modesty had been compromised, she changed him into a stag. His own hounds brought him down and mauled him to death. Then, howling inconsolably at what they had done, they died of grief.

“Ancaeus—” I began fearfully.

He glared in my direction, then bellowed, “Make way for me!”

The boar burst from the thicket, hitting Ancaeus in the groin with such force that he rose up, arms outstretched, as if offering to the gods. Thrust aloft, rocked this way and that on the beast’s long, bloody tusks, he went to his death wide-eyed, without uttering another word.

I shuddered.

When Ancaeus fell, Meleager’s two uncles hurried forward, pointing their spears at the boar. But Plexippus tripped on a root, waylaying Toxeus, and the two men went down, clearing a path for their nephew. He placed his javelin precisely—almost thoughtfully—in the very center of the boar’s right side, and it sank in up to the wings. Excellent shot, I thought. The boar shrieked, whirling, and Meleager struck again, this time driving a long spear deep into its breast.

Plexippus and Toxeus scrambled to their feet. Jason approached, spear upraised. But there was no need for another blow; the boar was weaving now, spewing foam flecked with blood. At last it toppled, making a sound like a harsh sob.

At this, many drew near, though slowly. Mopsus knelt at the boar’s head, awestruck. Cepheus spat, then turned away with a curse. Lynceus, Iphicles, Echion, and Erytus, all Argonauts, stood together over it, murmuring that it was even uglier than the serpent that had guarded the Fleece. None of them would touch the boar, though Jason dipped his spear in its brown, viscous blood.

One by one, the rest followed suit. I stayed back. I alone had used a bow.

“Someone should take Ancaeus’ ax to its head,” said Jason, looking around.

“I will,” said Cepheus grimly. He severed the head with half a dozen ferocious blows of his friend’s weapon. Then he laid the ax on the ground, drew out his dagger, and set to flaying the body. It was slow work, but he shook his head at offers of help.

As we stood watching, Jason said to Meleager, “Your father will be doubly pleased.”

“Doubly?” said Meleager absently. He was intent on Cepheus’ progress.

“That it is dead,” said Jason, “and that you killed it. His face will be something to see when you present him with the head and pelt. Who knows? Perhaps he will even smile.”

King Oeneus had always been a man of few words. He had grown even gloomier since the autumn, when his oversight—he had forgotten to sacrifice to Artemis after the harvest—was followed by the appearance of the boar in his kingdom. It caused such havoc that many believed the goddess had sent it to Calydon.

Rather than admitting his mistake and offering to her generously, Oeneus had called the hunt. Now the mangled fruits of it lay at our feet.

“That honor will go to Atalanta,” said Meleager, looking at me with such ardor that my stomach dropped.

“What!” Jason’s exclamation came with a snort of disbelief.

“She was the first to draw blood,” said Meleager.

“But you killed it. Everyone saw.” Jason spoke slowly, as if to a child.

“No matter,” said Meleager, his dark eyes on me. “I want her to have the spoils. And it is my right to give them,” he added, lest Jason forget that Meleager was both the host and the king’s son.

“Oh . . . no,” I stammered, “I cannot accept them.” Dismay made my voice shrill, and louder than it should have been. Now Toxeus and Plexippus were listening. Cepheus, whose blood-bespattered face had remained expressionless until this moment, put down his dagger. His mouth hung open in an astonished sneer. I dreaded what he would say.

“Keep them, Meleager,” said Jason quietly. “It will only cause bad feeling if you do not.”

The prince said nothing. He had a streak of his father’s stubbornness. Jason looked at me pointedly, prompting me to speak.

“Yes, keep them,” I said, “please, Meleager. They are of no use to me.” I spoke as if the words came easily, but they did not. No woman had ever taken such a prize before— won in the company of heroes, awarded by a king—and I truly yearned for it. But Jason was right. The others would take offense if Meleager had his way.

The prince refused to heed us. “You shall have them,” he insisted. Jason sighed in exasperation.

After a sudden, heavy silence, Cepheus jumped to his feet, gripping Ancaeus’ ax. “You insult us if you do this,” he snarled at Meleager. “The dead most of all!”

Meleager’s hand went to his scabbard. “And you forget yourself, Cepheus,” he replied.

“No, nephew,” said Toxeus, stepping in front of Cepheus. “It is you who forget yourself. You are the son of a king, yet this woman”—he pointed his chin at me—“has you playing the dunce.”

“Uncle—” Meleager began warningly.

“A slut with dirt between her toes?” added Plexippus. He was the coarser of the queen’s two brothers and had been eyeing me since my arrival. “Surely her favors can’t be worth the trophies.”

Meleager’s dagger was in his hand. He looked at his uncles with loathing. “Do not say another word,” he warned. “Or I will forget that you are my kin.”

“Meleager, please,” I said, just as Jason took hold of Meleager’s arm. Perhaps it was Cepheus, lurching forward with the ax upraised, or Toxeus, reaching out in a clumsy attempt to snatch Meleager’s dagger, or even Jason, shifting like a wrestler, to block him. Yet something ignited Meleager’s smoldering rage, and like a torch roaring into flame, or the sweep of fire through dry grass, it consumed them all with terrible swiftness.

I saw a tangle of bodies grappling and falling and coming apart, as one man struck another, and was struck in turn. Jason shouted and broke away with a gash across his arm. Toxeus sank to his knees clutching his chest, blood striping his hands. Then Plexippus pitched forward onto his brother; Meleager’s dagger had found him, too.

When it was over, Meleager had wounded a friend and killed two kinsmen. The sun beat down on us with sudden white heat. Meleager turned to me almost blindly.

Mouth dry, I backed away from him.

“Take the trophies,” he said.

Apollo:
Enough bloodshed!

Artemis:
Do you think so?

Apollo:
I wish you were more moderate, sister.

Artemis:
That’s your specialty, not mine. Besides, Oeneus hasn’t learned his lesson. What a balky old man he is!

Apollo:
Haven’t you punished him enough?

Artemis:
Others will help me now.

Apollo:
What do you mean by that?

Artemis:
Wait and see.