Quiver (8 page)

TWENTY-SIX

I chased the apple and then I chased my suitor. As I drew closer to him, I remembered Zoi’s prediction on the beach at Gortys, that poets would sing of my strength, and my courage, and my wild spirit. Her words had amazed me, for I had often yearned for glory, but secretly and without hope. Only men were heroes, never women; it had always been so. Zoi had made me think that would change.

Will the poets sing of me if I lose? I wondered, coming abreast of Hippomenes. Then I thought, They will if they are clever. Win or lose, it makes a good story.

I fell into step with Hippomenes and we ran side by side, as we had at the start of the race. But now he was breathing so hard that his mouth was agape, and his eyes were wide with effort and fear. He looked like a hunted stag. We were almost at the finish post, and he could see that I was running entirely without strain. It would be easy for me to pull ahead even now, and he knew it.

Three paces from the finish I felt his eyes on me. I tilted my head so that he alone could see my face, and I smiled. Then I shortened my stride by a hand’s-breadth—no, the hand’s-breadth of a child—and we came to the end of the race.

Eros:
I won! I won!

Aphrodite:
Hippomenes won, you mean.

Eros:
Yes, Hippomenes won!

Aphrodite:
She certainly kept me in suspense all the way to the end. Are you sure you hit her with your arrow?

Eros:
I hit her, Mother. She loves him. That’s why she lost.

Aphrodite:
Poor boy. He’s going to have his hands full.

He took my hand and squeezed it, hard, while his chest heaved and his head came down. His wet hair clung to his neck in dark tendrils. I smelled clove and sweat. When he could speak, he whispered his thanks so passionately that I blushed. There were sparrows chirping, and a few murmurs of surprise from the crowd, but for a time I was aware of little else but Hippomenes and the feel of his hand gripping mine.

Then my father cleared his throat. He looked dumbfounded, as if I had just metamorphosed into a Cyclops. For once he was truly at a loss for words: the outcome of the race had rendered him speechless.

He is an old man, very near death, I thought, and I pitied him.

“Father,” I said, stepping forward, “will you award the victor?” In case he had forgotten, I added, “He is called Hippomenes.” My father recovered himself and beckoned to Hippomenes, who knelt before him.

The gathering fell silent.

“Today is an auspicious day,” said my father, “and a hopeful one for our kingdom. In winning against my daughter—Atalanta, swiftest of mortals—Hippomenes has also won her hand. There will be no death today, but a celebration—a wedding feast.” At this, Nephele fairly bobbed with happiness.

My father raised his voice, declaiming with mock solemnity, “You are a lucky man, Hippomenes. The gods must love you!” This drew laughter, as well as a modest shake of the head from my betrothed.

Forgive me, goddess, I thought. Be merciful.

Looking my way, my father added, “May they love you even more when Atalanta is your wife.” It was his way of saying he wanted a grandson as quickly as possible, and again there was laughter.

Hippomenes cast a sidelong glance my way and my toes curled. I resolved to make an offering to Artemis without delay.

Eros:
The ivory quiver, please.

Apollo:
You little cheat! You shot Atalanta and made her fall in love! It wasn’t a fair bet.

Eros:
She lost, I won. Hand it over.

Apollo:
I’m warning you, Eros, this isn’t the kind of thing I take lightly. And when Artemis hears about it, she’ll be furious! My sister has a hair-raising temper, you know, much worse than mine. It’s as bad as Zeus’!

Eros:
I’ll try to remember that. And if you ever want to place another bet—

Apollo:
No more bets for me.

Eros:
Too bad. The stakes on whether she has a boy or a girl are going to go sky-high.

TWENTY-SEVEN

I am chaste no more, but my modesty is intact. So I will say only this of my wedding night: my father leered, Nephele wept, and Entella fussed, but Hippomenes’ ardor made up for it all. I had never expected to leave my girlhood with such joy, yet I did.

As he and I lay entwined, watching the night fade away, we spoke softly of many things. He told me about his homeland, Mycenae, the great city to the east, and his family; I told him about mine. When I spoke of my mother—haltingly, for I had never done so before, save with Entella—he stroked my face.

At first light he told me of his prayers to Aphrodite, and her gift of the golden apples. “She said they would enchant you, that you would chase them because you are a woman and all women love gold. Even so, I feared you would not.”

I asked why.

“Because you are not like other women,” he said, stroking my cheek, “and I knew it from the moment I saw you.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“When we gathered for the Hunt. You were talking with Jason, and stringing your bow. At first I thought you were a man, because of your height. Then I came closer.” He took my hand. “I remember thinking you were unlike any woman I had ever seen, and more beautiful.” He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. “I feared you might disdain the apples, or that they would not interest you.”

“You used them, though.”

“They were all I had,” he said. “I loved you and I wanted you. Aphrodite answered my prayers. When she offered her help, I could not really quibble about the form it took, could I?”

I shook my head.

“I won because you let me win,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I turned. “When we first spoke, I felt as if I knew you, somehow, and that you knew me. You felt . . . familiar. The feeling grew stronger as we raced. At the end, I—I could not bear to think of you dead.”

I could just see his smile in the waning dark. Presently he said, “Your father was right.”

“About what?”

“I am a lucky man.”

We stayed in all that day and night, attended by Galini and Agnos, who swept our chamber, sprinkled it with lavender, brought food and water at regular intervals, and never glanced at Hippomenes without blushing. I could not fault them. Still, I was always impatient for them to go, as I longed to be gazing at him or touching him myself. Even Aura, who had taken up residence on the dusty old tiger skin, was besotted. If he so much as spoke her name, her ears flew back and she scuttled over to him adoringly.

The next day he left me before dawn, and she went with him. When they returned, she had something long and slender in her mouth. She carried it as carefully as if it were a newborn pup.

Artemis:
Whatever happened to my quiver?

Apollo:
Quiver? What quiver?

Artemis:
The ivory one. That you won from me.

Apollo:
Oh, I misplaced it. I’m sure it’ll turn up.

Artemis:
You lost it?

Apollo:
Heavens! Just look at the sky! If I don’t hitch up my chariot, sunrise will be late!

“What’s that?” I asked, stretching contentedly. Sunshine flashed in the tiger’s glass eye, making it wink. It was midmorning. I had been sleeping for hours.

“Something for you,” said Hippomenes, urging Aura forward. She set the thing on the bed. It was a quiver of pale animal horn, edged with gold, adorned with delicate carvings of the waxing and waning moon. Two quail feathers hung from its red leather strap, which was sewn with tiny, perfectly even stitches.

I picked it up. It was as smooth and slender as a deer’s shinbone, nearly weightless, and infinitely pleasing to hold.

“This is a treasure,” I said, thinking I had never seen anything so finely wrought. Castor’s bows, even the golden apples, paled before it. “It might have been made by Hephaestus.” The smith-god’s works were so beautiful that he was thought to be more of a sorcerer than a craftsman.

Hippomenes smiled. “It is worthy of you.”

I thanked him with an embrace. Presently he told me that he had found the quiver in the forest, on the moss-covered banks of a stream, after offering to Eros.

“Eros!” I was surprised to hear the boy-god’s name. He was a capricious, heartless creature, who took pleasure in tormenting gods and mortals alike with sudden, inexplicable passions. In his way he was more frightening than Pan, who amused himself by broadcasting fear.

“Why were you offering to him?”

“Gratitude,” said Hippomenes.

I felt his watchful golden eyes on me as I took in his meaning. Two breaths, three, and I had it.

So, I thought, Zoi was right: I did suffer a wound, a powerful one. The pain I felt when I first met Hippomenes had been Eros’ invisible arrow. It had pierced my heart, and I had fallen in love.

My mind struggled with this like a fish on a line. “Did you invoke him?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I only supplicated Aphrodite. The apples were hers. But the rest . . .”

“My love for you?”

He looked stricken. “Are you angry?” he asked.

I shook my head. It was not anger but a need to be alone that caused me to dress so hastily. When I was at the door, he asked me where I was going.

“I, too, have offerings to make,” I said.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Entella told me where to go, to the hill west of the palace, near Lord Zeus’ sanctuary. It did not take me long to get there; I had seen the tall, lightning-riven oak many times during my morning runs. The sanctuary overlooked fields, forest, and the blue-green river Loussios, where the god had bathed as a child. Moss on the altar and a cold firepit told me the place was long out of use. But it was sacred ground, and I trod carefully.

I had never noticed the tomb before. It was not far from the oak, yet unlike the great, blasted tree, it was not a feature of the landscape. It was regal enough—its stones were large and polished and it enjoyed the same majestic view as the sanctuary—but it was set into the hillside so that it could not be seen from the palace. This made perfect sense, I thought. My father was not one to acknowledge his shortcomings. Why would he wish to be reminded of the worst mistake of his life?

I sank down before the tomb and bowed my head.

“Mother,” I whispered, “I am your lost girl, Atalanta. If you grieve for me, grieve no more. I am sixteen years old, tall and strong and fast on my feet. Entella says I resemble you. Now love has come my way. That and learning to ride a horse have made me very happy.

“I hope with all my heart that these tidings bring you peace.”

As I got to my feet, a dog barked in the distance. It was Aura, who covered my face with kisses when I bent to greet her. She came with me into the forest, settling nearby when I reached my shrine. It was a rough thing, a simple rock platform, but I kept it clean, and placed a flower there every day.

Now I knelt before it, palms on my knees, and composed myself as best I could.

After a time I said, “Merciful goddess, please hear me. I swore to remain chaste and I am chaste no longer. I vowed not to marry, and now I am a wife. I pledged my life to you, wanting to be yours always, yet somehow, without willing it, I have changed.”

I closed my eyes. “Nevertheless,” I confessed, “I am happy.

“Goddess,” I said, “I never meant to offend you. I never intended to stray from your company. I will always be grateful for your mercy. And I thank you, most humbly, for allowing me to take love where I found it.”

I opened my eyes, half expecting to feel her there. But the air was still and limpid, the forest hushed. I held the quiver aloft.

“Please accept this offering,” I said. Then I set it on the shrine.

Artemis:
I’m touched.

Apollo:
You should be!

Artemis:
I can’t help wondering how she got the quiver, though.

Apollo:
Why trouble yourself? It’s yours again. That’s what matters.

Artemis:
I suppose you’re right. Want to go hunting?

Apollo:
Let’s.

Aura saw Hippomenes before I did. He had stationed himself near the northwest corner of the palace and was looking first in one direction, then another, as we started downhill. She barked and charged ahead toward him. Seeing us, he began to run our way. He ignored Aura when she jumped at him, hurrying to me with such stark urgency that I froze and nearly stumbled, wondering what awful news he bore.

But he said nothing. Instead, his arms came around me hard. It was more like a grip than an embrace, harsh and convulsive as a wrestling lock, and I recoiled. Feeling this, he whispered that love had made him do what he did, that if it was less than honorable, he was sorry, truly sorry. He begged my forgiveness so abjectly that I stopped resisting. Instead, I laid my head on his shoulder and stood motionless until he fell silent.

We both heaved long sighs.

Eventually I freed an arm and patted his back, feeling the smoothness between his shoulder blades, the soft curls at the base of his neck, the tense line of his jaw. He closed his eyes, and I kissed the tender places beneath them.

“There is nothing to forgive,” I said, and once again he embraced me, this time gently, yet with such persuasive longing that we were soon hurrying away from the palace, seeking some soft, hidden place where we could lie together.

As we came to the sanctuary, Hippomenes reached for me. At his touch I discarded my clothing—and my girlhood piety—with ludicrous haste. In the rapture of my desire for him, I overlooked the fact that we were on sacred ground.

The gods, however, overlook nothing.

PART FOUR

The Lion’s Roar

TWENTY-NINE

We live in the forest now, sleeping by day, hunting by night. Zeus changed us for defiling his sanctuary. We should have restrained ourselves that day, but we did not. Passion prevailed, we angered the Lord of all Creation, and we paid the consequences.

So now we are lions.

In air that rippled and cracked with lightning—the bolts flew around us like burning reprimands—I watched my beloved’s face grow broad and blunt, saw a mane spring up around it like a dusky golden cloud, saw his long, sinewy body fall to the ground and rise up transformed. If anything, he became even more beautiful. His eyes, large and uptilted, continued to regard me with unswerving devotion.

My metamorphosis was equally swift and painless.

We can no longer speak with words, but we manage quite well without them. Touch is its own infinite language, and we have come to understand it very well. Our other senses are much sharper also. I especially like my new ears, which turn and flick with ease, and my new nose, which is remarkably powerful. Hunting has never been more satisfying.

Of course many things were lost to us. Countless memories vanished. Those that spring up in sleep—vivid, startling pictures of another life—slip away like shadows when we wake. I remember animals best—a great, fragrant, woolly she-bear, an ugly boar, a dog, and a horse.

Sometimes I growl when dreaming of my past, and then my mate wakes me. I know when he is dreaming because his tail twitches. There are worse things than feeling his mighty tail brush my nose, so at such times I leave him in peace.

Nevertheless, I woke him yesterday—not because he was restless, but because he was sleeping very soundly, and I wanted his attention. I nudged him with my snout until at last he raised his head. Then I nipped him; this brought him fully awake. He glared at me, whiskers aflare.

Purring, I flicked my tail. At last he caught a whiff of our newborn and was on his feet to inspect her.

He bent his head to take in her scent more thoroughly. Then his golden eyes blazed, and he gave a long, fullthroated roar of satisfaction, so loud that it drew twitters from the birds in the trees. It only made her burrow deeper into my side, and suck harder.

I liked her utter lack of fear, her instinct for survival.

She would be a fine hunter.

I would teach her myself.