Outrun the Wind

by Elizabeth Tammi

  “Because of Meleager?” I ask tentatively.

  Her head slowly comes back down, and she smiles sadly at me. “Yes, kind of. Maybe. But, also—” She leans forward almost jerkily, but abruptly cuts herself off, shaking her head. I’m completely confused. “Never mind,” she whispers, backing away like a scared animal.

  “What is it?”

  “You deserve more, okay?” Her voice is low and gravelly. “You deserve far more than to just be here, waiting out some ridiculous punishment and impossible task and being with me.”

  She spits the last word, and my confusion deepens. My chest rises and falls at an alarming rate. Her unhinged gaze is the hottest flame, searing enough to melt iron. I swallow roughly, staring at our feet, grass poking between our toes.

  “It’s almost dinner,” I whisper. “We—”

  “Let’s go,” she rushes simultaneously.

  We both nod too many times, turning in silence to mount our horses. The silence on our way up was easy and fluid in its presence, but this is a new breed of quiet; unasked questions and useless answers hover around us, but neither of us make a move to grab them. I stare at the back of her head; her hair is loose and unspools down her back. I remember staring at her simple braid for days as Nikoleta, Isidora, and I tracked her. In too many ways, she remains as distant now as she was then.

  Atalanta avoids me relentlessly for the rest of the evening. Dinner is exquisitely painful; I’m sitting right beside her, but anytime my head turns toward her, she rotates even further. The redness of her face and the uncharacteristic clumsiness of her actions speak more to embarrassment than anger, but I understand none of it. I resign myself to silence, and cut my meat into the tiniest bites I can to pass the time.

  When Iasus finally adjourns and the hall fills with the noise of scraping chairs and empty glasses, Atalanta slips quietly away to the balconied passageways of the upper story. I sigh, picking up our plates and helping Nora and the others clear off the table. I stall in my work, carrying out every detail with the hope she might come down. What in Hades happened this afternoon?

  Finally, I can’t pretend there’s even one stain left on the smooth wooden table. With one last look over my shoulder, I extinguish the remaining torchlight in a water bucket and leave through the kitchens. Even when I trudge down the hallways to my room, there’s a lingering hope that maybe, somehow, she might be there.

  But there’s nothing.

  Sleep takes a long time to visit me, and once it does, I wish it would leave. In my dreams, when Atalanta runs, it’s no longer clouds of dust that form in her wake. Murky clouds of green mist shroud her, and there’s no opponent in sight. Where she runs, the mist follows, and when it overtakes Atalanta, her scream shatters me completely.

  I rise with the sun, hoping I’m quick enough to catch Atalanta before today’s race. Apparently, I’m one of dozens to reach this conclusion: the track is already surrounded, suitors watching eagerly as Atalanta warms up with quick sprints. None of the men are brave enough to call out to her, but as I walk closer, I can tell from their hopeful stares that they’re praying she’ll turn around and speak even a word to them. They think their presence will earn them favor. If I know her, it’s the last thing they should be doing.

  Atalanta’s braid is half-heartedly woven, with strands already sticking to her forehead as sweat beads across her face. I’ve never seen it anything less than perfect. The confusion and fear from yesterday afternoon cling heavily to my legs, slowing my pace as I come to a halt by the edge of the track. I don’t move further. Suddenly, I feel like I’m no closer to her than the suitors I stand beside. I keep waiting and hoping for her to stop running and start looking at me. She never does.

  More and more spectators pour into the surrounding field, taking up the perimeter of the track and filling all the benches. I see Iasus and Nora take their usual seats at the top, faces weary with the knowledge of what they always witness on this track. Phelix leans against an oak, his arms crossed. He nods to me in greeting, but neither of us move toward the other.

  The early sunlight pours like liquid through the branches and across the spring-pale green of the fields. It’s moments like these when I’m forced to realize just how long I’ve been in Arkadia. Just how long I’ve been away from Artemis’s Hunt. My spine is alive with sudden nerves, but no matter how many times I glance around me, it’s just the same men who have downed our wine and slept in our empty rooms for weeks now.

  I exhale and focus on the track. I know when and how Ophelos will scratch the line through the dirt, and how Atalanta will deliberately take three long backward strides, just to show how triply better she is than her opponent. Her opponent isn’t worth learning the name of, and he will smile haughtily at the men before anxiety and concentration wage a war over his face the second he turns around. Atalanta’s face will flick up, eyes fiercer than a lioness’s, and Ophelos’s hand will come down. She will beat him, every time.

  And then it all happens just as I think it will. Her imperfect braid is jostled further out of place by her insane speed. This may have been her fastest race yet. Just like the suitors surrounding me, I surge forward once it’s finished, needing to reach her—needing to know what went wrong yesterday. The sunlight blinds her to and from my vision, but I keep squeezing between the men. I do lack one important thing that they all share: a fear of Atalanta.

  I push myself out of the throng, until I dig my heels into the dirt in front of her. She stares up at me, her face bright red and dripping sweat. Neither of us speak, both of us out of breath from more than just running. The servants who usually escort her back stare between us, unsure of whom to obey. What’s going on? I demand of her, until I realize I’m not as brave as I thought I was coming to be. She closes her eyes for a long moment, her head drooping. I can’t tell if it’s she or the servants who start moving back to the palace first. Either way, she’s away from me, and there’s nothing more I want.

  Right?

  I stand there, unmoving. I’m a rock in the middle of a parting sea, and all I hear is the rush of words and voices that I don’t care about. Phelix’s receding figure is barely recognizable all the way over at the stables. He goes inside without looking back. Why would he? Today was a normal race. The suitors mill around and laugh, completely ordinary. But something feels incredibly, unbelievably different. My spine is alive with lightning, and her voice is its inevitable thunder.

  “Is this a bad time then?”

  I turn around slowly—so slowly. I want this to be real. I need this to be real. I close my eyes as I pivot, and open them carefully once I’m swiveled. My throat closes, and I smile through a veil of sudden tears. I try to speak, but it comes out as half-sob, half-laugh.

  The girls grin right back at me and rush in for a hug. For the first time in months, my mind falls completely mute.

  Nikoleta and Isidora have come back for me.

  It’s a wonderful release and a crippling unease to see them, like this, here—two worlds imposing themselves over each other, both fighting for dominance. I don’t know where to look first. Nikoleta’s eyes are startlingly dark as always, and Isidora’s lithe figure is wrapped in a dark-green cloak. Her rich curls are perfectly swept across her shoulder, and though she towers a good few inches over Nikoleta, it’s clear that the latter is built for battle. Her build rivals Atalanta’s, and she even wears the same simple tunic, short and flexible.

  But I still have to stare long and hard at them. It’s like my mind can’t process that they are here. There are huntresses in Arkadia. They’re here for me. My cheeks are raw and strained from smiling.

  “How are you?” Isidora bursts. Nikoleta’s smile is less fluid, but still wider than I’ve ever seen from her. I hadn’t realized how much I’d forgotten about them in these months—how the faintest sprinkling of freckles dots Nikoleta’s nose, how the amber in Isidora’s eyes turns almost red when they ca
tch the sun. They’re not wearing the silver circlets that mark them as huntresses, which is always a good move when surrounded by hordes of strangers. There’s too much speculation in guessing how mortals might react to them. To us, I remind myself. I’m a huntress too.

  “I’m . . .” Words fail me. Even though Isidora’s asked me a question, there’s no voice in me that can answer. Not Delphi’s, and certainly not mine. “I’m doing all right. It got better,” I say. Isidora nods, still beaming. Nikoleta’s smile fades just slightly, and her eyes narrow in that disturbing way she uses when analyzing which strike will prove fatal. Faster than thought, I see her gaze dart to the closing doors of the palace as the last glimmer of Atalanta’s hair grabs the light before disappearing inside.

  As the shock fades, I realize we’re standing alone by the track. The suitors are still in sight, thronging the palace in their boisterous tents and drunkenly throwing javelins at makeshift targets. I nod toward the empty benches, and we move over to sit. The stone is still cold; no spectator of Atalanta’s races would be caught dead sitting. It’s a game that requires standing, shouting, and raucous applause.

  We sit in tense silence for a few moments, and I fiddle with one of my curls, wrapping it tighter and tighter around my finger until it loses sensation. Nikoleta stares straight out at the track, her eyes roaming the well-beaten dirt with a sort of envy. Isidora’s the one who finally laughs, and shakes her head. “This is crazy. Crazy. That was Atalanta racing, right? The same girl w—”

  “Yes,” I interrupt. I don’t want to be reminded. “Same girl. Very . . . interesting coincidence.”

  “You believe in those?” Nikoleta asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

  “What? Do you want me to say it’s fate?” I mean it as a joke, but Nikoleta’s gaze turns predatory again, and I swallow hard. Her eyes are fierce, but not cruel. Like she knows something—many somethings—that I don’t.

  Isidora swivels her head around the valley, taking in the enormous trees and the pulsation of life. “Well. It’s strange to be back.”

  My hands fly to my mouth—in the surprise of their arrival, I’d forgotten that Isidora is from here. Nikoleta snorts a laugh, but she’s still obviously analyzing me.

  “Do you remember anyone from here?” I ask. I’m flattered that after years away from here, I was the first one she greeted. Her smile dims slightly, and I hear the driving force behind her voice, making her bright and peppy.

  “Oh, my parents passed away when I was very young,” she says, with a nervous roll of her eyes. It doesn’t exactly answer my question, but there’s not much I can say to follow that either.

  Nikoleta moistens her lips, and turns to meet my eyes. “But Kahina, what’s it like living with Atalanta?” Her voice is unusually urgent and excited. “I swear Artemis didn’t even tell us she was from here.”

  They stare at me, enraptured, washed in the sunlight of Arkadia and framed by its mountains. They’re here. It’s impossible for them to not make me smile. “It’s fine, I guess. Having Atalanta here was—is—just really hard. She’s insufferable.”

  “How so?” Isidora asks.

  “Everything!” I laugh again, relieved that I can finally speak my mind. “I had to pretend to be her handmaiden. Atalanta’s handmaiden. Can you imagine? She was impossible.” I pause, remembering her recent behavior. “Is impossible.”

  “So I imagine you’re ready to leave then?” Isidora’s face is bright, expectant.

  Yes. But somehow, I can’t say it. I stare at the empty track, and I realize Atalanta’s footprints are still on it, still running and still winning long after she’s left.

  “Kahina?”

  I jolt, and look back to them. Isidora leans forward slightly, concern widening her features. But Nikoleta glances at the track, and I see her eyebrows raise just enough to make me nervous.

  “Yes!” I finally say. Because I am. It’s all I’ve been working for, and these girls—my friends—are at last beside me again.

  Isidora nods slowly, and her smile seems more made to reassure herself than me. Her eyes dart around Arkadia. She pulls her cloak a little tighter around herself. Nikoleta still squints at the track, and I clear my throat. “So what finally made Lady Artemis decide I succeeded?”

  It’s scary how fast Nikoleta’s eyes leave the track to find Isidora’s. They share a silent conversation, something that simultaneously bothered and amazed me when I first met them. Something’s not right—Isidora looks pained, and Nikoleta keeps staring at her pointedly, until she concedes a nod.

  “Well—she did say that she could sense the temple was becoming hers,” she starts. My heart thrills. Atalanta had been onto something—it wasn’t about destruction. It needed a reawakening. But then Isidora leans forward, the brightness in her face gone.

  “Kahina,” she starts, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Artemis wanted us to warn you.” I instantly feel faint. That’s all it takes for visions of choking mist and sickly green vapor to reappear, and I’m hardly surprised when she continues, “Our Lady thinks Apollo might know where you are.”

  “How?” I demand, standing up. My heart ricochets around my ribcage. I can’t breathe. I really, really can’t. Nikoleta yanks me back down until I’m sitting beside her, and she holds both my wrists tight in one hand. She grabs my chin, holding my face firmly in front of hers. She says nothing, but I draw some semblance of strength from her quiet power. The firm set of her jaw, the divinity in her blood shining from her eyes in a dark, intelligent light. I inhale. Exhale.

  This was the only reason I’d agreed to Artemis’s terms. The only reason I came here was so I’d be safe from Apollo—because Hippomenes knew I was with the huntresses.

  “Maybe it’s nothing,” Isidora says apologetically, like it’s her fault. “But just like she felt the temple becoming hers again, she also sensed her brother’s presence—close to Arkadia.”

  “And when you come back to the Hunt, she can protect you from her brother,” Nikoleta adds. She slowly lets go of my wrists, now that I can breathe. It’s still hard. I have to remind myself of the motions to make. Inhale. Exhale. “Which is why we need to leave.” An unseasonably cold breeze drifts over us, brushing Isidora’s curls.

  “I . . .” What am I supposed to say? Isidora shakes her head kindly, letting me know it’s okay. I don’t have to speak. When words finally come, they’re not what I expect. “Can I, at least, have a couple days?”

  Isidora frowns. She leans closer, inspecting my face until I tense. “I suppose, but why? It’d be preferable if—”

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” I rush, fear spilling into my mind. My thoughts come frantically, desperately, and I don’t know which ones to sort through first. When I try to picture Apollo, my stomach nearly caves in. When I try to imagine Atalanta dealing with everything—with Zosimos—alone, something latches my legs to Arkadian soil, and the idea of leaving seems unbearable. “Just a few days. Atalanta has this suitor . . .”

  Isidora’s knees bounce impatiently. Her spirit, as long as I’ve known her, has been generous and kind. But she’s clearly on edge, which puts me on edge. Nikoleta stares straight at me, and I’m almost certain she’s somehow hearing my thoughts. I hope they’ll understand that I can’t leave Atalanta today, not now, not with Zosimos. Artemis’s huntresses swear off love like that—the romantic and physical—but I know that before a lot of the girls joined, they’d loved. Maybe these two will understand.

  Loved.

  I blink.

  Love like that.

  Like what?

  I stare at the track, then force my eyes shut. Like nothing. Like nothing. I make myself believe it. I’m sick with nerves, and confusion, and so much fear. Always fear. “What will you tell people if they ask who you are?”

  “Servant girls,” Isidora replies. She straightens and adjusts the cloak around her head—already getting into ch
aracter. “From . . . Calydon?”

  I nod. “Good. I’ll see you all at dinner,” I manage. But I make no move to leave. I’m dismissing them, and when they realize it, they frown a little.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Isidora asks. I manage a tired look at her. She winces. “Stupid question. I can only imagine.”

  The thing is, I think she kind of can. Even if she can’t fully understand, Isidora can always imagine her way into all kinds of worlds and scenarios. Sometimes I wish I had her empathy, but most times it seems like a burden. She sighs, and Nikoleta jerks her head toward the tents sprawling around the palace.

  They traverse the softly sloping hills, side by side. As much as I wanted to be alone, once they’re out of sight, I’m crushed by more paranoia and terror—Apollo could be anywhere. My vision throbs and I lean forward, vomiting until my throat burns. Tears of fear and pain well up. It’s impossible to stay here. I know it. Like the girls said when they first arrived, word is spreading. Soon, all of Greece might converge in this tiny town, in this tiny estate, for the one girl who would sooner die than wed them.

  It’s impossible for us both, I realize. She can’t outrace the world. I can’t stay, and I can’t bear to leave her. We can’t outrun the wind. For a wild second, I consider asking Nikoleta and Isidora to take her with us.

  But then what? She’d be trading one set of shackles for another.

  The next morning’s race is fairly standard. No surprises, no wild excitement. Nikoleta and Isidora stride straight toward me afterward. I expect them to launch back into their appeal to leave Arkadia now, but instead, Nikoleta nods to Atalanta.

  “I might beat her, you know.”

  I immediately burst into laughter. The suitors slowly trickle out of the field, and Atalanta continues training. After all, these races are mere warm-ups for her. Isidora and I lean back on the stone benches, my palms straining from the weight pressed into the cold hardness. Atalanta tears down the track, her braid flying out behind her. I imagine I should be bored of watching her run, after all these weeks—but I never seem to be. Nikoleta’s appraising every turn of her joint, every breath from her lips, trying to decipher how a girl can be made more of motion than flesh. Isidora watches with easy admiration, and I think I’m somewhere in between.