Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast

by Jane Yolen

  She knew that all she had to do to get free of the collar, the rope, the humiliations, was to talk to the people of Eteos, to let them know she was as human as they. But that would have been a defeat. For if they knew that she was one of them, that her father was dead, they would make her stay. Make her live in the village.

  I can take anything, she thought, but that.

  As the sun started down, Atalanta slumped against the post. An old woman, dressed in a frog-green garment with a bundle of kindling on her back, stopped to cluck and shake her head at the ragged captive.

  “Poor child,” she said through broken teeth. “Poor child.”

  Atalanta growled at her and the old woman left, still shaking her head.

  Then two boys appeared, elbowing each other and laughing.

  “Go on,” said one, “go closer.”

  “No, she might eat me,” his friend protested with a giggle.

  Egging each other on, they edged toward her, smirking and chuckling.

  “Hoi—wild child!” the braver one called.

  Atalanta remained motionless, not even looking at them, pretending that she was half asleep.

  Just let them come within reach and they’ll find out how wild I really am, she thought. She’d pay them back for their taunts with broken noses and split lips. A few more feet…

  “Get away from there!” boomed a familiar voice. “Leave the girl in peace! She’s not hurting you.”

  At the sight of Evenor striding toward them, the boys took off, disappearing among the mud brick cottages. Atalanta opened one eye and peeked after them. Then, smelling food, she sat up.

  Evenor approached her without fear, but he was careful to stay outside the measure of her rope. He set a pair of painted pottery bowls on the ground near her. One was filled with water while the other contained pieces of dried fruit, some scraps of salted meat, and a half loaf of old bread that had been softened in olive oil.

  “I’ll bring you some blankets to keep you warm tonight,” he said, looking up at the darkening sky. “It’s getting cold again. This summer seems so unpredictable. At least it shouldn’t rain.”

  She didn’t answer him. The villagers knew nothing about her. Nothing! Not even that she could talk.

  “No one will have you in their home, you see,” Evenor went on, speaking to her as if she understood him but clearly believing she did not. It was just the way she talked to Urso. “No more than they would a wolf or a wild boar. My wife is of the same mind, and I suppose I can’t blame her. We’ve the children to consider.”

  He sat on his haunches and waited while Atalanta stuffed the food into her mouth by the handful. While she ate, she stared at the long scar that ran down his right arm, willing him to explain it to her.

  As if he understood, Evenor pointed to the scar. “It was a boar I thought dead did this,” he said. “I got too close and he’d just enough life left to pay me back for killing him. It just goes to show, you can’t be too careful when you’re dealing with wild things.” He winked at her.

  She refused to wink back. Let him guess, she thought. Let him try and guess. She would not help.

  Instead, she finished her meal and pushed the bowls away. She would eat his food to keep up her strength, but she wouldn’t thank him for it.

  Evenor sighed and gathered up the empty bowls. “I’ll be back with the blankets, as I promised.” He left, going into one of the mud-brick houses.

  He kept his promise, bringing out two threadbare pieces of cloth that scarcely covered her middle. But he didn’t come to see her the next day. She guessed that he’d gone off hunting. Or to work in the fields with a long, curved scythe cutting grain. She’d seen some of the men head to the fields. Atalanta was amazed to find she missed him.

  A woman—probably Evenor’s wife—came out of the same house and set down bowls of food and water within Atalanta’s reach before hurrying away.

  Some children gathered around while she ate. They started calling her names, but Atalanta bided her time. As soon as they ventured close enough, she let fly with the water bowl. She caught one boy on the side of his head breaking the bowl in the process. He ran off howling for his mother, blood streaming down his neck.

  She was glad when night came, and she could settle down under her thin blankets. This time she slipped almost immediately into a deep sleep.

  Something rough and wet rubbing against her cheek woke her. Opening her eyes blearily, she saw a bulk looming dark against the quarter moon.

  “Urso,” she whispered.

  He stopped licking her face and gave her a wide bear grin.

  Rubbing her face against his neck, she made a soft growling sound, assuring him that she was all right. His answering growl was a lot deeper and louder, like the rumble of nearby thunder.

  “Quiet, boy. There may be folks awake yet,” she whispered to him. “How is your paw?” She pointed at it.

  He held up his right foot. It seemed neither swollen nor scarred.

  “Good. I’m glad of that,” she told him. “Now I need help.”

  She showed him the rope, and he understood at once that it tethered her to the stake. Digging his claws into it, he ripped the fibers apart shred by shred. When the last few cords snapped, Atalanta jumped to her feet. She took hold of the leather collar and tried to pull it loose, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Time for that later,” she said.

  He gave her another rumbling answer. Then, all at once, he reared up on his hind legs and sniffed the air. His head tilted, his lip curled to expose the fangs on the left side of his maw.

  Atalanta knew what that meant.

  Danger!

  CHAPTER TEN

  A SMALL HERO

  HER EYES DARTED ABOUT, but there was no sign of any of the villagers. They were tucked into their houses, sleeping. So where was this danger?

  “What is it, Urso?” she asked.

  Nose down, he faced toward one of the houses.

  Then she spotted what was worrying him. Even by the dim light of the quarter moon she could see the brightly colored zigzag pattern that ran down its back. Those markings were clear: The snake was venomous and deadly.

  Slithering silently, it had now reached one of the cottages and slid under the ill-fitting door.

  Evenor’s house.

  Atalanta hesitated. For all that she’d surrendered herself to the wildness of the forest, it was one of her father’s teachings that still sang loud in her heart: Help those who need help.

  She warned herself. You have time to escape. You owe these people nothing.

  But this was Evenor’s house. Of all the people of Eteos, he’d been the one to bring her blankets and food. He’d spoken kindly to her when he needn’t have taken the time.

  She sprinted headlong across the open ground toward the cottage, the bear only a few steps behind.

  As she ran she thought: The door is probably barred. Everyone knows to be that careful.

  Then she noticed a small window beside the door, covered only by a curtain of sackcloth and half lifted because of the softness of the night. She launched herself through the little window, brushing the frame on both sides as she tumbled in. Both her arms felt scraped raw, but nothing could stop her now.

  At the thump of her landing, the two children who’d been asleep near the hearth sat bolt upright. The little girl squealed.

  Atalanta lunged forward. The snake’s fangs were only an inch from the child’s bare foot.

  “Aieeeee!” Atalanta cried as she pinned the serpent to the floor with both hands on the back of its head.

  “It’s the wild girl!” the boy exclaimed.

  Atalanta recognized that voice. He was one of the boys who’d tormented her only the day before. But there was no time to think of that now. She had to kill the snake. And quickly.

  Her father had shown her how to do this. With one hand she gripped the serpent firmly behind the head so it could not turn and bite her. At the same time, her other hand seized it by the tai
l. Then in a lightning swift motion, she flung the head away from her and whipped the snake through the air by its tail. Its head hit the edge of the stone hearth with a crack that split its skull and knocked a water jar onto the floor, where it shattered.

  Atalanta tossed aside the dead creature and was turning to go, when she heard the sound of a curtain being yanked aside.

  The hanging that separated the little cottage into two cramped rooms was pulled open, and there stood Evenor with an axe in his hand, his wife cringing behind him.

  “She did it!” the boy called out.

  “What?” Evenor was baffled.

  “She killed the snake!” The boy’s voice suddenly cracked, as if he’d just realized the danger.

  “What snake?” Then Evenor spotted the dead serpent coiled on the dirt floor.

  “Papa, she just flew in through the window and killed it,” the little girl added. “It would’ve ate us.”

  “Blessed Artemis,” her mother cried and ran over to embrace both her children. Then she put them behind her, staring at Atalanta for a long moment with a lessening fear in her eyes.

  There were sudden deep-voiced cries of alarm coming from outside. Atalanta understood at once what must be happening. Turning and lifting the heavy beam that barred the door, she bolted outside.

  Villagers had heard the noise—of the child’s scream or the shattered jar. Coming out to investigate, they had spotted Urso. A pair of men were already advancing on him with spears.

  One was Goryx, who was urging his companion, “Finish him! Finish him now!”

  Standing upright, Urso slashed the air with his claws, a stance that was clearly threatening. But the men stood their ground and soon the rest of the villagers joined them, forming a semicircle of spears, pitchforks, and torches around the beleaguered bear.

  Evenor had come out of the house to see what was going on, his axe still in his hand.

  Turning, Atalanta seized his scarred arm.

  “Please,” she cried. “He won’t hurt anyone. He only came to help me.”

  “So she talks after all,” said Phreneus, rubbing his beaky nose.

  Just then Urso swung a great claw and dashed aside the nearest spear point. The men moved back, well away from his reach, muttering uncertainly to one another.

  Evenor lowered his axe. “Don’t provoke him,” he called out. “Can’t you see it’s the girl he’s concerned about?”

  “They’re both equally dangerous,” said Goryx. “Press on!” As if taking his own advice, he darted forward and scraped a gash across the bear’s shoulder with the end of his spear.

  With a roar like an avalanche, Urso lunged at him, trapping the spear beneath his paw and snapping the shaft in two with his weight.

  Staggering back, Goryx squealed as if he—and not the bear—had been blooded. “Bring up the nets! Bring up the nets!”

  Two men ran up, unrolling a rope net between them.

  “No, stop!” Atalanta screamed, but she was too late.

  The villagers flung the net over the bear. Its rope coils covered him and soon Urso flailed about, bellowing his rage, struggling to get free.

  One man tried to press home too soon. His spear sailed harmlessly over the bear’s hump. Urso reached out with the one paw that was not trapped and clubbed the man to the ground.

  Atalanta moaned and tried to run forward, but strong hands held her, almost throwing her to the ground.

  “No!” pleaded a voice. “Let her be!”

  It was Evenor’s wife, a long dark cloak around her nightclothes, running forward with her children right behind.

  “She saved our children.”

  All faces turned away from the struggling bear to look at the family with astonishment.

  “It’s true,” Evenor confirmed in a commanding voice. “We owe her a debt. She killed a snake in our house. She’s a hero, that girl.”

  There were some disgruntled mutterings from the men, and Phreneus called out, “A hero? Awfully small for such.”

  “She did. She did,” called out the little girl from under her mother’s sheltering arm. “Caught a serpent and killed it. With her hands! It was ready to eat me.”

  Her brother, braver, stood in front of his mother. He held the dead snake by the tail. “See! She could have just run off. But she saved Daphne instead.”

  “You heard them,” said Evenor. “Let go of the girl. And let the bear alone. It’ll be tame once she’s loose.”

  The villagers were reluctant to obey, but Atalanta broke free and ran straight to Urso.

  “It’s all right,” she told him, punctuating her words with reassuring snorts and growls. “Nobody’s going to hurt you now.”

  “She’s mad,” came Goryx’s voice. “That’s plain enough. As soon as we’ve killed the bear we should dig a pit to keep her in.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A SIGN FROM THE GODS

  CAN’T YOU SEE THE gods have sent us a sign?” Evenor’s wife demanded. “We were never meant to harm this animal or the wild girl.” Her hands tightened on her children’s shoulders.

  Little Daphne broke from her mother’s grasp and ran over to put her arms around Atalanta, which brought her close to the bear’s claws.

  There were mutterings in the crowd. Evenor started toward them, but his wife held him back. “Don’t worry, Evenor. The bear won’t harm Daphne. Can’t you see—the wild girl won’t let him.”

  “That bear broke my spear,” Goryx complained. “He’s nobody’s tame pet.”

  One or two of the men grunted their agreement.

  “You broke his skin first,” Atalanta retorted, turning to glare at him.

  Now little Daphne was astride the bear’s humped neck and he turned his head slowly to look at her, though he was still bound by the net.

  Evenor started forward again as the bear’s tongue lolled out and gave Daphne’s leg a big swipe.

  “He tickles!” the child called out. “Do it again, bear.” She kicked his shoulders with her bare heels, and the bear licked her a second time.

  “His name,” Atalanta said, “is Urso.”

  “Urso! Urso!” cried the little girl, putting her arms around the bear’s neck.

  Her father came over and lifted her off. “Poor bear. He’s tired. He’s had a long night and his shoulder is hurt. Come, Daphne, climb down so we can get that net off of him.” He sent her off to her mother with a little push.

  Reluctantly, she went back to the safety of her mother’s embrace while Evenor gingerly helped Atalanta free Urso from the net.

  Evenor’s wife nodded her head at Atalanta. “You can stay with us,” she offered. “It’s much nicer inside the house than…” She looked with dislike at the stake in the middle of the village where the shredded rope now hung down like a dead serpent.

  Shaking her matted locks, Atalanta demanded, “What about my bear?”

  “We’ve…we’ve no room for him inside,” the woman said a bit hesitantly, adding, “but he can sleep by the door. First, though, let’s see about his wound.” She put her hand out. “I am Herma, Evenor’s wife. You saved our children and we’ll repay the debt.”

  Atalanta took the offered hand. “And I am Atalanta. There is no debt to repay.”

  By the time the rest of the villagers had returned to their own houses, Evenor had produced some oats splashed with honey for Urso. At the same time, Herma brought out a vial of ointment to spread over the gash in the bear’s shoulder.

  Atalanta made Urso lie down and keep still while Herma applied the salve. Herma was not a great talker, which Atalanta appreciated, and they worked side by side in companionable silence.

  Once the bear was taken care of, Herma turned to Atalanta.

  “I’ve stew in the pot. I’ll bring some for you,” she said almost shyly.

  “That would suit me,” Atalanta said. “Can I eat it out here? Urso could use the company. And…”

  “I promise no one will hurt the bear,” Evenor told her. “If it will make y
ou easier, I’ll stay outside with him.”

  “No, he’s my friend,” Atalanta said. “He was injured because of me.”

  Just then Herma returned with a pottery bowl brimming with stew. Atalanta took the bowl and sat down by the bear while Evenor and Herma went back into the house.

  Urso coughed once, and sniffed audibly at the food until Atalanta poured half of what she’d been given in front of him. He ate it quickly, then almost immediately went to sleep.

  Once she’d eaten what was left in the bowl, Atalanta lay down with her head on Urso’s flank. She slept only fitfully for the rest of the night but—for the first time in weeks—with a full belly.

  In the morning, Urso was gone, having sneaked away while Atalanta slept. In a way she was relieved. That way none of the villagers could change their minds about him.

  The door opened and Herma came out with another bowl, this one filled with dried fruit, and bread smeared with honey. Daphne clung to her skirts.

  “Where’s Urso?” the little girl asked.

  “Gone off by himself for a couple of days,” Atalanta replied.

  “But I wanted to pet him,” Daphne said.

  “He didn’t want any more petting,” her mother told her. “Now—go bring Atalanta a cup of fresh water.”

  Daphne hurried back into the house.

  The fruit was good, but the bread was even more delicious. Almost as good—Atalanta thought—as her own mother’s baking. Atalanta hadn’t cared much for learning to cook and her father had been hopeless as well, so they’d gone a long time without good bread.