Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast

by Jane Yolen

  Atalanta covered her mouth with her hand to hide a smirk. Orion hadn’t seemed to need much prompting to relate his stories.

  Indeed, it wasn’t long before he was telling Evenor and Atalanta all about a seven-headed sea monster he’d slain while on the island of Delos, about his faithful dogs who could put up ninety birds with one leap, about the Keshite lion he’d captured alive and given as a present to the king of that country, and so on and so on. If she hadn’t seen him wrestle the raging bull to the ground, Atalanta would have thought he was making all of it up. But maybe, she mused, maybe most of it’s true.

  When he was done storytelling, Orion spoke to them about the length of spears, the proper flight of arrows, and the best way to hold a lion’s jaws apart. He pointed out tracks on the path, animal scratchings on the trees, and the difference between the scat of a stag and that of a doe.

  The man simply couldn’t stop talking.

  Atalanta mentioned this to Evenor once, when Orion had gone on ahead to scout, and he replied quietly, “Perhaps he’s lived too long alone in the woods and is used to the sound of his own voice.”

  She had no answer for that, nor did Evenor seem to expect one.

  They walked farther, but now darkness was stitching up the garment of the day. Soon it would be time to make camp.

  Spotting a rabbit lurking in the long grass, Atalanta took the bow off her shoulder and an arrow from the quiver, and in one swift movement bagged the creature.

  Once they found a place to camp and had laid out the fire perimeter and the rabbit was cooking on a greenwood spit, Orion passed her his wineskin.

  “Good shot,” he conceded.

  Atalanta’s cheeks reddened, but she nodded her thanks. It was as if she and Orion had come to a kind of alliance. She smiled to herself. Rabbits were easy. Wait till he saw how she stood up to the mantiger’s charge.

  She went to sleep to the drone of Orion’s voice, waking only when Evenor called her for her turn standing watch. Though with the din Orion made snoring, she doubted any animal—even the mantiger—would come near.

  Over the next few days, Orion took it upon himself to instruct Atalanta in some of the finer points of hunting.

  “A bow’s fine for rabbits and squirrels,” he told her, “but you need a proper hunting spear for bigger game.”

  “This has served me well enough,” Atalanta said, patting her own light javelin.

  “A weapon that does no more than wound can be the cause of your own death,” Orion cautioned her. “Especially hunting boar.”

  She nodded. Her father had said the same.

  “Boars die hard. Wounded, they’re as vengeful as the Furies. Evenor can vouch for that,” Orion added.

  “I was young then,” said Evenor, running a finger down the long white scar on his arm, “and too eager to claim a trophy.”

  “I have hunted boar,” Atalanta started to say, but Orion continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “A wounded beast is more enemy than prey,” he said. “If your shot doesn’t bring it down, it’s safer to miss altogether. If you’re trying to stop a boar with that bow of yours, little huntress, don’t aim for the heart. His hide is too thick and his breastbone will block the way. Aim for a vulnerable spot on the head: the eye or the ear. With a spot of luck you might pierce his brain. Otherwise that pretty skin of yours will get damaged.”

  Evenor moved between them and pointed at an old bite mark on Orion’s left arm. “I see you’ve picked up your own share of wounds.”

  “As I said before, a man who flinches from danger is no hunter,” said Orion. He pulled aside the lion skin and pointed. “See—there. And there. And there.” Each place he touched was a fearsome scar, some puckered like little mouths, others long white slashes. “But there is enough danger in the wild without taking foolish risks, little huntress,” he said, turning again to Atalanta. “No matter how helpless a beast may appear, don’t hold back from a final spear thrust or you could pay with your life. And if you corner a beast in its lair, be prepared to strike without hesitation.”

  On the third night of their journey, during her turn at the night watch, a familiar scent caused Atalanta to stare nervously around before she realized it was the smell of bear.

  Glancing over at Orion, she saw he was fast asleep and—for once—not snoring. Evenor also was deep in slumber.

  Noiselessly, she slipped away from camp, gliding a short way through the shadows, before she found Urso crouched in the darkness. As soon as he saw her he let out a soft, welcoming growl.

  “Hush, boy!” she whispered urgently, clamping a hand over his muzzle, “We can’t let Orion know you’re here. Who knows what he’d do.”

  Urso rubbed his shaggy neck against her.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” she said. “But we’re going off to King Iasus’ palace to round up enough men to hunt the mantiger.”

  At the beast’s name, Urso snorted.

  “No,” she told him, “you can’t come along. To Orion you’re just a helping of meat and fine fur cloak.”

  Urso made a low, plaintive whine.

  “Yes, it’s dangerous,” Atalanta confessed, “but if you want to help me, you have to keep out of sight. We’ll be in Tegea, the king’s city, soon. It won’t be safe for you there, so you have to stay out here, in the forest.”

  Urso licked her hand.

  “I can’t go home until this is done. The mantiger killed my father and it’s threatened my friends. We’re connected somehow, that beast and me. I don’t know why, but I know it’s so.”

  She wrapped her arms around Urso’s neck and hugged him hard before pushing him away. “Go now,” she said. “I have to get back before somebody notices I’m gone. Besides”—she struck her fist to her chest—“I am standing guard.”

  The bear stood up till he towered over her. Then he struck a paw to his own chest. Clearly he was saying that he, too, would stand guard. Then he bounded off into the trees, a great dark shape that was one minute there and the next gone.

  Atalanta stood for a few moments, remembering the feel of the bear’s head under her hand, the shaggy roughness of him. Then she turned to head back, and walked right into Orion, who was emerging from the bushes, his long spears in his right hand.

  Atalanta leaped back in shock.

  “I woke and you were gone,” he said in explanation.

  “I thought I heard something moving around. But I was wrong.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “None of us—myself included—is to leave guard station and go off alone.” He paused and sniffed at the air. Then his eyes scrutinized the hard-packed ground carefully.

  “Probably just a rabbit,” said Atalanta, stepping into his way.

  Orion lifted his head and raised an eyebrow. “A rabbit? With that musk?”

  For a heart-stopping instant, Atalanta was afraid he’d insist on pushing past her, find Urso’s tracks, and set off after him. But instead, Orion just turned around and headed back to camp. Letting out a sigh of relief, she followed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE CITY

  AFTER THREE DAYS AND nights, they passed beyond the trees and the green light of the forest, and came upon a long, parched road.

  “A few miles up this road should be Tegea,” Orion said.

  “How do you know?” Atalanta asked.

  “Look at the way the tracks of carts and horses go forward. The city calls them,” he said.

  Just then a cloud of dust came sweeping toward them out of the east. Atalanta could hear a great clattering of hooves.

  “It sounds like a stampede of wild horses!” she cried.

  Orion looked at her oddly. “Those are only chariots from the city.”

  “She has probably never seen a chariot,” Evenor said. “I have only seen two in my life.”

  In fact Atalanta wasn’t sure what a chariot was, but she’d never let Orion know that. Instead, she stepped to the side of the road and rested her hand lightly on her javelin.


  As the dust settled, Atalanta could see that pairs of horses were pulling six small, open-sided, double-wheeled wagons, each carrying two riders made of bronze. The metal covered their chests and surrounded their heads, casting their faces into shadow.

  Atalanta raised her javelin defensively. “What kind of monsters are these?” she whispered.

  Orion laid a hand on her arm, forcing her spear tip down. “Not monsters. They’re warriors. From Tegea. King’s men.”

  The chariots pulled to a halt in front of them and one of the warriors climbed down. His bronze breastplate was inlaid with elaborate silver swirls, his helmet ornamented with a great crest. Removing the helmet, he walked over to Orion.

  Why, Atalanta thought, he looks quite normal. The man seemed in his middle years, with curling black hair and a small dark beard. He gazed with steady gray eyes at Orion, at the double spears, at the lion skin draped over his shoulders.

  “Stranger,” he said, “who are you?”

  “I am Orion, son of Hyrieus,” Orion announced grandly, striking himself on the chest.

  “Orion!” exclaimed the man. “The gods be praised that our messengers found you. I am Ancaeus of Tegea, brother of King Iasus.” He, too, struck his chest. “My men and I are patrolling the land to keep our people safe from the Beast of Arcadia. With you here, that will no longer be necessary.”

  Atalanta turned to Evenor and whispered, “What makes him think that patrolling the main road will keep the mantiger from their farmyards or fields?”

  “Hush,” Evenor replied.

  “Take me to King Iasus,” said Orion, “that I may offer my services.”

  “Gladly,” Ancaeus replied. Then, as if only now noticing Atalanta and Evenor, he asked, “Who are these rustics?”

  “My companions,” Orion replied.

  “What—even that savage-looking girl?”

  Orion laughed. “Even her.”

  Ancaeus shrugged and waved them forward. “Climb aboard the chariots then.”

  Orion was to ride with Prince Ancaeus of course, while Atalanta and Evenor were to be with the soldiers in the following chariots. Atalanta didn’t like the feel of the armor pressing against her or the men who looked at her as though she were some sort of rodent who had sneaked up between their feet.

  The chariot started with a lurch, wheeling about so sharply, she almost fell out. She had to cling to the light wicker frame as the leather straps that formed the floor swayed beneath her feet.

  Down the wide road they sped, the horses kicking up dust. Atalanta bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her stomach felt as if it had fallen into her knees and was slowly trying to climb back to its proper place again. It was a long, uncomfortable ride, but the walk would have been longer. Atalanta wasn’t sure which she preferred.

  At last Tegea came into view.

  Atalanta had never seen a city before. When she bothered to imagine one at all, she’d always assumed a city would look just like the villages she was familiar with, only with more cottages.

  The reality was quite different.

  A ten-foot-high wall surrounded a mass of brick buildings, many of them two and three stories tall. As the chariots passed through a gateway, armored guards atop the wall saluted.

  “Hail, Ancaeus!” they cried.

  In the streets people looked down at them from high windows and balconies. Some even walked on the rooftops as though they were walking on the clouds.

  Surely this is what Olympus must look like, Atalanta thought, the place where the gods live.

  They passed grain stores, smithies, bakeries, wine stores, stables, carpentries, and scores of other buildings she couldn’t begin to identify. Wagons had to be wheeled out of the way as the chariots threaded through the crowded streets. Then the chariots turned onto an even wider street at the end of which rose an enormous building which had to be the royal palace.

  Surely, she thought, it’s the biggest thing ever built by man.

  The palace was surrounded by a great wall. It had high towers and ramparts patrolled by stern-looking men in polished bronze armor with huge shields and long spears. The closer the chariots came to the palace, the more impregnable the place seemed.

  At last, they pulled through the gates and into the palace courtyard. When she climbed down from the chariot, Atalanta felt her legs wobble unsteadily.

  “Why have they put a wall around the city?” she asked Evenor once the queasiness in her stomach had passed. “Is it to keep the people from wandering away and getting lost?”

  “Of course not,” he answered with a laugh.

  Atalanta was peeved at his response. “Well, that’s why they pen in the sheep and goats back in Eteos.”

  “The wall isn’t to keep people in,” Evenor explained patiently. “It’s to keep Tegea’s enemies out.”

  “What sort of enemies?”

  “Soldiers from another kingdom.”

  She gaped at him. “There are other kingdoms? Surely not as large as this.”

  “Larger,” he assured her.

  “Have you been there?”

  He laughed. “I’ve never even been here.”

  She wondered that he was so calm about everything—the ride, the armored men, the high wall. Then another thought struck her. “Why would other kingdoms want to come here?”

  He smiled at her and said softly, “Rival cities are like great bulls. Each one wants to control all the territory. So every so often they attack one another. That’s why Tegea has walls.”

  She nodded thoughtfully, then said, “If the kingdoms could agree not to attack one another, they could save themselves a lot of bother.”

  Evenor put his head to one side, considering. “A queen couldn’t have said better, child.”

  Just then Orion walked over, looking both proud and confident. “They’re giving us quarters right in the palace where we can wash up before being presented to the king.”

  “Doesn’t he know that you get dirty traveling in a chariot?” Atalanta asked.

  “Hush,” Evenor cautioned, but he was smiling.

  Orion paid her no attention for he was already following Prince Ancaeus into the palace. Atalanta and Evenor had to move quickly so as not to be left behind.

  The inside of the palace was even more astonishing than the outside. Atalanta found herself thinking how cold and unforgiving the white marble floors were for someone used to the softness of grass or the straw-strewn earth floor of a farmer’s cottage. The walls of the palace were also of smooth stone, but these were painted in bright colors. Every few feet oil lanterns set in alcoves gave out a weak, flickering light.

  Suddenly the men were guided in one direction and Atalanta was taken in hand by two women—servants by the way they fluttered about—who insisted she go with them.

  “Or trouble be on our heads, mistress,” confided the younger.

  They brought her up two flights of stairs to a small chamber with a window that overlooked the courtyard, then left. Atalanta ran over to the window, glad of the open air. Glancing down, she saw the horses being led off to the stables, the chariots rolled off into storage. There was no way down from the window. It was too high to jump.

  I am here, then, so make the best of it, she told herself. It was certainly better than being chained to a pillar in the middle of a village. But somehow it felt even more imprisoning.

  She turned and went over to the bed, a high mound of straw on a wooden platform. She set her weapons down on the linen coverlet where they sank into the thing as if into quicksand. She scowled. Imagine sleeping on that!

  Suddenly someone giggled behind her. She whirled around to see three new serving girls bustle into the room with bowls of water, towels, combs, and other implements she didn’t recognize. The girls put these items down on the wooden table and surrounded Atalanta, clucking disapprovingly.

  “We’d better get these dirty animal skins off,” said one.

  “And do something about this,” trilled another, plucking a
t Atalanta’s matted hair.

  The third tutted. “It’s going to take more than that to make this one presentable. Where does the king find them?”

  Atalanta pushed them away.

  “Keep your hands off me!” she roared, whipping out her hunting knife. “Get out! Now!” She slashed the air with her blade.

  The servant girls ran screaming from the room, calling for the guards. Closing the door behind them, Atalanta went back to the window.

  In a few minutes Evenor came rushing in and looked at the knife in her hand. “What’s going on?” he asked. “I hear you tried to murder somebody.”

  “They attacked me,” said Atalanta stubbornly. “They picked at my hair and poked me and…”

  Evenor grinned. “I expect they were just trying to clean you up. Look, here’s a bowl and cloth. Pretend you’re by a stream and wash the dirt off your face and arms. Let the girls come back and help you get dressed.”

  “Why should I?” Atalanta demanded sullenly.

  “Because you want to go on the hunt,” Evenor answered.

  “What does washing have to do with the hunt?” She felt hungry and angry and tired all in equal measure.

  “It has to do with royalty, Atalanta” he answered with cold patience. “Kings appreciate washing and this king is putting together the hunt for the mantiger. Please him, and you can go as Orion’s protégée. Fight him—and you’re on your own.”

  She glared.

  Evenor continued. “Look at me—I’ve already washed. Am I less a hunter? What’s a little bit of water and a few fine clothes if it means we rid the world of that awful beast.”

  She ground her teeth in frustration, but she knew he was right.

  An hour later they were walking to the throne room behind Orion. He was in a white chiton, cinched with a leather belt, the lion skin cape over his shoulder looking freshly brushed. His dark hair gleamed with oil and his sandals were oiled and polished.

  Evenor was dressed in a simpler chiton, girdled at the waist with a woven belt.

  At least they look comfortable, Atalanta thought. She’d been put into a short-sleeved gown that reached to her ankles. It kept catching between her legs, tripping her up. She could no longer stride as she was used to, but was forced to take shorter, mincing steps. She hated it. There were three gold pins in her hair.