Quiver

by Stephanie Spinner

  Remembering, I grimaced. “That is not how I felt,” I said.

  Hippomenes regarded me gravely for a moment. Then he said, “Meleager’s uncles behaved very badly. They were the elders. They should have shown restraint.” No one had thought to say this to me before; I had hardly been able to think it. Hearing the words, I felt both relief and gratitude. Who are you? I yearned to ask Hippomenes. How do you know me so well?

  It was at this moment that my father chose to begin his address. I had heard his speech often enough so that I could give it myself, but now, as he concluded with the familiar words, “If Atalanta wins, the prince must die,” I stopped breathing.

  Die? I thought, appalled. I glanced over at Hippomenes. He crouched in readiness, muscles taut, eyes on the track.

  “At my signal,” called my father.

  Eros: This should be good.

  Apollo: She’ll win. She always wins.

  Eros: Maybe not. I think she’s smitten. Did you see the way she was looking at him?

  Apollo: She looked the way she always looks—determined.

  Eros: How about a small wager? I say she loses.

  Apollo: You’re too young to gamble. Besides, you don’t have anything I want.

  Eros: I have forgetfulness powder, and elixir of convulsive lust.

  Apollo: Do you? Hmm. The powder sounds good.

  Eros: Zeus uses it on Hera all the time. One little sprinkle, and she forgets she’s a jealous wife.

  Apollo: Really! That sounds very useful.

  Eros: It never fails. Anyway, if I bet the powder, what will you bet? How about that quiver?

  Apollo: This? I don’t know . . . it’s such a handsome thing.

  Eros: So you are afraid she’ll lose.

  Apollo: All right, the quiver.

  He had long legs and a stride to match, and made a good, fast start when my father’s hand came down. Not a bad runner, I thought, catching up to him without difficulty. I ran alongside him for the first stretch, which seemed shorter than I remembered.

  No words passed between us, but we were close, and for the moment, alone. I stole a glance at him as we took the first turn. He was looking at me. When our eyes caught, I could not help but smile.

  We began to run uphill and he fell back. I slowed a little, moving to the outside and shortening my stride. It would be tricky to regulate the distance between us so that it did not grow, I thought; speeding up was so much easier. I was not accustomed to reducing my pace. Until now, I had always run to win.

  I put myself just far enough ahead of him so that I could hear his breathing.

  Something shot past me, shimmering in the air like a bit of rainbow. It fell to the ground directly in my path and lay there, glowing. Its muzzy radiance lured me like a song. Even thinking, Go on! Keep running! I could not. I stopped and picked it up.

  It was an apple made of gold.

  Artemis: What in holy Hades is that?

  Apollo: I don’t know. But she’s taking a long time to look at it. Blast! He’s running ahead, and she’s just standing there! She’ll lose the race if she doesn’t hurry!

  Artemis: Hmm. Odd.

  Apollo: Do something! Tell her to run!

  Artemis: Maybe I will. And maybe I won’t.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I turned the apple slowly in my hand. It was an enchanting thing—heavy, warm to the touch, its greenish gold surface textured with all the dots and speckles and tiny bumps of a real apple. It even gave off a faint perfume. But when I sniffed it, I smelled not apple, but clove.

  Clove, I thought. Hippomenes smelled of clove. Had he thrown it? I sniffed it again; my nose wrinkled in pleasure. I lifted the golden fruit to my mouth, intending to taste it, and heard the steady beat of footsteps.

  Hippomenes ran past me, casting a quick glance my way. I stood there holding the apple, admiring his muscular back and his wide, elegant shoulder blades as he ran up the incline of the second stretch. It occurred to me that I had never before seen a man who looked as good from the back as from the front, and that this was—in its way—a most appealing quality.

  “Run, Princess! Run!” Screeching like jays, the stable boys atop the palace wall startled me into motion. Tucking the apple into my belt—and feeling, with a shock, the vial of poison—I took the uphill stretch at speed, coming abreast of Hippomenes at the second turning.

  There I slowed sharply, and for a moment or two we ran along the back wall in tandem. When his breathing grew labored, I came down to a walk, then stopped. Suddenly we were almost touching.

  I looked up at him. “Thank you for the apple,” I said. “It is beautiful.”

  He struggled to catch his breath. On his heaving chest, a trickle of sweat meandered down toward his navel, then disappeared into a fine line of golden hair.

  “You are welcome,” he replied, and we stood there looking at each other. It was an oddly comforting moment, like the time I had first entered the cave at Gortys. I had felt then as if I were returning to a much-loved, long-forgotten place. Here, with Hippomenes, I felt the same.

  Sparrows trilled. Aphrodite’s bird, I thought absently. It occurred to me that the Goddess of Love had never once appeared to me, in dreams or otherwise. The sparrows trilled again, until the air chimed with their sweet, liquid call.

  Hippomenes took my hand. “Marry me,” he said.

  The stable boys came skittering along the top of the wall, drowning out the birdsong with their shouts. They had seen me slow my pace on this stretch before, seen me exchange words with other suitors. I suspected that they might even know about the poison. But they had never seen me stop, much less permit a suitor to touch me, and there was a note of alarm in their cries.

  They do not know what to make of this, I thought. Nor do I.

  Then my skin prickled, the way it sometimes did before a storm, and a tremor shook the air. It shook me, too, so that I knew the goddess was near. She has come to speed me along, I thought, and for the first time in my life I was afraid of her.

  I withdrew my hand from Hippomenes. “Only if you win the race,” I said, a little more loudly than was necessary.

  Then I took flight.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I had scarcely gone ten paces when I saw a streak of gold fly past me like an arrow. It was a second apple from Hippomenes. This one fell far from the track, rolling all the way to the forest’s edge. It would take much longer to retrieve than the first. I ran to it as if pulled.

  It lay beaming in a clump of ferns, and seemed to brighten as I picked it up. Its yellow-gold surface was adorned with flecks and speckles and even a tiny wormhole, and when I sniffed it, I again smelled clove. I rubbed the apple dreamily against my cheek, turning it this way and that in my best imitation of wonder, and listened for Hippomenes.

  At last I heard his footsteps.

  Slow, too slow, I thought, as he passed me by. He was a strong runner by ordinary standards, but no match for me, and of all those watching the race, Artemis knew this best. She, who must believe I was trying to win, had seen me run at twice this speed for my own amusement. If she suspected the truth—that I was allowing Hippomenes to overtake me—she would never smile on me again.

  I could live without her favor, I thought, but inciting her displeasure was something else entirely. I had seen enough of her cruel, implacable anger on the Hunt to last me for the rest of my life. I quailed at the thought of becoming its target.

  Yet death was cruel and implacable also, I thought, tucking the second apple into my waist. If the goddess had her way, I would win this race just as I had won the others, and death would take Hippomenes, too. It was a heinous thought.

  I reached the track just as he rounded the turn onto the final stretch. I could close the gap between us with little effort, but I did not; I held steady.

  His pace increased. This was a surprise; I had not thought him capable of greater speed. Helped by the downhill slope, he ran even faster.

  I fought my urge to lengthen my stride.


  Then, perhaps spurred to greater effort by the sight of the finish post, he ran faster still, and the gap between us grew.

  I could see my father in the distance, sternly upright in his chair, and wondered if he was steeling himself for yet another defeat. Probably. In every other race, I had run at a moderate pace until the midpoint of the final stretch, the one Hippomenes was about to pass. Then I would truly hurry, running so fast that my hair flew straight behind me like a stick, or so Entella said. Finishing this way, in a sudden, ferocious burst of speed, I would reach the post far ahead of my opponent. After I won, I liked to walk over to my father, stand before him, and look steadily into his eyes for a moment before I strode away.

  He could not suspect that today would be different, I thought. How could he?

  Then Hippomenes threw another golden apple.

  Eros: She’s slowing down! She’s going to follow the apple!

  Aphrodite: Those apples were such an inspiration, if I do say so myself. And you shot her, too, didn’t you, darling?

  Eros: Let’s keep that a secret.

  Aphrodite: Why?

  Eros: No special reason. Look! There goes Hippomenes!

  Yet another one, I thought. He is persistent!

  The third apple was red-gold, gaudy and beautiful against the blue of the sky. It came down slowly, as if choosing where to land, then hit the earth about a hundred paces away, and set off toward a dry stream bed. Hippomenes was nearly at the finish post. If I chased this apple, as I had chased the others, I would have to push very hard to overtake him.

  I might actually lose the race.

  That’s what you want, isn’t it? I asked myself, and the question stopped me like a wall. I had never lost a race; now that the possibility was upon me, I clutched my sides in panic. My right hand touched something small and unyielding through the folds of cloth at my waist. Puzzled, I ran my fingers over it.

  Poison. The merciful death I provided for my suitors. No more of this, I thought, plucking the vial from my waistband and casting it away. No more!

  I did not want to lose. Even less, however, did I want Hippomenes to die.

  Apollo: What did she just throw?

  Artemis: The poison.

  Apollo: Really? Then give her another push!

  Artemis: It won’t do any good.

  Apollo: What do you mean?

  Artemis: Girls of her age often behave this way. They’re chaste, they’re pure, they’re utterly devoted, and then, in a blink, they change. Suddenly I’m part of their childhood, like a discarded toy. . . . I could have sworn she’d be different, but why should she be?

  Apollo: I’m not sure I understand you.

  Artemis: Have you seen Eros around here recently?

  Apollo: Aphrodite’s son? Now that you mention it . . . yes, he’s been around.

  Artemis: He shot her.

  Apollo: Atalanta? You think so?

  Artemis: Why else would she let Hippomenes take the lead? She’s in love.

  Apollo: Eros shot her?

  Artemis: I’d swear to it. He looks sweet and harmless, but those golden arrows of his are surprisingly potent. Sometimes their effect lasts for years.

  Apollo: Blast that pudgy little toad! He tricked me!

  Artemis: Tricked you? How?

  Apollo: Never mind. Oh, look! There goes Atalanta!

  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 bec
ause 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.