Quiver

by Stephanie Spinner

  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.
<
br />   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.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Little is known about Greece in the second millennium B.C., the time when I have set this story, but most sources agree that fathers of the era were free to expose unwanted female children. All the many versions of Atalanta’s story begin with the harsh fact that her father cast her out to die.

  Artemis’ merciful intervention, Atalanta’s athletic prowess, and her father’s insistence that she return to the palace to marry are all constants. Hippomenes was sometimes called Melanion, but he always sought Aphrodite’s help, and she always gave him three golden apples. One popular version of the myth says that Hippomenes’ ruse worked, that Atalanta lost the race because she stopped to examine the apples, as any woman would. Less well known is the story of the newlyweds’ transformation into lions. It is sometimes an angry Zeus, sometimes an offended Aphrodite or Demeter who wreaks the change, but it is always intended as severe punishment.

  Other, more obscure versions of Atalanta’s story have her joining the quest for the Golden Fleece with Jason (and being healed of serpent-battling wounds by Medea); or going straight from the Calydonian Boar Hunt to King Pelias’ funeral games, where she competed against the greatest wrestler of the age, and won. She was a daring character.

  She was also, seemingly, capable of great cruelty. Her insistence on death for slow suitors appears almost blood-thirsty, yet it can also be seen as a desperate ploy to remain in Artemis’ good graces. The goddess insisted on chastity, and Atalanta vowed it. As the swiftest mortal alive, she very well might have hoped that no man would be foolish enough to challenge her. If, thinking only of pleasing Artemis, she failed to imagine that Aphrodite might intervene, we cannot fault her. The immortal gods did as they pleased and were accountable only to each other.

  ABOUT THE GODS

  Readers unfamiliar with Greek mythology may like to know a bit more about the gods who appear in Atalanta’s story. Zeus, Artemis, Apollo, and Aphrodite are all part of the original pantheon said to rule from Mount Olympus. The others are Hera, Zeus’ wife; Athena, his solemn, wise, virginal daughter; Ares, God of War; Demeter, Goddess of the Harvest; Dionysus, exuberant God of Wine and intoxication; Hephaestus, God of Fire; Hermes, the fleet messenger-god; and Poseidon, Zeus’ brother and Lord of all the Oceans. Eros appeared later but figured prominently in many of the myths.

  Like so many divine rulers, the gods are related.

  Zeus, Lord of all Creation and mighty wielder of thunderbolts, was zealously paternal, producing children whenever and wherever he could. Among the many were Apollo and Artemis and (with a different mother) Aphrodite. Zeus’ wife, Hera, was notoriously jealous, with good reason.

  Artemis the Huntress was a forest goddess and protector of wild animals. Rigorously chaste, she oversaw women in childbirth, as well as young girls making the transition from childhood to womanhood. Her attributes, and her association with the moon, indicate that she was absorbed into the Greek pantheon from an older culture, probably Cretan.

  Apollo, Lord of the Silver Bow, God of Prophecy, healing-god and inventor of music, was Artemis’ younger twin, but very unlike her. Apollo often fell in love—with both mortal women and nymphs. He fathered many children (including the great healer Asclepius), opposed barbarism, and maintained that moderation in all things was best.

  Aphrodite, Goddess of Love and Zeus’ daughter, was beautiful, seductive, and extremely popular: she oversaw the sexual initiation of women. Aphrodite’s arranged marriage to the lame smithy Hephaestus was not altogether happy. She took many lovers, including a wide sampling of the pantheon.

  Eros, Aphrodite’s son, was a capricious boy whose invisible golden arrows had the power to inspire love in their targets. He shot both gods and mortals without plan, but with devastating accuracy, and was greatly feared.

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM DELL LAUREL-LEAF BOOKS

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  BEOWULF: A NEW TELLING, Robert Nye

  THE DARK HORSE, Marcus Sedgwick

  THE HEALER’S KEEP, Victoria Hanley

  HEROES, GODS AND MONSTERS OF THE GREEK MYTHS, Bernard Evslin

  GREEK GODS AND HEROES, Robert Graves

  ALSO BY STEPHANIE SPINNER

  As he flies through the cloud-swept skies above Mount Olympus in his winged sandals, Hermes looks like a carefree youth. But he’s actually ageless and divine—the son and personal messenger of Almighty Zeus. Known as Mercury, Wayfinder, and Prince of Thieves, Hermes is renowned for his quicksilver speed, nimble wits, and gift of Sight.

  He also brings luck to the living and comfort to the dead, navigating the perilous terrain between earth and Hades with enviable ease. But when the Trojan War erupts in all its grisly violence, Hermes is paralyzed with sorrow—and guilt. He believes he’s made a grave error, one that led directly to the terrible conflict. And now he wants nothing more than peace.

  Stephanie Spinner brings the famous messenger—and the best-known gods, monsters, and mortals of ancient Greek mythology—to life with high action and powerful prose.

  Available from Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers

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  Dell Laurel-Leaf

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  Random House Children’s Books

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  New York

  Text copyright © 2002 by Stephanie Spinner

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  RL: 5.8

  First Dell Laurel-Leaf Edition April 2005

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  eISBN: 978-0-307-43365-7

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