He knew instantly that this was the one girl in the world for him.
“That’s my bear,” he said. “But I give him to you.”
“Your bear?”
“My kill. That’s my dagger, you know. I’ve been tracking him for hours, but you can—”
He was interrupted by her hoarse cry of rage. She stooped, scooped up a huge log as if it were a stick, and hurled it at his head. He ducked, felt it graze his hair. She bent again and pulled the dagger from the bear’s neck. Then came slowly toward him.
“This bear is my brother,” she said. “You have killed my brother. Now I shall kill you.”
“Sweet maiden—”
“Sweet? I’m bitter as death, you’ll find. Pick up your spear and fight.”
He picked up his spear and threw it in the same motion. It cut through the air and split a sapling neatly in two. He turned and stood facing her with empty hands.
“You’ll need a weapon,” she said. “I mean to kill you.”
“Come ahead. Try. Use the dagger if you like. It will make things more even.”
She howled with fury and flung the dagger away. “Do me no favors,” she cried. “I’ll kill you with my hands.”
She rushed at him. He caught her arms, trying to hold her back gently. It was impossible. She was as strong as a wild mare. She caught him in a great bear hug. He felt his ribs being crushed. Kicking, twisting, he broke her hold, then closed with her. There on the hillside, under a hot sun, before the dead eyes of the bear, they wrestled.
Atalanta was a powerful fighter. Adopted by a she-bear, she had grown up among bears, running with them, hunting with them, wrestling with them. She had grown into a gloriously tanned, supple young woman, strong as a she-bear herself. More than once she had taken a wild bull by its horns and twisted it off its hooves, so she was sure she could overcome Meleager easily. She planned to crush him in her hug and hurl him off the cliff.
However, as she wrestled with him under the sun, in the fragrance of trampled grass and pine needles, something new began to happen. As we know, when wrestling shaggy bears she had been puzzled that her own arms and legs seemed so smooth against their fur. She had wondered why she was so different, and didn’t know whether she was glad or sorry. But now as she held the young man in her mighty hug, she felt his smoothness. It was as though she were holding herself—so that this body that was so strange to her was also wonderfully familiar. Trying to crush him in her arms, she found that she no longer knew where her body ended and his began. It seemed to her then that the fragrance of the trampled grass was rising in a sweet mist, robbing her of sense. She was dizzy. Her knees sagged. She, who could run up the side of a mountain, leaping from rock to rock, catching mountain goats in full stride … unbelievable to feel her legs weakening now. Her mind swooped and darkened and cast up a last thought.
“It’s magic. He’s fighting me with magic …”
When her head cleared, she found they were sitting on the ground, their backs against an olive tree near the edge of the cliff, and looking onto a great scoop of blueness where a black hawk floated. Their arms were wrapped about each other’s bodies as though they were still wrestling. She was telling her name.
“I am Atalanta. I belong to the clan of mountain bears.”
“I am Meleager,” he said. “I belong to you.”
10
Two Jealousies
So the prince of Calydon found the mate he had dreamed of. They hunted together over hill and valley, through forest and field and swamp, on foot and on horseback—with dog pack or with long-legged Egyptian hunting cats called cheetahs. But more often they went out by themselves, for they preferred to be alone.
Plexippus was pleased by what was happening. He went to Lampon and said, “I have a plan, Brother.”
“Another one? I hope it’s better than the ones you’ve had before.”
“It is. It is.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Lampon. “Your record is so bad that all you can do is improve.”
“Do you want to hear it or not?”
“What’s the difference? I’ll hear it whether I want to or not.”
“I’m setting no more physical traps for the lucky prince,” said Plexippus. “All his life he’s dwelt in the protection of his parents’ love. But now, now I have the brilliant idea of turning that love against him. At least I’ll turn his mother’s, and she’s more important in this matter than her husband.”
“You’re raving,” cried Lampon. “Our sister dotes on her son. Nothing you can say or do can turn her against him.”
“It is her love itself that will curdle, I tell you. She has always been ready to be jealous of any girl he might want to marry. And I’m talking about eligible girls, heavily dowered, princesses and so forth. Imagine how she must feel about him wantoning around with this barefoot mountain slut. Well, I mean to fan the flames.”
He left his brother and stalked off to find his sister. At first he chatted of this and that, Althea only half listening to him as was her habit. Then he said, “I heard an interesting tale, Sister. I heard that this new friend of Meleager belongs to a clan of mountain nymphs who hold to a very curious custom. It seems that they put their suitors through a courtship test. Each one of these nymphs demands of her suitor that he prove his love by cutting out his mother’s heart and bringing it to her as a gift. I don’t believe the tale, of course. But I thought it strange enough to tell it to you.”
“Thank you,” said Althea, and turned away. But he had caught the look in her eyes before her face was hidden by her hair. He strolled off, smiling to himself.
Althea nursed her grief in solitude. She knew how malicious her brother was, didn’t really trust anything he said. Nevertheless, his words had found their mark. Her beloved son was tearing out her heart, if not literally with a knife, then by neglecting her for the sake of that wild wench from the hills. And Althea in her jealousy forgot that Meleager, who had been so sad after the death of his dog, now glowed with happiness. All she could think of was that her lovely boy had no thought for his mother anymore, only for that long-legged huntress.
As it happened, though, the beautiful couple had aroused the jealousy of someone more powerful than Althea. For the folk of Calydon who had glimpsed Atalanta and Meleager running across a field in the morning mist, or seen them silhouetted against the sunset, began to whisper that their prince had found a goddess to be his mate. No one knew her name but it was certain she was a goddess, for she was as tall and strong and fleet as Artemis herself, and perhaps more beautiful.
These whispers drifted up to Artemis, Goddess of the Chase, Lady of the Silver Bow, and she burned with rage. She had always considered herself the fairest of the goddesses, more beautiful, in her own opinion, than Aphrodite, Goddess of Love and Beauty. Oh, yes, she far preferred her own lithe, suavely muscled figure to that of the lazy wide-hipped Aphrodite. And to have a mere human girl compared to her made her blaze with fury.
“I’ll show them there’s only one Artemis,” she cried. “I’ll send them such game as they’ll never forget!”
And she whistled up the monstrous boar she had made of Stygian mud. Out of the steaming jungle of central Africa it came, trotted around the rim of North Africa, going west, then plunged into the waters of the Middle Sea and headed north toward Spain. As it swam it amused itself by killing a shark or two and mangling a few giant squid. It climbed ashore on the horn of Spain, galloped overland then, eastward to the great peninsula we now call Greece. And Artemis guided her monster pig through Euboea and Boeotia, through Mycenae, Achaea, and Arcadia, not letting it stop until it reached the lush hilly land called Calydon.
And the instructions she gave it then were, “Kill, kill, kill!”
11
The Monster
The monster boar immediately began to spread terror throughout the land. It uprooted trees, dug up crops, killed horses and cattle and those who tended them. It attacked men and women working in the fields,
punching holes in them with its tusks, trampling them under its hooves until they were bloody rags. Nor was there any way to escape it when it was on a rampage, for it would hurtle into a house, knocking it to splinters, then kill everyone inside.
Shepherds and cowherds were afraid to graze their flocks, farmers refused to harvest their crops. So the people began to go hungry. The king didn’t know what to do. He asked Meleager’s advice. The young man was wild with excitement.
“Father, Father,” he cried, “I’ll kill the boar!”
“You alone?”
“Just I myself and one other.”
“Are you mad?”
“We can do it, Father. We can kill any beast ever born.”
“No, my son,” said the king. “This is no ordinary boar. It’s huge, incredibly strong, totally murderous. It’s a monster. I’m afraid we have offended some god who has sent this beast to ravage the land. I don’t understand it. I always sacrificed regularly to every one of the gods. Nevertheless, we have been cursed, and this dreadful beast roams the country, destroying, killing.”
“I must hunt him, Father. This is the quarry we have dreamed of—something at last worthy of our skills.”
“I forbid it,” cried the king. “You are my only son. If you are killed, the throne will fall to your mother’s idiot brothers, who will stuff into their pockets all that is left of my ravaged land. No, no, no, you shall not risk your life this way.”
“The beast must be killed, Father. Or there will be no kingdom for you to rule or me to inherit.”
“Yes, yes, we must contend with the monster, no doubt about that. But you shan’t do it alone, or with that huntress of yours. We need a regular war party to go against the monster. What we shall do is invite all the best fighters in the lands of the Middle Sea to hunt the beast. They’re all a little crazy like you, these heroes, and are always looking for a challenge. Well, they shall have one. It will be a famous affair.”
“Call whom you like, Sire, but I shall lead the hunt,” said Meleager.
Whereupon messages were sent to the greatest warriors of the Hellenic lands, inviting them to Calydon to hunt the giant boar. Those who weren’t too busy killing each other accepted the invitation. Kings, princes, pirates, warlords, robber chieftains—they came flocking into Calydon.
The king was old now, however, and uneasy about playing host to so many rambunctious warriors. “I won’t be able to go with them,” he said to his wife. “Meleager will have to do the honors while I stay home to guard the castle.”
“Why must you guard it?” said the queen. “Don’t you trust your guests?”
“I trust them to act like themselves. They didn’t become so rich in land and cattle by buying them, my dear. These men have always taken what they wanted. And may see in this enfeebled kingdom only a chance for booty.”
“You must do what you think best,” said the queen.
“I don’t know what I think best. Sometimes I think this, sometimes that. I fear our guests as much as I do the boar—and yet my heart tells me my son may die on this hunt and that I should ride with him.”
“You need not fear for our son,” said Althea. “The Fates themselves permit me to guard his life.”
“What fates? Where? How? What do you mean?”
Whereupon she told her husband how, upon the hour of Meleager’s birth, she had been visited by Atropos, Lady of the Shears. Told him how the hag had thrown a stick into the fire. How she, Althea, had leaped from the bed to snatch it out of the flames. And how Atropos had promised that while the brand remained unburned the prince would not die.
“Do you expect me to believe this rigamarole?” cried the king. “Hags, sticks, promises. We can’t risk our son’s life on such nonsense.”
“Be careful what you call nonsense,” said Althea. “You’re in enough trouble now without offending the eldest Fate.”
“Prove that it’s not nonsense.”
“Behold!” cried Althea.
She unlocked the great brass chest, lifted its lid, and showed him the charred stick.
The king was still inclined to disbelieve, but looking at the blackened branch and studying his wife’s face, he knew that she was speaking the truth.
“I see,” he muttered.
“So set your mind at rest, dear husband. Let him lead the hunt while you stay here and guard the castle. Besides, I’m sending my brothers to keep an eye on him.”
“Who’ll keep an eye on them?”
“Stop it, please,” said the queen. “I know your opinion of my brothers, but they’ll be more careful than you about certain matters. They’ll carry out my wishes and prevent him from bringing that wild hussy of his to join the hunt.”
“You’re very wrong to interfere,” said the king. “Meleager loves that girl and will never love another.”
“Love, love, what does he know about love, that stripling with his mother’s milk scarcely dry on his lips? I tell you that he shall never bring her home as his wife, not while I draw breath.”
“Well, I can’t worry about that at the moment,” said the king. “I have heavier things on my mind. Monstrous beasts, fearsome guests—the wild girl will have to wait.”
“She’ll wait long before she marries my son,” said Althea.
Early the next morning, everyone gathered for the hunt. The guests were astounded when Meleager rode up with Atalanta at his side. They goggled in wonder at the lovely, lithe young huntress who sat a great grey horse. She was clad in a deerskin tunic, wore bow and quiver, and held a javelin. All of them were surprised, some of them were angered at the thought that Meleager was taking the hunt lightly, and some younger ones were inflamed by her beauty and growing jealous of Meleager.
The couple sat their horses solidly. Meleager was stone faced, Atalanta smiling. The prince’s uncles rode toward him.
“You’re disgracing us,” croaked Plexippus. “And dishonoring our noble guests. They do not wish to ride out with this bear’s whelp from the hills.”
Meleager touched his horse with his heels, walked it between his uncles’ horses, and grasped an arm of each—squeezing them until they felt their elbows cracking in his iron grip.
“One more insulting word out of you,” he whispered, “and I’ll call off this hunt and send everyone away. And Atalanta and I will hunt the boar alone, as we have always wished. But first, I will smash your heads together so that our guests may see where the fault lies.”
The uncles were silent. Meleager lifted his horn and sounded a call that rang through the hills. Laughing, shouting, arms glittering, the company rode forth to hunt the boar.
They did not ride far. The boar came to meet them. It selected its position very cannily, choosing a canyon where the walls narrowed so that it could be attacked only from the front and by no more than two men at a time.
But these were expert hunters. Meleager did not have to guide them by hand signals. They knew what to do. They did not rush in to attack, but strung themselves out before the mouth of the canyon. They pranced and shouted, clashed spear against shield, trying to excite the boar so that it would charge out of the canyon.
It did not.
They advanced, shouted more loudly, beat their shields harder. No movement from the boar. The uncles had not advanced. They had reined up their horses well away from the canyon and were watching from afar.
The men were losing their caution now. They advanced to within a spear’s throw of the canyon mouth. Then, although the beast was half-hidden in a tangle of brush, they sent a flight of arrows into its hiding place. They were determined to draw the beast out. It was simply too dangerous to go into that narrow cleft after it. They came closer and sent another flight of arrows into the brush.
This time they succeeded, and their success was a disaster. They had underestimated the monster’s size and speed. It came. It came hurtling out of the canyon with the crushing force of a boulder rolling down a mountain side. It charged into a party of hunters, scattering them in a
ll directions, then whirled lightly as a panther, trampling two of the men to bloody shreds under its razor hooves.
The hunters fled; the boar followed. It caught two of them, spearing one with its tusk and shearing his leg off at the hip. Two warrior brothers, Telamon, who became the father of Ajax, and Peleus, who was to become the father of Achilles, showed their enormous courage by walking slowly in on the boar, spears out-thrust. Their example inspired others to form a ragged circle about the boar.
But the beast charged Telamon, breaking through a hedge of spears. Peleus flung his javelin. It skidded off the boar’s shoulder and pierced one of the hunters, who fell dead. Another man swung his battle-axe at the boar; it tilted its head, parrying the axe—then with a savage counterthrust ripped out the man’s belly, gutting him like a fish.
The beast then charged Peleus, who would have died on the spot, leaving no son named Achilles—and Hector might have lived and Troy stood unburned—but Atalanta drew her bow and loosed a shaft into the unprotected spot behind the boar’s ear. The arrow sank in up to its feathers. Any other animal would have been killed instantly, but the boar still lived, and seemed as strong as ever, murderously strong.
Howling with pain, it chased Atalanta. She did not flee. She notched another arrow and stood facing the beast as it rushed toward her. There was just enough time for her to send an arrow into its eye. But it kept hurtling toward her.
Meleager, shouting a war cry, flung himself right into the boar’s path, hurling a javelin as he ran. It sank into the boar, under its shoulder, turning it from its course.
Now it rushed toward Meleager, who kept running toward it and leaped clear over the charging beast like a Cretan bull dancer. He landed behind it. Before the boar could turn, he swung his sword in a glittering arc, slashing under the great hump of muscle, cutting the spinal cord. The massive low-slung body tottered, tilted, fell. Even that incarnation of monstrous energy could not live after the cable of its life was cut.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 15
