But the king said: “No, my son. This is no ordinary beast. It is too large, too irresistibly strong. It is a curse sent by some god whom we have unwittingly offended. Yet I have sacrificed to all the gods, and still the beast roams my poor country, destroying, killing…”
“I must hunt him, father! It is the quarry we have dreamed of—something worthy of our skill.”
“I forbid it. You are my only son. If you are killed, the country will fall into the hands of your mother’s foolish brothers. What we must do, Meleager, is invite all the heroes of Greece to hunt the beast. It will be a famous affair.”
Thereupon messages were sent to all the heroes of Hellas, inviting them to Calydon to hunt the giant boar. They all accepted the invitation, kings, princes, and fierce soldiers of fortune who later sailed with Jason and fought at Troy.
However, the old king was not altogether pleased to be playing host to so many great men.
“I shall not be able to join the hunt,” he said to his wife. “Meleager will have to do the honors while I stay home and guard the castle.”
“Is that necessary?” said the queen. “Don’t you trust your neighbors?”
“Yes, I trust them to act like themselves. These neighbors of ours didn’t become so rich in land and cattle by right of purchase, my dear. They are men who have always taken when they wanted; this is how they have gained their property and their reputation. Frankly, I fear them more than I do the boar, and yet my heart tells me that my son may die on this hunt and that I should ride with him. I don’t know what to do.”
“You need not fear for our son,” said Queen Althaea. “The Fates have made me the guardian of his life. Look…”
She unlocked the chest, showed him the charred brand of wood, and told him how she had been visited by Atropos, Lady of the Shears, who had promised that the prince would live while the brand remained un-burned.
“So you may set your mind at rest, dear husband, and let him lead the hunt while you stay home and guard the castle. Besides, I am sending my two brothers to keep an eye on him. No, don’t frown. I know your opinion of my brothers, but they are less lenient than you about certain matters. They will prevent him from bringing that wild girl of his to join the hunt.”
“It is a mistake to interfere,” said the king. “He loves that girl and will never love another.”
“He shall not have her!” cried Althaea. “While I draw a breath he shall never bring her home as his wife.”
“Well, I can’t worry about her at the moment,” said the king. “I have more important things on my mind. Fearsome beasts, fearsome guests—the wild girl will have to wait.”
“She will wait long before she marries my son,” said Althaea.
The next morning, everyone assembled for the hunt. The heroes were amazed when their host, Meleager, rode up with Atalanta at his side. They gazed dumbfounded at the lovely, lithe young huntress, clad in a wolfskin tunic, bow and quiver slung, holding a javelin. A murmur rose. All were surprised; some of them were angry; a few of the younger ones were inflamed by her beauty and grew jealous of Meleager. The prince’s solemn uncles rode toward him, beards bristling with outrage.
“It’s a disgrace,” they said. “You are bringing dishonor on yourself and on your noble guests. They do not wish to ride with this bear’s-whelp from the hills.”
Meleager thrust his horse between them and grasped their arms, squeezing them until they felt their elbows cracking in his iron hands.
“Listen to me,” he whispered. “One more word out of you, and I will call off this hunt, send our guests home, and Atlanta and I will hunt the boar alone, as we have always wanted to do. But first I will smash your heads together just to show our guests where the fault lies.”
The uncles said no more. Meleager sounded a call upon his horn that rang through the hills, and the glittering company rode out to find the boar.
They did not have far to ride. Their quarry came to meet them, taking up its position as wisely as a general disposing troops; it came to earth in a canyon where the walls narrowed so that it could be attacked only from the front, and by only two men at a time. This rocky bottleneck was overgrown with willows, and the boar crouched in there unseen, waiting for the hunters.
However, the hunters were old hands at this. They did not rush in to attack him, but strung themselves out before the entrance to his lair, shouting, clashing spear on shield, trying to taunt him into the open. They succeeded only too well, not knowing his size and speed. The boar came hurtling out of the willow brush with the crashing force of a huge boulder falling down a mountainside. He ploughed into a party of hunters, knocking them in all directions, whirling his huge bulk lightly as a fox, and cutting two of the men to shreds under his razor-sharp hooves. He charged again at the fleeing hunters, lunging at one with his tusks, and shearing his leg off at the hip.
The two warrior brothers, Telamon and Peleus, who became the father of Achilles, showed their great courage by walking slowly in on the boar, spears out-thrust. Their attack inspired two of the others, Ancaeus and Eurytion, to walk in behind the boar from opposite sides. But the beast broke out of the circle of spears by charging Telamon. Peleus flung his spear; it grazed the boar’s shoulder, was deflected, and pierced Eurytion, who fell dead. Now Ancaeus, swinging his battle-ax at the boar, had his thrust parried by a sweep of one tusk; and then with a counter-thrust the boar ripped out the man’s belly, gutting him as a fisherman does a fish. The beast then whirled and charged Peleus, who might have died on the spot, leaving no son named Achilles (and Hector might have gone unslain, and Troy, perhaps, might have stood unburned), but Atalanta drew her bow and sent a shaft into the vulnerable spot behind the boar’s ear. It sank in up to the feathers. Another beast would have been killed instantly, but the boar still lived and remained murderously strong.
Screaming with pain the boar chased Atalanta. Theseus rose from behind a rock and flung a javelin; he missed. Atalanta swiftly notched another arrow and stood facing the beast as it hurtled toward her. There was just enough time for her to send the shaft into his eye.
But Meleager, shouting a wild war-cry, flung himself in the boar’s path, hurling a javelin as he ran. It went into the boar under his shoulder, turning him from his charge toward Meleager, who kept running, and leaped clear over the charging beast like a Cretan bull-dancer. He came down on the other side, and before the animal could turn, thrust his sword under the great hump of muscle, cutting the spinal cord and breaking the cable of hot life; the boar fell dead.
Meleager pulled out his sword, and then calmly as though on a stag-hunt, knelt at the side of the giant beast and skinned him. He walked to Atalanta with the bloody pelt in his arms, bowed, and offered it to her, saying, “Your arrow struck him first. The pelt belongs to you.”
Now this boarhide was a most valuable present. It was so thick and tough that it made a wonderful flexible war vest, lighter and stronger than armor, able to turn spearthrust and flying arrow. There was much resentment when Meleager gave the hide to the girl; the uncles, seeing this resentment, reproached Meleager again, accusing him of favoritism and inhospitality. The elder uncle, Plexippus, began to curse Atalanta, calling her by filthy names; his brother echoed him.
Meleager wiped the blood from his sword and carefully dried it with a handful of rushes. He inspected the gleaming blade, and then swung it twice; the heads of his uncles rolled in the dust so swiftly severed that they still seemed to be cursing as they fell. Then Meleager said, “I beg you, sirs, pardon this unseemly family brawl; but if any one of you feels too much offended, I shall be glad to measure swords with him. If not, you are all invited to the castle, to a feast celebrating the death of the boar, and honoring his fair executioner, the huntress, Atalanta, whom I intend to make my wife.”
The heroes raised a great shout. Many of them were still angry, others jealous, but they all admired courage when they saw it; besides they had had enough fighting for the day so they rode back to the castle, and Ata
lanta and Meleager rode off to be alone for a few hours before the feast.
When the hunters returned to the castle, they were met by the king and queen who eagerly demanded to hear their tale. But when they were told of the dispute over the hide and of how Meleager had killed his uncles and presented Atalanta to the company as his bride, the queen grew white with fury and rushed to her room.
There she sank to her knees on the stone floor and cried, “Bad prince, disobedient son, you have dispatched my two brothers to Tartarus, and in their noble stead propose to bring home this wild nameless nymph of the hills. This shall not be, my son, my enemy. The Fates have given your mother the power to end your evil ways…”
Mad with grief, Althaea sprang to the chest, flung it open, pulled the charred stick from its hiding place, and threw it on the fire. She watched it burn.
At this time Meleager and Atalanta were in their favorite place under the twisted olive tree on the cliff, looking out into the great blue gulf of space and speaking softly.
“I want to be your wife,” said Atalanta. “You are the only one I shall ever love, but why must we live in a castle? Why must I be a queen, and wear dresses, and sit on a throne? Why can’t we stay as we are, roaming the hills, hunting, fighting?”
“We will, we will!” cried Meleager. “For every day we spend indoors being king and queen and making laws and such, for each day spent so poorly, we will spend ten days riding, hunting, fighting, you and I together side by side. I promise you, Atalanta. And this I promise too…”
He stopped. She saw him clutch at his chest, saw his eyes bulge, his face blacken. She caught him in her arms. His head snapped back; his scorched lips parted. He uttered a strangling howl of agony; his head lolled, and he was dead.
In the castle, Queen Althaea prodded the fire with her toe, scattering the last ashes. Then she straightened her robes and went down to tend to her guests.
THE RACE
AFTER MELEAGER’S DEATH, CALYDON became hateful to Atalanta. She left its familiar crags and slopes, and made her way to Arcadia. Obeying some dim instinct, a dumb homeward impulse that was the only thing she felt in her terrible grief, she went back to Arcadia where she had been born.
The king, her father, now very old, realized from her story that she was his daughter, whom, as an infant, he had exposed on the mountain…and that she had grown up to be as mighty a hunter and warrior as any son he could have hoped for. He recognized her as his child, and she lived in the castle.
But hunting was hateful to Atalanta now, and everything that reminded her of her murdered lover. Her fame had spread throughout the land, and the heroes who had gone on the Calydonian Hunt, and others too, came to woo the warrior-maiden for she was an orphan no more, but a princess who would inherit land and cattle and gold. So they came a-courting.
Atalanta could not bear the sight of them. “I will never marry another,” she said to her father. “That part of me died with Meleager. I will never love another man. Send them away.”
“I cannot insult them,” said her father. “They are too powerful. If I seek to drive them away, they will make war upon me, conquer me; and you will be dragged off, a captive instead of a wife.”
“Whoever takes me captive won’t live long enough to enjoy it,” said Atalanta. “However, let us do this: announce to them that I will marry only the man who can outrun me in a foot race. If he wins, he marries me; if he loses, he loses his head.”
The king agreed. Atalanta’s terms were announced. Most of the heroes who had watched her in action on the hunt, had observed her speed of movement, and had studied her long legs, knew what the outcome of a race must be, and decided to seek brides elsewhere. But some of the younger men were rash enough to persist. One by one, they raced Atalanta. The entire court turned out to see these races. Race followed race; she wanted no rest in between, and it seemed to the spectators that the young men still scrambled at the starting post as Atalanta flashed across the finish line.
She was merciless about imposing the penalty. Each losing suitor walked to the chopping block and paid with his head. Now, there was one young man, Hippomenes, who had also been at the Calydonian Hunt, although he had played no great role there. But he had fallen violently in love with Atalanta, so much in love that he was grieved at the death of Meleager because he knew that it would pain her so. Without ever being bold enough to make himself known to her, he had followed her at a distance, trailing her from Calydon to Arcadia and taking up residence there. He planned each day so that he would get a glimpse of her and this was enough to carry him to the next day. Still she had never met him.
When the races were announced, Hippomenes experienced a curious mixture of feelings. He was happy, on the one hand, that she was showing her scorn of other suitors; sad, on the other hand, because he realized that her scorn would extend to himself, if she knew him. He went each day to watch the races and again felt confused for he became each young man in the race and felt death crawl in his veins as he saw her flash across the finish line. He was each young man who laid his head on the bloody block, yet he was glad when the head rolled because there was one more rival gone. And through it all ran a curious thread of bitter joy, for his torment, he knew, had to end soon. The race would give him the chance to pay for this terrible love with his life.
When all the suitors had been beheaded, he announced himself as an entry. Everyone pleaded with him not to run. He was a gentle young man, with a soft voice and an easy smile. He did not look much like anyone’s idea of a hero, and no one believed he had a chance. Even cruel Atalanta said, “Don’t be a fool. Go lose your head over some other girl. I’m not for you.”
But for all his gentleness, he could not be moved. He insisted so the race was set. Now, all the other young men who had raced Atalanta had prayed to various gods to give them victory: to Hermes, the wing-footed, god of games; to Ares, god of victories; to Artemis, mistress of the chase. They prayed to Athene for strategy, to Zeus, for strength. But Hippomenes prayed to none of these. He thought to himself, “The others want to coerce her. I want her to want me.”…So he prayed to Aphrodite, goddess of love.
Aphrodite appeared to him when he was asleep, gave him three golden apples, and told him how to use them. When he awoke he knew that he had been dreaming, but there were the three golden apples gleaming on his bed. He hid them in his tunic and went out to race.
It was a brilliant sunny day; all the court was there. Atalanta had never appeared more beautiful than she looked that day walking to the starting post in her short white tunic, her long dark hair falling free. Hippomenes smiled at her and wished her good morning, holding tight to the slippery golden apples under his tunic so that they would not roll away before the race began. She received his greeting, and nodded, gravely. Then she studied him, frowning. Why was he clutching at his clothes in that odd way? That was no way to hold yourself before a race.
She felt a strange, hot lump form at the base of her throat; something about his hands, something terrible about the pose of those hands grasping at his tunic. Then she remembered, remembered the way her beloved Meleager had clutched at his belly when the curse was burning in him, just before he died in her arms.
She was so sunk in memory that she did not hear the trumpet call, starting the race, and Hippomenes was far in the lead when she woke up and began to run. He heard her light footfalls behind him, heard the easy music of her breathing. Then a great shout from the crowd, and he knew that she had closed the gap. He let one of the golden apples slip away and roll across her path.
And Atalanta, still remembering, running in a dream, saw the golden flash and automatically stooped to scoop up the rolling apple. She loped along slowly as she examined the glittering thing. She saw her face in it, distorted, made gross, and she thought, “That’s how I will look when I am old…”
Then she heard the crowd shout, raised her head, and saw Hippomenes far in the lead. She darkened her mind, and let the speed surge through her legs and into her
drumming feet until she was running just behind him again.
“Poor boy,” she thought. “Am I tormenting him with hope? Or is such torture love’s gift too? Would it have been better never to have seen Meleager, never to have loved him, never to have suffered by losing him? No! Worse, worse, worse!”
Just then Hippomenes dropped the second apple. It rolled, flashing.
“What a pretty thing,” she thought. “Like one of Aphrodite’s apples from that magic tree in the Hesperides. I will take it and the other one and bring them both to Calydon, to Meleager’s grave.”
Now Hippomenes had thrown this apple harder; it had rolled quite a way before she decided to go back for it. When she had picked it up, she saw Hippomenes far up the track, almost at the finish line. She ran with desperate speed then and caught him just two steps before the end.
He dropped the third apple. She laughed with scorn. “The fool…does he think I’ll stop for that one and let him win? I’ll simply cross the finish line and come back for the apple while he’s being led to the block.”
The apple lay before her feet. It was not rolling. All she had to do was bend in her course and scoop it up. But did she have time? The apple burned. It became a head bright with blood. Hippomenes’ head falling under the ax. It changed into the head of Meleager’s uncle being scythed off by the flashing sword…became Meleager’s face bright with sweat and agony…became her own face, reflected, gross, distorted, old…growing now, swelling, blown up by the roaring of the crowd, mushrooming into the golden radiance of the sun—so enormous, so indifferently hot—touching the earth with seasons, budding flowers, beasts, hunters, nymphs, horses, amorous princes, angry queens…birth and murder.…
She held the three golden apples, dreaming into their polished fire, her face wet with tears, and the roaring of the crowd was dim, lost thunder, like the pounding of the surf. She stood there on the course, lost in her dream, as Hippomenes crossed the finish line and came back to claim his prize.
Heroes, Gods and Monsters of the Greek Myths Page 15
