Ganymede and Other Romantic Short Stories from Greek Mythology

by T. S. Cleveland

  “I will go to the pantheon and briefly join father and the others. Will you stay with her a moment?”

  Hermes rolled his eyes. “I will stay until Heracles returns.”

  “Thank you, Hermes.” Artemis kissed Callisto’s cheek. “I will not be long. Stay with Hermes. I won’t say he’s harmless, but he is afraid of me.”

  “Hardly,” Hermes scoffed.

  Artemis hurried down the path, wandering through a grand garden. Before a large temple made of black marble and gold veins, her figure met with a similar, slightly more boyish one, and together they went inside the pantheon.

  Callisto waited with Hermes, growing less frightened of the Olympian as the minutes passed. He seemed content to talk about silly things, and he only leered a few more times before he must have determined that Callisto was not his type. Once this was established, Callisto found herself enjoying his company. He was, perhaps, one of the few men she’d encountered she did not feel threatened by.

  She did not feel that way when Artemis’ return was joined by two other gods. The first was the figure she’d entered the pantheon with. Callisto could tell by the laurel wreath sitting on his curls and the bow fixed to his back, the same make as Artemis’. Their faces were also of similar make. She was unsure if his was more womanly or hers more mannish, but they favored one another greatly. He was, without a doubt, her twin brother. Apollo.

  But he did not make Callisto uncomfortable. It was the other god. The god. She knew it must be him by simply seeing him. He was tall and broad and glowing with strength. He was handsome and horrifying. He was looking at her as if she wore nothing. He was Zeus.

  Artemis was displeased they’d followed her to the chariot; Callisto could tell by the stiffness in her shoulders, and by the way she placed herself directly in front of Callisto and the chariot. The protectress.

  “We must leave,” she said, attempting to herd Callisto into the chariot, but she was not fast enough. Her father reached around her easily and took Callisto’s wrist. He pulled her forward, and Callisto was too stunned to resist.

  “I would punish you for bringing an uninvited guest to our home,” he said—boomed—“but I mind it not when the uninvited has a face such as this one. Hello, Callisto.”

  “H-hello,” she stammered.

  Artemis snarled, and Callisto caught a glimpse of Hermes and Apollo, saw the looks they gave one another. It made her heart pound. She didn’t want to be there any longer. She never should have come. Zeus kissed her hand and she feared he would never let her go.

  But he did.

  He released her and she slumped backwards into Artemis, who pushed her inside the chariot and grabbed the reins.

  “Sorry I cannot stay longer,” she told her father. “I will come early tomorrow, if that pleases you.”

  Zeus nodded to her, but his eyes were on Callisto. “Bring your lovely companion, and please us both,” he replied.

  Behind him, Hermes and Apollo exchanged that same look again, and Callisto tried to place exactly what it conveyed. Exasperation? Disgust? Annoyance? Artemis did not remain before the pantheon long enough to determine it properly, but the gist was all she needed. She leaned into Artemis as the chariot fled the mountaintop.

  When they returned to the meadow, Artemis said nothing of their excursion, and she never brought Callisto with her again.

  But the penalties of that day were long lasting. The thought of it now still brings outrage to Callisto’s heart, but when it happened, she knew only happiness of the most supreme sort.

  One night, long after the nymphs had chattered themselves into sleep and Callisto was mending her boots by the fire in a shallow cave not far from the meadow, Artemis came to her. Her hair was down, pulled from its braid. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and dark. She stalked forward like she was on a hunt, and Callisto was the prey she’d cornered at last.

  “Artemis?” she asked, setting aside the boots.

  Artemis did not speak. She came closer, until she was on her knees in front of Callisto. She did not have her bow across her back, nor her shoes, and she shed her tunic with haste. Callisto stared. How could she not?

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice small, afraid to stir the goddess from whatever spell transfixed her. “Artemis?”

  Artemis’ answer was a finger to Callisto’s lips, then a hand through her hair, then a hand on her thigh.

  Then lips upon her lips in a searing kiss.

  She gasped, frozen beneath its intensity, and then sank into its warmth. Artemis pushed her down to the cave floor. It hurt her, but Callisto was awash in love, delirious with want. In her arms was everything she had longed for and never thought she could have. She offered her neck for kisses. She parted her thighs for demanding hands. She sighed and surrendered beneath her goddess, beneath her love, and had never before imagined it so sweetly satisfying to play the prey.

  They lay twisted together after, damp with effort. Callisto was floating so high, she hardly noticed when Artemis extracted herself from her arms, patted her bare thigh, and left the cave. She did notice, however, when she did not return. When the sun began to stream through the cave mouth, Callisto slipped into her tunic and carried her half-mended boots back to the meadow. Artemis was laughing with the nymphs as they braided the long cord of her hair. She smiled warmly at Callisto when she saw her, but offered no remorse for having abandoned her.

  Callisto made nothing of it. And when Artemis did not try to lay with her again that night, nor the next, nor ever again in the following weeks, she still counted herself lucky to have known love so intensely, even if their time was brief. She would not count it against her fierce goddess. Nothing had to change between them for her to be happy.

  But some changes are inevitable.

  Artemis spotted one as they bathed, her and Callisto and a dozen nymphs splashing around the mountain spring.

  “Callisto,” she said, her voice low. “Turn to me.”

  Callisto turned, her soaking curls straightened with the weight of water and hanging over her chest. She raised her eyebrows at Artemis, wondering the cause for the darkening look on her face.

  “Turn to the side, Callisto,” she demanded.

  With a confused laugh, imagining they were playing some sort of game, she turned again, this time so her side faced Artemis. The water lapped around her stomach. That is where the goddess’ eyes were fixed.

  “What have you done?” whispered Artemis. Her quiet words silenced the nymphs faster than her shouting could have, and they all turned around in the spring to watch as Artemis moved through the water and put her hand on Callisto’s stomach. She slid it down, just beneath the water, beneath her bellybutton.

  That is when Callisto also looked down. Cupped beneath Artemis’ pressing hand was a barely noticeable swell. But it was there, and the longer she stared at it, the shorter her breath became, and the hotter her face grew.

  “Callisto,” came Artemis’ voice again, distant and disturbed.

  Callisto looked up, saw the devastation in her goddess’ eyes, and felt a tide of indignation pull her under. “What do you mean, ‘what have I done?’” she asked. “I did not think this possible!” She put her hand over Artemis’ on her stomach, only to have Artemis yank hers back as if burned. She could not fathom why Artemis was so upset. Was not she the one impregnated? And by a woman, no less! A thing she’d surely thought beyond the realm of possibilities. And yet . . . Artemis was more than a woman. Callisto’s mind was muddled with speculation. She did not sense the danger soon enough.

  “You did not think this possible? What? That you would be discovered?” Artemis grated. Still, they all remained naked in the spring. It did not seem the right time to climb clumsily from the water, not when Artemis was close to trembling with anger. “Of all my companions, I thought that you would . . . you swore to me. It was all I ever asked you to swear!”

  Callisto was confused. Had she failed a test when Artemis
had come to lie with her in the cave? Was she supposed to have remained chaste, even when her greatest, sweetest love came to finally claim her? Had she been toying with her ever since, waiting for the right moment to accuse her of breaking her vow of chastity? Was the swollen stomach a punishment for her misbehavior?

  “Please,” she begged, reaching for Artemis, who pulled away with a splash. “I do not understand you!”

  “And I clearly do not understand you,” Artemis said. She went to the edge of the spring then, and climbed out with strong arms and legs. Not clumsy. Never clumsy. Nothing like Callisto, who hurried after her in a flailing of panicked limbs.

  The nymphs left the water, too, and huddled around Artemis, casting judgmental looks at Callisto and the tiny bump of her stomach.

  “Do not follow me,” Artemis said when Callisto pulled herself out of the spring and stood dripping and miserable. “I could kill you for what you’ve done. I could kill you.” Callisto saw tears in Artemis’ eyes, but they refused to drop.

  “Artemis,” she pled. “I have nowhere to go that’s not at your side.”

  Artemis’ gaze dropped to Callisto’s stomach. “Go to his side,” she said.

  Callisto did not understand. She stood in the forest alone, still trying to understand hours after Artemis had gone. But nothing made sense. Not until someone else showed up beside the spring, someone Callisto had never met.

  But the woman—for she was a woman, a woman so grand and glowing she could only be an Olympian—knew all about Callisto; more, it would soon be evident, than Callisto herself knew.

  “This is the wild little thing that snared my husband’s seed?” she asked. Her skin was as pale as the moon and her robes were green silk, absurd and beautiful against the forest backdrop. “Do you know who I am?”

  Callisto studied her a moment. It did not take long to discern her. There were only so many possibilities, and once she noticed the crown of woven peacock feathers resting on her head, the possibility was only one. “Hera,” she whispered in awe and dropped abruptly to her knees, bowing her head.

  “And you are Callisto, plaything to the gods. First Artemis and now my husband,” said Hera, to which Callisto raised her head and stared in surprise at the goddess. “Do not feign ignorance. I could look the other way at your coupling, but now that you are carrying his child—my husband’s child—I’m afraid something must be done. You probably won’t like it.”

  “I have never lain with Zeus or any man!” Callisto insisted, mortified to be accused of such filth. She recalled Zeus’ eyes on her and felt a rise of nausea in her throat. “I have sworn myself to Artemis!”

  “Yet my husband’s child grows inside you as we speak,” Hera said. Her calmness was more jarring than if she’d been screaming.

  Callisto shook her head, rising from her knees, though they knocked together in fright. “It is impossible.”

  “Is it? Is it impossible for a god as mighty as Zeus to get exactly what he wants? I think it is more possible than a proclaimed virgin goddess coming to bed her homely companion.”

  Callisto stared down at her stomach. “No.”

  “You stupid creature. Do you know how your treasured Artemis came to be?”

  “Zeus . . . he turned into a quail to couple with her mother,” Callisto whispered.

  “And now he has turned into his daughter to couple with you,” Hera jeered. “And he is not the only one with the power to incite change.” She lifted her hands, her eyes fiery.

  Callisto was too dazed to run. She would not have made it far, if she’d tried. But she did shield her face with her arms, and thus saw when they began to grow shaggy and black with fur. “No!” she tried to scream, but her mouth was changing, pushing out into a snout, her nose melting into something too small. Her fingers became paws, her nails claws. She shot up in height, then toppled to all fours. She groaned and it was a growl. She blinked her eyes at Hera and her terrible smile.

  “You look better this way, I think,” she said, circling the bear. “But now you are a dangerous beast. How unfortunate. If only there was a huntress with the skill to take you down.”

  Callisto roared, wavering on the unfamiliar balance of her giant paws.

  “Goodbye, Callisto,” said Hera. “May better fortune find you in the Underworld.”

  She vanished.

  Callisto wailed, sinking her claws into the earth. And then she did the only thing that could be done. She ran. Not from the huntress of the mountain, but to her.

  She barreled through the trees, grazing her wide bear shoulders against rough bark. Her cries were an animal’s cries, but her heartbreak was entirely human. She remembered the night in the cave, how Artemis had not spoken all the while, how rough she had been, when Callisto knew her only to be gentle with her before. She cursed herself a fool to not have seen through Zeus’ ploy. She felt dirty, disloyal, and she carried proof of it inside her. But she carried the same love, too, that she’d always had, and she could do nothing but hope it was stronger than a god’s deception.

  When she entered the meadow, they were waiting for her, as she’d known they would be. She’d traveled loudly, so Artemis would hear her coming. The goddess waited for her now, standing on the rock in the middle of the meadow, elevated above her nymphs, whose eyes widened at the sight of Callisto, not because it was their friend in the shape of a bear, but because a very large bear had dared stray into their camp.

  Artemis already had her arrow nocked and her bow lifted.

  “Hera was true,” rasped some of the nymphs. “This bear looks wild-eyed. You should shoot it down quickly, Artemis!”

  Callisto stopped at the edge of the clearing, sitting back on her rump and lifting a paw to Artemis. She tried to say, “My love,” but it came out like a threatening growl, so she stopped trying to say anything with words. She said it with her eyes instead. She gazed at Artemis, unwavering and devoted, and tried to put all her love into her eyes.

  “Hera warned me of a horrid beast ravaging the forest,” said Artemis. She jumped from the rock and paced slowly towards Callisto, keeping her arrow aimed. “What manner of beast is this that runs to danger instead of fleeing?”

  “Kill it, kill it,” urged the nymphs.

  Artemis shifted the aim of her arrow from Callisto’s heart to her left eye. She squinted as their eyes met and locked.

  It is me. It is me. Callisto lowered her paw, then lowered her giant body, settling onto her stomach and resting her head on the ground at Artemis’ feet, staring all the while into the eyes of her beautiful Artemis.

  The goddess lowered her bow. “There is a beast ravaging the forest,” she declared. “And her name is Hera.” She went to one knee and settled her palm on Callisto’s snout. “I did not see Orion when it counted,” she whispered. “But I do see you.”

  At once, Callisto’s fur receded. Her claws became nails as her palms became hands. She grew smaller, but did not grow fragile. She was stronger than before, because her lady had seen her and known her. It was enough to make her weep. Her tunic destroyed, she remained naked on her hands and knees until Artemis covered her in animal skins and pulled her into her arms.

  “I thought he was you,” Callisto cried, tucked against Artemis’ solid shoulders. “He came to me in your form, and I thought—”

  “Hush, my little huntress. I understand everything now. I should have seen it before.”

  “I would never have lain with him!” Callisto wept. Her hand wound around Artemis’ braid. Her tears soaked her tunic. “Only you, Artemis. Only you.”

  “It is one of Hera’s tricks,” Artemis soothed, though a harshness touched her voice. Callisto felt the rumble of it, felt the vibration through her chest. “And one of Zeus’ tricks, as well.”

  “I am pregnant with his child,” Callisto said, rubbing at her stomach, wishing she could rub it from existence. “He will want it! He will take me away from you!”

  Artemis stilled her hand and
captured her wet gaze. Artemis’ eyes were wet, as well, but her tears were angry and calculating. “They will not have you or the babe.”

  “You will protect me?” Callisto asked. “Even after what happened? I broke my vow.”

  “No.” She took Callisto’s face in her hands. “Your vow was taken from you. You have never been anything but loyal. You ran straight to me, even when I might have killed you. In your mind, you were not with my father. You were with me.”

  “Not just in my mind,” Callisto said. “In my heart, too.”

  Artemis honored her with a kiss to her forehead, and heated her with a kiss to her mouth. “My Callisto,” she said. “When this is over, we can be together, with both our minds and both our hearts.”

  It was too much for Callisto, and she had to turn her head away, but Artemis caught her in another kiss, deeper this time, and full of promise.

  “Zeus and Hera have their tricks, but I am not without my own,” she said. “I have favors awaiting fulfillment, and already a plan is forming in my mind. Will you dare assist me in thwarting the most heinous of Olympians?”

  “You know I will,” Callisto answered, and the nymphs murmured their approval and support.

  Their forest meadow became a hive of intrigue, and two of Artemis’ brothers were summoned. One fluttered, one shone, and both declared they were happy to help. Hermes added clever details to Artemis’ idea, and Apollo added others. The nymphs laughed, and Callisto blushed, and Artemis nodded with enthusiasm.

  It would become one of Callisto’s favorite stories to tell, and one of Artemis’ favorite to hear. Even now, years removed from its action, they lay together beneath the starry meadow, surrounded by peacefully dozing nymphs, and the goddess begged for Callisto to retell it.

  “Again?” Callisto teased.

  “For me,” her love pleaded against her skin.

  So Callisto began the tale. For Artemis. Always for Artemis.

  “First thing was first. I had to be hidden away.”