Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast (12 page)

She thought of Urso and how he ran so easily, eating up miles in a steady rolling gait.
Be a bear,
she told herself, and at that very moment she was a bear, her two legs feeling like four as she galloped along.

A wide stream suddenly stretched right across her path. She could hear Orion in close pursuit and knew that she couldn’t afford to lose as much as a single pace.

Gathering her nerve, she jumped the stream.

Be a bird,
she thought, willing her arms to be wings. But it was too far across. Her left foot came down in the water and slipped on a layer of smooth pebbles. She pitched forward, throwing her arms out to protect her face as she fell. She hit with a splash and her right knee scraped painfully over a jagged stone.

A huge shadow flew over her and Orion landed with a thud on the far side. He swiveled around and looked down at her in triumph.

“You should go back to the village and have that tended to,” he said, his words puffing out like strength ebbing. “Young pretty legs like yours shouldn’t be scarred.”
He was,
she thought,
older than he’d seemed in the village. Much older. Older than Evenor. Old as my father.

He was bent over, breathing hard.

She thought,
Old man, this run has sorely taxed you.

Gritting her teeth against the pain in her leg, she scrambled up onto the bank and darted into the forest.

Now the ground was rising toward the hill where the little shrine stood. Without warning, a high steep bank reared up in front of Atalanta, like a massive wave. She attacked it, grabbing onto handfuls of grass, roots, forcing herself upward. The grass on the northern slope was still slick with morning dew and the soles of her sandals kept slipping. She kicked them off and dug her toes into the ground, clawing up the rise like an animal.

Orion came charging after her and leaped, his hands catching hold of the top of the bank. But when he tried to pull himself up, his fingers slipped off the dewy grass and he slithered back down. Furiously cursing, he mounted a second attack, but he was too late.

Atalanta had already reached the top and clambered to her feet. From here the slope was less severe. She drove herself up, ignoring the spasms that shot like streaks of flame down her thighs and calves, the pebbles that dug into her bare feet.

Every breath she took was like a fire blazing through her lungs. A pain lanced through her left side as though someone were forcing a long sharp needle between her ribs. But worse than her own pain was the sound of Orion struggling behind her, his ragged breath like a roaring wind.

And then she was there—on the hilltop. At the shrine.

Ahead of her was the simple figure of Artemis set atop its crude pedestal of gray stone. The people crowding around it were shouting.

She couldn’t distinguish the words they were saying, couldn’t tell who they were calling for. She only had the wit to throw herself forward, flying vertically across the last few yards.

The crowd parted for her and her arm stretched out, fingertips brushing over the feet of the goddess. Then she hit the grass, bruising her cheek as she landed.

“You’ve won!” Evenor cried. Then to the suddenly silenced crowd, he called, “Atalanta won! The girl won!”

She turned over and saw his kind face looking down at her. He reached out with his hand and pulled her to her feet.

Orion erupted onto the scene, as furious as a storm ripping through a field of corn. He let out a wordless cry of anger that sounded like an animal’s roar. Lashing out with one massive fist, he knocked the statue off its pedestal. The stone image of the goddess rolled across the ground several times before coming to rest face up in the grass, its stone eyes staring up at the blue sky.

Then Orion turned from the crowd, showing them his back, his shoulders heaving as he drew in a series of deep, calming breaths. When he turned around again, the smart of defeat was still smoldering in his eyes, but he had control of it.

“Game’s over. Everyone back to the village,” he said in a low rumble to the crowd. Then to Atalanta he added, “I guess, little girl, you’ll be joining the hunt.”

“O
RION SEEMED MORE THAN
eager to set out for the palace of King Iasus at once. Atalanta was sure that part of his eagerness had to do with getting away from the scene of his embarrassing defeat, but she said nothing about it. In fact, she said nothing at all, eating the celebratory breakfast without speaking a word.

Orion took his meal standing, apart from the others. He even turned away several young men of the village who begged to join the hunt. He was so curt with them, they stalked away, cursing Orion angrily.

“Who does he think he is?” one of them said.

“Only an old man,” said another.

“A slow old man,” added a third.

Though she felt sorry for them, Atalanta kept her silence. After all, those same young men had been Orion’s greatest fans only hours before.

“You’ll have a tale to tell, when you come back,” Phreneus said to Evenor and Atalanta with an envious grin. Then he added, “Everybody in Eteos will give you all the wine you can handle just to
hear
the tale of Orion and the Arcadian Beast.” His voice rose in its enthusiasm. “How he crept up on the mantiger and—”

“He hasn’t killed it yet,” Atalanta interrupted sharply, the first words she’d spoken since the race. “My father always warned me not to suck the marrow from the bones of a live beast.”

“We’re not doing this for wine,” Evenor reminded him, “or for the tales we can tell. We’re doing it for the good of our people.”

“We’re not doing it for Orion’s glory either,” Atalanta added.

As if called by his name, Orion suddenly appeared behind Evenor. “There’s no glory for any of us till the beast is slain,” he said. “Afterward, there’ll be plenty to go around. Pick up your gear and let’s be on our way.”

Atalanta started to protest that he’d misunderstood what she meant, but he’d already gone back into Labrius’ house. Shrugging, she picked up her gear and stood. Whatever appetite she’d had was gone, anyway.

Just then Orion came out of the house, fully armed. The two of them stared sullenly at each other across the courtyard. When Evenor joined them minutes later, they were still glaring like two boars getting set for battle.

“It’s the mantiger we’re after,” he reminded them, “not each other.”

Orion had the grace to look embarrassed, and Atalanta bit her lip before turning her head away. Hot tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away. The last thing she wanted was to be scolded by Evenor.

The entire village turned out to see them off. Orion’s final wave of farewell was greeted with a cheer, except for the three young men who glowered in the back of the crowd.

“I don’t mind telling you I’m glad to be away from here,” Orion confided as they headed down the track. “There’s nothing I find as wearisome as hordes of country folk demanding that I tell them stories of my adventures.”

Atalanta covered her mouth with her hand to hide a smirk. Orion hadn’t seemed to need much prompting to relate his stories.

Indeed, it wasn’t long before he was telling Evenor and Atalanta all about a seven-headed sea monster he’d slain while on the island of Delos, about his faithful dogs who could put up ninety birds with one leap, about the Keshite lion he’d captured alive and given as a present to the king of that country, and so on and so on. If she hadn’t seen him wrestle the raging bull to the ground, Atalanta would have thought he was making all of it up.
But maybe,
she mused,
maybe most of it’s true.

When he was done storytelling, Orion spoke to them about the length of spears, the proper flight of arrows, and the best way to hold a lion’s jaws apart. He pointed out tracks on the path, animal scratchings on the trees, and the difference between the scat of a stag and that of a doe.

The man simply couldn’t stop talking.

Atalanta mentioned this to Evenor once, when Orion had gone on ahead to scout, and he replied quietly, “Perhaps he’s lived too long alone in the woods and is used to the sound of his own voice.”

She had no answer for that, nor did Evenor seem to expect one.

They walked farther, but now darkness was stitching up the garment of the day. Soon it would be time to make camp.

Spotting a rabbit lurking in the long grass, Atalanta took the bow off her shoulder and an arrow from the quiver, and in one swift movement bagged the creature.

Once they found a place to camp and had laid out the fire perimeter and the rabbit was cooking on a greenwood spit, Orion passed her his wineskin.

“Good shot,” he conceded.

Atalanta’s cheeks reddened, but she nodded her thanks. It was as if she and Orion had come to a kind of alliance. She smiled to herself. Rabbits were easy. Wait till he saw how she stood up to the mantiger’s charge.

She went to sleep to the drone of Orion’s voice, waking only when Evenor called her for her turn standing watch. Though with the din Orion made snoring, she doubted any animal—even the mantiger—would come near.

Over the next few days, Orion took it upon himself to instruct Atalanta in some of the finer points of hunting.

“A bow’s fine for rabbits and squirrels,” he told her, “but you need a proper hunting spear for bigger game.”

“This has served me well enough,” Atalanta said, patting her own light javelin.

“A weapon that does no more than wound can be the cause of your own death,” Orion cautioned her. “Especially hunting boar.”

She nodded. Her father had said the same.

“Boars die hard. Wounded, they’re as vengeful as the Furies. Evenor can vouch for that,” Orion added.

“I was young then,” said Evenor, running a finger down the long white scar on his arm, “and too eager to claim a trophy.”

“I
have
hunted boar,” Atalanta started to say, but Orion continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

“A wounded beast is more enemy than prey,” he said. “If your shot doesn’t bring it down, it’s safer to miss altogether. If you’re trying to stop a boar with that bow of yours, little huntress, don’t aim for the heart. His hide is too thick and his breastbone will block the way. Aim for a vulnerable spot on the head: the eye or the ear. With a spot of luck you might pierce his brain. Otherwise that pretty skin of yours will get damaged.”

Evenor moved between them and pointed at an old bite mark on Orion’s left arm. “I see you’ve picked up your own share of wounds.”

“As I said before, a man who flinches from danger is no hunter,” said Orion. He pulled aside the lion skin and pointed. “See—there. And there. And there.” Each place he touched was a fearsome scar, some puckered like little mouths, others long white slashes. “But there is enough danger in the wild without taking foolish risks, little huntress,” he said, turning again to Atalanta. “No matter how helpless a beast may appear, don’t hold back from a final spear thrust or you could pay with your life. And if you corner a beast in its lair, be prepared to strike without hesitation.”

On the third night of their journey, during her turn at the night watch, a familiar scent caused Atalanta to stare nervously around before she realized it was the smell of bear.

Glancing over at Orion, she saw he was fast asleep and—for once—not snoring. Evenor also was deep in slumber.

Noiselessly, she slipped away from camp, gliding a short way through the shadows, before she found Urso crouched in the darkness. As soon as he saw her he let out a soft, welcoming growl.

“Hush, boy!” she whispered urgently, clamping a hand over his muzzle, “We can’t let Orion know you’re here. Who knows what he’d do.”

Urso rubbed his shaggy neck against her.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she said. “But we’re going off to King Iasus’ palace to round up enough men to hunt the mantiger.”

At the beast’s name, Urso snorted.

“No,” she told him, “you can’t come along. To Orion you’re just a helping of meat and fine fur cloak.”

Urso made a low, plaintive whine.

“Yes, it’s dangerous,” Atalanta confessed, “but if you want to help me, you have to keep out of sight. We’ll be in Tegea, the king’s city, soon. It won’t be safe for you there, so you have to stay out here, in the forest.”

Urso licked her hand.

“I can’t go home until this is done. The mantiger killed my father and it’s threatened my friends. We’re connected somehow, that beast and me. I don’t know why, but I know it’s so.”

She wrapped her arms around Urso’s neck and hugged him hard before pushing him away. “Go now,” she said. “I have to get back before somebody notices I’m gone. Besides”—she struck her fist to her chest—“I am standing guard.”

The bear stood up till he towered over her. Then he struck a paw to his own chest. Clearly he was saying that he, too, would stand guard. Then he bounded off into the trees, a great dark shape that was one minute there and the next gone.

Atalanta stood for a few moments, remembering the feel of the bear’s head under her hand, the shaggy roughness of him. Then she turned to head back, and walked right into Orion, who was emerging from the bushes, his long spears in his right hand.

Atalanta leaped back in shock.

“I woke and you were gone,” he said in explanation.

“I thought I heard something moving around. But I was wrong.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “None of us—myself included—is to leave guard station and go off alone.” He paused and sniffed at the air. Then his eyes scrutinized the hard-packed ground carefully.

“Probably just a rabbit,” said Atalanta, stepping into his way.

Orion lifted his head and raised an eyebrow. “A rabbit? With that musk?”

For a heart-stopping instant, Atalanta was afraid he’d insist on pushing past her, find Urso’s tracks, and set off after him. But instead, Orion just turned around and headed back to camp. Letting out a sigh of relief, she followed.

A
FTER THREE DAYS AND
nights, they passed beyond the trees and the green light of the forest, and came upon a long, parched road.