Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast (6 page)

“Someone’s rolled a log in here,” Goryx said, as if the other two couldn’t see for themselves.

Casting around the outside of the pit, Phreneus said, “Plenty of bear tracks.”

Evenor shook his head, all the while looking at Atalanta. “But no bear.” He smiled slightly. “So bear friend, have you been delaying us till the bear could climb out?”

Atalanta looked down, her lips set together in a thin, hard slash.

“What do we do now, Evenor?” Goryx asked in his unpleasant voice.

“Go after the bear,” Phreneus put in.

Atalanta looked up at them and held her breath.
Please, Pan, guard my bear.
A prayer, even to a dream god, might not be amiss.

Evenor shook his head. “Who knows how far it’s gotten by now. Besides”—and he smiled at Atalanta, almost as if they were conspirators—“we’ll have our hands full getting the girl back to Eteos.”

Goryx held up his hands. “We’re not taking that Harpy’s brat back with us.”

“Do you think we’ll be safe if we let her loose?” Evenor asked him.

Goryx looked horrified.

“And we can’t very well leave her tied up,” Evenor added.

“Why not?” Goryx asked.

“She’s a child,” Phreneus said.

“A girl child,” Evenor added. Atalanta could see relief written on his face, as if having Phreneus on his side made things easier.

“Well, it’s a sorry prize we’re bringing home today,” Goryx said.

Evenor crouched down by her. “Listen, child, if you understand, give me a sign.”

She stared at him, through him, but said nothing.

“We’re going to leave your arms tied. But as long as you leave off your kicking and biting, we’ll not tie your feet or gag you.”

Atalanta looked down again. She’d make the walk to Eteos easy for them. Every step in that direction put more distance between Urso and these dangerous men. But nothing—nothing at all—would make her stay.

T
HEY MADE IT TO
Eteos by midmorning of the next day. Atalanta had had to endure a night tied up. The men were taking no chances of her escaping.

I can wait,
she thought.
I can outlast them.

Eteos was a small huddle of three dozen mud brick-and-thatch houses around a central square in which stood a
herm,
a pillar with a stone head of Hermes at the top, for prosperity and fertility. The whole place was less than half a hectare. To Atalanta, it looked crowded and unhealthy.

The men dragged her into the square and leashed her to the pillar like an animal, then left.

I won’t cry,
she told herself. And indeed, she was so furious, she only glowered like a captured beast.

In the course of the afternoon, everyone in Eteos must have come out for a look. They stared at her and spoke about her as if she could not hear them or understand. The children were the worst. They seemed to make a game out of calling her names.

“Wolf girl,” they cried. “Wild boar.” And, “Pan’s baby sister.” When there were no grown-ups around, the children also hurled stones and handfuls of dirt at her just to see her snarl. Then they’d jump back, squealing and laughing, from her snapping teeth and grasping hands. For of course she couldn’t reach them. A stout leather collar had been strapped around her neck and fastened shut with bronze studs. The collar was fixed to a length of thick rope that was wound around the pillar and tied with a whole string of knots that were too tight for Atalanta to work free without the help of a knife. Tethered like a wild animal, she began to act the part. At least that way she made the children keep their distance.

She knew that all she had to do to get free of the collar, the rope, the humiliations, was to talk to the people of Eteos, to let them know she was as human as they. But that would have been a defeat. For if they knew that she was one of them, that her father was dead, they would make her stay. Make her live in the village.

I can take anything,
she thought,
but that.

As the sun started down, Atalanta slumped against the post. An old woman, dressed in a frog-green garment with a bundle of kindling on her back, stopped to cluck and shake her head at the ragged captive.

“Poor child,” she said through broken teeth. “Poor child.”

Atalanta growled at her and the old woman left, still shaking her head.

Then two boys appeared, elbowing each other and laughing.

“Go on,” said one, “go closer.”

“No, she might eat me,” his friend protested with a giggle.

Egging each other on, they edged toward her, smirking and chuckling.

“Hoi—wild child!” the braver one called.

Atalanta remained motionless, not even looking at them, pretending that she was half asleep.

Just let them come within reach and they’ll find out how wild I really am,
she thought. She’d pay them back for their taunts with broken noses and split lips. A few more feet…

“Get away from there!” boomed a familiar voice. “Leave the girl in peace! She’s not hurting you.”

At the sight of Evenor striding toward them, the boys took off, disappearing among the mud brick cottages. Atalanta opened one eye and peeked after them. Then, smelling food, she sat up.

Evenor approached her without fear, but he was careful to stay outside the measure of her rope. He set a pair of painted pottery bowls on the ground near her. One was filled with water while the other contained pieces of dried fruit, some scraps of salted meat, and a half loaf of old bread that had been softened in olive oil.

“I’ll bring you some blankets to keep you warm tonight,” he said, looking up at the darkening sky. “It’s getting cold again. This summer seems so unpredictable. At least it shouldn’t rain.”

She didn’t answer him. The villagers knew nothing about her.
Nothing!
Not even that she could talk.

“No one will have you in their home, you see,” Evenor went on, speaking to her as if she understood him but clearly believing she did not. It was just the way she talked to Urso. “No more than they would a wolf or a wild boar. My wife is of the same mind, and I suppose I can’t blame her. We’ve the children to consider.”

He sat on his haunches and waited while Atalanta stuffed the food into her mouth by the handful. While she ate, she stared at the long scar that ran down his right arm, willing him to explain it to her.

As if he understood, Evenor pointed to the scar. “It was a boar I thought dead did this,” he said. “I got too close and he’d just enough life left to pay me back for killing him. It just goes to show, you can’t be too careful when you’re dealing with wild things.” He winked at her.

She refused to wink back.
Let him guess,
she thought.
Let him try and guess.
She would not help.

Instead, she finished her meal and pushed the bowls away. She would eat his food to keep up her strength, but she wouldn’t thank him for it.

Evenor sighed and gathered up the empty bowls. “I’ll be back with the blankets, as I promised.” He left, going into one of the mud-brick houses.

He kept his promise, bringing out two threadbare pieces of cloth that scarcely covered her middle. But he didn’t come to see her the next day. She guessed that he’d gone off hunting. Or to work in the fields with a long, curved scythe cutting grain. She’d seen some of the men head to the fields. Atalanta was amazed to find she missed him.

A woman—probably Evenor’s wife—came out of the same house and set down bowls of food and water within Atalanta’s reach before hurrying away.

Some children gathered around while she ate. They started calling her names, but Atalanta bided her time. As soon as they ventured close enough, she let fly with the water bowl. She caught one boy on the side of his head breaking the bowl in the process. He ran off howling for his mother, blood streaming down his neck.

She was glad when night came, and she could settle down under her thin blankets. This time she slipped almost immediately into a deep sleep.

Something rough and wet rubbing against her cheek woke her. Opening her eyes blearily, she saw a bulk looming dark against the quarter moon.

“Urso,” she whispered.

He stopped licking her face and gave her a wide bear grin.

Rubbing her face against his neck, she made a soft growling sound, assuring him that she was all right. His answering growl was a lot deeper and louder, like the rumble of nearby thunder.

“Quiet, boy. There may be folks awake yet,” she whispered to him. “How is your paw?” She pointed at it.

He held up his right foot. It seemed neither swollen nor scarred.

“Good. I’m glad of that,” she told him. “Now I need help.”

She showed him the rope, and he understood at once that it tethered her to the stake. Digging his claws into it, he ripped the fibers apart shred by shred. When the last few cords snapped, Atalanta jumped to her feet. She took hold of the leather collar and tried to pull it loose, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Time for that later,” she said.

He gave her another rumbling answer. Then, all at once, he reared up on his hind legs and sniffed the air. His head tilted, his lip curled to expose the fangs on the left side of his maw.

Atalanta knew what that meant.

Danger!

H
ER EYES DARTED ABOUT
, but there was no sign of any of the villagers. They were tucked into their houses, sleeping. So where was this danger?

“What is it, Urso?” she asked.

Nose down, he faced toward one of the houses.

Then she spotted what was worrying him. Even by the dim light of the quarter moon she could see the brightly colored zigzag pattern that ran down its back. Those markings were clear: The snake was venomous and deadly.

Slithering silently, it had now reached one of the cottages and slid under the ill-fitting door.

Evenor’s house.

Atalanta hesitated. For all that she’d surrendered herself to the wildness of the forest, it was one of her father’s teachings that still sang loud in her heart:
Help those who need help.

She warned herself.
You have time to escape. You owe these people nothing.

But this was Evenor’s house. Of all the people of Eteos, he’d been the one to bring her blankets and food. He’d spoken kindly to her when he needn’t have taken the time.

She sprinted headlong across the open ground toward the cottage, the bear only a few steps behind.

As she ran she thought:
The door is probably barred. Everyone knows to be that careful.

Then she noticed a small window beside the door, covered only by a curtain of sackcloth and half lifted because of the softness of the night. She launched herself through the little window, brushing the frame on both sides as she tumbled in. Both her arms felt scraped raw, but nothing could stop her now.

At the thump of her landing, the two children who’d been asleep near the hearth sat bolt upright. The little girl squealed.

Atalanta lunged forward. The snake’s fangs were only an inch from the child’s bare foot.

“Aieeeee!” Atalanta cried as she pinned the serpent to the floor with both hands on the back of its head.

“It’s the wild girl!” the boy exclaimed.

Atalanta recognized that voice. He was one of the boys who’d tormented her only the day before. But there was no time to think of that now. She had to kill the snake. And quickly.

Her father had shown her how to do this. With one hand she gripped the serpent firmly behind the head so it could not turn and bite her. At the same time, her other hand seized it by the tail. Then in a lightning swift motion, she flung the head away from her and whipped the snake through the air by its tail. Its head hit the edge of the stone hearth with a crack that split its skull and knocked a water jar onto the floor, where it shattered.

Atalanta tossed aside the dead creature and was turning to go, when she heard the sound of a curtain being yanked aside.

The hanging that separated the little cottage into two cramped rooms was pulled open, and there stood Evenor with an axe in his hand, his wife cringing behind him.

“She did it!” the boy called out.

“What?” Evenor was baffled.

“She killed the snake!” The boy’s voice suddenly cracked, as if he’d just realized the danger.

“What snake?” Then Evenor spotted the dead serpent coiled on the dirt floor.

“Papa, she just flew in through the window and killed it,” the little girl added. “It would’ve ate us.”

“Blessed Artemis,” her mother cried and ran over to embrace both her children. Then she put them behind her, staring at Atalanta for a long moment with a lessening fear in her eyes.

There were sudden deep-voiced cries of alarm coming from outside. Atalanta understood at once what must be happening. Turning and lifting the heavy beam that barred the door, she bolted outside.

Villagers had heard the noise—of the child’s scream or the shattered jar. Coming out to investigate, they had spotted Urso. A pair of men were already advancing on him with spears.

One was Goryx, who was urging his companion, “Finish him! Finish him now!”

Standing upright, Urso slashed the air with his claws, a stance that was clearly threatening. But the men stood their ground and soon the rest of the villagers joined them, forming a semicircle of spears, pitchforks, and torches around the beleaguered bear.

Evenor had come out of the house to see what was going on, his axe still in his hand.

Turning, Atalanta seized his scarred arm.

“Please,” she cried. “He won’t hurt anyone. He only came to help me.”

“So she talks after all,” said Phreneus, rubbing his beaky nose.

Just then Urso swung a great claw and dashed aside the nearest spear point. The men moved back, well away from his reach, muttering uncertainly to one another.

Evenor lowered his axe. “Don’t provoke him,” he called out. “Can’t you see it’s the girl he’s concerned about?”

“They’re both equally dangerous,” said Goryx. “Press on!” As if taking his own advice, he darted forward and scraped a gash across the bear’s shoulder with the end of his spear.