I looked at the fledgling moon and thought of the goddess Artemis. She was the one to whom Atalanta had sworn herself, Iphigenia’s beloved patroness. In addition to being goddess of the wilderness, Artemis was said to be the protectress of young girls and pregnant women. She was a huntress of unparalleled skill, which was why Atalanta loved her. I myself had offered sacrifices to Artemis now and then, though it felt like sending gifts to a distant relative who never came to visit. I had no sacrifice to offer now, nothing but my heart and my voice.
I did not love the goddess. I wasn’t required to. To the gods, love and hate were irrelevant so long as the proper sacrifices were made, or so I had been taught.
Yet hadn’t Prometheus acted out of love when he gave the gift of fire to humanity?
Didn’t Eros love me, even if he had lied?
Empty-handed beneath the moon, I made an incoherent cry to Artemis. There were no words in it, only a desperate call forhelp. Nothing stirred except the leaves in the evening wind, but I felt better afterwards.
Whether Artemis heard, I cannot say. But a day later, as I was making my way through the scrub, I heard the rustling of human feet in the undergrowth. I tensed, wondering if the men from the village had found me, or if a pack of bandits had picked up my trail. I was no match for them in my current state; I was unarmed save for my knife and a few arrows, not to mention bone-tired and half-starved.
I snatched my knife, ready to make my stand. But to my amazement, the figure that emerged from the undergrowth was none other than Atalanta.
24
Psyche
I sat across the campfire looking at my teacher and felt as though I had fallen through time.
Atalanta was older; it had been nearly two years since I had seen her last. There was more white than grey in her thick hair, and she moved with a stiffness that betrayed her age, but I felt the same sense of reassurance in her presence that I always had. Her camp may have been a ramshackle affair with only a small lean-to for protection against the elements, but it washers. Atalanta’s bay mare, looking as grey as her mistress, gave a snort of greeting when she saw me.
‘Where have you been? I heard you disappeared during a hunt,’ Atalanta said, breaking the silence. She had embraced me with unrestrained joy when we found each other, but now her ornery nature reasserted itself. Her eyes were bright in her gaunt face as she looked at me across the fire.
I realized how I must look. I wore secondhand clothes from the mountain village and had clearly been sleeping on the ground for several days. My hair had become tangled beyond all recognition, so I had used my knife to cut it all off. Now my head looked like a field around harvest time, with short and long patches.
‘What happened?’ Atalanta asked. ‘I taught you better than that.’
‘You did,’ I replied. I sipped the rich venison stew flavoured with mountain carrots to buy myself time. ‘But one thing led to another and before I knew it, I found myself married.’
Atalanta stared at me. ‘Married?’ she repeated, sounding like a magistrate trying to withhold judgment in a particularly clear-cut case. ‘Who was he? Did you … consent to the match?’
I told Atalanta what I had told Iphigenia: that my husband was a wealthy and mysterious man who showed me nothing but kindness, and from whom I had been separated by a chance event. Part of me wanted to tell Atalanta everything, to lay my story at her feet, but fear held me back. I was tangled up in the affairs of the gods, and I could not risk dragging Atalanta down with me.
My halting explanation did nothing to allay Atalanta’s suspicions. ‘If he’s so wonderful, how did you end up here?’ the old hero demanded.
‘After our villa was attacked by Dorian raiders, he told me to seek safety in Mycenae,’ I lied. ‘He said he would meet me there once all was well.’
‘I see,’ Atalanta replied. Squinting at me, she demanded, ‘Was he good to you?’
I recalled my teacher’s long-ago advice:Marry a man like Meleager. I thought about my conversations with Eros under the stars, our archery contests. I thought about the awe in his voice after seeing my battle against the bandits.
‘Yes,’ I said simply.
Atalanta nodded. She knew truth when she heard it, and my contentment was all she cared about.
I suddenly felt very weary. We spread out our bedrolls next to each other under the night sky, and I lay down at once. ButAtalanta sat up, gazing at the fire, hunched over the bony knobs of her knees. She looked ancient and wild.
‘Did I ever tell you about my husband?’ she said at last.
My heart leaped. From the way she asked the question, I recognized it as a preamble to one of her hero tales. ‘No, you only spoke of Meleager,’ I replied. I snuggled into my blanket and felt the familiar thrill of old happiness.
‘His name was Melanion,’ Atalanta began, the mere utterance of the name prompting a faint smile. ‘He could scarcely be called a prince, since his father was only the headman of some small village. He was not very strong, but he was clever. And he could make anyone laugh.
‘I told you of the hunt for the Calydonian boar, but I have not told you of what came before it or after. When I was born, my parents did not desire a daughter and left me on a barren hilltop, which is not unusual. But I did not die. Instead, I was raised by a pair of hunters who lived in the forest, who said they found me in an old bear den with drops of milk on my lips. The bear is sacred to Artemis, and so I have always honoured the goddess for her gifts. I honoured the bear as well, and I think she appreciated it.’
I shivered as I thought of my own wild prayer to Artemis in the dark woods and Atalanta’s appearance shortly afterwards. It seemed that the gods – at least one of them – still listened to me.
The fire crackled and sparks flew up to join the stars. ‘After I won fame as a hero, my father recognized me and summoned me home,’ Atalanta continued. ‘He claimed me as his daughter, an honour I could have done without, and declared that I would marry a prince. If I’d had a lick of sense, I would have run back to my forests. But I was young and foolish, and I wanted a fatherwho loved me. So I agreed, on the condition that I would only marry the man who could beat me in a footrace.’
