Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

ALLIES FROM THE WILD

“THE HUNT ISN’T OVER yet,” Atalanta said, looking out across the valley. She was thinking about the goddess’s words to Iasus. Perhaps if only royal blood could slay the beast, and she was a true daughter of the king, she could kill the thing. Hadn’t she wounded it once already? Hadn’t it flown off when her knife had cut it?

“There are only four of us now,” said Melanion. “And Uncle is in no shape to fight. Think, Atalanta—what chance do we have?”

She turned around and glared at him. “As much chance as any hunter with courage and wits at her command. We can’t quit. We owe it to Orion to go on.”

“Besides,” Evenor said sensibly, “what other choice do we have? With Ancaeus injured, we can’t move fast enough to escape.”

Ancaeus winced as he tried to move. “Leave me,” he said hoarsely, “for what good it may do.”

Atalanta shook her head. “Orion never would have abandoned a helpless man. Neither shall we.”

“You’re right,” Melanion agreed. Glancing quickly around the little den, he added, “I suppose we could hole up here and defend ourselves till Uncle Iasus sends men to find us.”

“Not soon enough to do any good,” said Evenor.

“Or I could go back to Tegea for help,” Melanion added. “I’m a strong runner.”

“That beast has taken deer and boar who run faster than you, my young friend,” Evenor told him.

The air in the little den suddenly seemed hot and thick. Tempers were on the edge of flaring, dry kindling ready to ignite at the least spark.

“We came here to kill the mantiger,” Atalanta reminded them, “and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“With what?” Melanion asked. “We lost half our weapons running away from it. We’ve only three spears between us.”

“We still have our knives,” said Evenor, “and Atalanta’s bow.”

Atalanta looked at Orion’s cairn. An idea had occurred to her, a foolish one perhaps, but one that might give them a chance.

“We won’t just use weapons,” she said. “We’ll use the wild itself to help us. But first I have to find Urso.”

“Your pet bear?” Melanion asked doubtfully. “How do we know where he is?”

“He was badly scratched and bitten when he ran off,” said Evenor. “We don’t even know if he’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” Atalanta insisted. “I’d know here if he were dead.” She put a hand to her breast. “And he will help us.” She paused and turned to Melanion. “Didn’t you say you came across some bees back there?”

He shrugged. “Yes. There are plenty of them in this part of Arcadia. The gods alone know why. The land is poor enough.”

“Good,” Atalanta said. “Now—both of you—empty out the packs,” she said. “I’m going to need them all.”

“To do what?” Evenor said.

“You’ll see.” She grinned at him.

Exchanging puzzled glances, Evenor and Melanion began turning the packs upside down and dropping empty wineskins, ropes, knives, dried olives onto the floor.

“Are you all mad to obey her?” Ancaeus croaked. “She’ll be a single bite for that beast.”

“I’ve been a hunter all my life,” said Evenor, “and Atalanta still knows more about the woods than I ever will. If there’s a way to survive this and kill the mantiger, she’s the one to do it.”

He handed his empty pack to Atalanta.

“Thank you, Evenor,” she said quietly. Then, taking all the packs and her bow and knife, and without further farewells, she slipped through the gap in the rocks.

The sky above was a pale blue without a single cloud. Sun-cast shadows made creatures where there were none. Crouching low, Atalanta ran swiftly down the rocky scree and into the forest, alert for any smell or sound or sight of Urso. She knew he would be close by.

She found Urso only an arrow shot away, curled up inside a thick clump of bushes, licking his many wounds. She was distressed to see the tears the mantiger had made in his flesh. There were bare patches of red, raw skin where whole clumps of his fur had been ripped out. Deep scores were gouged into his back.

“Oh, Urso!” she gasped, throwing her arms around his neck.

The bear licked her face in return and the two of them nuzzled and patted each other, growling softly.

“You trailed me all across Arcadia, you foolish, foolish bear,” Atalanta said. “You saved us all.”

Urso’s growl turned to a plaintive whine.

“I know you’re hurt,” she said, tears running down her cheeks. “But I need your help. Remember how we used to go hunting for honey? How I had to run from the bees?” She made a buzzing noise and formed her fingers into flying insects, nipping at her own skin.

Urso gave a snort of recognition.

“We have to hunt for honey again, Urso. We need to find some beehives.”

The bear shook himself all over, as if just rising out of a river, and padded out of his hiding place. He bent his head into the crook of her arm and she gave his ears an affectionate scratch, carefully avoiding a deep wound near the right ear. She hoped Urso and she could accomplish their task before the mantiger found them again.

The search for bees took the rest of the morning. With Urso’s sensitive nose sniffing out the sweet scent of honey, Atalanta was able to fill the three packs with full hives, using a long forked stick to lift each hive out of the bole of a tree.

There was no sign of the mantiger, but neither she nor Urso relaxed. Even when they were concentrating on the bees, they kept alert to both sky and ground.

But both of them were breathing hard now, the bear because of his wounds and Atalanta because she’d been stung several times on her arms. They were tired, hungry—and hurting. Atalanta knew there was little point in pushing further. They needed to head back to the den where the others waited.

As they turned to go, Atalanta spotted a gleam of silver through the trees. “Look!” she said.

Urso’s head jerked up and saw where she was pointing.

It turned out to be a small pool. Urso plunged in as if he knew that his wounds needed to be clean, especially the ones he couldn’t reach with his tongue.

Atalanta was more cautious, unwilling to put herself at a disadvantage in the water, but she bent down for several long draughts. Afterward, she made compresses from the muddy banks of the pool and covered her stings with them. The mud was cool and eased the pain. Then she filled her wineskin with fresh water and picked up the packs once more.

Suddenly a savage roar reverberated over the woody slopes.

“Come, Urso,” Atalanta called, “we’ve got to get back to safety.”

The bear needed no urging. Lunging out of the pool, he clambered up the banks at a run. Then, side by side, they raced through the woods till they got to the bottom of the scree beneath the cliff shelter. There they stood, catching their breath, the bear’s sides heaving with the effort.

Realizing how exhausted Urso was, Atalanta stopped him there.

“Wait here. Stand guard,” she said. “Growl if you smell anything coming. No need to make the climb unless you have to.”

She left him and went quickly up the scree, darting into the cover of the rocks and calling out as she went, so they’d know she wasn’t the monster.

When she reached the entrance to the little cave, with the three packs over her shoulder, Evenor and Melanion recoiled from the angry buzzing.

“Are those bees?” Melanion asked.

She nodded.

“You are mad.”

“We’re hunting something that can fly,” Atalanta replied matter-of-factly, “and as we can’t fly ourselves, we need some help.”

She raised the bags up, and the men flinched as the buzzing grew more furious.

“Just don’t let them loose in here,” she warned, “or we’ll be stung to death before the mantiger can find us.”

“We heard it roaring,” said Evenor. “It’s out there looking.”

“We’re not going to wait for it to come to us,” said Atalanta. “Here, drink this and listen to my plan.” She gave them sips from the wineskin and outlined what she had in mind.

“It gives us a chance,” Evenor commented when she’d finished, “and we can’t ask for more than that.”

“We still need something to use as bait,” said Atalanta. “Something to lure it out.”

“A goat? Or a deer? Some game it can try to take from us,” asked Melanion.

Evenor shook his head. “The mantiger’s scared off any animals in this part of the forest.”

“You can use me,” said Ancaeus in a pained, hoarse voice. As he spoke, he pushed himself to his feet, his back pressed against the rocky wall.

“Are you sure?” Atalanta asked.

Ancaeus’ lip twisted in a sneer. “Do you think you’ve more courage than I, little girl? Do you think I want to lie here, cringing in fear, until I die of my wounds?”

“Uncle…” Melanion began, reaching out a hand.

Ancaeus slapped his arm aside. “Let the beast come for me. Better to die a man than live a coward. Just remember to have the poet sing about my bravery.”

“You understand the plan?” Atalanta asked.

“A fool’s plan,” he replied scornfully. “But the only plan we have.”

“I intend to kill the mantiger,” Atalanta told him firmly, “and not at the cost of your life.”

“Then make sure your aim is true,” Ancaeus said.