Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast

CHAPTER ONE

A SHAPE IN THE FOREST

THE GIRL WAS SILENT, tracking through the deep woods, a small gutted rabbit safely tucked into her leather belt. It was all she had found in the snares they’d set, and she was still hoping she might be able to find something more impressive before her father reappeared.

He’d left her to check the snares while he followed some deer tracks. Of course she’d grumbled. Checking the traps was a child’s task.

“And I’m no longer a child,” she whispered to herself, though she wasn’t yet thirteen.

The forest seemed unnaturally quiet. Nothing scrabbled in the underbrush away from her. No birds trilled overhead. Even the wood pigeons were still. She was disappointed.

How can I prove to Papa what a good hunter I am, she thought, if there is nothing here to hunt?

A spring gurgled from a low crag, their usual meeting place. Glancing around, she looked for some sign of her father.

Perhaps he has had good luck, she thought. Then she added in an under-breath, “I’ve certainly had none.” The rabbit didn’t count. It was scarcely a meal for one, and besides, it had been caught in their snares.

Setting aside her bow, she crouched by the stream and scooped up the cool water in her cupped hands, drinking greedily. Then she straightened up, licking the droplets from her lips and brushing a strand of dark hair from her eyes in a single unconsciously graceful movement.

The sun was almost touching the hilltops to the west.

Where is he? she wondered, a bit anxious. They had agreed to meet long before dark. It was not like him to be late.

The only other time he’d left her waiting at the stream was a few weeks ago when he’d been gathering wildflowers for her birth remembrance day. She’d forgotten about it. He hadn’t.

She smiled at the memory, then stiffened at a sudden noise, a strange rustling in the bushes, as if something big was creeping through the undergrowth toward her.

It didn’t sound like her father.

Instantly alert, she snatched up her bow and looked about.

As suddenly as it had come, the noise was gone.

A breeze? she thought. A breeze could rustle the bushes. But she didn’t really believe it was a breeze. Or at least she wasn’t sure of it. In the woods—her father always said—certainty keeps the hunter alive.

She slipped an arrow out of her quiver and fitted it to the bowstring.

The rustling started again, and this time there was no breeze. Then she heard a solid crack, as if a branch had been stepped upon.

A deer? Too heavy.

A boar? Too subtle.

A bear? Though they were rare in these parts.

A pair of wood pigeons burst suddenly from a tree, their wings beating in a desperate flight. The girl felt her heart fly off with them.

Suddenly something touched her on her arm and she whirled about, arrow at the ready.

“Papa!” She lowered the bow.

“Hush, Atalanta,” he said, raising a finger to his lips. “There’s something out there.” His weather-browned face creased with concern. “Something big.”

“I know,” she whispered back, realizing she did know. “I think it may be stalking me. What is it?”

His eyes narrowed, and his fingers clenched tightly around the shaft of his long hunting spear. “I don’t know. I found some spoor in the woods. Nothing I recognize.”

She thought, Nothing he recognizes? How can that be? Her father knew every inch of the forest. He was a great hunter. Perhaps the greatest. She found herself shivering.

“Nothing from around here, anyway,” he added.

There was a small flicker of movement in the bushes, barely visible in the twilight. Atalanta caught a glimpse of a large tawny shape, low to the ground. Then in a blink of an eye it was gone again.

“Put away your bow,” her father whispered, “and be ready to run.”

“But I’m a hunter, too—” Atalanta began.

“Don’t argue with me, Atalanta,” he said, his voice low. “I know you are a hunter. But if we don’t get away now, we’ll be two dead hunters.”

She had never heard him nervous like this. Nodding, she slipped the arrow carefully back into the quiver and slung the bow over her shoulder. She grasped the hilt of her knife where it was kept in her belt but did not draw it.

Her father hefted the spear above his head, drawing back his right arm. “Go!” he barked, his voice like the snap of a bowstring.

She shot into the copse of trees behind her, as fast as a rabbit fleeing a fox. Only once did she glance back, in time to see him hurl his spear at some shape that was ripping through the greenery toward him.

For a moment she hesitated, then heard him pounding behind her.

“Don’t look back!” he called. “It will only slow you down.” Then he caught up to her, his fingers digging into her shoulder, pushing her onward. “Run, Atalanta, run!”

From behind them came an incredible roar. It sounded like a cataract of rocks and boulders crashing down the slopes of Mount Parthenon.

All the hairs on the nape of Atalanta’s neck seemed to stand up at the sound. She had always been quick, quick enough to match her father step for step when he sprinted through the forest after deer or wild goat. But that roar pushed her forward at a pace she’d never managed before.

This time they were not the hunters. They were the prey.

“Will we be fast enough?” she cried.

“Save your breath for running.”

She ran.

As she ran, she thought: We might have one advantage. Papa said the beast was not from around here. She and her father had been hunting the woods for years. They knew every track and stream and shortcut and obstacle.

“Left, Papa!” she cried, taking a quick jog left and sliding through a small cleft in a wall of stone. Her father followed.

There! she thought, pleased when the beast behind them roared its frustration.

But it must have found another way to scramble over the stone, for almost immediately it was on their trail again.

A thick copse of trees seemed to stymie it only momentarily.

They leaped a small stream but heard it close behind.

Atalanta could feel her breath searing her throat. “Papa,” she gasped, but couldn’t get out anything more.

“The house,” he cried, his voice full of pain. “Safe there.”

And there, across the clearing, was their cottage.

Atalanta took another hot breath and, with a final burst of speed, headed toward it. She could hear the thump of huge paws behind her, then remembered her father’s warning not to look behind.

She was tiring, but a small prod in her back gave her the energy for a few more steps. Then a few more.

Suddenly, she could hear her father stop running; hear the sound of his knife slicing through the air; hear a grunt, a gasp, a cry.

Then she was at the cottage door, yanking it open, tumbling through, rolling across the straw-covered floor.

Her father was several steps behind her, and he came in through the door, gasping.

“Papa!” she cried, relieved he was all right.

He slammed the door shut, and she got up to help him bar it, shoving the heavy wooden beam across.

No sooner was the beam in place than a huge weight crashed into the door, making the whole house shudder. Thankfully, the door held.

Her father slid to the floor with a groan. There was a bead of blood on his tunic.

No, Atalanta thought, not a bead, a spot. Then she thought: Not a spot, a blot. Even as she watched, the bloodstain grew bigger.

She knelt beside him, lifted the tunic, saw the wound. It was jagged and wide and blood seemed to be gurgling out like the spring from the crag.

“Papa!” she whispered.

He tried to answer but could only manage a croak. He pulled down the tunic and pressed his hand against it to try and staunch the bleeding.

From outside came a low growl followed by a snuffling noise. Something was sniffing at the door.

To her horror, Atalanta realized that the beast must be smelling the blood.

She pulled her father away from the door and got him up onto his pallet.

“Stay there, Papa,” she said, but he did not hear her, having fainted with the pain.

Drawing her knife, she went back to the door where she stood silently for a moment, listening. The scratching and the growling came again, then stopped.

Her father had always said a hunter’s ears were among his most important weapons. She strained to understand what she was hearing. The beast seemed to be padding around the little house, rubbing itself against the rough stone walls as if marking its territory. Then it went around a second time.

The house had two small windows, each protected by a leather curtain. Those curtains were open. Atalanta stared out as the beast went by, its bulk blocking the light.

It’s huge! she thought. Big as a bear. Bigger.

She kept listening as the thing made yet another circuit of the house. Her palm was clammy against the handle of the knife. Beads of sweat dripped down her face, tracing little rivulets.

Silently, she stepped over to one of the windows, pressed her back against the wall, and waited for the beast to pass by again.

It must have smelled her sweat or heard her breathing, for—like lightning—it stuck its huge paw through the window, sharp claws shredding the leather curtain.

Atalanta reacted without thinking, jamming the knife into the paw, right where a wrist would have been.

The beast roared with pain and jerked the paw back, knife and all. Then it roared again. This time the sound seemed compounded of rage and pain.

Standing frozen by the window, Atalanta found she could not move.

A groan from her father was so loud, it startled her. Suddenly her frozen limbs worked again. She stood on tiptoe and stared out the window. She could see nothing, hear nothing. It was as if the beast had disappeared.

“Atalanta,” her father called.

Running over to him, she fell to her knees by his pallet. “What is it, Papa?”

“Is it…” he whispered with difficulty. “Is it…gone?”

“I don’t know, Papa,” she said, her voice almost as weak as his. “But I wounded it. I stuck my knife in its paw. Through the window.”

“Wounded badly?” His words were so quiet, she had to bend over and put her ear close to his mouth.

She shook her head. “I’m not certain. But the knife was still in when it backed away.”

He managed to sit up. “You need to find out. We cannot leave it wounded.” He coughed, an awful frothy sound. “Take the small spear. But for Artemis’ sake, be careful.” He fell back.

“I will, Papa.” She knew a wounded beast could be even more dangerous.

Going over to the corner by the door, she fetched her father’s short spear where it was propped beside their nets and snares. Carefully, she slid the beam from the door, then stood for a long moment listening for any hint of danger.

It was quiet outside.

Perhaps, she thought, too quiet. But she went out anyway. She had no other choice.