Read Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast Online
Authors: Jane Yolen
Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast
In addition to using material from the Greek myths, Jane Yolen and I wanted to set our Young Heroes tales, as best as we could, against the background of the historical Greek civilization of the Heroic Age. The fall of Troy is not only part of the legends of ancient Greece; it is generally accepted to have been a historical event to which we can give an approximate date. Using this as my starting point, I worked my way back in time, setting the major events of Greek legend in chronological sequence.
Note that Heracles is the original Greek name for the hero we normally refer to as Hercules. The titles of the Young Heroes novels are in italics, showing the years when these adventures supposedly took place.
Robert J. Harris
BCE
2200 The Mycenaean peoples invade Greece from the north
1750 Cities of Crete destroyed by an earthquake
1600 Cretan palace at Knossos damaged by an earthquake (Knossos rebuilt within a century and Cretan civilization flourishes)
1357 Perseus slays Medusa
1350 Perseus founds Mycenae
Oedipus becomes King of Thebes
1291 Bellerophon battles the Amazons
1289
Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons
1274 The labors of Heracles begin
1273 Heracles sails to the land of the Amazons accompanied by Peleus and Telamon
1270 Heracles captures Troy and slays Laomedon
1268 Theseus sets out for Athens where he slays the Cretan Bull
1267 Theseus travels to Crete and slays the Minotaur; becomes King of Athens
1266 Queen Hippolyta leads the Amazons to war against Athens
1265
Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast
1263
Jason and the Gorgon’s Blood
1259 Jason leaves Mount Pelion and travels to Iolcus
1258 Voyage of the Argonauts
1254 Hunting of the Calydonian Boar
Atalanta marries Melanion
1253 At the age of six, Achilles begins to hunt wild beasts under Chiron’s instruction
1247
Odysseus in the Serpent Maze
1245 Battle of the Gods and Giants
1237 Death of Heracles
1236 Helen marries Menelaus
1235 Penelope marries Odysseus
1234 Paris abducts Helen
1233 Trojan War begins
1225 Deaths of Patroclus and Hector
Penthesilea and the Amazons arrive to help the Trojans
1224 Achilles slain by Paris at the Skaian Gate
1223 Fall of Troy
1213 After ten years of wandering, Odysseus returns to Ithaca
1200 Fall of Mycenae; end of the Heroic Age
Jane Yolen and Robert J. Harris
For Heidi—
who keeps me running on the right path
—J.Y.
To David E. Poole and
Professor Robert Ogilvie, who taught me Homer and Virgil and much else besides
—R.J.H.
CHAPTER ONE: A SHAPE IN THE FOREST
CHAPTER THREE: BURYING THE PAST
CHAPTER ELEVEN: A SIGN FROM THE GODS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: VICTIMS OF THE BEAST
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: LAND OF DANGER
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE CHALLENGE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE ROAD TO TEGEA
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: SACRED TEMPLE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: THE GREAT HUNT BEGINS
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: ONE SMALL DEATH
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: ALLIES FROM THE WILD
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: THE TRAP
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: ARROW’S FLIGHT
WHAT IS TRUE ABOUT THIS STORY?
A Conversation Between the Authors
A Biography of Robert J. Harris
A SHAPE IN THE FOREST
T
HE 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.