Quiver Read online

  After a sudden, heavy silence, Cepheus jumped to his feet, gripping Ancaeus’ ax. “You insult us if you do this,” he snarled at Meleager. “The dead most of all!”

  Meleager’s hand went to his scabbard. “And you forget yourself, Cepheus,” he replied.

  “No, nephew,” said Toxeus, stepping in front of Cepheus. “It is you who forget yourself. You are the son of a king, yet this woman”—he pointed his chin at me—“has you playing the dunce.”

  “Uncle—” Meleager began warningly.

  “A slut with dirt between her toes?” added Plexippus. He was the coarser of the queen’s two brothers and had been eyeing me since my arrival. “Surely her favors can’t be worth the trophies.”

  Meleager’s dagger was in his hand. He looked at his uncles with loathing. “Do not say another word,” he warned. “Or I will forget that you are my kin.”

  “Meleager, please,” I said, just as Jason took hold of Meleager’s arm. Perhaps it was Cepheus, lurching forward with the ax upraised, or Toxeus, reaching out in a clumsy attempt to snatch Meleager’s dagger, or even Jason, shifting like a wrestler, to block him. Yet something ignited Meleager’s smoldering rage, and like a torch roaring into flame, or the sweep of fire through dry grass, it consumed them all with terrible swiftness.

  I saw a tangle of bodies grappling and falling and coming apart, as one man struck another, and was struck in turn. Jason shouted and broke away with a gash across his arm. Toxeus sank to his knees clutching his chest, blood striping his hands. Then Plexippus pitched forward onto his brother; Meleager’s dagger had found him, too.

  When it was over, Meleager had wounded a friend and killed two kinsmen. The sun beat down on us with sudden white heat. Meleager turned to me almost blindly.

  Mouth dry, I backed away from him.

  “Take the trophies,” he said.

  Apollo: Enough bloodshed!

  Artemis: Do you think so?

  Apollo: I wish you were more moderate, sister.

  Artemis: That’s your specialty, not mine. Besides, Oeneus hasn’t learned his lesson. What a balky old man he is!

  Apollo: Haven’t you punished him enough?

  Artemis: Others will help me now.

  Apollo: What do you mean by that?

  Artemis: Wait and see.

  THREE

  Cepheus bolted, shouting curses. I bound up Jason’s torn arm. Then we set off for the palace, with Toxeus’ and Plexippus’ bodies tied to one shield and the boar’s head and hide lashed to another.

  It was a searing morning. The air pulsed with heat that grew more intense as we came down from the hills. No wind stirred, and the sun blazed at us in white-hot rebuke. Meleager had gone ahead, leaving me at the rear, and I took some comfort in this. His sudden, brutal rage had shocked me so that I could scarcely meet his eyes.

  I walked with Mopsus and Iphicles, who pulled the shields, trailed by a chorus of flies as persistent as the Furies. In the oppressively still air, my head ached and I itched with sweat, which trickled down my face and neck and into my wrist guard. My bow, normally so wieldy, was now burdensome, and my quiver strap chafed. I began to pray for a breeze.

  When the long line of huntsmen stopped briefly and I saw Meleager sending two men ahead, I was stupidly pleased. Good! I thought. Now Oeneus will know we are coming.

  Forgetting for a moment the cruel events of the morning, I thought only of being welcomed back to the palace with food and drink and clean robes. I imagined the shadowy coolness of the women’s bath, with its rush mats and lavender-scented pool, and resolved to offer to the goddess after I had cleansed myself. As for the dull, metallic ache at the back of my throat, I put it down to thirst, for I had not yet learned to recognize the taste of disaster.

  Then it happened, in a grove of pines near the palace road. Because I was at the rear I did not see Meleager stop, or begin to hop from foot to foot, as if the pine needles were hot coals. Nor did I see the way he twisted and whirled in a kind of jerky, lunatic dance as the pain intensified.

  At first I heard a few voices raised in confusion, and then shouts; I thought one was Meleager’s. Mopsus gasped loudly, his face contorting, and the line of men broke apart and ran downhill toward the trees.

  “What?” I cried, but the Sight had shown Mopsus something so terrible that he could not speak. Seeing his face twisted with woe, I was seized by panic and ran.

  I was the first to reach the grove.

  I found Meleager writhing on the ground, covered in pine needles. His hounds crouched nearby, ears flared, whimpering. Jason was backing away from the prince with a look of disbelieving horror on his face.

  “No!” groaned Meleager as I ran to him with my arms outstretched. “Do not touch me!”

  By then I could feel the heat, waves of it, and see the blisters bubbling up on him as if he were aboil from within. The sweat on his face steamed; patches of his skin had started to blacken. I wanted to recoil from the stench; instead, I forced myself to draw closer so I could hear what he was trying to say. Eyes rolling, he gasped that it was his mother, the queen, that she had set him afire.

  I screamed in vain for water.

  He died telling me he loved me.

  Apollo: Are you quite finished?

  Artemis: Not quite. Nearly.

  Jason went into the palace; I could not bear to. Later he told me that when the bodies of her son, Meleager, and her brothers, Plexippus and Toxeus, were borne inside, Queen Althea killed herself with a dagger. Then King Oeneus fell, clutching his heart.

  As the king lay on his bed wheezing, a trio of fat, speckled birds waddled into his chamber. They surrounded him, gabbling and pecking at his hands until he died. It was said that this, too, was Artemis’ doing, that in a final, vengeful flourish, she had changed the king’s three daughters—his last remaining children—into guinea hens.

  So ended Oeneus’ royal line.

  FOUR

  I have known Jason since I was a gangly twelve-year-old, from a time before his exploits, his marriage, and his fame. He appeared in our settlement one day wearing a leather tunic, a leopard skin, and one sandal. His fair hair hung loose to his shoulders, and there were strange markings on his forearms, dark blue crosses and snakes. I had never seen such a man, and could hardly keep my eyes on my gluepot. Back then I helped Castor with the simpler tasks of bowyering, like scraping sinew and mixing glue.

  Jason greeted Castor by saying that he had come all the way from Iolcus.

  “Iolcus? In Thessaly?” replied Castor mildly. Thessaly was many days’ journey from Arcadia. None of us had ever been there. To me it sounded as distant and exotic as Tiryns, or Knossos, places at the end of the world.

  Jason nodded. “Your fame extends far beyond these mountains.”

  My guardian said nothing. He disliked flattery. Jason went on, “I would like to buy one of your bows. I have heard that they are perfect.”

  This was an unfortunate statement, for Castor had strong opinions about perfection. He said it was hard to find and harder to achieve, but hardest of all to forget.

  “I have no bows to sell, perfect or otherwise,” he told Jason brusquely. “You have made your long trip in vain.”

  “Truly?” Jason did not raise his voice, but it rang with incredulity. Castor shrugged, as if unaware that half a dozen bows, some newly made, others close to completion, hung from the trees in plain view.

  Another man would have argued or pleaded, but Jason did neither. He simply settled near the fire and watched Castor, who turned his attention back to the morning’s task, heating and bending two long pieces of ash. Gently, slowly, he persuaded the wood to curve.

  I was less successful at ignoring the stranger. As I stirred the glue until it was smoother than honey, I kept wondering what he would do. He had the air of someone who was accustomed to having his way.

  After a long while he said, “Chiron is my teacher. He told me the only thing that could save my shooting was one of your bows.” Chiron the Centaur
was a great archer, admired for his wisdom and sobriety as well as his marksmanship. Later I learned that he had raised Jason from infancy, just as Castor and the other hunters had raised me.

  Castor snorted. “He has no taste for flattery, then.”

  Jason laughed hard and long. “No.”

  Finally Castor smiled. “Would you care to try one?” he asked.

  Jason jumped to his feet. “Yes, yes,” he said, “of course.”

  “Why not shoot against Atalanta?” said Castor. I looked up, startled. “If you can match her, I will give you a bow.”

  “She shoots?”

  “She does.”

  Jason could not suppress a laugh, perhaps at the notion that I could handle a weapon, or perhaps at my appearance. I was suddenly very conscious of my dingy chiton, my rough-woven cloak, and my filthy bare feet. It was early spring and the mountain streams were still edged with snow, which made bathing a truly Spartan exercise. I was not terribly clean. But at least I had braided my hair, which was more than I could say for him.

  When I returned from my shelter with my bow, Castor was pinning a rabbit skin to the great fir at the edge of the clearing. A few of the children appeared, as if they had smelled a contest, or heard of it on the wind. They were always shooting against one another, of course, and they had seen me practice countless times, but a match with a stranger was an unusual treat. They watched us with the wriggling intensity of young dogs awaiting food.

  “Three shots from sixty paces,” said Castor, after Jason had chosen a bow. “Left ear, right ear, head.” He measured off the distance and drew a line in the ground with a stick.

  I no longer wore my cloak, but only my chiton. Now I fastened my wrist guard. It was a soft, supple thing made of spotted cat, a gift from Castor when I won my first shooting contest.

  “It will protect your arm,” he had said. I prized it almost as much as my bow.

  Jason looked at me. I indicated that he should go first, and he stepped up to Castor’s mark. He eyed the target, raised his bow to the sky in a swooping salute, then shot. His first arrow missed the tree altogether. His second came within a finger’s breadth of the rabbit’s right ear. His third shot, his best, hit the center of the rabbit’s head.

  He stepped back with a slight nod. I realized he was pleased. Even then, I knew how to keep my face expressionless, but there was a trill of mocking laughter from the children, who had not yet learned to dissemble. Every one of them could shoot as well as Jason.

  Castor’s frown silenced them. Before their laughter had died away, I had taken my three shots. The arrows formed a neat little pattern on the white fur, like an upside-down arrowhead.

  “Left ear, right ear, head,” I said.

  Jason stared at the target open-mouthed.

  “Atalanta wins,” said Castor.

  The young ones whooped and waved their arms, grinning rudely at Jason. Castor chased them off.

  I expected Jason to show anger or shame; they were the customary reactions when I won. Instead, he turned my way, lowered his head, and extended an arm to me, palm up. It was an unfamiliar gesture, baffling yet oddly pleasing.

  “Your skill is wonderful,” he said. His eyes were gray-green, like dark water.

  I shrugged, blushing ferociously. “Castor taught me.”

  “I also had a fine teacher, but instruction can only do so much, as I have just proved.” He said this with such a wry smile that I could not help smiling back.

  “Atalanta shoots better than I will ever hope to,” he said to Castor.

  Castor nodded in agreement.

  Once again, Jason’s smile was wry. He was wonderfully adept at refusing to take offense. “Though I have lost,” he said to Castor, “I am loath to leave empty-handed. Will you not relent and sell me a bow?”

  “What do you think?” Castor surprised us all by asking me. I looked into Jason’s eyes.

  “I think he will treat it well,” I said.

  We were friends from that day.

  FIVE

  Now I crouched outside Oeneus’ palace, forgotten by everyone but Jason, who found me at dusk. At first I could not even look at him, or speak; I was encased in misery, as if Medusa’s scowl had turned me to stone. Jason wrapped me in his cloak and offered me some wine. I gulped it down, choking a little; then I cried. I hated the sound of it—so weak and girlish!—yet I could not stop myself.

  He sat with me for a long time. As the moon rose, he told me the story of Meleager and the Fates.

  “They appeared to Queen Althea when Meleager was born,” he said, “and she asked them how long he would live.

  “As long as it takes for that stick of wood to burn away,’’ said one, pointing to the fire.

  “Althea was horrified. The instant they were gone she pulled the stick from the flames and hid it away. Time passed; she watched Meleager grow into a fine young man. The Fates were outwitted, or so she thought.”

  I had last seen Althea as we departed for the hunt. She had wished me well, putting her small, bejeweled hand on my shoulder, reaching up to press her cheek against mine. She had beautiful dark eyes like her son, and the affection in them had touched my heart. I had thought enviously that Meleager was lucky to have such a mother.

  “She learned otherwise, and most cruelly,” said Jason.

  I tried to imagine Althea’s anguish when the Fates told her how soon her child would die. In attempting to save him, she had done what any mother would, yet how could she hope to outwit the Implacable Ones? No mortal has that power.

  The Fates simply lay in wait, anticipating the bloody clash between Meleager and his uncles. When it came, it transformed Althea from a protective mother into a murderous one, who killed her son to avenge her brothers.

  It was a sequence of events horrible beyond imagining.

  “She burned the stick?” I asked.

  Jason breathed out heavily. “And then took her own life.”

  I closed my eyes. I should not have come, I thought. I should have sent an excuse to Meleager and stayed in Arcadia. If I had done so, only the boar would have died. The others would still be alive.

  As if he had heard me, Jason said, “Do not blame yourself for any of this.”

  “How can I not?” I replied. “Even you would not have me on the Argo.” Fearing that he could not keep peace with a woman aboard, Jason had not invited me on the voyage to Colchis. I had failed to understand his reasoning at the time; I could think only of the glory he and his men had won. From the moment they presented the Golden Fleece to Jason’s uncle, King Pelias—to his astonishment, for the Fleece was guarded by an insomniac serpent with a deadly temper—Jason and his comrades had become demi-gods.

  Knowing this had made me all the more eager to join the Hunt, and when Meleager sent word, I had literally raced all the way to Calydon, making the four-day journey in two and a half. Nothing could keep me away; I burned to prove that I belonged in the company of heroes. Even if the boar were Artemis’ creature, I told myself, the goddess would understand my need.

  I had offered to her liberally before leaving.

  But what had I won in Calydon? Terrible sadness for the deaths I had witnessed. Disgrace for the ones I had caused. A name that would be uttered with pity, or worse, linked as it was to the woes of this blighted kingdom. And shame for my kin, who had taken such pride in me.

  It was difficult to speak. When at length I could, I asked Jason, haltingly, what I should do.

  “Go to Gortys,” he said.

  SIX

  I left the palace before dawn, carrying only my weapons. Aura, Meleager’s favorite hound, followed me out. I saw no reason to discourage her. She was a rangy, sociable dog, with a mouse-brown coat, bright amber eyes, and a perpetually wagging tail. Now that Meleager was gone, she would need company.

  So would I. Gortys was many days’ journey from Calydon, and though I was armed, and could outrun anyone on two legs, Aura would surely be helpful; bandits, as well as centaurs, roamed the hi
lls.

  As we approached the gates, she darted ahead of me, neck extended, tail rigid. In the half-light I recognized the boar’s head and hide lying near one of the stone pillars. Aura nosed the malodorous heap eagerly; it was not easy to pull her away.

  I wondered if the great trophies of the hunt would be left here to rot, or if they would be fed to the funeral pyres later in the day. Costly offerings, I thought.

  The cypresses guarding the palace stood black against an electrum sky. A damp wind promised rain. We took the eastward track downhill. Aura bounded ahead, following her nose. Every now and then she would turn to hurry me on, barking and swinging her tail. I jogged, allowing her to lead, and we went quickly.

  At midmorning we stopped at a stream. Clouds of mist hung in the pines. The forest floor was slick with their needles. Here and there, clumps of white cyclamen, Artemis’ flower, gleamed like fragments of the moon.

  Satisfied that we were well and truly alone, I bathed in the icy water. Once cleansed, I prayed silently to the goddess, dedicating my journey to her and asking for her blessing. “I am yours,” I whispered, as I always did. Then Aura ate a squirrel and we moved on.

  Even in Arcadia we knew of the oracle at Gortys, which was dedicated to Asclepius. Like his father, Apollo, Asclepius was a great healer who could mend broken minds as well as broken bodies. Supplicants to his oracle slept in caves, hoping to receive their cures in dreams.

  Some went for relief, others for answers. Jason had visited the oracle in secret before embarking on his quest. “I dreamed of the Fleece,” he told me, “and of a beautiful, bewitching woman. With two such omens, I came away happy.” In Colchis he had met the woman in his dream, a princess called Medea. She had used powerful magic to help him, and later become his wife.

  I had also heard tales of miracles at Gortys, of the blind regaining their sight, of the palsied rising up and bounding away, and of barren women (it was one of the few oracles where women were permitted) becoming fruitful within days. I cherished the story of a mute boy who regained his speech after dreaming of silver-tongued Apollo.