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  I wondered if I, too, might dream of Apollo, for I had spoken little since the Hunt, responding even to Jason with grinding effort. It was as if I were a child again, overhearing the hunters’ talk of what my father had done. Left her to die. Didn’t want a girl. The words, flatly spoken, had so transfixed and bewildered me that I had been mute for days.

  Now, too, I felt wrapped in silence, as if my grief were a heavy, stifling garment I could not shed. I ran on, ignoring my pangs of hunger. I had not eaten since the Hunt, and would not until I reached Gortys.

  In this small way I thought to honor Meleager’s death.

  SEVEN

  Early the next morning we waited at the shore for the boat-man, an old fellow as gnarled and squat as a tree stump. He had ferried me across this same deep channel only ten days before, with Ancaeus and Cepheus. Their loud conversation with him had not ceased for all the time of crossing.

  Today it was different.

  Seeing me alone, he was full of questions. I made him understand with gestures that Ancaeus and Cepheus were gone. It may have been this grim news, or the flash of Aura’s teeth when she bared them, but he left us in peace after that. When at last we reached the far shore, I gave him two small game birds in payment; one was for his silence.

  A vast, sandy plain stretched before us. Mountains loomed to the north, with Gortys in the foothills, two days’ walk from here, and two more from home.

  We had much distance to cover, and again Aura set the pace, bounding ahead as if released from a trap. We were soon loping along in unison, enjoying the windy salt air, with its fish-bone-and-seaweed perfume.

  When they saw us approaching, groups of children would run down to meet us, and Aura would circle them, prancing and wagging her tail. They would often try to race us, screaming with excitement when I let them catch up, and shouting in surprise when I shot ahead. At such times Aura would bark sharply, joyously. Like me, she was happiest in the lead.

  After a time I knew only the steady slap of my feet and the pounding of my heart. The waves beat nearby like a soft, insistent drum, and my mind eased, then stilled altogether. I was in motion, but I might have been sitting under a tree, dissolving into the breath of the forest.

  I ran on, as if I were passing a shadowy crowd of straining opponents, one by one by one.

  The sky went from crimson to indigo. The moon rose, veiled in drifts like cobwebs. Lights—torches—flickered in the distance. Hearing chanting, I stopped.

  We had reached the oracle.

  EIGHT

  Apollo: She’s fast!

  Artemis: Chaste, too. And devoted.

  Apollo: Then why are you making her suffer?

  Artemis: I didn’t mean to. It was bad planning.

  Apollo: Shall I send her a good dream?

  Artemis: I was hoping I could count on you.

  The cave was small, and low enough to make me stoop, but the straw pallet was laid with a cloud of fluffy white rams’ skins, and a rough drawing of Asclepius the Healer, complete with snake-entwined staff, hovered reassuringly on the wall.

  The silence inside was complete. With the sound of my own heartbeat sounding in my ears, I looked around in the torchlight, overwhelmed by the sense that I had been here before. No harm will come to me in this place, I thought, as the cave embraced me in some powerful yet long-forgotten fashion. With the thought my bones fairly melted, and I dropped to my knees in exhaustion.

  Aura settled herself near the entrance, and the attendant who had greeted us and led us here—her name, she said, was Zoi—hobbled out. A moment later she returned with a small terra-cotta cup.

  “Drink after you pray,” she said. Her eyes, a clear, innocent blue, met mine for the first time. “Heed well what you dream.” She gave me the cup.

  When I was alone, I asked Asclepius to heal my heart-sickness. I asked Artemis to guide me with a firm hand. I asked Zeus, Lord of all Creation, to smile on Meleager’s shade and grant it peace.

  The dark liquid smelled like wood tar. It was terribly bitter, but I drank it all. Then I slept. I am in a shadowy, high-ceilinged room. A man sits before me, wrapped in a cloak. His face is waxen, his eyes red-rimmed, and he is gaunt enough to be mortally ill.

  There are three golden bowls on the floor before his throne, brimming with bloody organs and entrails. From their size I guess they are animal rather than human, and wonder if they are offerings.

  The man beckons, and the heavy gold rings on his long fingers clack like bones. I do not wish to show fear, but I hesitate. Seeing this, he grins hugely.

  Artemis and I are in a pine grove, reclining together in the manner of old friends. Her great hound, Phoebus, lounges nearby with Aura. The air is soft and fragrant and I am completely at ease with the goddess, as if she and I often passed time together this way.

  I feel I can ask her anything. “I have been wondering what to do now that the Hunt is over,” I say.

  “Whatever you do,” she replies, lifting her fine eyebrows ever so slightly for emphasis, “avoid marriage.” Her eyes, catching mine, are a pale gray-green, the color of lichen.

  “Marriage will bring you trouble,” she adds.

  I have very little interest in marriage. “More trouble!” I exclaim lightly. “Is that possible?”

  She laughs, revealing a tiny gap between her two front teeth. “Anything is possible,” she says mischievously, “but surely you knew that?”

  Now I do, I think. I repeat her words silently, and they warm my heart: anything is possible.

  I am running along the ocean. The sand is as fine and as white as linen, welcoming me with every stride. I hear the deep thrum of footsteps behind me and know that I am in a race. My legs have never felt stronger; I might be wearing winged sandals like Hermes, messenger of the gods. I pick up the pace without effort and pull far ahead of my opponents, breathing deeply and easily, enjoying the absolute certainty that I will win.

  I am lying in a thicket of brambles, curled around a small, warm body that nuzzles me, mewling. My eyes are closed. I am exhausted, yet so wonderfully content that I fairly vibrate with happiness. I find the body—so tiny next to mine—and lick it again and again and again.

  NINE

  I woke slowly, to the warm, wet touch of Aura’s tongue on my face. From her insistence, and her expression of concern, I guessed that she had been trying to rouse me for some time. I patted her silky head, wondering how long I had slept, then stumbled outside. The sky was the powdery blue of a jay’s crest, the sun directly overhead. No wonder Aura had been anxious. The day was half gone.

  I stretched, yawning, and as I stood there with my arms flung wide, my dreams came back to me, one by one— bright, tremulous, and clear as rocks in a mountain stream. Startled, I sank to my knees.

  Four dreams, I thought. Four messages.

  I settled on the ground cross-legged and closed my eyes.

  They came to me without effort, and I admired each one as I might admire an exotic flower, or a finely wrought javelin. They were beautiful. Even the first, so fraught with menace, gleamed alluringly. The rings sparkled; the organs in the golden bowls shimmered like jewels.

  I vowed to remember them always, for I knew they were precious even if their meaning was obscure. They had been sent; that was enough, and I was grateful. My understanding would come in time. For now I felt forgiven—though for what I could not tell—and blessed.

  My eyes filled, and I heaved such a gusty sigh of relief that Aura rushed over to me, whining. She barked, eyes aglow, then cocked her ears at the sound of my rumbling stomach.

  I sprang to my feet. “Let’s eat,” I said.

  Artemis: Well done, brother. Thank you.

  Apollo: You are welcome. I do enjoy doing prophetic dreams.

  Artemis: These were lovely, though you may have revealed too much with that last one. The fur, the licking—?

  Apollo: Great thundering Zeus! She’s happy now, isn’t she? She’s talking again, isn’t she? I thought you wanted to he
lp her!

  Artemis: All right, all right. Forget I said anything. The dreams are wonderful. And they will help her—in ways that I never could.

  Apollo: Is that an apology?

  Artemis: Older sisters don’t apologize. You know that.

  When I met Zoi on the path to the beach, she greeted me by saying quietly, “Your prayers have been heard.”

  Smiling, I replied, “I am fortunate.” The hunters had told me this so often—usually when I was howling with outrage at some terrible childhood injustice—that it felt odd to be saying the words with such conviction, to know beyond a doubt that they were true.

  She tilted her head appraisingly. Her hair was as white as sea-foam, her face as lined and weathered as driftwood.

  “You are hungry?”

  I laughed. “So hungry.”

  “Come.” She led us down to her tiny, whitewashed hut. Next to it, sheltered by tall pines, was a shrine, and a painted wooden statue of Asclepius. Dappled sunlight played across the god’s face, which wore a placid smile.

  Zoi brought bread, honey, dried fish, figs, grapes, and a jug of lemon water. I placed an offering of food on the shrine, bowing. Then Aura and I consumed every remaining morsel.

  When we finished, I thanked Zoi, adding, “I am Atalanta. From Arcadia.”

  “The huntress.”

  I must have looked surprised that she knew.

  “You arrived with a hound, carrying a bow,” she said dryly, adding, “I also have been sent dreams. One of them was about you.”

  I waited.

  “You stood before Artemis and Aphrodite,” she said. “They asked you to choose between them. You chose Artemis.”

  So I would, I thought. My loyalty had always been to Artemis, Mistress of the Wild. Aphrodite, who busied herself ensnaring lovers, seemed soft and foolish by comparison.

  At my nod Zoi said, “The decision brought you pain. A wound . . .” She faltered, her eyelids fluttering like moths.

  “A wound?” The words filled me with alarm. I had never been injured, and feared the experience mightily, though I kept that to myself.

  “Sudden. Very deep. That is all I know.” She placed a small brown hand on mine. It was as light and dry as a withered leaf.

  “Your fame as a hunter will grow,” she said, patting me. “Poets down the years will sing of Atalanta’s strength, her wild spirit, her beauty. The splendor of your legend will far outlive you.”

  Joy and bewilderment made me flush. If Zoi’s words were true, I would have all the glory I had ever yearned for. Yet how could she know my future?

  “How—?” I began. Ignoring me, she pulled herself to her feet. I rose hastily. “Please tell me,” I asked her, “did you dream that also?”

  The smile on her face was as enigmatic as the statue’s.

  “Safe journey home,” she said.

  PART TWO

  The Homecoming

  TEN

  They entered our settlement on horses, frightening everyone. The children recovered first, hurtling back into the clearing as if they were running one of their wild races. Were these giant four-legged creatures cousins of the winged horse, Pegasus? Were they strays from Lord Poseidon’s savage herd? Chittering with excitement, the children came as close to the horses as they dared, while the women, who had probably mistaken the mounted strangers for centaurs, emerged from the trees slowly, whispering imprecations.

  The men of the tribe were out hunting. Only the two eldest, our headman, Bias, and Castor, had remained behind. Just as he had taught me to make traps before I could speak, Castor had taught me to feather arrows, and when the riders appeared, I had been helping him. I liked the work, which required no thought, only a light touch. It gave me good reason to sit with Castor—the least garrulous of men—in prolonged, uneventful silence. Since my return home some days before, I had wanted little else.

  Now I felt a long thrill of amazement. Men rode to battle in horse-drawn chariots—I knew this because Jason had told me—but I had never seen them sitting astride before. It was a wondrous sight.

  After surprise came a less familiar sensation: the slow, insistent burn of wanting and not having. Who were these men, looking down at us with such arrogance? How had they come to handle these magnificent creatures with such ease? I hated them.

  Bias greeted them calmly, as if the appearance of men on large walnut-brown steeds were an everyday occurrence. The gleaming horses stood motionless as he approached, and when Aura wove between their tall, finely chiseled legs, sniffing eagerly, they did not even flick their tails; it was as if she were beneath their notice.

  “We come on behalf of King Iasus,” said the older of the two, a broad-faced, balding, curly-bearded man. “He sends for his daughter.”

  The king lived in a region of Arcadia far below our own. Of him, I knew only that he was growing old, had once been fond of hunting, and lacked an heir. I had heard no mention of a daughter.

  Beside me, Castor grunted softly, as if hit in the belly by a rock. Bias’ head dropped, and for a moment he said nothing. Then he asked, “He . . . wants her now?”

  The men nodded. They wore leather sandals and deep blue chitons. The handles of their short swords were inlaid with colored stones. The older man looked around the clearing somewhat impatiently.

  “Prove you come from the king.” Castor said this abruptly, rising to join Bias. The older rider drew in his chin and raised an eyebrow. Surely, his expression said, our splendid horses and imposing weapons are proof enough!

  “We must know she will be safe with you,” added Castor, by way of explanation.

  The men looked at each other, then dismounted. The younger man stroked Aura’s head, which set her tail to sweeping the ground like a maddened snake. The older man produced a small leather pouch, reached inside, and showed something to Castor and Bias. There was a bright golden flash as they passed it between them.

  Bias turned my way. His expression was both stern and regretful, as if he were about to deliver judgment, or mete out punishment. I have done nothing wrong! I thought, as dread grabbed me by the throat. Suddenly I felt very young.

  “Atalanta,” he said, “come look at this.”

  It was a gold ring, heavy enough to stun a crow. Carved into it was a double thunderbolt, the weapon of Almighty Zeus. The man who wore this had a very high opinion of himself, I thought, rolling it in my palm, and wondering where I had seen such a thing before.

  “It is the king’s,” said Castor, and Bias nodded slowly, almost unwillingly.

  The king’s, I thought, for suddenly I could not speak.

  “Atalanta.” Bias said my name with such sadness and finality that I quivered. Wanting suddenly to be rid of the ring, but knowing my impulse came too late, I gave it back to him. Now the children were silent, and I heard broken whispers from the women.

  A preternatural stillness came over me, and I thought of the Fates—patient, inescapable. It was as if, by touching the ring, I had agreed to something that had been decided long, long ago.

  Aware that the horsemen were watching me, I straightened, standing tall. Then they stepped forward, claiming me for my father.

  ELEVEN

  I gathered my few belongings and made my farewells.

  “Remember us,” said Castor, and my mouth trembled. Feeling the press of his warm, sure hand on my head, I whispered that I would see him soon, for to say anything else would have made me cry.

  Then we set off down the mountain. The men, who had introduced themselves curtly as Mataios and Perifanos, led their horses down the steep, rocky trails in silence. From time to time the horses slid, and the men exchanged uneasy glances. They might have done better fetching me on mountain goats, I thought spitefully.

  Before long, Aura and I forgot ourselves and went too far ahead of them. The first time we were lost to their view, I heard Mataios—the elder—call out, “Princess!”

  I stopped in my tracks.

  Princess! I thought, jarred by the sound o
f it. As we waited there, I wondered if Meleager’s uncle Plexippus, who had called me a slut with dirt between her toes (and he was right about the dirt), might have curbed his rage if he had known I was royalty. Perhaps. Most certainly he would still be alive.

  I scowled, disliking the memory and where it led. My visit to the oracle had eased my mind about the Hunt and its terrible consequences, and I could think of them now with some measure of calm. Still, I did not like to think of them at all.

  Then, as I stood there, the first of my oracle dreams came back to me.

  The skeletal man beckoned, and I knew that he was King Iasus, the father who had left me to die when I was born. I knew also that he was weak, nearly moribund, yet possessed of a strong malevolence. My fear of the bloody bowls at his feet gave him great satisfaction.

  I wondered if the king intended to harm me, and if the entrails were indeed human. Everyone knew that human sacrifice was still practiced in some parts of Arcadia. Was the king inviting me to sacrifice myself?

  I shivered. And where was the queen? Nowhere in the dream, I thought. Absent, just as she had been absent from my life.

  With this thought the men reached us. They were panting, and their horses were blowing a little. Dark patches of sweat marked their coats.

  “The paths up here are difficult,” I observed.

  Mataios caught his breath. “You do not seem to find them so,” he said.

  “I know them well,” I replied.

  “Are we far from the field with the shepherd’s hut?” he asked.

  “No, it is—” I was interrupted by a high-pitched, wavering call, like an eerie scream. It was not the call of any bird I knew.

  The horses’ ears shot forward and a low, ruffling sound came from deep within their throats. Perifanos’ horse backed a little, tossing his head. Then he, too, cried out shrilly, and from a distance the call came back.