Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (16 page)

“If you intend to get pregnant again, my dear, try to produce a son for a change.”

“You have something to do with my pregnancies,” said the queen. “And why are you belittling our daughters? They're lovely girls.”

“Daughters are all right,” said the king. “They can be delightful, in fact. But five of them in a row is overdoing it a bit, don't you think? I'll need five large dowries to marry them off to decently powerful princes, and my treasury simply can't stand the strain. What we need this time is a son—who will grow up to be a mighty warrior and help me invade a few neighbors so that we may refill our coffers. I'm counting on you, my queen. Don't let me down.”

He was speaking gently, which made the queen shudder. She knew that her husband was never more dangerous than when he was pretending to be gentle. But she concealed her fear, smiled sweetly, and promised to do her best to bear a son.

“Oh, woe,” said she to herself when the king had left. “I already feel myself with child again and know that it will be another girl. I don't know how I know, but I do. I also know that he won't keep this one. He'll give her to the mountain, and break my heart.”

For in those wicked days, people who did not want their children would take them up the mountain, above the tree line, and abandon them there. Because death by freezing was painless, these parents could pride themselves on taking a lot of extra trouble to spare their child unnecessary suffering. And, to further soften their abominable act, they refused to call it by its right name of
infanticide
, or child murder, but said they were “giving the child to the mountain.”

Queen Clymene, however, was very maternal, and resolved that no child of hers would be left to die. She thought and thought, and finally hit upon a plan. “I know what I'll do,” she said to herself. “I'll imitate the goddess Rhea, whose husband, Cronos, was devouring her children as fast as she bore them. When her final child, Zeus, was conceived, she concealed her condition until she could conceal it no longer, and only then did she inform her husband that she was with child again. Then she bore it secretly, three months before it was expected, smuggled it out of the palace, and gave it to the mountain nymphs to raise. Then wrapped a stone in swaddling clothes and gave it to her husband, who swallowed it and suffered a major bellyache. Well, I'll do the same thing. I know a pair of kindly, reliable shepherds who will raise the child as their own—especially as I shall pay them well. As for defying my husband this way, I'd do it a hundred times over to save this daughter, whom I already love. What was good enough for the goddess is good enough for me.”

The queen kept her secret. The child ripened within her for three months; only then did she tell her husband what was happening. He frowned and repeated his demand for a son, and she promised to do her best.

Six months later she gave birth to a girl, whom she named Atalanta, and bade a faithful servant take the baby out of the castle and deliver her to the shepherd family. She also sent certain instructions to the shepherds, and a fat bag of gold. Then she told her husband that she had miscarried.

But, as has happened to so many parents since, her anxiety for the welfare of her baby was what brought great trouble to the child. For she had overpaid the shepherds. The husband drank himself foolish one night and bragged about his new wealth. No one quite believed him, but the story spread and reached the ears of an outlaw band, who didn't believe the rumor either, but checked it out anyway. Robbery was their trade, and they were very professional.

They caught the shepherd as he was pasturing his sheep, built a small fire of twigs, and grilled the soles of his feet until he told them where the gold was hidden. After they killed him, they went to his cottage, collected the gold, and the new widow, and vanished into the hills.

The child, Atalanta, awoke in the empty cottage and immediately began to call for food. Although only a few months old, she had a loud, bawling cry—which grew louder when no one answered. She cried herself to sleep, finally, and awoke hungrier than ever, and began to howl. No one came.

She swung herself out of her cradle and fell to the floor with a loud thump. But she had a sturdy, rubbery little body, and was unhurt by the fall. She started to crawl. The cottage had only two rooms. She searched both of them, and knew that she was alone. She crawled outside. It was a cloudless morning. The grass was warm. The air smelled of sunlight and pine needles and distant snow. She rolled in the grass, gurgling happily.

She ate some grass and spat it out. She ate a handful of dirt and a few ants, and was not pleased. She craved milk and barley mush. She crawled off to find them.

The eastern slope of a mountain gets the morning sun, but cools off quickly in the late afternoon. The naked baby, still searching for food, was stabbed by a cold wind. She wedged herself into the cleft of a rock that still held heat. She was miserable. Bushes loomed and seemed to grow as she watched them. Hunger clawed her belly. She howled into the blue shadows.

Her cries attracted the attention of a she-bear that was searching the slope for a lost cub. The huge blunt-headed shaggy beast came nosing up to the squalling baby. She didn't know what it was, but it was alive and young and very edible. She came closer.

Atalanta felt a great vital warmth; she smelled milk. Her hands reached out and grabbed fur. She swung herself up under the bear and began to nuzzle for milk. The she-bear, amazed, felt a tiny mouth upon her. She was shocked by its toothlessness, but knew the sweet easement of milk being drawn from her swollen udders.

Very gently she took the baby in her jaws and began to climb the slope with her swaggering shoulder-rolling walk. She hadn't found her cub, but this thing would do for the moment.

Atalanta felt the great teeth upon her; they seemed as gentle as the arms of the shepherdess. She was not afraid. She rode happily through the cold blue light, up the slope toward the bear's cave.

3

The Wild Child

She-bears produce one or two cubs a year. They begin life as fluffy balls of fur, cute and playful as puppies; within a year, however, they are half-grown, full-grown at two. By the time the child Atalanta was five years old she had wrestled with five different litters of bear cubs, and was as strong and fleet as a little wild animal herself.

She loved to climb rocks, run full tilt down the hills, scramble up trees and ride their branches, race along the beach and swim in the sea. Only one thing troubled her: Why was she so smooth skinned while her brothers and sisters were so nice and furry? She was also different in her refusal to hibernate. When she was very small she had no choice because the mother bear blocked the exit with her huge body, and when Atalanta tried to squeeze past to the mouth of the cave, Mother Bear would simply swing a big paw in her sleep, knocking the child back inside.

But by the time Atalanta was five she had learned to vanish into the woods at the first signs of cold weather and remain outside till spring. When she returned to her family the mother bear, always irritable after hibernation, would cuff her a few times, then roll her over on the ground and lick her tenderly to show that she still loved her hairless little Atalanta even though she was too wicked to spend the winter sleeping in a cave as all proper bears do.

Atalanta wondered about being so different. It puzzled her mightily. If she wasn't quite a bear, what was she? She sought the answer in other animals. Deer looked smooth, but on closer examination she found that they, too, had fur—short fur, but fur nonetheless. Worms were smooth, but she didn't relish the idea of being related to them. Besides, some worms—caterpillars for instance—were quite furry. She came upon a python one day, and watched him engorge a young doe and then fall asleep while digesting it. She went closer and fearlessly rummaged among the great snake's coils. It was quite smooth. On the other hand it was very unlike her—legless as a worm. And she didn't like its feeding habits. So things were more of a puzzle than ever.

It was early autumn. The sun was still hot, although the night winds had begun to show a sharp edge. Atalanta sat on a warm stone dangling her legs into a stream and gave the big question more thought. How else was she different besides the furlessness? Well, there was the matter of her slow growth. Young cubs that she could hold on her lap were wrestling with her on equal terms by the time of their first hibernation and were much larger by the end of a year. They had become full-grown, powerful beasts by the end of two years, while she seemed to have hardly grown at all.

Perhaps it was because of their habit of sleeping all winter in a cave? This year she might try it herself. And so to the mother bear's delight, Atalanta did not vanish that winter but entered the cave with the others and tried to fall asleep.

She couldn't. It was too stuffy in there. She found it hard to breathe. Nevertheless, she wanted to be like the others, oh, how she wanted to be. She decided on a compromise. She would sleep with her body inside but her head outside. Ah, this was splendid! Her body was warm but her face was nice and cool. She smelled pine and could see the stars.

Just as she was sliding into her first sleep, however, she came suddenly awake. She saw a pair of burning eyes; a foul smell enveloped her. She knew that something was about to eat her face off. Swift as a lizard darting between rocks under the shadow of a hawk, Atalanta slid into the cave and nestled close to the huge hot throbbing body of her mother and realized that her idea had no chance of working. She could not sleep the winter through half inside the cave, half outside, because by spring only the inside part would be left.

At dawn, she slipped outside again, raced down the hill, and dived into the surf. She entered color, was in a cauldron of pink and blue, purple and gold. The sea was very cold but the colors seemed to keep her warm. When she came out her teeth were chattering. She raced along the beach as fast as she could—until the sun had climbed a bit and she was warm again.

Then, walking slowly along the beach, watching the sea change, watching it lose its hot colors and become a tilted jade saucer, she kept wondering what to do, since hibernation didn't work. How else could she try to become more like the other bears? How else was she different besides being smooth skinned?

An idea flared. The answer to her question lay in the question itself. For nothing troubled her brothers and sisters. Or full-grown bears either. They did not ask themselves questions. They were what they were, were happy to be what they were and nothing else. Nor did deer or fox or fish, wolf, or python ask themselves questions. To be more like them she would simply have to stop tormenting herself with questions, stop challenging her own existence.

At noon when the sun rode high, she ran into the surf again. Swimming underwater, she could not see that a small fishing boat had darted out from behind a jutting of rock and was casting a dragnet. She was pleased because she knew she had swum farther underwater than she ever had before. But now she needed to breathe. Shooting up toward the surface, she swam right into a net.

Her weight made the mouth of the net close. The fisherman felt his net sagging and pulled it in swiftly. And was amazed to see what he had caught. Then he shouted with joy. For he thought that he had caught a young Nereid. And the legend among fisherfolk was that anyone who landed a young sea nymph and was able to keep her for a year would be ensured a rich crop of fish for the rest of his life.

4

Gain, Loss, and Revenge

Satisfied with his morning's catch, the fisherman sailed for home. The child lay in the bottom of the boat, still wrapped in the net. She kicked and threshed and tried to bite through the mesh, but its cords were tarry and fishy and too strong to cut with her teeth.

The boat sailed into a tiny harbor girded by boulders. The fisherman lifted the net out and carried it to his beach hut, which he had built out of driftwood. He carried Atalanta inside, making her more furious than ever. This was the first time she had ever been in a house, and she hated it. It seemed like a small fishy cave, even more airless than the bears' den.

The man lifted the net onto a stone slab where he scaled fish. In order to deceive him, the girl had stopped struggling and lay very still. He opened the mouth of the net. She sprang out like a little demon and bit his hand savagely, clawed with her fingers, and aimed for his eyes. He shrank back, but she slashed her nails across his face, leaving bloody furrows.

She sprang off the slab and flashed toward the door, and sped down the beach toward the sea. But she heard something that stopped her in mid-stride. It was his voice, calling. It was like nothing she had ever heard, not like birdcall or wolf howl or the grumbling summons of Mother Bear. Those sounds were easy, very simple: “Come.” “Hunt.” “Eat.” “Flee.” But the voice of this bitten man held meaning behind its sound and meaning behind its meaning. It was speech, human speech, cleaving its way through her hard head bone to the very center of her thoughts. Identifying her. Creating a magical response. Binding her to the spot.

She turned and waited as the man slogged slowly through the sand. She waited until he came to her. She kept staring at him as he knelt on the beach and stroked her hair with his bleeding hand. She watched his lips move—as if listening with her eyes. She had never heard words before, but half understood them as he spoke.

“Do not run away from me, little sea nymph. Stay with me. I'll be very good to you. I live here alone, all alone. I have no children. My wife was swept overboard in a storm and drowned. And so was our child. You shall be my child, and I shall love you like a daughter. You shall be my Nereid daughter, full of strange powers. You shall go fishing with me and my nets will always be full. And after a year you may leave me again, if you wish. But I shall love you all my life long.”