Chapter 38
Atalanta
Images paraded before my closed eyes.
Procris as she had been on that fateful day when I met her in the forest. Procris at the temple of Brauron, looking up at
the statue of the goddess. Procris kissing me beyond the reach of the fire as the little bears cheered.
Could I have saved her if I’d been there, deflecting Cephalus’s arrows and driving him off? Perhaps I could have done so,
or perhaps I would have been as helpless as I was when Meleager burned. But at least Procris would not have died far from
anyone who loved her, staring up at the indifferent trees. Her death was worse than Meleager’s—at least I had been there with
him and, in his final moments, let my friend know that he was not alone.
Deep in the hold of the Argo, I curled on my side like a wounded animal and wept for Procris, and Meleager, and myself.
If you love, you will lose yourself, the goddess told me.
I closed my eyes and was lost.
After a time, my weeping lapsed into silence and the heavy weight of finality descended. The stillness that comes with the
utter certainty of even a terrible outcome; the cold peace of knowing one’s search has come to an end. She was dead, and she
would never return to me.
The truth was that I’d lost Procris long ago, on the day she’d packed up her camp and disappeared.
She did not want to be found, and on some level I had always known this, which was why I had been so aimless and foolish in my search.
If I did not find her, I could at least dream of the possibility of a reunion.
But Procris had chosen to return to her husband, and he had killed her for it. To me, Procris had been like the sun and the
moon and all the stars in the night sky. To her, I had been nothing more than an escape.
I became aware of a presence beside me in the dark. A hand pressed between my shoulder blades, rubbing in comforting circles.
Cracking open my swollen eyes, I saw the familiar profile of Medea silhouetted against the light streaming down the stairs.
“We don’t need to talk,” she said. “But I’m with you. I have water, and food too whenever you want it. And if anyone tries
to bother you, I’ll turn him into a pig.”
Medea’s hand resumed tracing circles on my back, and she began to sing softly in the tongue of her native land. Her presence
was a balm on my aching soul.
Our promises to each other had been fulfilled—she had her magic, and I knew where Procris was. Yet some invisible cord still
tethered us to each other. She was very much like me, I realized. Where I was caught between the human world and the animal
one, Medea was somewhere between the human and the divine. How she shone, like the moon on a dark and endless night. How gentle
her hands, which offered comfort and worked the tangles from my hair. How sharp her wit, a match for my own. Though grief
would dog me all the days of my life, my affection detached itself from Procris and instead began to circle around the head
of Medea, like a crown of dancing stars.