Chapter 55 #2
A bear like you. The words caught my attention and held it. Melanion had seen my heart’s true shape, a bear like the mother who raised me.
The revelation prompted an instant spike of fear—I was not used to being seen so clearly for who and what I was.
Melanion was still speaking. “I don’t seek to control you, only care for you. I want nothing—”
“I will never take a husband,” I said harshly, thinking of Procris, dead at the hands of the man she married. Perhaps I would have accepted a husband like Meleager, but Meleager was gone.
A shadow swept over Melanion’s face. “You may not get a choice,” they said sadly. “Not all of us do. But if we join forces—”
“Get out of my way,” I snapped. Melanion gave a deep bow and flung themself back through the open window, landing on the ground
outside with a grunt.
That evening, I sat beside my father on the royal dais overlooking the feast, trying to ignore the headache caused by the
chatter of so many voices. I noticed that those in attendance were all men, not a woman among them except myself, and felt
a stir of misgiving.
After the guests had gorged themselves, Schoenus stood. “Here is my daughter, Atalanta,” he announced to the crowd. “A huntress
and Argonaut of some renown. She is strong and very beautiful, sure to bear healthy sons. I will choose her husband from among
you tonight, so think of what you will offer as bridal gifts.”
With each word, my shock deepened. In a flash I was on my feet, standing next to my father, though this only served to draw
the eyes of all the men in the room to me. They crawled like ants over my body, assessing and calculating my worth.
“We never discussed this,” I hissed at my father.
Schoenus grabbed my wrist and wrenched it—not too hard, just enough to show his strength. I felt the delicate bones slide
against one another and bit my tongue on a cry of pain.
Schoenus’s eyes were frighteningly cold, all his good cheer vanished. “There was no need to discuss it with you,” he said.
“You are my daughter, and you are going to follow my will.”
Now I saw what I had not noticed before in my desperation for belonging: The greed in Schoenus’s eyes, which I’d mistaken for affection.
The acquisitive quirk of his lips, like a man assessing a prize horse.
With no other children, he needed to marry off his only daughter to ensure the line of succession. He had been planning this all along.
Volcanic rage erupted within me, a fury so fierce that I trembled with it. It was like the humiliation of the Calydonian boar
hunt all over again, but even worse. Schoenus slackened his grip, and I wrenched away my hand, rubbing my bruised wrist.
My gaze burned into his. I would not be sold like a cow or a horse. In a flash, I came up with a plan to ensure my freedom.
There was a krater in the middle of the table, an enormous red-and-black pot filled with a sea of wine. Two servants were
needed to carry it into the feasting hall, but I lifted it quite handily by myself, relishing the bite of the handles into
my palms.
I carried the krater to the edge of the dais, then let it fall.
Wine and pottery exploded outward, like one of the bolts of Zeus striking the earth. Every conversation stopped, and those
nearest wiped wine from their stunned faces.
Utter silence.
“Am I a prize to be won?” I called out, voice echoing from the walls. “Then win me. I will only marry the man who can beat
me in a footrace, and there are none of you here who can do that.”
My words shimmered in the air like an army’s banners. I turned and left the hall, heading for the place not far from the palace
where horse races were held and arms training conducted.
The honored guests followed me. I could hear them joking among themselves, scoffing about how fast I could possibly run with
my nose stuck up in the air.
When we arrived at the field, a young man pushed his way to the front. “Well, if none of you will show this woman her place,”
he called to the others, his accent marking him as an Argive, “I volunteer. Send for more wine, it won’t be long before our
wedding feast.”
A track was marked out: a curving arc in the margin between the plain and the forests around its periphery. The course was clearly delineated with white chalk, and any great divergence from it would result in immediate disqualification.
I tore my fine chiton to the knee for freedom of movement, ignoring the scandalized muttering. Let them talk, I thought, stretching out my calves. They would be struck silent soon enough.
I crouched at the starting line, and the Argive joined me. Speaking softly, the Argive took advantage of our proximity to
let me know all the things he would do to me on our wedding night, and everything that he would allow his male relatives and
friends and even servants to do to me as well. My skin crawled, but I kept my eyes focused on the horizon.
The horn sounded, and we ran. I flew past the Argive, arcing along the track, and crossed the finish line before he’d even
made it halfway. I had the fierce satisfaction of watching him lope over shamefully, red-faced and panting like a dog.
The crowd was stunned. Only one mouth was curled up in a smile—my father’s. But I knew this was not a look of pride or admiration;
Schoenus was pleased because I was something he possessed, an object that others would fight to win.
“What says the loser?” Schoenus asked as he approached.
The Argive fell to his knees, bending his head in supplication. “Kill me. I won’t live with the shame.”
The shame of losing to a woman. Suddenly the absurdity of the situation struck me like a blow. Why were these men so stubborn? Couldn’t they see that they
did not really want me, and I did not want them either? We could stop this if we could reach an agreement, with no more races
and no forced marriage. But no one prized agreement here, only brute strength.
Something nudged my arm. My father, handing me a sword. “You have chosen this path. Now walk it,” he hissed in my ear.
The Argive’s neck bent before me, the bumps of his spine visible. He was a big man; it would take a hard blow to cleanly sever such a thick neck.
I felt sick. The gauntlet I’d thrown had turned into a noose around my neck. Schoenus would never let me leave now, and besides,
where could I go? All the men of this region knew my face. I would be hunted to the ends of the earth if I tried to run, hounded
day and night. There was no escape, and my life would be forfeit if I tried.
The blade trembled slightly, and I saw that my hands were shaking. The Argive shifted on his knees.
“Do it,” my father hissed.
The sword glinted and fell.