Chapter 57
Atalanta
The weather was bright and cool the next day, perfect for running. As was the custom, the watchers took their places at the
end of the racing course. There were not many of them; by now the races had lost their novelty, but some people still came
out to watch this curiosity. The simple chalk line bending in a bow around the open field had been replaced by a more defined
winding path, swept clear of all leaves and other debris.
I went to the starting line, and Melanion took their place beside me. They flashed me a conspiratorial grin, waggling their
eyebrows playfully. I looked away, trying to hide the flush spreading across my cheeks.
The horn sounded, and we were off.
Melanion was indeed remarkably fast, arms pumping and heels kicking back dirt. But they did not compare with me. I quickly
pulled ahead, the trees flying past in a blur. I was rounding the curve of the upsilon-shaped track when I saw a distant flash
of gold from the corner of my eye.
What was it? I craned my head to look at the flicker of movement in the long grass, my steps slowing. What could it be?
A yellow apple, I realized, one of my favorites. Melanion’s words echoed in my memory: I will give you a choice, and you may run after it if you like.
Another apple and another rolled into the grass. My mind grappled with the puzzle, and then I understood. Here was my choice,
my way out.
Slowly, I drifted toward the golden fruit shining in the grass. My progress was interrupted by a sudden shout.
“Disqualified!” one of the sentries called. “She has diverged from the course.”
I looked down and saw that I had indeed strayed beyond the markings that delineated the path. This realization was followed
by a jolt of panic, then relief, at what this meant. At who was the winner of this race.
The watching crowd roared with delight. My father was shouting at someone, probably the sentry who had declared my disqualification,
but everyone ignored him.
Through the confusion strode Melanion, bright as a young god.
“You were supposed to catch the apples, Atalanta!” Melanion called. “Now they’re all dirty. Well, that’s no trouble, I’ll
clean them off for you.” They retrieved the yellow fruits from the dirt and began to scrub them with the edge of their tunic.
I was breathing hard, and not just with exertion. “The choice,” I said, indicating the apples. “That was the choice you gave
me.”
“Yes,” Melanion said. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you it was the right one.”
Melanion took my hand, turning to address the crowd of onlookers. “If I stand here as a victor today,” they declared, “it
is through divine favor and not my own effort. The goddess of love herself, Aphrodite, gave me those apples. No one can beat
Atalanta of Arcadia in a fair race.”
I felt a surge of fear at the confession, but the crowd only cheered. Schoenus could do nothing but glower.
Defiance through obedience. I was free.
Melanion turned back to me, a glowing smile on their face. “Well, Atalanta,” they said, “what do you think? Will you become my wife?”
I thought of my father’s house, barren of the belonging I’d so desperately sought. Of the warmth of the bears’ den and the
foxes’ cave, little noses seeking milk. I thought of my long journey with the Argonauts, and of love won and lost: Procris,
and Meleager. And Medea too.
Turning away from the past, I threw myself into the future.
“Yes,” I said, and leaned down to kiss Melanion.
Before the wedding, I went to make an offering.
I traveled to the temple of Artemis at Brauron, where I had once danced with Procris. Her absence ached, though not as fiercely
as it once had. This was not the season of the bear dances, and the temple was largely empty.
The priestess took me to a statue of the goddess that stood outside the temple in a sacred grove. This was Artemis as she
was meant to be encountered: in the dark, in the forest, as the clouds drifted over the moon. I shivered, though the night
was not cold.
I laid my spear, arrows, and bow before the statue, as other brides offered up their childhood toys. I would make other weapons
to use when I hunted at Melanion’s side, but it seemed right to offer these.
“Goddess,” I whispered. “Sovereign unto herself. Long have I been in your service, and with great sorrow do I leave it. I
offer these to you, that you might grant me happiness in marriage, and know that I will never forget you.”
Even in this warm moment, I had not forgotten Artemis’s prophecy: If you love, you will lose yourself. A chill ran over my skin. Hopefully this offering would pacify the goddess and ensure that a race was the only thing I lost.
Perhaps it was only a trick of the moonlight, but I thought I saw Artemis smile.