Chapter 59
Atalanta
The house was dark, and the wind sighed in the trees outside. The night was peaceful, and the stars shone clear and bright.
Melanion snored in our bed, one arm thrown over their face.
As for myself, I hunched over the cradle of our son and gripped the wicker bars with whitened fingers, terrified beyond bearing.
The child dozed untroubled, sleeping peacefully with his hands palm up like tiny flowers. But my heart hammered as though
all the beasts of the forest were pursuing me. I’d woken from a dream of blood and terror in a frenzy, fearful that harm had
come to the baby.
Parthenopaios. That was my son’s name. Not wishing to burden our child, Melanion and I chose instead to name him for the mountain
where I’d grown up. My son’s life would be his own; the mountain, unchanging under the mantle of the seasons, was a good namesake.
His birth had been one of the most grueling physical experiences of my life, but I forgot the pain when the midwife placed
him in my arms.
That had been about six months ago. Melanion and I were just past the early, breathless days when we figured out how to be parents and my breasts ached with milk.
Parthenopaios’s cries made me clap my hands over my ears, but fortunately Melanion was more motherly.
It was Melanion who usually carried the baby in a sling, happy to attend to the cooking while I brought in meat and tended the fields.
A good life, better than I ever thought I’d have. But I had not forgotten the prophecy from Artemis. From the moment I held
my son in my arms, I had no choice about the love I felt. Mother love was so elemental that it terrified me; losing Procris
and Meleager had nearly broken me, and I was not sure I would survive the loss of a child.
And there were so very many ways for babies and little children to die: fever, falling, choking, eating something they shouldn’t,
not eating enough of what they should. It was not infrequent that I found myself standing over Parthenopaios’s crib like this,
fearful beyond all reason that my son’s soft breathing would stutter into silence.
When I found myself spiraling into dark imaginings, usually Melanion would come and take my hand, leading me away from these
evil thoughts. We would talk about where the best hunting was to be found, or which fences needed to be repaired, or what
to do with the new pelts I’d brought in last week.
But I was tired of having my concerns dismissed. Melanion was a creature of light and air, dancing over the surface of the
world, never coming into contact with the darker places. Melanion knew me, but they could not comprehend the depths of loss
and grief I’d felt, never having experienced these things themself. I needed someone else, someone who understood.
Up from the depths of my memory floated the face of Medea, bringing with it a familiar wistful sadness. My love for her persisted,
but muted and at a distance, like a lyre player in another room. Medea had already borne a son, and she’d written to me about
him in a letter, her delicate script slanting over the expanse of creamy papyrus. I’d let the letter languish without a reply
for some time, but now I rallied.
Medea would understand my feelings, and it would be good to have someone else to talk to about the joy and terror of having a child. It would be good to remember that love could end without death.
With a great force of will, I let go of the crib and sought out something else: Melanion’s writing kit, stored in a dusty
corner of our cottage.
By the illumination of a single lamp, I removed the inkstone, stylus, and sheets of papyrus soft as new-fallen leaves, spreading
them across the floor. Thanks to Medea, I knew how to use them. Painstakingly, I began to form the letters—mu, epsilon, delta,
another epsilon, iota (that’s how it was spelled, was it not?), and alpha—that made up her name.