Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (19 page)

When Meleager was nineteen, Alcon was fourteen, which is old for a hunting dog. He was as powerful as ever, but he had lost a lot of speed. The boy tried not to recognize this, but he knew that his dog had slowed down, and that he shouldn't be bringing big wild animals to bay. But when Meleager tried to go hunting without Alcon, the dog looked at him with such tragic eyes that he didn't have the heart to leave him behind.

“He's bound to get himself killed this way,” said Meleager to himself. “But if I don't take him he'll die of grief. And I know he'd rather go out full of excitement and joy and battle fever. I know I would. I'd much rather die fighting.”

So they continued to hunt together, the prince and the simba hound, and Meleager tried not to think what had to happen. Then one day it did happen.

They were chasing a gigantic bear up a hill. Meleager had wounded him with an arrow, but the beast seemed to be climbing very easily. Finally, it turned, backed up against a rock, and stood at bay. And Alcon, as if knowing this to be a special day, appeared to regain the speed of his youth and rushed up the slope in a headlong charge as if he were chasing a doe instead of a bear. He left his feet, flew through the air straight for the bear's throat. The bear hunched its huge shoulder and swung its thick paw so fast it became a blur—batting the dog to the ground in mid-leap. Alcon sprang up immediately and closed his jaws on the bear's hind leg. Something he would not have done had he been able to reach higher. But he could not; his back was broken.

Meleager rushed up the slope, leveling his javelin. He did not dare throw it lest he hit his dog. Nor could he shoot arrows for the same reason. He was running as hard as he could but seemed to be going with agonizing slowness. For the bear was allowing the dog to bite one leg, while the great talons of his other paws were ripping Alcon to shreds.

By the time Meleager reached the spot, his beloved friend was a heap of bloody fur. Forgetting all about the bear, he stooped and gathered the dying dog in his arms. Alcon's green eyes looked into his. They were dulling now, but still held a spark of love. A warm tongue and cold nose touched his face for the last time. The great head lolled.

Then Meleager remembered the bear and sprang up, wild to kill. But the beast had sidled off. Meleager drew his sword; he meant to dig a grave. Then he shoved the sword back into its scabbard and lifted his face to the sky.

“No,” he said. “I won't shut him away in a dark hole. Let him abide in the open air that he loved, under the wide sky and the sun and the moon and the stars. Let his bones be plucked clean by eagle and crow and carrion worm. Aye, let his brave bones whiten on the hillside; he shall be his own tomb. And shall live always in my memory as long as I myself live. And may the gods grant me as noble a death when my time comes.”

F
rom that time on Meleager haunted that range of hills, trying to find the bear that had killed his dog. But he could not. He sighted several bears; they were smaller, though, and he didn't bother chasing them.

His parents, the king and queen, were very worried about him. He would leave the castle at dawn and not come home until nightfall, and he looked so stricken by loss that his mother couldn't stand it. She had never wanted him to marry, had always feared the day when he would tell her that he had chosen a bride. But now, seeing him the way he was, she decided to speak to the king.

“I think our boy should marry,” she said.

“Marry? Whom?”

“Anyone he chooses.”

“Why, though? He's still very young.”

“He needs something to make him happy—or someone. His heart is breaking because of that stupid dog.”

“Nonsense!” said the king. “Hearts don't break so easily, and if they do, they mend themselves. Men die of sword thrust or spear thrust or well-aimed arrow. Or a bull gores them, perchance, or a bear claws them. But they do not die of grief. Only women do that, and not as often as they think.”

Nevertheless, the king, who doted on his son almost as much as his wife did, went to Meleager and said: “Perhaps it's time you married.”

“Have anyone in mind?” said Meleager.

“No. But I thought you might. Calydon is famous for its beautiful girls.”

“Father, please! I can't stand them. Soft, squealing little things, no good with spear or bow, hopeless on horseback. I'll not marry until I can find a girl who can hunt by my side.”

“As you like, my son,” said the king. “But remember this. We who are royal enjoy total privilege. One thing, however, are we not permitted—to appear downhearted. We may feel grief but not show it. For when kings weep, their tears water the seeds of fear and rage that are buried deep in the souls of those who are not kings, and these seeds ripen into revolt. You are heir to my throne, Meleager. If you would govern, smile—though your heart is breaking.”

“Thank you, Father,” said Meleager. “I shall not disappoint you.”

He kissed his father's hand, then hurried out.

9

The Bear's Sister

Meleager returned to the hills and hunted harder than ever, but with no luck. He kept hunting. Now he camped out instead of returning to the castle after dark, for some bears prowl by night.

Then, finally, he spotted a bear that looked big enough. He couldn't tell whether it was the one he wanted, but he thought it might be. It was gigantic.

The bear had seen him also. It stood halfway up the hill, looking down at him. Meleager tethered his horse well back among a fringe of trees, and started up the hill. He was surprised that the bear did not retreat. The huge beast seemed to be waiting for him, welcoming his attack. Anger flamed in Meleager. He made a great effort to control himself and advanced very cautiously.

The bear backed up a few steps, then wedged itself between two rocks, and waited there. The young man's hair whipped about his face, and he realized that a hard wind was blowing, a crosswind, that made him hesitate to use his bow. He could hope for no accuracy in such a wind, expert archer though he was. And to merely wound a beast that size would be worse than useless. It would not be weakened enough, and pain would feed its rage, making it even more dangerous.

Meleager danced about and shouted, trying to make the bear leave its shelter, trying to tempt it into charging downhill so that he might use the bear's own weight against it, meet the hurtling beast point-first, allowing it to impale itself upon his spear. The bear did not budge, just waited there between the two rocks. It uttered a chuckling growl that sounded to Meleager as though the beast were jeering at him. More than ever the prince was convinced that this was the bear that had killed his dog.

Forgetting all about caution, he charged up the hill straight at the rocks. The bear waited, and as soon as Meleager came within reach, swung its paw, knocking the spear out of his hand. It then charged so swiftly that the lad barely had time to draw his dagger before the beast was upon him. He saw the bear loom above him, stretch its enormous furry arms to catch him in a bone-crushing hug.

But to lift those heavy paws for the fatal embrace took slightly more time than if the bear had simply swung a paw knocking the youth to earth, or had raked him to shreds with its claws. Meleager was just able to slip under the outstretched paws, duck behind the bear, and sink his dagger into the back of its neck, but was knocked off his feet by its backward lurch. As he sprang up, he saw it rushing away up the slope, the dagger stuck in its neck. Blood was welling from the wound.

Meleager scrambled after it. Despite its terrible wound, the beast moved swiftly and was soon out of sight. Meleager followed the trail of blood, knowing that sooner or later the animal had to drop. It had been midmorning when he fought the bear; now the blazing summer sun was directly overhead, and he was panting as he ran.

Then, rounding a big boulder, he saw an astounding sight. A tall, bare-legged maiden was running down the hill with long strides. He gaped at her. She was wearing a great shaggy fur cloak. Just as he thought, “Why is she wearing that heavy thing in all this heat?” he saw that blood was dripping on her shoulders, and realized that it was not a fur cloak she was wearing, but that she was carrying a huge bear on her back, the bear that he had fought.

The animal's head was lolling on her shoulder. Its blood was dripping all over her. He saw his dagger sticking out of its neck. He stood there, facing the girl. She stopped, let the bear slide to the ground, straightened up, and faced him. He was stunned by her beauty. Standing on long, sleek, powerful legs, she was as tall as he, perhaps taller. She was clad in a brief tunic of deerskin, her red-brown hair hanging to her thighs. Her face was muddy, her bare arms and shoulders streaked with blood.

He knew instantly that this was the one girl in the world for him.

“That's my bear,” he said. “But I give him to you.”

“Your bear?”

“My kill. That's my dagger, you know. I've been tracking him for hours, but you can—”

He was interrupted by her hoarse cry of rage. She stooped, scooped up a huge log as if it were a stick, and hurled it at his head. He ducked, felt it graze his hair. She bent again and pulled the dagger from the bear's neck. Then came slowly toward him.

“This bear is my brother,” she said. “You have killed my brother. Now I shall kill you.”

“Sweet maiden—”

“Sweet? I'm bitter as death, you'll find. Pick up your spear and fight.”

He picked up his spear and threw it in the same motion. It cut through the air and split a sapling neatly in two. He turned and stood facing her with empty hands.

“You'll need a weapon,” she said. “I mean to kill you.”

“Come ahead. Try. Use the dagger if you like. It will make things more even.”

She howled with fury and flung the dagger away. “Do me no favors,” she cried. “I'll kill you with my hands.”

She rushed at him. He caught her arms, trying to hold her back gently. It was impossible. She was as strong as a wild mare. She caught him in a great bear hug. He felt his ribs being crushed. Kicking, twisting, he broke her hold, then closed with her. There on the hillside, under a hot sun, before the dead eyes of the bear, they wrestled.

Atalanta was a powerful fighter. Adopted by a she-bear, she had grown up among bears, running with them, hunting with them, wrestling with them. She had grown into a gloriously tanned, supple young woman, strong as a she-bear herself. More than once she had taken a wild bull by its horns and twisted it off its hooves, so she was sure she could overcome Meleager easily. She planned to crush him in her hug and hurl him off the cliff.

However, as she wrestled with him under the sun, in the fragrance of trampled grass and pine needles, something new began to happen. As we know, when wrestling shaggy bears she had been puzzled that her own arms and legs seemed so smooth against their fur. She had wondered why she was so different, and didn't know whether she was glad or sorry. But now as she held the young man in her mighty hug, she felt his smoothness. It was as though she were holding herself—so that this body that was so strange to her was also wonderfully familiar. Trying to crush him in her arms, she found that she no longer knew where her body ended and his began. It seemed to her then that the fragrance of the trampled grass was rising in a sweet mist, robbing her of sense. She was dizzy. Her knees sagged. She, who could run up the side of a mountain, leaping from rock to rock, catching mountain goats in full stride … unbelievable to feel her legs weakening now. Her mind swooped and darkened and cast up a last thought.

“It's magic. He's fighting me with magic …”

When her head cleared, she found they were sitting on the ground, their backs against an olive tree near the edge of the cliff, and looking onto a great scoop of blueness where a black hawk floated. Their arms were wrapped about each other's bodies as though they were still wrestling. She was telling her name.

“I am Atalanta. I belong to the clan of mountain bears.”

“I am Meleager,” he said. “I belong to you.”

10

Two Jealousies

So the prince of Calydon found the mate he had dreamed of. They hunted together over hill and valley, through forest and field and swamp, on foot and on horseback—with dog pack or with long-legged Egyptian hunting cats called cheetahs. But more often they went out by themselves, for they preferred to be alone.

Plexippus was pleased by what was happening. He went to Lampon and said, “I have a plan, Brother.”

“Another one? I hope it's better than the ones you've had before.”

“It is. It is.”

“I'm sure it is,” said Lampon. “Your record is so bad that all you can do is improve.”

“Do you want to hear it or not?”

“What's the difference? I'll hear it whether I want to or not.”

“I'm setting no more physical traps for the lucky prince,” said Plexippus. “All his life he's dwelt in the protection of his parents' love. But now, now I have the brilliant idea of turning that love against him. At least I'll turn his mother's, and she's more important in this matter than her husband.”

“You're raving,” cried Lampon. “Our sister dotes on her son. Nothing you can say or do can turn her against him.”

“It is her love itself that will curdle, I tell you. She has always been ready to be jealous of any girl he might want to marry. And I'm talking about eligible girls, heavily dowered, princesses and so forth. Imagine how she must feel about him wantoning around with this barefoot mountain slut. Well, I mean to fan the flames.”

He left his brother and stalked off to find his sister. At first he chatted of this and that, Althea only half listening to him as was her habit. Then he said, “I heard an interesting tale, Sister. I heard that this new friend of Meleager belongs to a clan of mountain nymphs who hold to a very curious custom. It seems that they put their suitors through a courtship test. Each one of these nymphs demands of her suitor that he prove his love by cutting out his mother's heart and bringing it to her as a gift. I don't believe the tale, of course. But I thought it strange enough to tell it to you.”