Percy Jackson and the Greek Heroes by Rick Riordan
They might have become friends, or maybe more. But, before that could happen, Atalanta picked up the boar’s trail. She found pig hoofprints the size of dustbin lids leading through a marsh. That was her first clue.
The hunters fanned out. They combed through the swamp, up to their waists in slimy water, their sandals sticking in the mud. Clouds of mosquitoes buzzed around their faces as they stood in marsh grass taller than their heads, making it impossible to see.
You’d think a giant boar would be easy to hear when it charged, but the Death Pig gave them no warning. It crashed through the reeds like a pork tidal wave, trampling Kepheus, impaling Ankaios with its tusks, and tossing Mopsos aside after his spear bounced harmlessly off its hide. The boar shot lightning from its mouth, which is especially nasty for the recipient if you’re fighting waist-deep in swamp water. Soon twenty hunters were dead – fried, flattened or flayed. One hunter, Peleus, managed to throw his javelin, but he was so terrified his shot went wide and he accidentally killed his friend Eurytion.
The only person who kept her cool was Atalanta. As the creature rampaged, she stood her ground, drew her bow and waited for a shot. The wild boar turned towards Meleager, ready to blast the prince with lightning. Atalanta fired. Her arrow hit the creature’s back with such force it penetrated the spine. The boar’s back legs collapsed, instantly paralysed.
The Death Pig bellowed in pain, the way you might if an arrow went through your spine. It dragged itself through the swamp until Meleager stepped forward and plunged his sword through the monster’s ribcage, piercing its heart.
The remaining hunters slowly recovered from their shock. They buried their dead. They bandaged their wounds. They skinned the boar, which must have taken forever. By the time they were done, everybody was hot, tired and grumpy.
‘I should get the boar’s skin,’ said Mopsos who, miraculously, had survived. ‘I threw the first spear.’
‘Which did no damage,’ Atalanta reminded him.
‘We should all share the hide!’ shouted Peleus.
Atalanta scoffed. ‘You want a reward because you accidentally killed your friend?’
‘Guys!’ Meleager yelled. ‘Atalanta drew first blood. Without her, I never would have brought down the boar. The hide rightfully belongs to her.’
Two of Meleager’s own relatives stepped forward – his brother Toxeus and his uncle Plexippus. (And can we just take a moment to admire how bad those names are? Thanks.)
‘You will regret this, brother,’ Toxeus warned. ‘Do not favour this wild woman over your own family.’
‘I could never regret being fair,’ Meleager said.
He presented the boar skin to Atalanta, who must have been thinking, Gee, thanks. I’ve always wanted to make my own pigskin hot-air balloon. But she was also sort of impressed that Meleager had taken her side.
The hunters headed back to the palace for what was supposed to be a celebratory dinner, but Meleager’s relatives were in no mood to party. The more they drank, the angrier they got. Stupid Atalanta. Stupid Meleager, giving her that boar’s skin just because he’s a sucker for beautiful women.
It was true. Meleager did want Atalanta for his wife, but we’ll never know whether that relationship would’ve worked out.
In the middle of dinner, Toxeus and Plexippus knocked Atalanta out of her chair. They took the boar skin and refused to give it back. The other hunters laughed and jeered until things degenerated into a brawl. Atalanta probably would’ve slaughtered them all, but Meleager acted first. He drew his sword and killed his brother and his uncle.
Meleager’s mother, Queen Althaia, was horrified.
‘I saved you when you were a baby!’ she shouted. ‘This is how you repay me? You kill your own family members for the love of a wild woman?’
‘Mother, wait –’
Althaia stormed out of the dining hall. She rushed to her bedroom, opened her lockbox and threw the piece of magical wood into the blazing fireplace.
The wood disintegrated into ash. Down in the dining hall, so did Meleager.
Atalanta was overcome with rage and grief. She wanted to slay everyone in the palace, but she was badly outnumbered. She knew she would be executed if she stayed, so she ran back to her cave, her eyes stinging with tears. She vowed never to return to the ‘civilized’ world. Humans were nothing but trouble. Bears, deer and squirrels were much easier to understand.
Unfortunately, the civilized world wasn’t done with her.
The Kalydonian Boar Hunt made her more famous than ever. Her reputation spread. Finally her dad, King Iasus of Arcadia, decided it was time to bring his daughter home.
Maybe you’re wondering how Iasus realized Atalanta was his daughter. I mean, there were no paternity tests back then. No birth certificates. Iasus wasn’t the only guy in Ancient Greece who’d thrown away his infant daughter. She could have been somebody else’s kid raised by wild animals. Happened all the time.
The stories are a little unclear, but apparently Atalanta and Iasus both visited oracles at about the same time and learned the truth.
Atalanta was on her way back home when she happened to pass a local prophetess offering the usual tarot card readings, half-price love charms and divine wisdom from the gods. Atalanta was so shaken up by the Boar Hunt Family Massacre she decided she could use a little guidance.
‘O Oracle,’ she said, ‘what will happen to me? Can I live in the wilderness without being bothered again? Can I get away with never being married?’
The Oracle spoke in a raspy voice. ‘Huntress, you do not need a husband, and you would be happier without one, but marriage is a fate you cannot avoid. Even now, your father Iasus searches for you. He will not rest until you are wed to some suitable man. The best you can do is meet the challenge head-on and set your own terms for how you will marry.’
‘Will that assure me of a happy marriage?’
‘Oh, no. Marriage will be your undoing. You will lose your identity after you wed. That cannot be avoided.’
‘That sucks,’ Atalanta said. ‘I hate prophecies.’
‘Thank you for your offering,’ said the Oracle. ‘Have a nice day.’
Meanwhile, in Arcadia, King Iasus was also consulting an oracle, who confirmed his suspicions: the great huntress Atalanta was indeed his long-lost daughter, and she would soon come home to get married.
‘That’s awesome!’ the king cried. ‘I love prophecies! She’s so famous now … I can use her to make an excellent marriage alliance. What do I need to do to retrieve her?’
‘Just sit tight,’ the Oracle said. ‘Atalanta will return on her own.’
The king went back to his palace. A few days later, he was not surprised when Atalanta showed up at his gates. The guards escorted her in, and Iasus was impressed by what he saw. Atalanta was beautiful! Perhaps a little too large and muscular for a proper princess, but her flowing golden hair was a plus. She looked healthy and ready for childbearing. Yes, she was a fine specimen of marriageable female.
‘My beloved daughter!’ he said.
Atalanta scowled. ‘Whom you left in the wilderness to die.’
‘Well, obviously that was an oversight. But why dwell on the past? Let’s talk about getting you married!’
Atalanta was tempted to put an arrow through the king’s head. What a jerk!
Still … she recognized something of herself in Iasus. He had the same fierce smile, the same remorseless eyes. He didn’t care about sentiment. He was only interested in what would help him survive. Atalanta understood that, even if it hurt. She started to wonder if she’d inherited her wildness from Mama Bear or from her royal father.
‘I don’t want to marry,’ she said. ‘But, since the Oracle has told me I can’t avoid it, I’m going to set my own terms.’
The king frowned. ‘The bride’s father always sets the terms. I know which suitors can bring the most powerful and profitable alliances for the kingdom.’
‘We do it my way,’ Atalanta insisted.
‘Or I take my chances and defy the Oracle. I kill you and all your guards. Then I go back to the wilderness.’
‘Let’s do it your way,’ the king decided. ‘How do we proceed?’
Atalanta smiled. ‘Do you have a racetrack?’
‘Of course. Every Greek city worth anything has a racetrack.’
‘Meet me there in the morning. Spread the word: anyone who wants to be my suitor should show up wearing his best running shoes.’
King Iasus was tempted to ask questions, but he decided against it. Atalanta was gripping her bow like she meant business. ‘Very well. Tomorrow morning.’
The king’s messengers carried the news throughout Arcadia. The beautiful, terrifying princess Atalanta had returned to the kingdom. She was up for grabs at the racetrack. Bring your running shoes!
(Actually, most Greeks raced barefoot back then. They also raced naked. But, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to imagine them wearing Under Armour workout clothes and Reeboks.)
The next morning, a crowd jammed the arena. Everyone was curious to see Atalanta’s strange and fitness-conscious way of choosing a husband. Fifty or sixty potential suitors gathered on the track – all young men from good families. Hey, who wouldn’t want to marry a princess? And if they just had to win a foot race to win the bride – that was the easiest score ever!
Atalanta, King Iasus and his guards marched onto the field. Atalanta wore a simple white chiton cinched at the waist by a leather belt with two sheathed daggers. A single blonde braid hung down her back. She held up a long stick like a spear shaft.
The crowd fell silent.
‘People of Arcadia!’ Atalanta’s voice easily filled the stadium. ‘Here are my conditions for marriage!’
The crowd stirred nervously. The princess sounded more like she was dictating terms for a military surrender. She strode to the middle of the racetrack and planted the spear shaft upright in the clay surface.
‘This three-cubit-long marker shall be the starting line and the finish line!’
(Maybe you’re wondering what a cubit is, and why you should care. Measure from your elbow to the tip of your middle finger. That’s a cubit in length, more or less. Why should you care? That I can’t answer. I’m still trying to figure out the metric system.)
The potential suitors murmured among themselves.
‘How many times do we have to run around the track?’ one asked.
Atalanta’s eyes gleamed. ‘Just once.’
‘That’s easy!’ said another. ‘So we all race at once, and the winner gets to marry you?’
‘Oh, no,’ Atalanta said. ‘I’m afraid you misunderstand. You don’t race one another. Any man who wants to marry me has to race me – one-on-one.’
The crowd gasped. The suitors’ jaws dropped.
Everyone started to whisper. Race a girl? Is she serious? She does look pretty fast …
‘There’s more,’ the princess said. ‘To make things easier on you, I will start twenty paces behind the starting post, so each suitor will have a head start.’
‘Absurd!’ one suitor shouted. ‘A head start against a girl? This whole idea is insulting!’
He stormed off, along with a dozen other suitors.
The rest lingered, either because they were more open-minded or more desperate for a rich wife.
‘So we race you one at a time,’ another suitor ventured, ‘with a head start of twenty paces. And the first guy to beat you across the finish line gets to marry you?’
‘Correct,’ Atalanta said. ‘However, there’s one last detail.’ She drew her daggers. ‘If I catch you before you cross the finish line … I’ll kill you.’
‘Ooooooh …’ the crowd murmured.
They edged forward in their seats to see how the suitors would react. The morning race had just got interesting.
King Iasus fidgeted with his crown. He hadn’t been expecting a death match. He hadn’t had time to organize a proper betting pool.
Finally one of the suitors pulled off his racing shoes and threw them away. ‘This is stupid! No woman is worth dying for!’
He tromped off, along with most of the others.
A few really stupid or brave suitors stayed behind.
‘I’m in!’ declared one. ‘A race against a woman? That’s the easiest challenge ever! Just don’t fall on your own knives, baby. I wouldn’t want my future bride to kill herself.’
‘Any future bride of yours would be tempted,’ Atalanta said. ‘Let’s see how fast you are.’
The crowd cheered as Atalanta and Dumbnuts (sorry, the brave suitor) took their marks. The king agreed to serve as referee.
Iasus shouted, ‘Ready … set … go!’
The suitor took off at top speed. He made it ten feet before Atalanta caught him. Her bronze blades flashed. Dumbnuts fell dead at her feet.
‘Anyone else?’ Atalanta asked, not even winded.
You’d think the remaining suitors would’ve left the track, right? I mean, they’d seen how fast Atalanta could run. She’d pounced on that guy like a lioness taking down a deer. Blink. He was dead.
But three others dared to race her. Maybe they thought they were super fast. Maybe they really liked Atalanta. Maybe they were idiots. Within minutes, three more corpses decorated the racetrack. The fastest guy made it fifty feet.
‘Anyone else?’ Atalanta called.
The arena went silent.
‘Okay, then,’ she said. ‘The challenge will remain open until someone manages to win. I’ll be here same time next week if anybody cares to try.’
She wiped her dagger blades on the hem of her chiton, then strode out of the stadium. The king followed, relieved that the show was over and he would have time to organize betting for next week’s race.
If Atalanta wasn’t famous enough before, her reputation really got a boost after the death race. Suitors came from all over Greece to try their luck. Some chickened out when they saw Atalanta run. Others challenged her and died. Nobody made it even halfway around the track before getting butchered.
King Iasus was miffed that his daughter wasn’t getting married. But on the bright side the races were great for tourism, and he was making a bundle from his bookies.
A few months later, a guy named Hippomenes happened to be in town on business. He was from a rich family in a city down the coast. His dad, Megareus, was a son of Poseidon, so obviously Hippomenes had excellent lineage. He’d also been trained in the hero business by the wise centaur Chiron, who tutored only the best. (Including me, not that I’m bragging. Okay, maybe I’m bragging.)
One morning, Hippomenes was wandering through town when he noticed that all of the locals were closing up shop and hurrying to the racetrack.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked a shopkeeper. ‘Seems a little early in the day for a siesta.’
The shopkeeper grinned. ‘Atalanta has a new batch of suitors to murder … I mean, race.’
He explained about Atalanta’s popular local reality show: The Bachelor (Whom I’m About to Run Down and Eviscerate). Hippomenes wasn’t sure whether to laugh or throw up.
‘That’s horrible!’ he said. ‘Those men must be idiots! No woman, no matter how wonderful, is worth a risk like that.’
‘I guess you haven’t seen Atalanta,’ said the shopkeeper. Then he rushed off.
Hippomenes was overcome by curiosity. He followed the crowd to the stadium, where half a dozen new suitors had gathered to try their luck. Hippomenes couldn’t believe so many men could be so stupid.
Then he saw Atalanta. She stood to one side doing some runner’s stretches. In her simple white chiton, with her golden braid of hair, she was the most beautiful woman Hippomenes had ever seen. In a daze, he pushed his way through the crowd until he stood next the suitors.
‘I have to apologize,’ he told them. ‘I thought risking one’s life for any woman was ridiculous. Now that I’ve seen her, I totally understand.’
One of the suitors f
Atalanta overheard the exchange. She pretended not to look, but out of the corner of her eye she assessed Hippomenes: curly black hair, sea-green eyes, strong, graceful limbs. His voice was what really captured her attention. It was rich and pleasing and mellifluous (there’s my big word for the week; thank you, SAT prep class), like the waterfall outside Atalanta’s old cave. She felt unfamiliar warmth in her chest – something she hadn’t experienced since Meleager took her side during the Kalydonian Boar Hunt.
She tried to clear her mind. She had a race to win and six suitors to kill.
King Iasus called the first runner to his mark. Atalanta took her starting position, twenty paces back.
Hippomenes watched, entranced, as Atalanta chased down her would-be husbands one after the other. She ran more swiftly than an arrow fired from a Scythian bow (translation: hella fast). She moved more gracefully than a leopard. And the way she whipped out her knives and butchered those suitors … Wow. What a woman!
If he’d had any sense, Hippomenes would’ve run away in terror. Instead, he fell hopelessly in love.
After the last race, as the crowd was dispersing, he approached the victorious princess, who was cleaning the blood off her knives.
‘O beautiful princess!’ Hippomenes said. ‘May I dare to speak with you?’
Atalanta wasn’t sure he was talking to her. She was sweaty from running six races. Her face was blotchy from exertion, and her braid had come undone. Her feet were caked with clay. Her chiton was stained with the blood and tears of her dead opponents.
And this guy thought she was beautiful?
‘You may dare to speak,’ she said.
‘Those suitors you raced against,’ Hippomenes said, ‘they were not worthy opponents. Where is the glory in defeating such men? Race me instead. I understand your worth.’
‘Oh, you do, eh?’
Hippomenes bowed. ‘My grandsire is Poseidon, lord of the waves. I know a force of nature when I see one. The others see only your beauty or your father’s wealth. I look at you and I see the winds of a storm. I see the roaring current of a great river. I see the most powerful woman ever created by the gods. You need no husband trying to master you. You need an equal to share your life. Let me prove I am that man.’