Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast by Jane Yolen Page A

house with four rooms in a semicircle around an open courtyard.
    Evenor, Atalanta, and Phreneus joined him and his two sons at a table in the courtyard, where his wife served them with a sweet red wine poured from a large jar called a krater, and bowls filled with fresh stewed vegetables.
    Atalanta didn’t wait for an invitation, but straightaway started on her food.
    The men laughed at her, but they began to eat as well. Labrius waited until they were almost done before allowing anyone to speak.
    Finally he leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, my friend Evenor, what makes you leave your wife and children to come here?”
    Evenor began telling him the story of their hunt, of the death of Atalanta’s father, the maiming of Goryx, and all of the tales of carnage in the villages and farms between Eteos and Mylonas. He was careful to praise Atalanta, her skills, her heroics.
    Occasionally Phreneus interrupted to add more to the story, usually elaborating on the bloodier parts.
    Having learned her lesson in Phylos, Atalanta didn’t interrupt but instead had a second helping of the stew.
    Labrius listened intently, nodding more than once to show that he understood. When Evenor finished, Labrius leaned forward in his chair.
    “We, too, have lately had our share of misfortunes,” he said. “Hardly any deer or boar this winter, then a sudden surplus of them. And now—goats and cattle taken. But the worst came two nights ago. Echthenes heard his cows bellowing with fear. ‘A bear,’ he told his wife, before running out with his spear to protect them. He was a good huntsman, Echthenes. The best.” Labrius’ eyes were suddenly moist, but he didn’t cry. “We found his mangled body in the midst of six dead cows, the broken spear by his side. The cows were all partially eaten, but he wasn’t, which was a small blessing. At least we could bury him. The bite marks on his back and spear arm were enormous, much too deep and wide spaced for a bear.”
    For a moment there was silence at the table, then one of Labrius’ sons—a stoop-shouldered man of thirty, spoke. “Passing travelers have told us the same stories from all over Arcadia. Whatever this monster is, it’s spreading terror throughout the whole kingdom.”
    The other son, handsome where his brother was plain, added, “It’s said King Iasus is assembling a party to hunt the beast down.”
    “Who’s King Iasus?” Atalanta whispered to Phreneus, who was sitting on her right.
    “King of Arcadia,” Phreneus whispered back. “Though I for one have never seen him.”
    What’s the use in having a king if you never see him? Atalanta thought, though she didn’t say it aloud. Instead she reached for some black-skinned olives.
    “This is a curse sent by the gods,” Labrius’ stern-faced wife declared loudly. She thumped a jug onto the table to emphasize her point.
    A long silence greeted her.
    At last Atalanta spoke. “What have the gods to do with it?”
    The old woman scowled down at her. “Think, girl, think. When a crime has gone unpunished by men, the gods will send a punishment of their own.”
    “Now, now, Iole,” Labrius cautioned her, “we’ll have no talk of crimes and punishment here.”
    Iole snorted and placed her hands on her hips. “What do you know, old man? You sit all day with your cronies and drink wine and it muddles what few wits you have left. Perhaps someone unknown to us has insulted the gods…” Before she could go on, there was a shrill uproar from the center of the village.
    Atalanta could make out cries of panic. “Run!” she heard. “Run or you’ll die!”
    She grabbed up her bow, and Evenor and Phreneus took up their spears. Then the three of them ran toward the sound of the cries, Labrius and his sons right after them.
    “Is it the beast?” Atalanta shouted as they ran.
    “In the village center? In daylight?” Evenor replied. “Surely not.”
    But Atlanta thought, I have seen the