Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast

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THE GIRL WAS SILENT, tracking through the deep woods, a small gutted rabbit safely tucked into her leather belt. It was all she had found in the snares they’d set, and she was still hoping she might be able to find something more impressive before her father reappeared.

He’d left her to check the snares while he followed some deer tracks. Of course she’d grumbled. Checking the traps was a child’s task.

“And I’m no longer a child,” she whispered to herself, though she wasn’t yet thirteen.

The forest seemed unnaturally quiet. Nothing scrabbled in the underbrush away from her. No birds trilled overhead. Even the wood pigeons were still. She was disappointed.

How can I prove to Papa what a good hunter I am, she thought, if there is nothing here to hunt?

A spring gurgled from a low crag, their usual meeting place. Glancing around, she looked for some sign of her father.

Perhaps he has had good luck, she thought. Then she added in an under-breath, “I’ve certainly had none.” The rabbit didn’t count. It was scarcely a meal for one, and besides, it had been caught in their snares.

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