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The Calydonian Boar-hunt
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In the land of Calydon,
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the queen had gone into labour.
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As she lay on her bed, surrounded by servants,
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she had a vision.
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She saw three hideous sisters: the Fates.
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The first spins out the thread of a mortal’s life,
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the second measures out its length
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and the third cuts the thread and ends the life.
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The moment the queen gave birth,
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the second Fate cackled.
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‘You see that burning log?
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The moment the fire has destroyed it,
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her child will die.’
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And then the sisters were gone.
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The queen leant forward.
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She plucked the log from the flames.
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She doused it and threw it into a battered bronze box.
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She told no one what she had seen and done.
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The first to hold the baby boy was not the king but the queen’s two brothers.
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Her parents had died long ago.
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Her brothers had reared her from a child;
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they were as dear to her as her own life.
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She named the boy Meleager and he was unstoppable.
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Again and again he fought and won.
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Against impossible odds he knew no fear.
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There came to the forest of Calydon a monstrous beast,
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a boar the size of a bull with bristles as jagged as daggers and tusks as sharp as swords.
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In those times, champions walked the earth;
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brave, brutal, reckless men eager to win fame.
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The king of Calydon sent out word:
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here was a proper challenge.
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The man courageous and resourceful enough to best this beast would win the right to be called ‘Hero’.
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Many men answered the call,
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among them warlike Peleus, Achilles’ father,
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and stern Jason of Iolcus and Theseus of Athens;
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great men skilled in battle.
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Of course Prince Meleager was to lead the chase.
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The morning of the hunt arrived.
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Meleager sighed.
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His tiresome windbag uncles insisted on coming along.
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The young heroes were eager for the off,
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teasing one another.
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A forest of flashing blades,
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these two doddery fools were holding them back,
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telling them how to hunt.
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Meleager only tolerated them for the sake of his mother.
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The hounds were baying,
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straying at the leash.
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Just as they were about to set off they heard the sound of a trumpet from the palace.
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A servant came running.
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He swallowed, looked at the company anxiously.
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‘Your highness: another to join the company.’
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The hunters looked and gasped.
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She was graceful as a deer, beautiful.
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But she held a bow;
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she wore a quiver of deadly arrows.
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‘I am the daughter of the king of Argos.
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My name is Atalanta.’
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She locked Prince Meleager with her gaze and it was as if the champions no longer existed.
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He was rooted to the spot.
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He couldn’t speak.
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She was extraordinary.
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This was too much for his uncles.
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‘You are not meant for this place.
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Get back to the kitchen where you belong.’
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Still lost in her eyes, Meleager said,
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‘To whom do we pray for a successful hunt?
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It is to a goddess:
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Artemis.’
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The uncles bristled.
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‘Careful.
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You have some respect for your elders.’
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‘I’d rather have her on this hunt than you,’ said Meleager.
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The brothers were furious.
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‘If you were not our sister’s son,
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we’d split you in two for that remark.’
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Now they saw the queen approaching.
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The brothers slunk back.
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She threw her arms around her son’s neck.
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The other champions marvelled at her calm.
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It was as if her son were about to take a stroll through the palace gardens,
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not do battle with a monster.
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It was as if he had a charmed life.
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The forest stank of boar.
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Alert, watchful, they slipped silently from dappled shadow to dappled shadow.
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They made no sound.
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They spoke only with gesture.
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The fleetest of foot, the most graceful, was Princess Atalanta;
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her every step was a dance.
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Meleager found it hard to remember he was on a hunt.
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His eyes kept straying back to her.
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Now she had an arrow notched to her bow.
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Meleager saw signs of the boar:
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uprooted trees, trampled bracken.
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Where were the birds?
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So silent was this forest,
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he became aware of the rasp of his own breath,
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the beating of his own heart.
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The hounds ahead were whimpering.
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The champions lifted their spears aloft.
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Prince Ancaeus was at the far end of the line.
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He would have made a fine king.
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He was not impetuous like the others;
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he had only joined this hunt to please his father.
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Movement ahead.
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He lifted his axe and it was over.
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One moment he was the handsome heir to a throne,
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a picture of physical perfection.
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The next moment he was a mangled mess of blood and bowels.
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The screams of Ancaeus unmanned the champions.
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It was pandemonium.
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They took aim at anything.
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Every snapped twig, every glimpsed movement brought arrows.
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In the chaos many a champion killed another.
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The old uncles were barking orders.
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Meleager cast about – where was Atalanta?
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She emerged, smiling, out of the undergrowth ahead of him,
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pursued by an abomination.
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It came like a boulder hurled by a catapult,
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smashing trees, tossing hounds,
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broad as a house, quick as thought,
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its dripping tusks as long as a man’s arm.
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Meleager saw it stumble –
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there was blood in its eyes.
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The beast was blind!
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The feathered tail of an arrow was emerging from between the boars’ ears.
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Meleager scrambled up a tree, along a branch.
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He dropped onto the beast’s back.
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He plunged his blade between the bristles,
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through the coarse hide,
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and severed its spine.
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The boar squealed, snorted, thrashed and reared.
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Meleager leapt clear.
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The air was black with nets and spears and arrows.
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Now the monster sinks to its knees.
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The champions surround it, hacking, stabbing.
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The monster slumps with a sigh and it is still.
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Men hobbled shame-faced out of the undergrowth.
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They were astonished to find Meleager unharmed.
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One of the uncles stepped forward, kicked the carcass.
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‘Huh! You call yourselves heroes?
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Bragging babies!
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Your knees buckled at the first sign of danger.
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If it weren’t for Meleager you’d all be dead.’
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‘And her.’
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‘What?’ said the other uncle.
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‘And her,’ said Meleager.
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‘You see the arrow there, between the ears?
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She drew first blood.
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To hold your nerve,
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to loose an arrow and strike your target before the charge of that thing!
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The pelt and tusks belong to her.’
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Princess Atalanta stepped forward to claim her prize.
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The uncles shoved her.
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‘Stop this nonsense.
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No one knows whose arrow that is.
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No one saw.
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All of us were loosing shafts,
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but all of us saw you climb and leap and strike with no thought for your safety.
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The prize is yours.’
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‘That is my arrow,’
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said Princess Atalanta.
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‘You say.’
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Meleager took her hand.
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He led her toward his uncles.
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‘The prize is hers.’
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‘You- you are a love sick boy.
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You are blinded by her beauty.
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Do you think we will stand by and let you give the glory to some…girl?’
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The uncle drew his dagger and lunged at her.
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He staggered, gasped.
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He fell to his knees.
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He put his hands to his split belly but it was no use.
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The red torrent found its course between his fingers.
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‘What have you done?’
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The other uncle drew his blade and fell beside his brother.
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Meleager stood over them,
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his chest heaving,
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his weapon dripping.
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The champions were dumbfounded, astonished.
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In the palace the queen heard a commotion.
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A messenger came running from the forest;
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he was ashen, trembling with shock.
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The queen screamed:
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something awful had occurred.
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She fled from the news.
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She scurried to her bed chamber and there was a fire,
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a fire burning in the hearth.
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She lunged for the battered bronze box,
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she lifted the lid -
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the blackened log was still there.
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Her son was safe.
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The servant was at the door.
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He would not meet her eye.
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‘What do you want?
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What is the matter?’
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‘There has been a great tragedy.’
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‘For some other mother.’
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‘Your highness. Your brothers…’
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She dropped the box.
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‘The boar killed my brothers?’
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‘No, your highness.
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Your son killed your brothers.’
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‘What?’
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She had no parents.
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Her brothers had been everything to her.
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Now her son had slaughtered them.
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She stared at the log in the box.
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In the forest, Meleager turned to Atalanta.
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‘You are the one.
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I have waited for a wife and you have come.’
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He took her hand.
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She smiled.
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‘If you would marry me,
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I would marry you.’
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Meleager frowned.
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She said, ‘What is wrong?’
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He said, ‘My mouth.
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It tastes of ash.
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I’m so hot.’
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He fell, gasping, writhing, clawing the air.
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In her bedroom,
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his mother watched the log burn.