Equal in Weight

Equal in Weight

by Victoria Kochan

An apple glistened on the beaten path ahead, bobbing with every loping stride Atalanta took. The hue shimmered too bright, too iridescent for it to have been of this earth. Her breath caught in her chest when she realized what it was.

A golden apple, from the Garden of the Hesperides.

Atalanta checked her speed, heels digging into the worn ground as she dipped low. Her fingers closed around the smooth apple, and she tucked it into her chiton. Her opponent let out a laugh as he raced by, long legs widening the gap between them. She grimaced and hurtled onwards.

His curls danced in the wind as he ran. Wild youth limned his frame, that surety that no woman could best him radiated out like sunbeams. Closer she drew, until she could make out his smirk, until she had passed him by entirely.

The finish line loomed ahead, her father, King Schoeneus of Boeotia, scowling beside the bloody demarcation. She would cross that line and Hippomenes’ life would be forfeit, like the many who came before him.

And with the golden apple, her future could be more than endless races, constant scowls from Schoeneus. No longer would she need to defend her honor, to keep from marrying a stranger she did not love, did not care for. Atalanta would be free to roam the world.

If she just kept running.

Footsteps thundered behind her, and she pushed all dreams of freedom from her mind. Atalanta became the wild cub of her youth, all human distractions fading in the face of this animalistic challenge.

A flash of light caught her eye, and she turned her head, mouth gaping at the sight. Glinting in the sunlight, another golden apple dropped to the ground like a fallen star. She did not think twice before diving after it. The second apple, she tucked beside the first in her chiton. Joy thrummed in her heart as she whirled and flew onward.

Two apples. She could escape from Schoeneus and buy a ship of her own. No longer would she be a credit to Schoeneus’s house, a marriageable piece of flesh for the man who had cast her out when she was no more than a babe. The man who had left her on the slopes of Mount Parnassus for the wolves to take.

Well, the wolves had indeed taken her in, had taught her to fight tooth and claw for what she wanted. And right now, it was victory.

Ahead of her, Hippomenes soared over the grassy plains. He shot straight for the finish line like one of Apollo’s arrows, his aim straight and true. Atalanta did not fear. She dug her feet deep into the ground and raced after him. He had the lead, but she had her strength and fleet-footedness. No man could best her in this of all things. Not even the obstinate youth who hadn’t shied away from her mortal wager.

Atalanta nodded to him as she met his stride. Their legs pumped in unison for a moment. Then Atalanta pulled away, savoring the crisp breeze that blew toward her with cries of victory.

Victory and certain death for her opponent.

She would not mourn him anymore than she had the last boy, nor the one before that. It was their own folly that drove them to accept her challenge. From the moment she returned to Schoeneus’s home to prove his unwanted daughter was more than equal in weight to any son, her life had become an endless string of race after race for her hand.

After all this time, Schoeneus had decided to fulfill his duty in marrying off his only child. The irony stung at night, when Atalanta nursed her sore muscles and wished to run away. He had not cared for duty when he abandoned her. When he deemed her worthless.

Atalanta had never been given a name. She had earned it.

She was a lioness, the Argonaut who had drawn first blood in the Calydonian Boar Hunt, who fought alongside and in front of the names of history. Now, she would be free again.

But whatever god or goddess saw fit to tempt Atalanta was not through. A third golden apple toppled to the ground, rolling farther than the first or second. It twinkled once before disappearing beneath a snarling bush.

Two apples were a fortune. A third would mean more than riches. A third would be the trophy Atalanta was starved for. Not the Calydonian boar pelt given out of love instead of respect. Not a grudging mutter of congratulations from Jason. This would be her final reward, her greatest treasure.

After all Atalanta had endured, she deserved this.

As she threw herself after the prize, Hippomenes let out a wheezing laugh. The apple had rolled farther than she thought. She drew farther and farther away from the finish line. It did not matter; she could still win the race if only she ran fast enough. She drove her hand through gnashing branches of the bush, thorns drawing her blood in gushing wells. The third apple she kept in her hand, ravaged fingers wrapped tight.

Turning, victory staining her cheeks, she watched as Hippomenes slowed to a jog. He neared the finish line as she hurtled after him, closing the distance.

It was too late.

Hippomenes grinned as he sauntered over the line meant to be his death. The line she had failed to cross first. She staggered after him, loss throbbing in her chest as she dropped to her knees. Her golden apples tumbled to the ground from her chiton. They made no sound as they hit the ground and dissolved into a thin mist.

Illusions. They had been nothing more than illusions, meant to distract her.

The third apple, as bloody as though it were her eviscerated heart, fell from her limp hand. It did not disappear. Instead, the mocking prize rolled until it struck Hippomenes’ foot.

She looked up at the man who was to be her husband, eyes narrowed. “Is this how my life is to go?” Her voice cracked on those words, those treacherously weak words.

Hippomenes stooped down and grasped her trophy. “I know not what you are referring to, wife, ” he said, tossing the apple as though it were a mere toy.

“I am not your wife. ”

He grinned, a savage gnash of teeth. “Not yet. ”

He wanted to break her. That much was obvious, written in the way he sized her up, searching for chinks in her armor.

Men liked to trap wild things. To keep them in cages and whip them until the fight went out of them. To hand feed them morsels of meat, let them drink from their palms. Never imagining how the animal wished to bite and scratch and claw, believing only this semblance of obedience.