Atalanta the Swift Huntress

Her feet touched the ground so lightly that the earth barely had time to keep a print. They skimmed over roots, over dry leaves, even over the slick stones along the stream, quick and quiet, as if their owner were flying low across the tips of the grass. On her left shoulder, a quiver made of ivory swung with every stride. Her left hand held a bow, always ready to be raised. A buckle of polished gold flashed each time a ray of sunlight slipped through the leaves. The young woman raced through the forest, and in all the land around, no one had ever caught up with those feet.

Her name was Atalanta.

People in ancient Greece told her story to one another. She was the girl who ran faster than any young man who ever dared to try. When Atalanta was still very young, an oracle warned that marriage would bring her misfortune. Hearing this, she chose a very different way of life. She went to live freely in the forest, giving all her days to the bow and to long runs, and she kept away from everyone who came to ask for her hand.

But however much she avoided them, they kept on coming. One young man after another wanted to make her his wife. To be left in peace, Atalanta came up with a condition of her own. She told everyone who came that whoever wished to marry her must first beat her in a footrace. Many came, and many ran, but no one ever got past Atalanta on the track. The trouble was that the price of losing was very heavy, so heavy that none of those who tried and failed ever went home again.

Then one day, a young man named Hippomenes served as the judge of one of these races. He stood beside the track and saw Atalanta glide across the finish line, so light and so fast that it was hard to believe. Many people around him shook their heads and said that nobody would ever beat her. But Hippomenes did not feel afraid. The longer he watched her run, the surer he became that he wanted to be with this extraordinary young woman. He stepped out in front of everyone. There was nothing to boast about, he said, in beating those slow runners. Then, in a clear, firm voice, he asked to race against Atalanta herself.

Still, Hippomenes understood that his own legs would not be enough. Before the race, he quietly looked up and prayed to the goddess Aphrodite. She was the goddess who had planted his feelings for Atalanta in his heart. He asked her to help him, because she was the one who had led him all the way to this place. And the goddess heard him.

On the faraway island of Cyprus, in the goddess's sacred garden, there grew a very strange tree. Its leaves were gold, its branches were gold too, and on those branches hung apples of shining gold. Aphrodite picked three of those golden apples. She handed them quietly to Hippomenes, without anyone else seeing, and showed him how to use them. Three small golden apples in his hands would be all he had to turn a race that no one had ever won.

On the day of the contest, spectators crowded both sides of the track. The signal rang out. The two of them sprang from the starting line together. Their feet skimmed the sand so lightly it was hard to believe. It seemed they could have run across water without sinking, or over a field of grain without the stalks even having time to bend. Atalanta ran the way she always ran in the forest, graceful and effortless. Hippomenes strained with all his strength to keep up.

The crowd cheered him on. "Come on, come on, a little more," they called after him. "You are catching up with her." But after a stretch, his breath grew short and his throat burned dry, and the finish line was still far, far away. Just then, he remembered the three apples. He let the first apple roll out ahead of her.

The golden apple rolled across the sand, glittering in the sun. Atalanta had never seen anything so strangely beautiful. She stopped short for a moment, amazed, then bent down to pick it up. In that brief instant, Hippomenes pulled ahead. But Atalanta was not someone easily left behind. She gathered her strength, lengthened her stride, and soon she had caught up with him again. Then she passed him, as lightly as a gust of wind.

At once, Hippomenes dropped the second apple. It rolled over the sand, gleaming just as brightly as the first. And once again, Atalanta could not resist. She stopped to pick it up and let him get ahead one more time. But her extraordinary legs carried her back level with him once more, as if the two apples had hardly slowed her at all. The finish line was very near now, and the runner in front was still Atalanta.

Only one last apple was left, and only one last chance. This time Hippomenes did not throw it ahead. He silently called the goddess by name and asked that her gift work one final time. Then, with all his strength, he hurled the third apple far to one side of the track, well away from the straight path to the finish.

The third golden apple flew off and landed, glittering, on the sand some distance from the track. Atalanta saw it. She hesitated. If she ran straight on to the finish, she was sure to win, but that golden apple was beautiful beyond resisting. After a single moment of doubt, she turned aside and ran after the apple. And that small detour was what took the lead away from her.

When Atalanta came back to the track, Hippomenes had already dashed across the finish line. He had won. It was not because he ran faster than she did. He had simply found the one thing that could make the fastest feet in the world slow down by a single step.

As for Atalanta, after that race she was still Atalanta of the forests. Her feet were still as swift as the wind, and her ivory quiver still swung on her shoulder each time she set off. The victory of Hippomenes did not take away her speed, nor did it shut her away in one place. And Atalanta herself, who had never yielded to anyone, agreed that this young man was worthy to run at her side. The only difference was that from then on, on the long running paths, she had someone running beside her. He was wise enough to treasure the fastest pair of feet he had ever met.