The Hart and the Hind
The first time the goddess sees it, the hind is gamboling at the base of the Parrhasian hill, youngest sister in her herd of five. Dappled skin and golden horns. There is a tightening in Artemis' chest as the sun glints against its brazen hooves. They are tall as horses, tall as the first of those great children of Poseidon, though like nothing in spirit or shape the goddess has seen before. The hind's neck is long and slender, making her head seem smaller than it really is.
These are for you, Artemis. Divinely tall and fair, your limbs are clean and lovely. When your brother Apollo plays his lyre, the ladies of Olympus dance. The fair-tressed Charities, the merry Haorai, Harmonia, Hebe, and Aphrodite, Athena the daughter of Zeus. The deathless gods hold hands and at the center, clear-voiced Artemis sings. Artemis overtops the rest, and though all are lovely, there is no mistaking which is she.
The hind is spooked. Her legs stretch taught and fast and as the goddess blinks, the herd is off, dashing across the plain. Your legs are no less swift, you neck is long and graceful. Your feet pound the earth as you launch yourself behind. When the dust clears that morning, you have yoked four gentle heads to your chariot. The fifth hind escapes across the river Keladon. You stay your dogs at your heel. It disappears into the green, a flash of white and gold. You will not see her again for many years.
Callimachus sings of your childhood. When Artemis was still young, she one day climbed the throne of Zeus and tumbled into her father's lap.
"Father, grant me my maidenhood forever," she asked as she reached to pull on Zeus' beard. The cries of her mother were fresh in her ears. How great were her mother's pains while, in Zeus' cloudy halls, cow-eyed Hera held Childbirth captive. Delos laughed for joy; Leto cried out and cast her arms about a palm tree.
Artemis asked for sovereignty over the mountains. She asked Zeus for a short fringed tunic that fell to her knees, for arrows and a well-bent silver bow. Twenty nymphs and sixty daughters of Okeanos would follow her, all of them nine years old.
So it was. Mighty Zeus bent down his head, the earth shook, and her little fingers caught in his beard.
Artemis Aidoine, the revered virgin.
Artemis Keladeine, strong- voiced.
Artemis Elaphebolos, deer-shooting.
Artemis Khyrselakatos, with shafts of gold.
Leto may have been Zeus' first great consort, but the Olympian father lost no time in adding others to his list of conquests. Artemis has lost track, a happy stranger to the world of bedroom politics. She demands chastity from her followers, and while not even her band of virgin huntresses is immune to the advances Zeus, Artemis' law is firm. She knows no forgiveness.
In the heat of a late September afternoon, Zeus comes down from Olympus in the form of his own daughter. Her nymph Callisto leads the team of hinds to Hera's spring. She thinks nothing of removing her tunic in the suffocating orange heat; Artemis has seen her thus a thousand times. Like her sister Amazons of Pontus, Callisto has removed her own right breast to make room for the draw of the bowstring. Water splashes against her legs as the great hinds drink and she is blinded by the sun on their golden horns. Their necks stretch long and graceful and their haunches are dappled with light as Zeus ambushes Callisto from behind, holds her captive in his daughter's arms. For Callisto, there is no escape. The goddess learns her follower has become pregnant and Artemis Keladeine turns the nymph into a she-bear. When Callisto's son is born, Zeus will place them both in the stars.
Zeus' latest paramour is Alkmene. He spent three days with her in bed and she bore for him the hero Herakles. The first time Artemis meets her youngest half-brother, she has an arrow leveled at his eye.
"Artemis, daughter of Zeus, hear my tale and turn your wrath to its true source."
The hero explains: Eurystheus has commanded Herakles capture the Cerynian Hind, sacred to Artemis, and bring her alive from Oenoe to Mycenae. A difficult task, to be sure, but Herakles will face dangers graver still; this labor is only the third in a set of trials that will lead him finally to the halls of the dead and back again. The son of Zeus has spent over a year stalking his game, the hind and its lion skinned shadow. When she crossed the river Ladon, Herakles let fly with a new arrow and pinned her forelegs. He drew no blood. Tenderly, he laid the hind across his shoulders and turned to face Artemis' wrath.
The goddess lowers her weapons and is appeased. With a promise to return, the hero lifts the hind to his back and carries her to Mycenae.
Or maybe not.
The country-folk of Arcadia huddle in corners, they cannot venture out of doors for fear the beast of Cerynia will come. Its golden antlers and brazen feet flash on the horizon and the victims cry out and flee to the high ground. Its eyes roll. It came in the night, burning all ahead with its flaming breath. Word reaches Eurystheus and the King of Argos sends Herakles. The hero follows the trail of burned fields and abandoned homes from Oenoe to Mount Artemesium in Argolis and finally to the river Ladon in Arcadia. He pierces its neck with a poisoned arrow and it falls into the water. On the riverbank, Herakles breaks its horn and drains it of blood. He offers the sacrifice to Artemis, cruel goddess of the hunt.
On the road from Megara, there is a spring on the right, and, a little farther on, a rock. It is called the bed of Actaeon, for it is said that he slept thereon when weary with hunting, and that in this spring he unhappily stumbled on Artemis in all her glory.
The goddess has spent the month hunting in the thickly shadowed valley of Gargaphia, but even there, the summer heat seeps into her skin and places weights on her thighs and ankles. She has remembered this spring with fondness (so named: Pathenius, of the maiden) and her toes, knees, belly and breasts sink into the cooling waters. Her dark hair covers her shoulders and she fills her ears with the sounds of rest and peace.
Actaeon and his dogs appear over the crest of the hill, a tide of sweat and sound and movement that rushes towards the hollow of the spring. The hunter has not seen her yet, though he is intoxicated by the smell that lingers in the air. Hide and cinnamon, iron and ginger. The dogs pull back, lay themselves flat on the ground, but Actaeon does not heed, does not stop until-
Too late! He has seen her. Their eyes meet across the water and he is frozen. He is stiff, he cannot move, cannot pull his eyes from hers. She tenses, livid, and sees herself reflected in his eyes: the naked maiden, her hair dark and wet and plastered against her shoulders. Her wrath has never been so keen, so sharp. It cuts at her throat and traps her voice in her mouth.
But she will have her revenge. Actaeon changes. Still staring, the goddess trapped in his eyes, he lengthens, he stretches, he breaks and pops and there is pain such as he has never felt before in his life, pain flashing across his entire being as he is torn apart from the inside. He stumbles. He falls on his shoulder. His horns dig into the dirt.
The hart rises to its feet, trembling in its new skin. Its eyes cannot adjust to the light. In the pool, he sees a goddess, a woman, a being with shoulders dappled in the afternoon light. He moves toward her, and in his eyes, Artemis sees herself still reflected. Graceful neck, golden horns. Her mouth is full of fury or fear and as she howls her rage, the dogs turn on the hart.
Actaeon is ripped to pieces by his own hounds. When they are done, they run keening into the hills in search of the master they have lost. Artemis is left alone in the spring. She is rigid, stiff with rage, for she has been betrayed by her own reflection. She speaks. She knows no forgiveness. She will have revenge.