“It might be better if Feus and Plexippus don’t know I’m around,” I told Atalanta when we reached the top of Greek Peak and were approaching Meleager’s uncles’ house. It was a mansion with many columns. I put on my helmet and POOF!—I disappeared.
Atalanta knocked. She banged so hard that the door swung open. Atalanta strode boldly into the house. I stepped invisibly in behind her. And there were Feus and Plexippus, sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace, toasting marshmallows over the flame from a single log.
“Yikes!” cried Feus when he saw Atalanta.
“How dare you walk into our house without knocking?” said Plexippus.
“I knocked,” said Atalanta. “Put that fire out. Now!”
Feus smiled. “Why should we? Our marshmallows aren’t even toasted yet.”
“Put out the fire to save Meleager from his terrible fever!” cried Atalanta.
“Not a chance,” said Plexippus. “We burn the log a little bit each day. We’ll make that fever last a long time. And then—”
Together the brothers chanted: “Ashes, ashes, Meleager falls down!”
Atalanta raised her upper lip in a snarl, then thought better of it. “What do you want in exchange for the log?” she asked. “If it is within my power, I shall give it to you.”
“Cash!” cried Feus. “And lots of it!”
“Right!” said Plexippus. “Meleager said you were as strong as any man. But let’s see how good you are at making money. Bring us a dekamillion dollars, or we’ll burn the log to ashes.”
Atalanta swallowed. A dekamillion dollars was a load of cash!
“All right,” she said at last. “I will bring you the money. Now, put out the fire. And give me your word you won’t light the log again before I come back with the cash.”
Feus picked up a vase of flowers. He turned it over and dumped the water—and the flowers—onto the burning log. The small flame went out. “There. Happy now?”
“You have a year,” said Plexippus. “If you’re not back with the money by then, Meleager’s toast!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” said Atalanta. “And I’ll bring you the cash. But can I trust you to keep your word?”
“For that much money, we’ll do anything,” said Feus.
“Even keep our word,” said Plexippus.
Atalanta nodded, turned, and strode out of the mansion. I was right on her heels. When we were partway down Greek Peak, I took off my helmet. FOOP!
“Can you believe those creeps?” said Atalanta. “They want a dekamillion dollars! Where can I come up with that kind of cash?”
“Don’t . . . ASK ME,” I said, hoping she’d take the hint and ask me.
“I won’t,” said Atalanta. “I know you’re the god of wealth, but it wouldn’t be right. I have to earn this money myself.” We walked in silence for a while. Then she said, “Here are the things I’m good at. Tell me if any of them are worth gigantic sums of money. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Gathering honey?” she said.
“No.”
“Climbing trees?”
I shook my head.
“Catching fish?”
“Nope.”
“Wrestling?”
“That could work,” I said. “But it would take more than a year for you to become a star.”
Atalanta thought for a moment. “Running?” she said. “I hate to do it, but I am fast.”
“Not a great way to make money. Why don’t you like running?”
“Don’t ask,” said Atalanta.
We came to a road, and Atalanta put out her thumb. I put on my helmet. POOF! Half a minute later, a wagon screeched to a stop in front of her and gave her a ride. She was a celebrity now, and everyone who saw her was happy to give her a lift. She hitched all the way to Arcadia, and I went invisibly along for the ride.
When we reached her father’s palace, Atalanta knocked at the door.
Her father, King Iasus, must have been watching for her, for he flung open the door himself. He had a big belly. A lit cigar stuck out from between his teeth.
“Atalanta!” The king air-kissed her on each cheek, still puffing on the cigar. “The Princess Hero! My heir! So good to have you home again. Come in!”
Atalanta (and I) walked into the palace. The king led her (and me) into a room that looked like an office. He went to his desk and began rummaging around.
“Father,” said Atalanta, “in all these years, have you had any word from my mother?”
“Your who?” The king wrinkled his brow. “Oh, her. No, no one’s heard from her. She’s—” he waved a hand as if waving away a gnat—“gone.” He puffed on his cigar, sending a plume of foul-smelling smoke Atalanta’s way. He went back to searching his desk. “Ah, here it is.” He picked up a stack of parchments. “Atalanta, my famous daughter! Would you mind signing an autograph for me?”
Atalanta looked surprised, but took the quill he offered and wrote her A.
Her father flipped to a new sheet of parchment. “One more here.” Again, she signed.
“Just one more.” Atalanta signed again.
“Good!” The king puffed away on his cigar as he rolled up the parchment and stuck it in his robe pocket. The smoke made me sick to my godly stomach. “Now, let me show you your room.”
“Oh, I’m not staying, father,” said Atalanta. “I only came to see you for myself.”
“Don’t be silly.” Her father threw a hairy arm around her shoulder. “At least take a look at your room,” he said, more or less pushing her toward a flight of stairs. “After all the trouble I’ve gone to, fixing it up.”
Atalanta started up the staircase. I was right behind her.
“Take a left at the top of the stairs,” said the king, puffing on his cigar. “First doorway on the right. Go on in.” I followed Atalanta into a small bare room. It didn’t look as if her father had gone to any trouble to fix it up. There was a bed in one corner. A small table and two chairs sat next to it. And . . . why were there bars on the window?
Suddenly, BAM! The door slammed shut.
Atalanta ran to it. “Hey, what are you doing?”
“Making sure you stay put!” The king grinned through the small barred window in the door.
Poor Atalanta! I could tell her head was spinning. Her father had tricked her. She was definitely having a bad heir day.
I wanted to rip that door off of its hinges! I wanted to take Atalanta far, far away from that father of hers. But there’s a whole section in The Godly Handbook for Helping Mortals about gods interfering between parents and their children. It’s a big no-no.
“Now,” said the king, puffing smoke into the room. “It’s time we found you a husband.”
No!” Atalanta cried. “I am a Daughter of Artemis. I have taken a vow never to marry.”
“So what?” said the king. “I have lawyers here who can get me out of any promise I make. Nothing to it. I’ll put them on the case.”
“No!” cried Atalanta. “I have no wish to marry!”
“Of course you do!” said the king.
A low rumble started in Atalanta’s throat. She curled her upper lip in a snarl.
“Oh, cut the wild-animal bit,” said the king. “If you don’t cooperate with me, I’ll send my people to get a certain holly wood log, and I’ll burn it to cinders.”
Atalanta gasped. “How do you know about the log?”
Her father answered with another cloud of smoke.
“You are worse than I ever imagined!” she said. “You are a tyrant and a bully!”
“Thank you!” The king smiled around his cigar. “Now, about that husband. I’m thinking rich prince. Really rich. One who can afford to pay a huge sum to the father of the Princess Hero.”
Atalanta was turning red with rage. “Fine,” she said. “Find me a prince. I’ll marry him, but he’ll have to catch me first.”
“No conditions!” said her father, spewing smoke. “No ifs, ands, or buts! No prince is going to . . . did you say . . . catch you?”
“Right,” said Atalanta.
The king waggled the cigar thoughtfully between his teeth. “A race,” he said. “I could put in a running track here at the palace. Build a stadium around it! I’ve got land enough. Think of the income! All the young princes of Greece could come, week after week, to try to beat you in a race. I could charge entry fees. And admission for spectators. Oh, this could be big! This could be a spectacle!”
Atalanta grew thoughtful. “If I make enough money running the races,” she said, half to herself, “I could buy back Meleager’s log.”
“You get no money!” said the king. “All the money you make comes to me!”
“Who says?” asked Atalanta.
“The contract you signed says so! Right here in paragraph XXV!”
“Contract?” said Atalanta. “I never signed any contract.”
“That’s what you think,” said the king. He pulled the parchments from his pocket and held one up in front of the little barred window. He began to read, “All cash or money whatsoever earned by Atalanta goes directly to her father, King Iasus.” Atalanta looked at it. I did too. It was true. And under all the itty-bitty print, Atalanta had signed her A.
The king laughed, still clenching the stub of his cigar between his teeth. “Be careful who you sign autographs for, Princess Hero!”