“I’m here, Atalanta,” I said when her father had gone. I took off my helmet. FOOP!
Atalanta stared at me, wide-eyed. “This is a trap! I never should have come!”
“How could you have known what your father had in mind?”
“Running races!” Atalanta flopped down on the bed. “I hate running. Why did I have to say that thing about catching me first?” she groaned. “If only I could take it back!”
I sat down on the table, hoping it would hold my godly weight. “You said you’re a fast runner.”
“I am, I am,” she said. “I can outrun anyone.”
“Then why do you hate it?”
“Don’t ask,” she said glumly.
I’d promised Persephone to help her with some gardening chores, so once Atalanta calmed down, I took off. But over the next three days, every time I had a spare minute, I put on my helmet and astro-traveled to Atalanta’s prison room. Once when I showed up, a photographer was there with the king, taking Atalanta’s picture for the newspaper. Another time, I found Atalanta sitting at the table, practicing writing her whole name.
“Dad says that after the races, I’ll have to sign autographs so he can charge people for them,” she told me. “He’s shameless.”
Then one morning when I went to see Atalanta, a servant was unlocking her room.
“Your father the king would like you to join him for breakfast,” the servant said.
“No thanks,” Atalanta said. “I’d lose my appetite.”
For a big eater like Atalanta, that was quite a statement.
“It’s an order,” said the servant. “Follow me.”
Atalanta sighed and followed the servant to the palace dining room. I tagged invisibly along.
The king was already seated at the table. He was smoking his cigar and reading The Arcadia Arrow. He looked up. “Good morning, daughter! Good news! The running track and stadium are finished!” He grinned and blew some smoke Atalanta’s way. “Ah, how I love being king. I can force workers to do their jobs so fast!”
Atalanta frowned and sat down at the far end of the table.
A servant held out a bread basket and lifted off the cloth. “A mini-muffin, ma’am?”
Atalanta took a teeny muffin from the basket. “A what?”
“Mini-muffin,” said the servant.
Atalanta held the tiny breakfast treat between her thumb and forefinger for a moment, regarding it, then popped it in her mouth. She swallowed, took the bread basket from the servant, and dumped all the mini-muffins onto her plate. She gave him back the empty basket. “Keep ’em coming,” she said, and she began popping mini-muffins into her mouth.
“Take a look at this, daughter,” said the king. He handed his newspaper to a servant, who brought it to Atalanta. “You’re going to be a very busy girl!”
“What!” Atalanta cried when she’d read the headline. “WHAT?”
There was a picture of Atalanta. Here’s what the article said:
“Father!” Atalanta looked at him in horror. “This is a pack of lies!”
The king looked puzzled. “Of course it is!” he said. “Eat up, daughter. The first race begins in an hour. You don’t want to run on a full stomach.”
“That,” said Atalanta, dumping another basket of mini-muffins onto her plate, “is the least of my worries.”
An hour later, I sat down in the gods’ section of King Iasus’s stadium. (All earthly sports stadiums are required to have at least four god- sized seats—just in case immortals decide to pop in.) I was amazed that the king had been able to construct such a large stadium in such a short time. It had an oval of green grass surrounded by a cinder track, and rows and rows of seats. About half of the seats were filled. At the top of the stadium was a box all decked out in purple banners. In it sat King Iasus and an announcer mortal with a large megaphone. Atalanta and V young mortal men milled about by the starting line.
To my right sat Persephone. I’d phoned her, and even though it was spring and she had a million things to do, she had astro-traveled over to the race.
To my left sat Artemis, wearing what looked like mole fur. I’d called her, too. She was steaming. “I’ll change that king into a goat!” she muttered. “No, make that a stink bug!”
I nodded. “He deserves it, for sure. The Fates are really messing with Atalanta’s thread.”
“Welcome to the Princess Hero Races!” called the announcer through his megaphone. “The race will be IV laps around the track. Runners, take your marks.”
The racers bent down into starting position.
“Get set . . .”
The racers’ rear ends lifted. They kept their fingers on the line.
“Go!”
Atalanta and her suitors shot off their marks.
The race was over in a flash. Atalanta ran across the finish line almost a whole lap ahead of the fastest suitor. She was a graceful runner. I wondered why she disliked running so much.
The fans yelled and cheered for Atalanta. She gave them a halfhearted wave and made her way over to the gods’ section.
“You showed them, Daughter of Artemis!” cried Artemis. “Keep up the good work, and you’ll never have to marry!”
Atalanta smiled. She leaped into the stands and bounded up to where we were sitting.
“Hi, Hades. Hi, Persephone,” she said. “Thanks for being here for me. This is so humiliating. Plus, I need to be out making money to save Meleager.” She turned to Artemis. “I never said all that stuff in the paper about wanting to find a husband.”
“I knew it,” said Artemis. “Journalists almost never get the facts straight.”
“Especially when the so-called facts are coming from my dad,” muttered Atalanta.
At that moment, the king walked onto the track. “Atalanta!” he called. “Some of your fans want autographs. Get down here. Now!”
“Duty calls.” Atalanta waved and ran down the stadium steps to where her father stood. We watched as he hurried her over to a table that had been set up in the center of the track. On it was a stack of photographs of Atalanta—copies of the one taken of her for the newspaper.
When Persephone and Artemis astro-traveled back to work, I put my helmet on—POOF!—and wandered onto the track. I went over to the table where Atalanta was signing autographs. Next to her stood one of her dad’s servants. He was collecting V dekadollars per signature.
A fan stepped up to Atalanta and held out half a dozen photographs. “Okay, sign the first one ‘To my good friend Eilieithuyia,’” she said. “And the second one ‘To my good friend Psiticateusisas.’ And the third one—”
Atalanta’s upper lip twitched. I could tell she was trying to suppress a snarl. At last she growled, “One autograph per customer, and you’re gonna have to spell Eilieithuyia.”
I smiled invisibly. Maybe Atalanta was a prisoner at the palace, but she was still in charge.
The following week, XXII suitors showed up for the race. And many more spectators. The stands were nearly full.
As before, Atalanta beat her suitors without really breaking a sweat.
Week after week, the races continued. I was always there, but invisible. Artemis always showed up too. She loved seeing one of her Daughters of Artemis beat the pants off all those mortal men.
Before long, fans had to line up outside the stadium the night before the race if they wanted to get a ticket. It was standing room only. Young mortal men from all over Greece showed up to try to win Atalanta’s hand. But week after week, Atalanta outran them all.
Atalanta’s father watched every race from his banner-festooned box. He clenched his cigar between his teeth in a permanent grin. He was making a fortune. Atalanta was doing all the work, but she never saw a dekadime.
One day after the race, King Iasus came onto the field to congratulate Atalanta. I hovered invisibly behind him to hear what he had to say.
“Nice going, daughter,” he said, puffing smoke at her. “I have a surprise for you.”
“That this was the last race?” said Atalanta, sounding hopeful. “That you’ve given up on trying to find me a husband?”
“Actually, I have,” said her father.
Atalanta’s face lit up. She looked happier than she’d looked in a long time.
“Come!” said her father. “I want to show you the surprise.”
I followed them into the palace. The king led the way down a hallway and opened a door to a room filled with barbells, exercise mats, and what passed in ancient Greece for a small treadmill.
“Surprise!” the king said. “Your own gym!”
Atalanta looked a little puzzled. “Why do I need a gym?”
I was wondering the same thing.
“So you can keep winning!” said the king. “You think I want one of those suitors to beat you and end this gravy train? Fuggetaboutit. I want you in tip-top shape.”
Atalanta folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t need to work out to beat these guys. I’m not even running my fastest.”
“You can go faster?” said her father.
“Don’t ask,” said Atalanta.
Just then—POOF! Artemis showed up. Today she was wearing wolf. “Daughter of Artemis,” she said, “I have a surprise for you.”
“I hope it’s better than the gym,” muttered Atalanta.
“Your father has agreed to let you move in with a friend of mine who lives down the hill,” Artemis told her. “You’ll have your own room and be free to come and go as you please.”
“Great!” said Atalanta
“All you have to do,” Artemis went on, “is go to the gym to work out every other day and show up for your race each week.”
“What?” cried Atalanta. “Are you on his side?”
“I never side with a male,” said Artemis. “Especially one as despicable as your father.”
“Thank you!” said the king.
“But, Atalanta,” Artemis went on, “I want you to continue racing until you have beaten every young man in Greece.”
Atalanta groaned.
“Your races are a big victory for females everywhere!” Artemis said. “Every time you run you show the world that we are powerful.”
“Oh, great,” Atalanta murmured. “Just great.”
“Yeah,” said the king, smoke billowing from his cigar. “Great!”