Atalanta

by Jennifer Saint

I worried he was about to wail in protest, so I walked him back to the path I had just come from, keeping up a stream of nonsensical chatter to divert him from his grievance, pacing this way and that. The sun was dipping behind the mountains in a blaze of crimson; I pointed it out to him and he turned his face to look at it, the fiery glow illuminating his stern expression. And then I heard it: the flight of footsteps coming down from between the trees, the shape detaching itself from the darkness and his voice ringing out in surprise. ‘Atalanta?’ I closed my eyes for a moment, fervently wishing him gone. Then I turned, the child in my arms now clearly visible to him, and I saw the shock in his eyes, his mouth gaping around the words that had deserted him as he stared at Parthenopaios.