Atalanta

by Jennifer Saint

The day that he was born, I felt an unfamiliar terror, a deep and primal horror opening up inside me as I looked out towards the trees beyond our shack. Artemis came to help women in childbirth; I feared to see her shape materialise, to see her running gracefully from the cover of the woods to come to the aid of a desperate mother, only to see my face. But the trees remained still and silent, only the gentle breath of the wind ruffling their leaves. I gritted my teeth through the surging pains, the floor rough against my knees as I kept my eyes fixed on the dark, distant forest interior where the branches twined together, wishing I could feel that cool, damp air on my face, the moss-tinged green freshness. She never came. I told myself she had no need to, that I didn’t struggle in labour. That I could do it without her guidance or her help, even if she had been willing to offer it. He was born and I watched the huntsman’s wife lift him in her arms, her face shining with delight. She pressed his warm, round cheek against her rough, wrinkled one. I saw that his eyes were like Meleager’s and, too exhausted to cry, I turned away from them both and slept.