Atalanta fell to her knees. “O Artemis!” she cried. “Is this what you meant when you told me that disaster follows the men I meet?” She left the heroes standing there, counting their dead, and ran swiftly into the depths of the woods, alone. She was not to know that fair Meleager would die within days, of a fierce magic, and the house of Calydon would be brought to ruin, for she never went to that side of the forest again.
ATALANTA’S FAME IN the Calydonian hunt and her ability to run finally brought her to the attention of King Iasus, the father who had first left her in the forest. When he heard the story of how she had been brought up first by a bear and then by a huntsman, he realized that she was his abandoned daughter.
With a troop of soldiers, he scoured the forest until he found her. Descending from the litter that carried him, he knelt before her. “I was wrong to have left you, but Artemis watched over you,” he said. “Will you forgive this poor old man who has no sons and only now a daughter?” There were tears in his eyes.
She forgave him, for that was in her nature, though by rights she could have hated him.
But no sooner had she gone to live in the palace, feasting on dainty dishes and listening to the serenading of lyre and harp, than her father said, “You must marry, my daughter. You must give this poor old man grandsons.”
“Disaster follows the men I meet,” Atalanta said, “and so it will be if I wed.”
But King Iasus would not be satisfied. “After the virgin Artemis, one must honor Aphrodite, goddess of love, and Hestia, goddess of hearth and home.”
Day after day he said the same. At last Atalanta could not stand it any longer. To be left in peace, she declared to her father, “I will marry only a man who can beat me in a footrace.”
“Is that all?” asked her father, and he decreed that it be so.
But Atalanta, guided by Artemis, won race after race. No man came even close to winning.
So her father further declared, “Anyone who races and loses will likewise lose his head.” In this way, he thought to stop so many rash and unprepared men from challenging Atalanta.
Now, one young prince, Melanion—fairer than the dawn—came to the court of King Iasus. He saw the lovely Atalanta and fell hopelessly in love with her. But he did not want to lose his head, and he knew that he could not outrun her. So he went at once to the temple of Aphrodite, goddess of love, and knelt all night in prayer.
In the morning he found three golden apples by his side and knew that Aphrodite had answered him.
Going to the king, he said, “I am ready for the racing challenge, Your Majesty. I love your daughter.”
King Iasus shook his head. “Are you certain, Prince Melanion? For if you do not beat her in the race, you will die.”
“I will win,” said Melanion. “Aphrodite has told me so.”
SO, THE RACE BEGAN.
For the first hundred yards they kept pace, for Atalanta liked this young man with his fair brow and long dark hair.
But then, remembering what Artemis had told her about disaster following the men near her, she started to race away from him.
Melanion took out one of the golden apples and tossed it in front of the speeding girl.
The apple sparkled in the sun. As it rolled, little flickers of sunlight on the apple’s skin burst into tiny flames. Atalanta could not take her eyes off the golden fruit. She desired it above all things. Stooping down, she picked it up.
And Melanion passed her by.
Putting the apple into a leather pocket hanging on her belt, Atalanta stood up and began to run. By the second hundred yards she had caught up with Melanion. And then she began to pass him.
He tossed the second golden apple into her path. Again, the sparkle of the rolling apple, igniting sunlight into flames, fascinated her. She desired that second apple above all things. She stopped, stooped, picked it up.
And Melanion was gone on ahead once more.
Atalanta put the second apple in the leather pocket and started running again, this time catching up with Melanion before the third hundred yards were gone.
But just before the finish line, he tossed the third golden apple off to the side. It, too, sparkled and flamed, and Atalanta—not even realizing what she was doing—chased after it.
Melanion crossed the finish line first. Then, turning to Atalanta, he went down on his knees. “I have won the race but would have you wed me for love, not for a promise.”
With the three golden apples safe in her pocket, Atalanta smiled at him. “I see that if I do not marry you, more young men will meet disaster because of me. Perhaps that is what Artemis meant.” She gave him her hand and raised him up, vowing for the good of her people never to race again.
Then, side by side, they stood before the priests and made their marriage vows. They lived many happy years, always remembering to honor both Artemis and Aphrodite, who had brought them together.
NIGER
Nana Miriam
In a village where only men are warriors, the greatest warrior is a young woman
ONCE, IN A SMALL VILLAGE by the great river Niger, there lived a man named Fara Maka and his daughter, Nana Miriam.
Now, Fara Maka was a tall man, tall as a tree. He had arms as strong as tree limbs. Legs as thick as roots. And he was ugly. Very ugly.
His daughter, Nana Miriam, was tall and strong like her father. But as ugly as he was—she was that beautiful. And smart. Very smart.
Fara Maka was proud of his tall, strong, beautiful, smart daughter, and he taught her all he knew. He taught her the names of things: perch and tiger fish in the river, acacia and doom palm trees and the growing herbs on the land. He taught her the names and the uses of all things.
Nana Miriam learned everything her father taught her, and she learned one thing more, for she had magic powers that no one knew about. But she did not tell anyone of those powers, for it was said by her people, “He who boasts much can do little.”
Now, at that time which we are talking about—not now or then but somewhere in between—a great hippopotamus lived in the Niger. But it was no ordinary hippopotamus. It was a monster with an insatiable hunger. And every time the rice crop—the main food of the Songhai people—was ready to be harvested, the monster hippopotamus rose up out of the River Niger, water raining off its gigantic back. It waddled onto the land and devoured the entire crop.
Time after time, season after season, the monster ranged up the river and down, devouring the rice for miles. And at last this caused a famine in the land.
The village warriors went out with their spears, sharpened and ready, to hunt the monster. But they could do nothing against it, for it was a shape-shifter as well. Whenever a spear was thrown at the hippopotamus’s broad side, the animal changed—sometimes into a crocodile or a manatee. Once, it even became a two-hundred-pound perch and swam quickly away.
Fara Maka went out to hunt the beast, carrying seven spears. When he found the monster at last, the beast opened its great mouth and roared. There were pots of fire hanging around its gigantic neck.
Fara Maka’s knees trembled, but still he threw his spears at the monster, one by one by one. And each time, the spears were destroyed by the pots of fire, bursting into flame like shooting stars.
The monster roared again, as if laughing at Fara Maka, before turning its back and going on to the next field of rice.
What could Fara Maka do? He went to Kara-Digi-Mao-Fosi-Fasi, a member of the neighboring Tomma people, who had a reputation for hunting nearly as great as his own.
“Will you hunt this beast with me?” asked Fara Maka.
Kara-Digi-Mao-Fosi-Fasi agreed. “And I will bring along my one hundred and twenty hunting dogs.”
“That is good,” said Fara Maka, though the hundred and twenty hunting dogs made him nervous, for each had an iron chain around its neck, and teeth that were pointed, and eyes that shone in the dark.
So, Fara Maka and Kara-Digi-Mao-Fosi-Fasi went out o
n the trail of the monster with the hundred and twenty hunting dogs. It was not a difficult trail to find, for the giant hippopotamus left a path of destruction wherever it went.
Soon they came upon the monster, and the dogs were turned loose, one by one by one. Their chains rattled as they ran, and they gnashed their pointed teeth, and they bayed at the hippopotamus, who turned lazily to meet them.
The monster saw the dogs and just laughed. “Do you people who live on the Niger not say that ‘The rat cannot call the cat to account’?” And with that, one by one by one, the monster hippopotamus grabbed up each dog, turned it around, and swallowed it whole, starting with the tail. When the last dog was devoured, the monster turned its back on Fara Maka and Kara-Digi-Mao-Fosi-Fasi, and waddled back to the rice field, where it consumed the last of the crop.
Fara Maka and Kara-Digi-Mao-Fosi-Fasi ran off in terror, and they ran all the way back to Fara Maka’s house. There, trembling, they told Nana Miriam what had happened.
“Well,” said Nana Miriam, standing up, “it is time for me to see this monster for myself.”
Fara Maka trembled. “Daughter, you are strong and you are wise. But no hunter’s spear can touch that thing. No hunter’s dog can fight it. Do not go.”
Kara-Digi-Mao-Fosi-Fasi agreed. “You are but a female,” he said. “Listen to your father. Do we not say, ‘Ashes fly back into the face of him who throws them’? This is too dangerous a thing for a mere girl.”
But Nana Miriam would not be persuaded. She went forth anyway, a spear in one hand, her juju bag filled with charms in the other.
It was not long before she came upon the monster, who was devouring yet another rice field on the banks of the river.
When the hippopotamus saw her, it stopped eating and turned. It smiled a broad hippopotamus smile, showing strong hippopotamus teeth. “Girl, girl, I know why you are here. You wish to stop me.”
“That I do,” said Nana Miriam.
“But do you not know that no human being can kill me?” said the hippopotamus. “All the hunters in your village have tried. Your father, Fara Maka, has tried. Even Kara-Digi-Mao-Fosi-Fasi and his one hundred and twenty dogs have tried. What makes you think a mere girl can stop me?”
Nana Miriam put down the spear and held the juju bag up. “We will not know the answer to that until we engage in battle. I am ready if you are, monster.”
The monster smiled again, and this time it gave more than a mere hippopotamus smile. “I am ready, girl!” The shout was full of flames, which set the rice field afire. Soon a wall of fire sprang up between the monster and Nana Miriam.
Nana Miriam reached into her juju bag and pulled out a magic powder. She flung the powder onto the fire, and at once the flames turned to water, which rained down upon the field.
“That was too easy, monster,” she said.
“Ah!” shouted the hippopotamus. “What will you do with this then, girl?” And at its shout, a wall of iron appeared between them.
Nana Miriam reached back into the juju bag, and this time she took out a small magic hammer that grew and grew into a great magic. One blow, then another—Nana Miriam pounded the hammer against the iron wall. And in a matter of minutes, the wall was broken into small pieces by the force of her blows.
“Do you have something more?” cried Nana Miriam. “Or is that all?”
For the first time, the hippopotamus monster looked nervous. Lines of worry appeared on its broad brow. Perspiration flowed freely down its face. It turned from Nana Miriam and shifted its shape, becoming a river that flowed swiftly toward the Niger.
But Nana Miriam was ready. Once more she reached into her juju bag and took out a magic lotion and sprayed it over the monster river. In a twinkling the river dried up only inches away from the Niger, and the monster turned once again into a hippopotamus.
At this very moment Fara Maka appeared, worried about his dear daughter. Kara-Digi-Mao-Fosi-Fasi was by his side. And when the monster saw the two men, it forgot about the mere girl who was bothering it and charged at them, passing right by Nana Miriam.
Nana Miriam reached out, grabbed the hind leg of the hippopotamus, and picked the monster up. Twirling it three times around her head—remember, she was very strong!—she threw the monster across the Niger, which was, as luck would have it, not in flood at the time.
The monster smashed into a cliff of rocks on the other shore. Its skull cracked wide open. And so the rocks killed it; it was not killed by a human being.
Fara Maka held out his arms and Nana Miriam ran into them. “What a wonderful daughter I have,” he said.
“What a wonderful papa I have,” said Nana Miriam.
When they returned to the village, their story preceded them, for Kara-Digi-Mao-Fosi-Fasi had reported all that he had seen. There was singing and dancing, and feasting, as well.
And from that time to this, no Songhai have starved because of monster hippopotamuses. And from that day to this, the minstrels and storytellers have sung and told about Nana Miriam, who showed all the power of a mere girl!
GERMANY
Fitcher’s Bird
In the face of real evil, the hero must use brains as well as brawn
IN OLD COLOGNE, a city of stone houses and soft hearts, there lived a widower with three handsome daughters: Gretchen, Gretel, and Erna. What hard workers they were—up before the sun rose, and working from dawn to dusk.
Near to Cologne, but not within its borders, there lived a wizard. Some would say he was the devil himself. He often came into the city, dressed like a beggar, going door to door and asking for bread. And each time—though no one knew quite how—he managed to entice young maidens to go with him. And not a one of them was ever seen again.
Now, one day this devilish beggar came calling at the widower’s house. He was dressed in a raggedy gray cloak. He had a raggedy gray cap. His beard was silvery gray. And perhaps—yes, perhaps—he had cloven hooves where his feet should have been, though one could not see them for the rags.
Gretchen answered the door.
“Some bread for an old man?” the beggar asked in a quavering voice, holding up a leather bag. And when Gretchen gave bread to him, he touched her hand and—by magic—she was forced to jump into his sack.
Then away he went, away from the city, silently, mile after mile after mile—past villages and farms, up hills and down dales, across rivers and mountains. And if she spoke not a word, he was just as silent.
Finally they reached a great wooden house in the middle of a dark wood, where he let her out of the bag. The house was a mansion, with seven turrets but only one door.
“You shall be happy here in my house, where you shall be in charge of all my things,” said the beggar, throwing off his raggedy cloak. And underneath he was clothed all in black, with silver buttons and golden toggles. But the splendor of his clothing did not disguise the fact that he was old, with wrinkles beneath his eyes and a snake’s smile. And besides, he smelled of some awful wickedness.
Nevertheless, Gretchen was happy with her lot: a great man as her master and a great house to rule. It was much more than she could have even dreamed of in Cologne.
The wizard led Gretchen through the door and into the mansion, pointing to one room and then another. At the entrance to each room, he selected a different ornate key from a heavy ring of keys and handed it to her, saying, “Open the door, girl,” which she did.
Each room was more beautiful than the last.
But when they came to the very last door, the wizard pointed to a small, unimportant-looking key that was tarnished and stained. “Do not ever use this key and do not ever open this door, my girl, on pain of death,” the wizard said, then handed her the ring of keys.
“I will do as you say, master,” Gretchen replied.
“That is good,” said the wizard. “And one more thing.” He reached into his pocket and produced an enormous pearly white egg. “Take this and keep it safe always. Otherwise misfortune
will follow you.”
It seemed an odd request, but no odder than her master, so Gretchen nodded.
“Good,” the wizard said again. “Then I am off now to do my business.” And he left her alone in the house.
Gretchen spun round and round, unable to believe her good fortune.
“Why, just this morning,” she told herself, “I worked from dawn to dusk for very little recompense. But now I have all that I could ever want or need.”
Quickly she found the dining room and sat down at the great banquet table, where she was served a fine supper by invisible hands. She drank red wine and had a lemon cake after. Then she went upstairs to sleep in a bed with a canopy of silk that shimmered like the night and stars.
IN THE MORNING, rising late, Gretchen once more ate alone, the great egg carefully set by the side of her plate. And as she ate she fingered the ring of keys. “I know what is in all the other rooms,” she said to herself—speaking out loud because there was no one to hear her. “But I do not know what is in that last room.” And soon her curiosity overcame her good sense, and she was convinced that if she was very careful, the wizard would never know she had peeked in.
Carrying the precious egg, she walked down the long hall to the last door and found the small stained key on the ring. Then she inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The door opened easily.
The room smelled like her master, of some awful wickedness. It was only half lit. But when, in that gray light, she saw a large tub in the center of the room, her curiosity impelled her to go over and peer in.
What a mistake! The tub was filled with the cut-up bodies of dead girls, who stared at her with sightless eyes.
Gretchen screamed and dropped the egg into the tub, and though she quickly drew it out again, it had become stained with blood.
She ran out of the room, slammed the door shut, and locked it again. Then she went directly to a great sink in the kitchen and rubbed and scrubbed at the egg. But hard as she tried to clean it, the blood would not come off.