The Fates

by Rosie Garland

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; Feminist; Ancient; Magical Realism

Synopsis

You've heard the legends, now hear their truth . . .

Before Gods and mortals, there were The Fates - three sisters born out of Nyx's darkness, destined to weave the lives, and deaths, of humankind for eternity.

But immortality is a heavy burden, and Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos are captivated by the gloriously human lives of the mortals below, especially those of the great warrior Atalanta and her ill-fated lover, Meleager.

However, being a Goddess of Fate doesn't make you a master of it. Will these three sisters find a way to free the couple, and themselves, from their destinies? Or will they be bound by Fate forever?

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

The Fates

Olympos

A Time out of Time

Cruel Fates, malevolent Fates, haggard and heartless.

So say the storytellers, when speaking of us. You have heard the legends wherein we are vicious crones, three weird sisters who cackle over the meagre span of years we allot to men, smug in our own boundless aeons. You have seen the sculptures portraying us foul-­featured, our breasts dry folds of skin draping our ribs. There is bent-­backed Clotho, gnarled fingers grasping the distaff as she spins the thread of mortal destiny. There is beak-­nosed Lachesis, squinting a rheumy eye as she measures how long a single life will last. Last and most terrifying of all is Atropos the Inflexible, who severs the thread of life and allows not one instant longer.

Since the first tale was told around the first hearthside, we have been silenced and slandered. We have held our peace for too long. Draw close. For the first time, we shall speak in our own voices, and tell the plain truth.

Before the Gods were, we are.

We exist outside the mortal reckoning of Time, with its tidy parcelling into Time Was, Time Is, and Time To Come. We are as far beyond such distinctions as a shooting star and the child who looks up in wonder.

When the Gods are not yet born, our mother Nyx claps her hands in the deeps of the abyss and brings forth light. She sets her shoulder to the Wheel of Time and sets it rolling. Grabs a handful of dust and names it Earth, weeps tears and names them Ocean; squeezes three daughters from her fathomless body and names us Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos.

While the world burns and cools, Nyx teaches us how all life springs from stardust, and to stardust all life returns.

We watch as Nyx brings forth the Titans, and then the Gods. She scoops river clay and fashions the mortals. Male and female she creates them, and they dance in the garden of their infancy. Foolish and fragile, they make easy prey for beasts of land and air and water. Before they are half-­begun, their numbers dwindle into danger.

It is then our mother Nyx teaches us our essential place in the pattern: to craft, shape and seal mortal destiny. To do this, we spin the thread of existence, measure out each flicker and then sever the link with life and breath. We tighten a cord of protection around their fleeting lives so they may multiply.

Sister Clotho reaches into the heavens and wraps a skein of stars around her distaff. She swings the spindle and teases out a glimmering thread, entwined with the tenacity at the heart of creation, for mortals need its dogged persistence in order to thrive.

Sister Lachesis hefts her measuring rod, a beam of divine light true as a comet’s tail. She measures each according to their fate, stretching mortal lives long enough for learning. Finally, sister Atropos swishes her shears and cuts the thread. Each creature needs an ending so it might lay down its aching years and sleep.

In the beginning we spin lives without struggle. Mortals eat and breed and die, over and over, with no more significance than limpets suckling rocks that string the shore. But all life must have meaning, from the smallest ant to the tallest forest pine, and Mother Nyx does not intend for humankind to live like limpets. There is much in store for this most wonderful of Nyx’s creations.

So we twist hunger into the thread; fear as well as desire; struggle and hardship as well as satisfaction. A little here, a little there. To each, we measure fairly, mixing good luck and bad. We shepherd their curious natures, weave caution, and watch the aching slowness of their increase. For ages beyond reckoning, we shape ordered lives, coaxing and nudging mortals to shine bright as the stars from which they are made. They are our progeny; toddling babes who stumble and fall, stumble and fall again. We pick them up, shush their weeping, and urge them to go on.

Mortals face our challenges, push against them, and grow. As well-­reared children, they blossom. They venture out of Eden, planting anxious footsteps through forest and tundra, desert and ice. With strict destinies, we hone their intellect. They learn quickly because they have to.

We do not goad alone. There are gifts also. They discover the pharmacopoeia Nyx has planted in every tree and leaf; the wisdom to track a bird to its nest, a scatter of saplings to a spring. They weave songs so enchanting the very birds fall silent, paint their caves with beasts so wondrous we can hear panting breath. They learn love, such a sweet discovery they dive in and out of it a hundred times in one lifespan.

They learn to sow and reap, and for the first time fill their bellies to bursting. We wonder if they will grow lazy, but they confound all expectation. They build: first wood, then clay, then stone; each generation impelled by the destinies we weave to outshine the last. And always, they gaze into the heavens and feel the echo of stardust in their bones.

In the heavens meanwhile, the squabbles of Gods and Titans overspill into violence and war. The victorious Gods wreak vengeance on the vanquished. When done with punishment, they turn their attention to the mortal creatures far below, taking some as playthings and breaking them with their ungentle touch.

We blink and human empires rise and fall, rise and fall again. Through it all, we spin and measure and snip. We are The Fates and nothing can change us. We shall be here when the world crumbles into final dust; shall be here when Nyx breathes out new stars for Clotho to wind around her distaff, and the cycle of life begins once more.

We are endless. For us, there is no death. Neither is there growth. We spin the radiant thread of life yet can only watch as mortals revel in its urgent and tantalising joy. Not for us the leaping of the heart with new love, nor the agony of grief. Not for us the singing of the blood when running a race, nor the exhilaration of diving into a lake’s frigid depths.

We gaze down at Earth and sigh. We hear the lies. We are blamed for bad luck and bad judgement, accident and happenstance, envy and betrayal, for every sly knife in the back. We shrug it off, keep our own counsel, and we spin and measure and snip.

And now, we are forsworn to a special task: to keep a vigil over the lives and destinies of two mortals. We watch the huntress Atalanta: Fleet-­of-­Foot, Equal-­in-­Weight, beloved of Artemis. We watch Meleager, hero of the Argonauts. He left his home a dozen years ago and the desertion weighs heavy on his conscience. We peer into his heart: snarled up in hatred for The Fates. And why? He blames us for laying a curse upon his life. Meleager is angry, desperate and lost, a dangerous combination.

Follow the line of our intention, from Olympos down to the middle sea. Atalanta stands at the prow of her ship, peering ahead, eagle-­eyed and eager. Wind tangles her hair; her bow is slung across her breast, arrows tipped and ready. She is bound for Calydon and her friend Meleager.

Ah, Calydon! Famed for its temples heaped with gold, its olives groves and vineyards; famed for its fields bursting with wheat, as though Demeter upended her cornucopia and spilled out the entire bounty of her harvest.

Look again.

A pall of misery stretches over the kingdom. Famine has trampled the cow pastures to slurry. The cornfields are churned into empty dust; fruit trees display bare ribs of branches. The land shrivels. The people cower. They hear the thunder of a monster rumbling through the earth: the boar that has laid waste to their home. No one can rid them of this curse. A legion of brave men have lost their lives trying.

We spin, we measure, we snip. Across the gem-­green sea, Atalanta and Meleager are hastening toward their fates and we must follow. On their frail mortal shoulders rests the future hope and destiny of all humanity. More than Achilles, Agamemnon, Theseus and Helen combined, this man and woman will change the course of history for ever. At what dreadful cost, we shall reveal.

Atalanta

Calydon, Aetolia

 

As the ship rounds the headland into the bay, a sharp breeze swoops in and stings my cheek. I’m happier when my feet are on solid ground, so have been brooding. The wind catches me unawares, forcing a gasp of surprise.

Nimble as squirrels up a tree, sailors scramble the rigging. The sail ripples and swells; the ship tacks to the left, the deck tilts and I hang onto the gunwale. As we head into harbour, the peaked prow slices the water, waves foaming and falling away to each side. In the distance, the quayside beckons. Men tiny as manikins stand ready with ropes and gangplanks, waving their arms. The ship’s captain barks a command. I expect the sail to be gathered up in readiness for mooring. Instead, there’s a plummeting splash.

‘We’re dropping anchor right here,’ he snarls, in answer to a question I haven’t asked. He tugs the amulet of Poseidon tied about his wrist and raises it to his lips. ‘I’m not having my lovely ship brush a single stone of their city. It’s been cursed by Artemis. Good luck to anyone foolhardy enough to oppose the will of the Gods.’ He spits, muttering a prayer against the evil eye. ‘And good riddance,’ he adds.

Sailors are a suspicious crew at the best of times, and I am a woman, unlucky at any time and on any boat. They’ll be relieved to offload their female cargo. Out of respect as much as self-­preservation, I’ve kept myself bundled in my cloak the whole journey. An imp of doubt calls me coward for the compromise: if I were a true sister of Artemis I would stroll above decks, right breast uncovered for the world to see. I hear the criticism, but choose not to listen.

‘We honour the Gods!’ shouts the captain, to a chorus of agreement from his men. He kisses the amulet again. ‘All of them!’

I’m not the only passenger drawn to Aetolia seeking adventure. The ship is loaded with eager hunters. From the roughest tavern in Macedon to the finest goldsmith in Athens, the talk is of the monstrous boar and how no man has been able to destroy it. In the way of hearthside tales, the beast has grown in the telling until it’s become more fantastical than the Hydra: its hide throws off arrows, its glance is more deadly than a basilisk and on its head it wears a crown worth a king’s ransom.

I shall believe it when I see it.

Above, the sail groans and strains against the pull of the anchor. Ancaeus joins me, shading his eyes and watching a small craft row out to meet us. He’s a sturdy and neat-­mannered youth, full of shy questions about the strings I favour for my bow and whether it’s true I was raised by a bear. Others are less respectful of a woman who can outrun, outshoot and outhunt them. I don’t trouble myself with learning their names.

We shin down a rope cast over the side and jump into the jolly-­boat. It requires a feat of acrobatic skill, because the sailors keep shoving the little craft away with pikes so it doesn’t touch their precious ship. At last, all are aboard and only a few take an early bath.

The rowers bend to their task, wrestling the oars with arms thin as wheat-­stalks. When I turn to cry a farewell, the ship is already weighing anchor. Released from the drag of the rope, the vessel turns swiftly, sails catching the wind. By the time I’ve climbed the steps up the harbour wall, it has rounded the cove and is gone.

I stride along the dockside, trailed by my fellow-­hunters. Strangers attract attention, myself in particular. I’m gawped at by men and women alike, elbowing each other as they try to decide whether I am male or female or something other. Their mouths are flopped open so wide, they’ll find themselves catching flies if they’re not careful. Children hop about my ankles, curious as puppies. A boy grabs the hem of my tunic and peers up into the shadows. I kick him halfway across the harbour.

‘Its legs are hairy like a man’s,’ he squeaks, rubbing his aching backside. ‘But it’s got no pizzle!’

A steward scurries to meet us, brandishing his staff and chasing the lads away.

‘Welcome, welcome,’ he pants, flushed with embarrassment at my first brush with his fellow-­citizens.

He bustles about, shepherding us forwards, bobbing and smiling the whole way. Calydon is as fine a city as I ever saw. The houses are freshly plastered, the streets swept so clean I could eat my supper off the cobbles.

For all its splendour, Calydon is a haunted place; a city weighed down by terrible misfortune, heavy as the shackle of a galley slave. A smear of oily fog hovers over the rooftops, oppressive as a swarm of flies over a carcase. The shops stand empty, shelves picked clean. Amphorae loll on their sides, the last drop licked away long ago. Pinched faces surface from shadowed doorways. Skeletal infants drag at their mothers’ withered breasts, their bellies bloated with the cruel emptiness that mimics fullness. With a shudder, it occurs to me I’ve not seen a single cat slink past, nor heard one dog bark.

I recollect how only this morning, I shared rough wine and grilled fish with the sailors. Our leftovers were tossed into the waters. It was sport brought me here: the prospect of a challenge to my prowess, a bracing hunt followed by carousing around the fire, boasting and laughter. I did not consider the fate of the Calydonians and how they have been brought to their knees. I itch with shame, and make a vow: I will not leave until I have slain the boar.

We arrive at the public square, a broad space paved with russet-­hued sandstone and ringed with tall buildings of remarkable elegance. A crowd of gentlemen approach, and a fellow wearing a hefty gold chain gets onto one knee, puffing with the effort. The skin of his belly hangs in a wrinkled apron over the belt of his kilt. A man who loves feasting, yet since the boar plundered his land, he has starved along with his people.

‘Welcome, honoured gentlemen,’ he says. ‘Oh, most courageous company! Hear the greeting of Kleitos, elder of Calydon!’ The hunters smile and look very pleased with themselves. He turns to me and raises his hand in a salute. ‘Gracious and renowned Atalanta!’ he cries. ‘Our grateful city flings open its doors to you. Fleet-­of-­Foot! Beloved of Artemis!’

The city elders nod furiously; each man in his finest robes, yet stooped with hunger. Their hands tremble, greenish shadows around their eyes. Wealth counts as nothing when a lord would trade his riches for a crust of day-­old bread. As the proverb says, A man cannot eat money. I shift from foot to foot, mumbling thanks.

‘Enough of greetings,’ cries one of the hunters, waving a short spear. ‘The boar! Lead us to it!’

Kleitos twists his beard nervously. ‘The rumour is about that we did not honour Artemis.’ He glances over his shoulder in case she is eavesdropping on our conversation, an arrow aimed at a spot between his ribs. ‘A vile rumour. We honour the Goddess!’

‘All good men offer Artemis honour and praise!’ I reply as loudly, so my words reach her ears.

‘And surely,’ he continues anxiously, ‘if one so favoured by the Goddess has come, it proves we committed no sacrilege?’

I place my hand over my heart. ‘I entreat her to strengthen my bow-­arm,’ I reply, ‘and to guide my arrows true.’

Kleitos and the elders break into a chorus of hopeful blessings. I begin to wonder if we’ll stand here all morning when a shout goes up; my name called clear across the square.

‘Atalanta! My friend!’

‘Meleager!’ I cry.

Of all men, the one I most desire to meet. We fall upon each other, embracing as closest kin. One of my more scornful companions watches in amazement as it dawns on him that I, a mere female, count the revered warrior Meleager as a comrade. I permit myself a frisson of gloating. Not altogether praiseworthy, but gratifying all the same.

‘Atalanta!’ Meleager declares again, grasping my shoulders and jiggling me like a poppet. ‘It fills my heart with joy to see you.’

The man I saw a scant few moons ago has added a fresh crop of scrapes and scratches to his butcher’s block of a face. He could not be more welcome in my sight. I laugh with delight, merry as a pampered child.

‘It fills my heart also, Meleager,’ I say. ‘It has been far too long.’

Oh, that I had words to capture the spirit of this man: dearer than brother, closer than breath on breath. Our connection is that of a hand hovering above the strings of a harp, teasing the air with a secret sound.

As we hug, a youth saunters towards us with a Kushite slave scurrying in his wake. I’ve never seen a man so . . . the word that comes to mind is beautiful. He looks for the world as though he just stepped from a bathhouse. He unfastens his cloak – a costly garment trimmed with the pelt of a spotted cat – and tosses it to the Kushite. The lad catches it with a skill born of long practice.

Beneath his cape, the grand gentleman is clad in a kilt of supple red leather and nothing else. I’ll wager the nakedness is for our benefit, the better to admire his shaven chest and the bunched muscles of his stomach. His skin is smooth as an apricot and exudes a waft of sandalwood; his hair is styled in the Persian fashion and not a curl is out of place.

His thighs ripple, his arms also. At first I think the flexing of his limbs is by chance until I see he is posing carefully to display this or that part of his athlete’s body to best advantage. One moment he looks to the left, chin lifted like a statue of Hermes. The next, he turns to the right, curving his lips in the smile of Dionysus. I wonder if he spends a lot of time studying sculptor’s models for inspiration.

When satisfied he’s been admired sufficiently, he glances at me along the bridge of his pretty nose. He wears the expression of a man holding in a sneeze. Unlike the city elders who are prostrating themselves at his feet, I do not bow obeisance. Nor does Meleager.

‘So you are the famous Atalanta,’ he drawls, veering just this side of rudeness.

‘I am,’ I say mildly.

He examines me as you might a bolt of unrolled cloth, checking it for slubs in the weave. ‘There are some who call you She-­Bear,’ he says with a smirk. ‘Coarse and uncouth men of course.’

I smile to show I do not give a Corinthian fig for such trifles as vulgar names. Besides, it is true. I am tall as a temple door and as broad. My hands are the size of shovels, biceps firm as altar-­stones. I am a woman, plain and simple. Well, plain, certainly. Minstrels will never sing of my beauty, ships will never be launched to preserve my virtue, nor will heroes be called upon to save me from peril.

‘I have also heard such a thing,’ I say cheerfully. ‘But never to my face.’ He scowls. ‘And you, my lord, are . . . ?’ I ask.

He flaps a hand with an air of fatigue at having to explain himself to lower beings. Meleager guffaws, turns it into a cough.

‘I am Toxeus,’ he announces with a flourish, as though expecting Helios to rein in his horses and gaze down in awe. He jerks a thumb at Meleager. ‘I am his half-­brother.’

Meleager raises an eyebrow. I’ve heard the sorry tale and am able to keep a straight face.

‘Well met, Toxeus,’ I say and extend my hand.

He glances at it briefly, weighing his options. I am a fearsome adversary, and no man willingly makes an enemy of me. After the length of time it takes to drink a small cup of wine, he clasps my hand and shakes it.

‘So, Meleager,’ he says. ‘Are you not grateful for the strong spear-­arm of your beloved kinsman?’

‘Indeed, brother Toxeus,’ replies Meleager courteously, and indicates Kleitos, who is wringing his hands in a frenzy. ‘I present to you our host, Kleitos of Calydon.’

‘Yes, yes,’ says Toxeus, snapping his fingers at the Kushite, who twirls a flywhisk.

I sigh, and counsel myself to patience: if we are going to defeat the boar, we shall need every man, even popinjays. More and more men join the throng, their names flooding in one ear and out of the other. After the introductions are done, Kleitos leads us to the riverside, where we board a fleet of barges waiting to carry us to the sanctuary of Artemis.

As we are rowed upriver, I stand transfixed, gazing in disbelief at the ruined land. I heard the gossip but had no idea things were this bad. Calydon is famed for producing enough grain to feed half of Aetolia. Its soil is so fertile there’s an old wives’ tale about two farmers meeting in a field: the moment they lean on their walking sticks to pass the time of day, the sticks sprout roots and leaves.

What I see is a nightmarish perversion of that story. The earth is grey with mildew, vineyards torn up as though a horde of barbarians charged through on war-­horses. What remains rots where it stands. Meadows and pastures are piled with the swollen carcases of sheep and cows. The stink of decay hovers like a fog. No bird sings, no insects buzz. The air itself is dead, spreading across the afternoon as heavy as a funeral pall. Meleager and Kleitos join me, staring at the wreckage.

‘We have offered everything we have to appease the Goddess, but in vain,’ says Kleitos.

‘Could a single boar do this?’ I ask Meleager.

He passes me a sprig of rosemary. I mumble thanks, crush the leaves and inhale their fragrance.

‘What the beast did not trample, the people were too afraid to harvest,’ he says. ‘And now it is too late.’

Kleitos nods. ‘A farmer went out one morning with his sickle. He was never seen again.’

‘The Goddess struck him down,’ whispers another of the elders, tiptoeing close. ‘Dragged him into the underworld.’

‘At night he screams,’ adds a third. ‘We can all hear him.’

Despite the sweltering air, I hug my cloak tight. Some great wrong has been wrought here. I cannot – will not – believe it is the work of Artemis. It does not bear her mark. My Artemis gathers her women at the full of every moon. We clothe ourselves in stars, raise our cups, and kiss the nights away. We sing hymns of praise and she shakes the trees with the roar of her approval. Fierce queen of the wild places, she reserves her wrath for those who despoil her forests. She does not quibble over a slip of the tongue at a sacrifice.

Kleitos and the elders plough me with their eyes. For the first time I can recall, I’m looked upon without disgust, or fear, or lust. Their gaze is frantic with hope. I am sticky with their desperation, and itch to dive into the river and wash myself clean. I take a breath and check myself. Unkind thoughts are beneath me.

After a pause that becomes more uncomfortable with every passing moment, Kleitos and his men shuffle away to the stern. Meleager and I observe the destruction in silence, each league worse than the one previous.

‘I am sorry,’ I say. ‘This sight steals away my skills at conversation, and they are meagre to begin with.’

‘I too am more skilled in action than small talk,’ says Meleager.

A sluggish breeze carries the sound of harps and flutes from the boat leading the flotilla.

‘Can I hear laughter?’ I ask in disbelief.

Meleager sucks his teeth. ‘Toxeus commandeered the grandest boat. He and our uncle Plexippus are men much given to pleasure.’

The rattle of tambourines drifts to our ears. On the riverbank stands a mob of people spindly as bulrushes, holding out empty hands. Their cries are too feeble to carry over the music.

‘Toxeus is . . .’ I begin.

Meleager nods stiffly, gazing across the scarred land towards the mountains, their jagged peaks spearing the clouds like the teeth of a leviathan. ‘You need not play at politeness in my company, Atalanta. Toxeus is not easy to love. But he is kin, and I endeavour to do my fraternal duty.’

Below decks, the drum beats time; the oarsmen grunt and strain. The flow of the river is listless, as though it too has surrendered to despair. In the shallows, a boy is thrashing the surface of the water with a flail, hoping to scare up a few fish. His companion perches on a skiff of bundled reeds, gripping a net and ready to pounce. The only thing stirred up is silt. Although a long way off, I can count their ribs. They turn and watch us pass. When they see the glint of spears and shields they cry out, Health and strength to our redeemers! Health and strength to the hunters! The Gods smile upon you!

‘These people truly are at the end of their tether,’ I say. ‘Boys usually bend over and show their bare backsides when a boat sails by.’

Meleager is kind enough to smile, although there is little to smile about. ‘Dear friend, I am weighed down with guilt. I am a son of this blighted land. When I left, it was beautiful.’ A muscle ticks in his cheek. ‘I have been away too long. I should have returned the moment I heard of this disaster. I am here to make restitution.’

‘You are not alone,’ I say. ‘I too have sworn an oath to rid Calydon of this curse. You need feel no shame. Not in my company.’

He shudders, as a horse shakes off flies. ‘You are good to me. And I am veering dangerously into the maudlin,’ he says with forced merriment. ‘If I carry on like this, you’ll hurl yourself over the side to get away.’

‘Meleager . . .’ I begin.

Meleager holds up a hand. ‘Let me have my false cheer, dear friend,’ he whispers, voice a husk. ‘I have need of it this day.’

Meleager

Calydon, Aetolia

 

I am Meleager: son of Lord Oeneus of Calydon, born of the Lady Althea. So begin warrior’s tales. I suppose it i. . .