I
This story is short. You are Atalanta, hero, Greek. The virgin hunter, raised in the wilds by Artemis. When a great boar ravages Calydon, you join the hunters pursuing it. You draw first blood, and you survive—until the day you fail the gods, and they transform you into a lion.
But none of that has happened yet. Right now, you are running through the olive groves, where the Evenus fans silver across the shallows. You are raising your bow, arrowhead flashing in the sun.
Knowing this— knowing that the swift arrow you loose will strike the boar and seal your fate— what do you do?
If you continue hunting the Calydonian Boar, go to II.
II
Mortals may make choices, even if they are frequently bad ones. Here is a longer version of the story, in case that helps you change your mind:
Once upon a time, Oeneus, king of Calydon, forgot to make a sacrifice to the goddess Artemis. Enraged at the slight, Artemis sent a great boar to afflict his kingdom.
But the boar was merely bait for a trap. When Oeneus called for hunters, Artemis sent you, her most faithful, swift-footed archer. Oeneus’ son, Meleager, saw you fletching your knife-bright arrows, the tools of the goddess, and fell in love.
But the other hunters, all men, resented a woman in their midst. When you drew first blood, Meleager’s uncles tried to steal the boar’s hide from you. In his rage, Meleager killed his uncles. In her grief, Meleager’s mother killed him. In her malice, Artemis turned Meleager’s sisters into birds, transmuting tears into twittering.
Thus only Oeneus survived, heavy with the knowledge that he had brought this disaster upon himself.
To prevent this from happening, all you have to do is stop hunting the Calydonian Boar.
If you continue hunting the Calydonian Boar, go to III.
III
This version of the story begins earlier. Once upon a time, the goddess Artemis found a baby exposed in the wilderness. She gave you a bow, a passionate love of the hunt, and nothing else.
She made you the equal of any man, Atalanta. Then she sent you into the world of men, who would hate you.
Here’s what I believe, Atalanta: the goddess sent you to Calydon because she knew that, even if you knew what I am telling you, you would not be able to bring yourself to stop chasing the Calydonian Boar. She did not make you do anything. She did not make you love running, love the squeal of the frightened animal, your own breath susurrating in your ears, urging you onward. She only suggested that a great huntress such as yourself might win glory in Calydon. She only watched you stand beside Meleager’s uncles, those inferior men, who goaded you, who protested that no woman was fit to join the hunt.
If you continue hunting the Calydonian Boar, go to IV.
IV
Atalanta, you must know that, even in a world of gods, men may still choose freely. The trouble is that the gods know this, too.
Gods do not make people do anything. It is much better sport to observe men so closely, contrive scenarios so elaborately, that an impossible chain of events begins with an innocuous mistake and ends in the collapse of whole dynasties. To force any player into their part would steal the savor from the disaster. After all, why would the gods wield the blade, when they could hand it to you and watch you clumsily cut yourself instead?
Men domesticate boars for meat. Gods domesticate men for sport.
If you continue hunting the Calydonian Boar, go to V.
V
The last moment of choice has come upon you, Atalanta. You are so close to the boar that you can hear each whistling breath. Meleager’s uncles are so close to you that you can hear their sandals slapping the dust. Perhaps the goddess sends all four of you swiftness. Perhaps she is merely watching now, clapping her hands, laughing in delight.
You are choosing to keep running, Atalanta, even though you now know how this story ends. You could not choose to do otherwise and still be Atalanta.
This moment is myth-making. This moment is a mistake. This hunt will be immortalized on vases and sarcophagi and friezes until the end of time. This choice will lead to the destruction of an entire family and your eventual forced metamorphosis.
If you continue hunting the Calydonian Boar, go to VI.
VI
Your arrow sings from the bow, sinks into the boar’s hide. Meleager drives the hunting spear into his uncle’s side. Meleager’s sisters sing in the trees when the gods weary of you, when you kneel before them and they change you into a lion.
This will not be your choice. You will hate the bone-snapping stretch of metamorphosis. Your hating it will not matter. It will not even be witnessed. Once you transform, both gods and poets will have already looked away.
You will escape into the wilderness. You will run from men blessed by the goddess who once blessed you. Their arrows will sting your sides.
And then, when you are far enough away, you will open your mouth, and the scent of something four-legged and swift-running will scratch across your senses. Something will awaken deep in your hind brain, something that Artemis encouraged but that no god could create.
Then, golden and gleaming, the perfect apex predator, you will become Atalanta again.
You will stalk shifting herds of zebra. You will gorge on wildebeests. You will gaze up at the sightless stars, and no god will gaze back. You will meet other lions. You will discover that, like boars, lions are matriarchal, too.
Atalanta, you will survive. You will slip the trap.
Content Warnings: death of an animal, death/dying
