Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast Read Online Free PDF

was away for almost a week before returning.
    The second time he left, Atalanta was anxious about it, but by the third time, she understood his pattern and was comfortable with it.
    Each time they came together again, it was a grand reunion. They would seek out rivers and pools where they plunged under the water with a huge splash to see who could come up with the biggest fish. They ran races through the twisting forest tracks, Atalanta forcing her legs to move faster and faster until she could just about keep pace with Urso as he bounded along.
    They no longer looked for the killer beast. It was gone as if it had never been.
    One day when Urso was off by himself, Atalanta spent the morning weaving a vine rope to hang over their favorite pool as a swing. She’d gotten about three body lengths done and was just casting about for some more vines. Suddenly, an odd whistling sounded across the river, like lark song, only longer, more elaborate.
    Atalanta rose and waded into the water, following the stream of notes as if enchanted. Climbing up the far embankment, she found herself in a strange glade. In the shade of a leafy oak stood a grotesque figure, part man, part animal.
    His face was brown and wrinkled, like an apple too long in the sun. He had thick, sensual lips, a sharp nose with wide nostrils. His arms and chest were matted with dark curling hair. As she got closer, she could see that a pair of small, sharp horns rose out of his thatch of thick brown curls. Most surprising of all were his legs. They were like those of a goat; instead of feet, he had hooves.
    The whistling came from a set of reed pipes the strange creature was playing with his eyes closed. As if he knew she was there, he stopped playing, opened his eyes, and smiled.
    “Ah, Atalanta, the little huntress,” he said, letting the pipes dangle from a cord around his neck. His voice was unexpectedly low and lilting. “I wondered when I’d run into you.”
    For one shocking moment, Atalanta wondered if he might be the very creature who killed her father. But as quickly, she realized he had no huge claws, no orange fur. Strange as he was, he was not the beast.
    “How…” she began before her voice cracked. She tried again. “How do you know me?”
    He broke into a laugh that was like water over stone. “I know all sorts of things.”
    She hated to be laughed at and said angrily, “Who are you? Why are you in my forest?”
    “ Your forest?” He laughed again.
    “Mine and the bear’s,” she said stubbornly.
    His face softened. “Mine, too,” he said. “I’m the god of this woodland. Your people call me Pan.”
    “I don’t have any people,” she answered. “Not anymore. There’s just me.”
    “I am sorry for that,” he said, his voice low.
    It was the tone of it, with its hint of human comfort, that broke her. She could feel herself starting to cry. Once started, she thought, and I’ll never stop. Instead, she forced herself to say, “You’re a real god? I’ve never seen a god before.”
    He grinned at her.
    Putting her head to one side, she considered him. “You’re not very impressive.”
    “I could say the same about you,” Pan replied, “but I’m in the mood to be charming. When I’m charming, I’m irresistible.” He laughed again.
    The sound shivered down Atalanta’s spine, but deliciously.
    “See,” Pan said, “you are liking me already.”
    “I am not.”
    “Are, too.”
    Really, she thought, he is more like a child than a man. That’s the way I used to argue with Papa when I was younger.
    Thinking of her father brought a wave of sadness.
    As if sensing her pain, Pan asked immediately, “What’s wrong? Can I help?”
    She looked at him and thought that if he was really a god of the woodland, perhaps he knew something about the beast. She asked, “Tell me what creature slew my father. Where is it? How can I find it?”
    Pan gave a dismissive wave with his hand and kicked the grass with one hoof. “I am no