From there, wrapped in his saffron cloak, Hymenaeus flew through the vast sky toward the Ciconian shores. Orpheus called for him, but the god of marriage came reluctantly. He was there, yes, but he brought no sacred blessings, no words of joy, no lucky omens. Even the wedding torch he carried sputtered and smoked, stinging everyone's eyes, and refused to catch flame no matter how much he shook it. The outcome was worse than the omen. The new bride was wandering through the grass with a crowd of water nymphs when a serpent struck—its fangs sinking into her ankle. She fell dead.

The Thracian poet mourned her enough in the world above. But to leave nothing untried, he dared to descend through the Taenarian gate to the river Styx itself. He passed through the pale crowds of ghosts and the shades of the buried dead until he came before Persephone and the lord who rules these joyless realms. Then, striking his lyre strings to accompany his words, he sang:

"O gods of this underworld to which all of us mortals eventually fall—if I'm allowed to speak honestly, without polite evasions—I didn't come here to tour the depths of Tartarus or to chain up that three-headed monster with serpents bristling from its necks. I came for my wife. A viper bit her when she stepped on it, pumping venom into her veins and cutting short her years. I wanted to bear this loss—believe me, I tried. But Love won. You know that god well enough in the world above. I'd guess he's known down here too, and if the old story about your marriage is true, then Love brought you two together as well.

"By these frightening realms, by this vast Chaos, by the silence of your endless kingdom, I beg you: unspin the early death of Eurydice. Everything we are belongs to you eventually. We linger a little while, then sooner or later we all hurry to this one home. We're all headed here. This is our final house, and you hold the longest empire over humankind. She too, when she's lived her full measure of years, will fall under your law. I'm asking to borrow her—that's all. But if the Fates won't let you pardon my wife, then I'm sure of this: I won't go back either. You can celebrate two deaths instead of one."

As he sang these words to the music of his strings, the bloodless spirits wept. Tantalus stopped reaching for the water that always fled his lips. Ixion's wheel stopped turning. The vultures left off tearing at the liver. The daughters of Danaus abandoned their water jars. And you, Sisyphus—you sat down on your rock. Then, people say, for the first time ever the Furies' cheeks were wet with tears, conquered by his song. Neither the queen of the underworld nor her lord who rules the dead could bear to refuse him. They called for Eurydice. She was among the recent arrivals, walking slowly because of her wound.

Orpheus received her back—but with one condition. He must not look back at her until they'd left the valleys of the underworld, or the gift would be revoked. They took the climbing path through utter silence—steep, dark, thick with black fog. They were almost at the border of the upper world when he, afraid she might be failing, desperate to see her, turned and looked back. Instantly she slipped away. She stretched out her arms, struggling to hold him and be held, but all she grasped was yielding air.

Dying for the second time, she made no complaint against her husband. What could she complain about, except that she was loved? She whispered a final "farewell" that barely reached his ears, then fell back again to the place she'd come from.

Orpheus was stunned by losing his wife a second time—as stunned as that fearful man who saw the three-headed watchdog in chains and couldn't shake his terror until his very nature changed, stone creeping through his body. Or like Olenos, who took the blame on himself and chose to seem guilty. Or like you, unlucky Lethaea, so confident in your beauty—you two were once hearts completely joined, now you're just stones that rainy Mount Ida holds up.

The ferryman refused Orpheus when he begged to cross the river again. Still, for seven days he sat filthy on the bank, eating nothing. Worry, heartache, and tears were his only food. He cursed the cruelty of the gods of the underworld, then withdrew to the heights of Mount Rhodope and wind-beaten Haemus.

Three times the sun had completed its yearly course through watery Pisces. Orpheus had avoided all love with women—whether because things had ended so badly for him, or because he'd sworn off love entirely. Yet many women burned with desire to marry the poet. Many grieved when he rejected them. Orpheus was the first to teach the Thracian people to turn their love toward young men instead, enjoying the brief springtime and early flowers of boyhood.

There was a hill, and on the hill a wide flat field made green by grass. The place had no shade. But when the god-descended bard sat there and struck his ringing strings, shade came. The oak of Chaonia came. The grove of poplar trees that were once the Heliades came. The high-leafed oak came, and soft lindens, and beech, and virgin laurel, and fragile hazels, and the ash tree good for spear-shafts, and the smooth fir, and the holm oak bending under its acorns. The festive plane tree came, and the many-colored maple, and river-willows, and water-loving lotus, and evergreen boxwood, and slender tamarisk, and two-toned myrtle, and viburnum heavy with dark blue berries. You came too, twining ivy, and with you came the vine tendrils and vine-clad elms, and mountain ash and pine trees, and the strawberry tree loaded with red fruit, and supple palms—the prize of victory—and the pine with its bunched needles and shaggy crown, beloved by the Mother of the Gods, since her Attis shed his humanity for this tree and stiffened into its trunk.

To this crowd came the cypress, cone-shaped like a turning post in the arena—now a tree, but once a boy loved by the god who masters both the lyre-strings and the bow-strings.

There was a huge stag, sacred to the nymphs who lived in the fields of Carthaean Ceos. His antlers spread so wide they cast shade over his own head. Those antlers gleamed with gold, and jeweled collars hung from his sleek neck down to his shoulders. A silver charm dangled on his forehead, fastened with delicate straps, and bronze ornaments shone from both ears beside his temples. With all natural shyness gone, free from fear, he would visit people's homes and offer his neck to be petted even by strangers' hands. But of everyone, he was dearest to you, Cyparissus, most beautiful boy of the Cean people. You led him to fresh pastures and to clear spring waters. You wove bright flowers through his antlers. Sometimes you rode on his back, joyfully guiding him this way and that with purple reins between his soft lips.

It was noon on a summer day. The sun's heat scorched the shore, making the curved arms of the Crab constellation burn. The weary stag lay down on the grass and drew in the coolness of a tree's shade. There, young Cyparissus accidentally pierced him with a sharp javelin. When he saw the stag dying from the brutal wound, the boy decided he wanted to die too. Phoebus spoke every consolation he could think of, warning him to grieve moderately, in proportion to the loss. But Cyparissus only groaned and begged this as a final gift from the gods above: let him mourn forever. And now, through endless weeping, as his blood drained away, his limbs began turning green. The hair that had hung from his snowy forehead became rough bristles, then stiffened into a slender peak pointing toward the starry sky. The god groaned sadly and said: "I will mourn you, and you will mourn for others. You will stand with those who grieve."

This was the grove the bard had drawn to himself. He sat surrounded by an assembly of wild beasts and a crowd of birds. After he'd tested the strings enough with his thumb and heard that the different notes, though distinct, harmonized, he lifted his voice in this song:

"Begin with Jove, mother Muse—for all things yield to Jupiter's rule. I've often sung of Jove's power before. I sang of the Giants in a graver key, of the conquering thunderbolts hurled across the Phlegraean plains. But now I need a lighter touch on the lyre. Let me sing of boys beloved by the gods, and of girls struck by forbidden passions who earned punishment for their lust.

"The king of the gods once burned with love for Phrygian Ganymede. For once, Jupiter found something he'd rather be than himself. Yet he wouldn't stoop to become just any bird—only the one that could carry his thunderbolts. Without hesitation, beating the air with borrowed wings, he snatched up the Trojan boy. Even now Ganymede mixes the wine and serves nectar to Jove, much to Juno's fury.

"You too, boy of Amyclae—Phoebus would have set you in the heavens if the grim Fates had given him time. But you're immortal in the way that's allowed. As often as spring drives winter away, as often as Aries follows watery Pisces, that's how often you rise and bloom again on the green grass. My father Apollo loved you above all others. Delphi, set at the center of the world, went without its guardian god while Apollo haunted the Eurotas river and unwalled Sparta. He cared nothing for his lyre or his arrows. Forgetting himself, he didn't refuse to carry the hunting nets or hold the dogs or climb the ridges of rugged mountains as your companion. Long association fed his flames.

"Now the sun stood nearly midway between the night just past and the night to come, equidistant from each. They stripped off their clothes and oiled their bodies until they gleamed, then began their contest with the broad discus. Phoebus went first, balancing it carefully, then sent it flying through the air. Its weight scattered the clouds in its path. After a long time the heavy disc fell back to the solid earth, displaying both skill and strength. Immediately, heedless and eager for the game, the young man from Sparta rushed to pick up the disc. But the hard ground threw it back with a brutal rebound—straight into your face, Hyacinthus. The god turned as pale as the boy. He caught the collapsing body in his arms. Now he tries to warm you, now he wipes the terrible wound, now he applies herbs to hold back your fleeing spirit. But no skill could help. The wound was beyond healing.

"Like flowers in a garden—violets or poppies or lilies bristling with tawny stamens—when someone breaks their stems, they droop and suddenly let their weakened heads fall, unable to hold themselves up, gazing at the ground. That's how the dying boy's face hung, and his neck, strength failing, became a burden to itself and sank onto his shoulder.

"'You're slipping away, son of Oebalus, robbed of your youth,' Phoebus said. 'I see your wound—my crime. You are my grief and my doing. My hand must be named the cause of your death. I am the author of your funeral. But what's my fault? Can playing a game be called a fault? Can loving be called a fault? If only I could die with you or give my life for yours! But since fate's laws hold us apart, you'll always be with me, clinging to my lips that remember you. You'll sound from the lyre my hand strikes. You'll sound in my songs. And as a new flower, you'll display our sorrow in your markings. The time will also come when the bravest of heroes will be added to this flower and be read on the same petals.'

"Even while Apollo's truthful mouth was speaking these words—look! The blood that had poured out on the ground and stained the grass ceased to be blood. A flower sprang up, brighter than Tyrian purple, shaped like a lily except for color—purple instead of silver. But this wasn't enough for Phoebus. He himself (for he created this honor) inscribed his grief on the petals. AI AI is written on the flower, the mournful letters drawn there. Sparta feels no shame at having produced Hyacinthus. The honor endures to this day, and every year the Hyacinthia returns, celebrated in the ancient way with solemn procession.

"But if you asked Amathus, rich in metals, whether it wished it had given birth to the Propoetides, it would say no—just as it would refuse the Cerastae, those men who once had rough foreheads sprouting double horns, which gave them their name. An altar to Jupiter the Host stood before their doors. If any stranger who didn't know their crimes had seen it stained with blood, he would have thought they were sacrificing calves or Cyprian sheep there. But it was guests they killed! Venus was so offended by these wicked rites that she prepared to abandon her own cities and the Ophiusian fields. 'But what have my beloved places done wrong? What crime have my cities committed?' she asked herself. 'Better to let this godless people pay the penalty through exile or death—or something between death and exile. What could that be but transformation?'

"While she wondered what to transform them into, her gaze fell on their horns. She realized those could stay. So she changed their massive bodies into savage bulls.

"But the vile Propoetides dared to deny that Venus was a goddess. For this, through the goddess's wrath, they became the first to sell their bodies and their reputations together. As shame left them and the blood hardened in their cheeks, they turned into rigid flint—hardly different from what they'd become already.

"Pygmalion had watched these women living lives of vice. Disgusted by the flaws that nature lavished so generously on the female mind, he lived unmarried, without a wife, his bed long without a partner. Meanwhile, with marvelous skill, he carved a figure from snow-white ivory, giving it a beauty no real woman could be born with. And he fell in love with his own creation.

"It had the face of a real girl. You'd believe she was alive and, if modesty didn't restrain her, wanted to move. His art concealed itself so perfectly. Pygmalion gazed in wonder, his heart kindling with fire for this imitation body. He kept reaching out to test whether it was flesh or ivory, and still wouldn't admit it was ivory. He kissed it and imagined the kisses returned. He spoke to it and embraced it, believing his fingers sank into the flesh he touched, afraid he might bruise the limbs where he pressed.

"He whispered endearments to her. He brought her gifts that please girls—seashells and smooth stones, little birds and flowers in a thousand colors, lilies and painted balls and amber teardrops fallen from trees. He dressed her body in fine clothes, placed gems on her fingers, hung long necklaces around her neck. Delicate pearls dangled from her ears, ribbons across her breast. Everything suited her, but she seemed no less beautiful naked. He laid her on coverlets dyed with Phoenician purple and called her his bed-partner, resting her neck on soft pillows as if she could feel them.

"Venus's feast day had come, the most celebrated holiday across all Cyprus. Heifers with gilded horns and snow-white necks had fallen at the altar, and incense smoke filled the air. After Pygmalion had made his offering, he stood before the altar and said timidly: 'If you gods can grant anything, let my wife be—' He didn't dare say 'my ivory girl,' so he said instead, 'one like my ivory girl.'

"Golden Venus, present at her own festival, understood what the prayer really asked. As a sign of her friendly power, the flame leaped up three times, drawing its tip through the air. When Pygmalion returned home, he went to his ivory girl and, bending over the couch, kissed her. She seemed warm. He kissed her again and touched her breasts with his hands. The ivory, under his touch, softened. The stiffness yielded to his fingers and gave way, just as beeswax from Mount Hymettus softens in the sun and, worked by the thumb, bends into many shapes and becomes useful through use itself.

"He stood stunned, half-rejoicing, half-fearing he was wrong. Again, like a lover, and again with his hand, he touched what he'd prayed for. It was flesh! Veins pulsed beneath his thumb. Then the man from Paphos found the fullest words to thank Venus. At last he pressed his lips to lips that were real. The girl felt the kisses and blushed. Raising her shy eyes to the light, she saw both the sky and her lover at the same moment. The goddess attended the wedding she'd created, and when the moon had rounded out its horns nine times to full, the girl gave birth to Paphos, who gave the island its name.

"Paphos's son was Cinyras, who could have been counted among the fortunate—if only he'd had no children. I'm going to sing of terrible things. Daughters, stay far away. Parents, stay far away. Or if my songs will charm your minds, don't believe this part—don't believe it happened. Or if you do believe it, believe the punishment that followed too. Still, if nature permits such a crime even to be witnessed, I congratulate our land for being far from those regions that produced such horror. Let the Panchaean land be rich in balsam and cinnamon and cassia and frankincense dripping from trees, let it produce incense and every other rare plant—as long as it produces myrrh too. The new tree wasn't worth such a price.

"Cupid himself swears he never wounded you with his weapons, Myrrha. He clears his torches of this crime. One of the three Furies breathed on you with her hellish torch and venomous snakes. To hate a parent is a crime—but this love is a crime worse than any hatred. Princes from everywhere want you. All the young men of the East have come to compete for your hand in marriage. Choose one from all of them, Myrrha—as long as one man isn't among them all.

"She knew it and fought against this vile love, saying to herself: 'Where is my mind taking me? What am I planning? Gods, I beg you—and sacred duty, and the holy rights of parents—stop this wrong, resist my crime! If it is a crime. But maybe piety doesn't condemn this kind of love. After all, animals mate without discrimination. It's not considered shameful for a heifer to bear her father on her back. A horse mates with his daughter. The goat enters the flock he sired. Birds conceive from the same seed that conceived them. Lucky creatures, allowed such freedoms! Human civilization has imposed spiteful laws. What nature permits, our jealous rules forbid. But they say there are peoples where mother joins with son and daughter with father, and family devotion grows through this doubled love. Poor me—that I wasn't born there! I'm injured by an accident of geography. Why do I keep circling back to this?

"'Forbidden desires, get out! He deserves to be loved—but as a father. So if I weren't the daughter of great Cinyras, I could sleep with Cinyras. Now, because he's already mine, he can't be mine. Our very closeness hurts me. I'd have more claim on him as a stranger. I should leave, travel far from my homeland, as long as I can flee this crime. But wicked passion keeps me here, so I can see Cinyras in the flesh, touch him, speak to him, kiss him—if nothing more is granted. But wait—are you looking for more, you godless girl? Do you realize how many sacred bonds and names you'd destroy? Will you become your mother's rival? Your father's mistress? Will you be called your son's sister? Your brother's mother? Don't you fear those sisters crowned with black serpents, the ones that guilty souls see, stabbing at their eyes and faces with savage torches? No—while your body hasn't yet sinned, don't let your mind conceive it. Don't violate nature's law with forbidden sex. Even if you wanted it, the thing itself forbids it. He's a good man, mindful of what's right. Oh, if only the same madness burned in him!'

"She'd spoken. But Cinyras, overwhelmed by the crowd of worthy suitors and unsure what to do, consulted her directly. He listed their names and asked whose husband she wanted to be. At first she was silent, staring at her father's face, burning inside, her eyes brimming with tears. Cinyras thought this was just a virgin's fear. He told her not to cry, dried her cheeks, and kissed her. Myrrha took too much joy from that kiss. When he asked what sort of man she wanted, she said, 'Someone like you.' Not understanding what she meant, he praised her answer. 'Always be such a dutiful daughter,' he said. At the word 'dutiful,' the girl lowered her face, aware of her own guilt.

"It was midnight. Sleep had released everyone else from their cares, but Cinyras's daughter lay sleepless, consumed by wild fire. She rehearsed her mad desires. Now she despaired, now she wanted to try. She felt shame and desire both, and couldn't decide what to do. Like a great tree wounded by the axe—when only the final blow remains—uncertain which way it will fall, feared from every direction, her mind, weakened by blow after blow, wavered this way and that, pulled in both directions. She could find no end, no rest from this love except in death.

"Death seemed good to her. She stood up, determined to hang herself. She fastened a belt to the high doorpost. 'Farewell, beloved Cinyras. Understand why I'm dying,' she said, and fitted the noose around her pale neck.

"They say the murmur of her words reached her devoted nurse's ears as she kept watch outside her charge's door. The old woman jumped up, opened the door, and saw the instruments of death. She screamed and beat her breast, tore at her clothes, then snatched the noose from Myrrha's neck and ripped it apart. Only then did she have time to weep, to embrace the girl, to demand why she'd tried to hang herself. Myrrha stayed silent and still, staring at the ground, grief-stricken at being caught before she could complete her slow death.

"The old woman wouldn't give up. She bared her gray hair and her sagging breasts and begged by the cradle she'd rocked, by the milk she'd given—tell me what's wrong. The girl turned away with a groan. The nurse was determined to find out. She promised not just secrecy but help. 'Tell me,' she said, 'and let me help you. Old age isn't useless. If it's madness, I can cure you with spells and herbs. If someone has cursed you, we'll purify you with rituals. If it's divine anger, the gods' wrath can be appeased with sacrifice. What else could it be? Your family's fortune is secure and thriving. Both your mother and father are alive.'

"At the word 'father,' Myrrha drew a sigh from deep in her heart. Even then the nurse didn't grasp the horror, though she sensed it was some kind of love. Stubborn in her purpose, she begged Myrrha to reveal everything. She lifted the weeping girl onto her old lap, cradled her in weak arms, and said: 'I understand—you're in love! Don't be afraid. I'll help you with this. And your father will never know.'

"Myrrha leaped from her lap in a fury, threw herself face-down on the bed. 'Leave me alone, I'm begging you! Spare me my wretched shame!' When the nurse insisted, Myrrha said: 'Go away! Or stop asking why I'm suffering. What you're trying to learn is a crime.'

"The old woman shuddered. Her hands trembled—with age and with fear. She fell on her knees before her nursling and begged. She coaxed, then threatened—if Myrrha wouldn't tell, she'd report the noose and the attempted suicide. But if Myrrha would confess her love, the nurse promised to help.

"Myrrha raised her head, soaked her nurse's chest with streaming tears, and tried again and again to confess, again and again choked back the words. Ashamed, she covered her face with her dress and said only: 'Oh, how lucky my mother is in her husband!' Then groaned. An icy shudder ran through the nurse's limbs and bones—she'd understood. Her white hair stood up stiff all over her head. She said everything she could to try to shake loose this terrible love. But the girl knew the warnings were true, and still she was determined to die if she couldn't have her love. 'Live,' the nurse said, 'and you'll have your—' She couldn't say 'father,' so she fell silent and nodded to confirm her promise.

"The pious mothers were celebrating Ceres' annual festival. Dressed in white robes, they offered garlands of wheat as first fruits of the harvest. For nine nights, they counted love and a man's touch among forbidden things. The queen, Cenchreis, was among them, attending the secret rites. So while the lawful bed was empty, the nurse—terribly diligent—found Cinyras drunk with wine. She told him about a girl who truly loved him, though she gave a false name. She praised the girl's beauty. When he asked her age, the nurse said, 'The same as Myrrha.' When he told her to bring the girl, the nurse returned home and said, 'Celebrate, my child—we've won!'

"The doomed girl felt no complete joy in her heart. Her foreboding heart grieved. Yet part of her did rejoice—such was the discord in her mind.

"It was the hour when all things fall silent. Between the two Bears, Boötes had wheeled his wagon with its slanting pole. She went to her crime. The golden moon fled from the sky. Black clouds hid the stars. The night had lost its fires. You, Icarus, first covered your face. And you, Erigone, made sacred by dutiful love of your father. Three times an omen called her back—she stumbled. Three times the death-owl sang its deadly prophecy. But still she went. The darkness and deep night lessened her shame. She held the nurse's hand with her left, with her right she groped along the blind path. Now she touched the bedroom threshold. Now she opened the door. Now she was led inside. But her knees buckled, her legs gave way. All color and blood drained from her. Her courage left her as she walked. The nearer she came to her crime, the more she trembled. She regretted her daring and wished she could turn back unrecognized.

"As she hesitated, the old woman took her hand and led her to the high bed. When she handed her over, she said, 'She's yours, Cinyras. Take her.' And she joined their cursed bodies together. The father took his own daughter into his incestuous bed. He soothed her virgin fears. He encouraged her terror. Perhaps, because of her age, he even called her 'daughter.' Perhaps she called him 'father'—so no name would be missing from the crime.

"She left her father's bedroom full of him, carrying his cursed seed in her womb—the crime conceived. The next night the deed was repeated. And there was no end until finally Cinyras, after so many meetings, wanted to know his lover. He brought in a lamp. He saw both the crime and his daughter. Grief choked back his words. He grabbed his gleaming sword from its sheath. Myrrha fled. By the blessing of darkness and blind night, she escaped death. She wandered through vast fields, leaving behind the palm groves of Arabia and the Panchaean land. For nine months she roamed, until exhausted, she finally came to rest in the Sabaean land. She could barely bear the weight of her womb.

"Then, torn between fear of death and weariness of life, unsure what to pray for, she spoke this prayer: 'O gods, if any divine powers are open to those who confess—I've earned my punishment. I don't refuse a harsh penalty. But so I won't defile the living if I live, or the dead if I die, drive me from both realms. Deny me both life and death. Change me.'

"Some divinity is indeed open to those who confess. Her final prayer found gods to answer it. Earth covered her legs as she spoke. A root burst through her split toenails and stretched out, anchoring a massive trunk. Her bones hardened. Marrow stayed in the center, but blood turned to sap. Arms became large branches, fingers small ones. Her skin turned to bark. And now the growing tree had squeezed her pregnant belly, buried her breasts, and was about to cover her neck. She couldn't bear the delay. She sank toward the rising wood and plunged her face into the bark.

"Though she lost her old senses with her body, still she weeps. Warm drops flow from the tree. Even her tears carry honor. The myrrh that drips from the bark preserves its mistress's name and will be spoken of through every age.

"But the child, conceived in sin, had grown inside the tree. He was looking for a way to thrust himself out and leave his mother's body. The middle of the tree swelled, pregnant with its burden. The weight stretched the wood, but the tree had no words for its pain. It couldn't call on Lucina with a laboring woman's voice. Yet the tree seemed to be in labor. It groaned again and again and grew wet with falling tears. Gentle Lucina stood beside the suffering trunk. She laid on her hands and spoke the words of childbirth. The tree split open. The bark cracked apart and released its living burden. The baby boy cried. The water nymphs laid him on soft grass and anointed him with his mother's tears. Even Envy herself would have praised his beauty. He looked just like those naked Cupids painted in pictures—though to make no distinction between them, you'd either need to give him a little quiver or take the quivers away from them.

"Time slips away in secret. The years flow past and deceive us. Nothing moves faster than time. This boy, born from his sister and his grandfather, recently hidden in a tree, recently born—just now a beautiful infant, now a young man, now a man grown—now even more beautiful than before. Now he catches even Venus's eye. He avenges his mother's passion. For while Cupid was giving his mother a kiss, he accidentally grazed her breast with an arrow jutting from his quiver. The goddess pushed her son away. But the wound had gone deeper than it seemed. At first, it fooled even her.

"Captivated by Adonis's beauty, Venus stopped caring about Cythera's shores. She didn't return to Paphos surrounded by deep sea, or to fish-rich Cnidos, or to Amathus heavy with ore. She even stayed away from heaven—Adonis was better than heaven. She clung to him, became his constant companion. Though she usually lounged in the shade, cultivating her beauty, now she roamed the mountain ridges, through forests and rocky thickets, her dress hiked up to her knee like Diana. She urged on the hounds and chased safe game—swift hares, or high-antlered stags, or does. She stayed away from fierce boars and savage wolves, from bears armed with claws, from lions gorged on slaughtered cattle.

"She also warned you, Adonis—if only warnings could have helped! 'Be brave against those who run away,' she said, 'but courage isn't safe against the courageous. Don't be reckless, my darling, for my sake. Don't provoke the beasts that nature armed with weapons, or your glory will cost me too dearly. Youth, beauty, the charms that moved Venus—none of these move lions, bristling boars, or the eyes and hearts of wild beasts. Boars carry lightning in their curved tusks. Tawny lions have boundless strength and rage. I hate the whole species.' When he asked why, she said, 'I'll tell you. You'll be amazed by this strange story of an ancient crime. But this unaccustomed exercise has tired me out. Look—a poplar invites us just in time with its shade, offering a couch of grass. I'd like to rest here on the ground with you.'

"And she did rest, pressing down both the grass and him. Reclining with her head in the young man's lap, she spoke, scattering kisses through her words:

"'You may have heard that a woman once outran the swiftest men in a footrace. That wasn't just a rumor—she really did it. You couldn't say whether she was more remarkable for her speed or her beauty. When she consulted an oracle about marriage, the god said, "Atalanta, you have no need for a husband. Avoid marriage. Yet you won't escape it. You'll live, but you'll lose yourself."

"'Terrified by the oracle, she lived unmarried in the dark forests. She drove away the mob of insistent suitors with a brutal condition: "No one can have me unless he beats me in a footrace. Race against me. The winner gets a wife and a wedding. The loser gets death. Those are the rules of the contest." She was merciless. But such is the power of beauty—a reckless crowd of suitors agreed to her terms.

"'Hippomenes sat watching this cruel contest. "Would anyone risk his life for a wife?" he said, condemning the young men's excessive passion. But then he saw her face and her body when she stripped for the race—a body like mine, or like yours would be if you were female. He was thunderstruck. Raising his hands, he said, "Forgive me, all you men I just criticized! I didn't know what prize you were competing for." As he praised her, he caught fire himself. He hoped none of the young men would run faster than she did—and feared, enviously, that one might. "But why haven't I tried my luck in this contest?" he asked himself. "The gods themselves help the daring!"

"'While Hippomenes turned this over in his mind, the girl flew past on winged feet. Though she seemed to the young man from Boeotia to move no slower than a Scythian arrow, he marveled even more at her beauty. And running made her more beautiful still. The breeze caught the ribbons streaming from her swift feet. Her hair tossed across her ivory back. The embroidered knee-bands fluttered. A rosy flush spread across her pale young body, the way a purple awning casts colored shadows over white marble halls. While the stranger noticed all this, the race was over. Victorious Atalanta was crowned with the winner's garland. The losers groaned and paid the agreed-upon penalty.

"'But the young man, undeterred by what had happened to the others, stepped forward and fixed his eyes on her. "Why do you want easy glory from beating slowpokes? Race against me. If luck makes me the winner, you won't be shamed to lose to someone like me. My father is Megareus of Onchestus. His grandfather is Neptune. I'm the great-grandson of the king of the seas. My courage matches my bloodline. And if I lose, you'll win great and lasting fame—Hippomenes defeated."

"'As he spoke, Atalanta looked at him with softening eyes. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to win or lose. She thought: "What god, hating beauty, wants to destroy this man? What god orders him to seek marriage at the risk of his precious life? I'm not worth that much, in my own judgment. It's not his beauty that moves me—though it could. It's that he's still almost a boy. It's not him but his youth that touches me. And what about his courage, his fearless spirit? What about the fact that he's descended from the sea-god himself, four generations back? What about the fact that he loves me so much he'd die if cruel fate denied him my hand? Stranger, while you can, get away from this bloody wedding. Marrying me is death. No woman would refuse you. Some wise girl could want you for herself.

"'But why should I care about him when so many others have already died? Let him watch out for himself! Let him die, if the slaughter of all those suitors hasn't warned him off, if he's so sick of living. So he'll die because he wanted to live with me. He'll pay an unjust price—death for love. I won't be able to bear the envy my victory brings. But it's not my fault! I wish you'd just give up. Or, since you're crazy, I wish you were faster! But he has such a girl's face on his boy's body! Oh poor Hippomenes, I wish you'd never seen me! You deserved to live. If I'd been luckier, if cruel fate hadn't forbidden me marriage, you're the one I'd want to share my bed with.'

"'She spoke. And though untrained, struck by first love, not even knowing what she was doing, she loved without realizing it.

"'Now the crowd and her father were demanding the traditional race. Neptune's descendant Hippomenes called on me in an anxious voice: "Cytherea, I pray you! Be with me in this daring. Help the fire you lit in me." A friendly breeze carried his flattering prayer to me. I was moved, I admit, and I didn't have much time to help. There's a field—the locals call it Tamasus—the finest part of Cyprus. The ancients long ago dedicated it to me and ordered it added as an endowment for my temples. A tree gleams in the middle of this field, with golden leaves and branches that rattle with golden fruit. I happened to be coming from there, carrying three golden apples I'd picked. I made myself visible to Hippomenes alone, approached him, and showed him how to use them.

"'The trumpets sounded. Each racer burst from the starting line, crouched low, and skimmed across the sand with flying feet. You'd think they could run across the ocean without breaking the surface, or race across a wheat field without bending the standing grain. Shouts and cheers and voices yelling "Now! This is the moment! Push harder, Hippomenes! Use all your strength! Don't hesitate—you're winning!" gave courage to the young man. Hard to say whether Hippomenes or Atalanta was happier to hear those words.

"'Oh, how many times she could have passed him but held back instead, gazing at his face, reluctant to leave him behind! His mouth went dry, breath rasping from his tired throat. The finish line was still far off. Then finally Neptune's descendant threw one of the three apples from the tree. The girl was stunned. Craving the gleaming fruit, she turned from her course and snatched up the rolling gold. Hippomenes passed her. The crowd roared with applause. She made up for the delay and lost time with a burst of speed and left the young man behind again. Delayed a second time by the second apple, she caught up and passed him.

"'The final stretch of the race remained. "Now," I said, "be with me, goddess whose gift this is!" I threw the shining gold toward the side of the field, far off course, so she'd take longer to get back. The girl seemed to hesitate—should she go for it? I made her pick it up and added weight to the fruit she'd grabbed, slowing her down with both the burden and the detour. And so my story doesn't take longer than the race itself—the girl was overtaken. The victor claimed his prize.

"'Did I deserve thanks, Adonis? Did I deserve an offering of incense? He gave no thanks. Ungrateful, he didn't bring me incense. I flared up in sudden rage. Hurt by this contempt, determined not to be scorned again in the future, I made an example of them both to protect my honor. They were passing a temple that the famous hero Echion had once built to fulfill a vow, hidden deep in the woods. The long journey made them want to rest. There, an untimely urge for sex seized Hippomenes—aroused by my divine power. Near the temple was a dim alcove like a cave, roofed with natural stone, sacred since ancient times, where a priest had collected many wooden statues of the old gods. Hippomenes entered this place and desecrated the holy shrine with forbidden lust. The sacred images turned their eyes away. The tower-crowned Mother of the Gods considered plunging the guilty pair into the rivers of the Styx. The punishment seemed too light. So instead, tawny manes now cover their smooth necks. Their fingers curve into claws. Their arms become forelegs. All their weight settles into their chests. Their tails sweep the sand. Rage fills their faces. They give growls instead of speech. They haunt the forests instead of bedrooms. And feared by all others, they pull Cybele's chariot as lions, pressing the bit with tamed teeth.

"'These creatures, my darling, and all the other beasts that don't offer their backs in flight but turn their chests to fight—avoid them! Or your courage will destroy us both!'

"She did warn him. Then, yoked to her swans, she drove her chariot through the sky. But courage defies warnings. By chance, his dogs following a scent trail roused a boar from its den. As the beast prepared to leave the forest, Myrrha's son struck it with a glancing blow. Instantly the savage boar shook the spear from its bleeding snout, and chased the terrified young man as he scrambled for safety. The boar sank all its tusks into his groin and laid him dying on the golden sand.

"Venus, riding in her light chariot through the sky behind her swans, hadn't yet reached Cyprus when she heard his dying groan from far away. She turned her white birds back. And when she saw from high in the air his lifeless body lying in its own blood, she leaped down, tore her dress and her hair at once, and beat her breast with hands that should never know such grief. She complained to the Fates: 'But you won't control everything,' she said. 'Adonis, a memorial of my sorrow will last forever. The scene of your death will be reenacted every year, an imitation of my grief. But your blood will turn into a flower. Persephone, you were once allowed to change a woman's body into fragrant mint—will I be begrudged transforming my hero?' With these words, she sprinkled his blood with sweet-smelling nectar. Touched by it, the blood swelled up the way clear bubbles rise in yellow mud. Within an hour a flower sprang from the blood, the same color as pomegranates that hide their seeds under supple skin. But its bloom is brief. The same winds that give it its name—anemone—shake it loose. It clings weakly and falls, too delicate to last."