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Informationen zum Autor Clemence McLaren is the author of Aphrodite's Blessing, a Simon & Schuster book. Klappentext These three well-known Greek myths are love stories told from the woman's point of view of how Aphrodite, the goddess of love, intervenes in their lives. Includes the stories of athlete Atalanta, who must marry the one man who can beat her in a race; Andromeda, whose true love comes to rescue her from a sea monster; and Psyche, whose curiosity gets the best of her. Running from Love Atalanta's Story Chapter One A marriage offer started the series of death races that have made me famous. I always tried to talk them out of running against me. "Be reasonable," I would say. "What you have to gain is not worth losing your life." But they were so sure they could outrun me, a mere girl. And after that first foolish challenge, no one could have stopped the athletes from coming to compete, as word spread throughout Greece of the ultimate running contest -- with a kingdom for a prize and death to the loser. My father was too shrewd to turn away the young men willing to risk everything, or the thousands who came to see them race. On challenge days there were dancing bears, poets creating ballads, traders from the Orient with spices and precious stones. I would be watching from a high window in the women's quarters, fighting down the nausea. But I'm getting ahead of my story. I want to set the record straight. I'll begin at the beginning. My mother died giving birth to me. I was the only child of Iasius, king of Arcadia. Naturally, my father wanted a son, and against the advice of his ministers, he made a substitute of me. I wore the short tunic of the athlete in training. I learned to throw the javelin and the discus, to hunt wild boar in the mountains, and when I was small, to wrestle in the courtyard with the sons of the noblemen, my body glistening with scented oil. Above all, I learned to run. My best memories are of rising on a pink winter dawn and setting out across rolling hills, the silver leaves of the olive trees glistening in the thin sunshine. Blood pumped through my veins, warming me as I settled into my stride, and there was no sound but the thump of my feet against the earth. Alone in the hills, with the backdrop of mountain and distant sea, I raced with nature, with the wind and trees and yesterday's moon. I felt as if I could run forever. I was rarely allowed to enjoy this solitary escape. Most mornings I reported at dawn for training at the gymnasium. No one dared oppose the king's wish to turn me into an athlete, but my coaches offered encouragement with their mouths while disapproval shone from their eyes. I wonder why my father never saw it. The runners I trained with didn't miss a chance to trip me at the starting line, or make jokes about my girl's body. True, I could have reported their insults, but I never did. Underneath, I knew I didn't belong there, sharing their pastimes. So I hid my anger and shame and dreamed of that day when, if I worked hard enough, I might become part of their world. After all, I had much more in common with the young athletes than with girls my age, who sat in the shade with their embroidery, gossiping and giggling over marriage offers. And sometimes gossiping and giggling over me. My cousin Filomena and her friends considered me a freak of nature. I knew this because I overheard them one day in the women's courtyard. They were curling their hair into ringlets, a tiresome procedure that took all afternoon. "She's tall as a boy," one of them whispered, "and brown as a peasant." "And her hair..." My cousin Filomena saw me then and cupped her hand over her mouth. I walked past them with long strides. Let them laugh, I told myself. I had better things to do than twist rags into my hair. I usually brushed it away from my face and tied it with a ribbon ...
