Jane Yolen - Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons

Hippolyta’s hand gripped the haft of her ax. “And did they kill all the beasts?” she cried.

Artemis smiled more broadly still. “Those who could not escape into the sky were slaughtered on their nests. When there were no more adults left to kill, the women turned to smashing the eggs.”

“Yes!” Hippolyta cried, and lifted her ax high in the air.

But Artemis’ voice was suddenly tempered, as if the fever of the story had left her and all that were needed was the story’s moral. “The women abandoned the city, of course. Lysippe promised her followers that they would never again allow themselves to suffer because of man’s folly. They sent their male children back to Scythia, then set off for the south to make a new nation of women. They would be all things: farmers, lawmakers, bakers, hunters, but—”

“But above all, warriors.” Hippolyta finished for her. This part of the story she knew well.

“Good girl,” the goddess said.

“I have heard only some of that tale,” Hippolyta said.

“Most of my Amazons have forgotten what happened here,” Artemis told her. “But my priestesses remember. Or at least they remember Apollo’s decree: If ever an Amazon queen bears a second male child and keeps it, that boy will become ruler of the Amazons and return them to the subjection of men. It may seem a harsh punishment, but my brother wanted vengeance for the slaughter of his gryphons, and I couldn’t deny him.”

Tithonus stared at the goddess and then at Hippolyta, the truth suddenly dawning on him. “Why did you bring me here, Hippolyta?” he asked.

Artemis answered for her. “To die, of course. To be the sacrifice that keeps the Amazons free.”

“But I’m not the second son,” he whispered.

“You are one of two sons, and that is enough,” Artemis told him. There was something close to pleasure in her eyes.

At that moment one of the gryphons leaped from its rooftop perch and glided down to the ground. It landed right in front of Tithonus, who fell back from it.

“Come, girl,” said Artemis, turning to the temple. “There’s sanctuary at my altar.” She gestured Hippolyta to follow her. “We’ll leave the boy to his fate.”

Hippolyta wrenched her eyes from the goddess with great difficulty and watched as the gryphon backed Tithonus toward a far wall with lazy confidence. Its sharp claws clicked on the cracked paving stones, its beak snapped playfully. There was a fluttering and a harsh murmur from above as the other gryphons anticipated the kill.

“Come into the temple,” Artemis insisted, mounting the first few steps. “You don’t have to watch this.”

“Don’t believe her,” Tithonus yelled, his voice loud enough to make the gryphon on the ground mantle its wings for a moment. “Don’t believe that story of hers. Who do you think told the people of Arimaspa they could steal from Apollo and get away with it?”

His words hit Hippolyta like darts.

He’s right, she thought suddenly. There’s some wrongness at the heart of Artemis’ story. But she couldn’t think what it could be.

Artemis lifted an arm, and as if that were some signal, the gryphon trailing the boy swept out one of its great wings and knocked him flat on his back. Then it pinned him to the ground with one massive paw.

The goddess smiled a serpent smile, all teeth and no lips, as she watched the creature prepare for the kill.

For an instant Hippolyta saw her again as the old woman, her eyes hardened with years of selfish cruelty.

“Tithonus is right,” Hippolyta gasped. “You—you said an oracle told them how to get past the gryphons. But an oracle only speaks for a god—or a goddess. It was you, wasn’t it, Artemis? It was you who sent the Scythians to rob your brother.”

“What of it?” snapped the goddess, coming back down the steps and seizing Hippolyta by the arm. “Hadn’t Apollo’s followers just dishonored one of my shrines in Arcadia? He started the war, and it was time for his pride to suffer.”

Hippolyta pulled away from the goddess’s icy grip. Raising her ax, she ran toward Tithonus.

The gryphon spotted her and reared up, baring its vicious claws. It screamed at her with its lightning-strike voice, and Tithonus used that moment to scramble away.

Then Hippolyta swung her double-headed ax and sliced clean through the beast’s feathered throat. It fell to the ground, green blood puddling beneath its body.

At once an earsplitting cry went up from the other gryphons, and they rose into the air as one. The beating of their wings sent a huge wind whipping around the square. Tithonus grabbed hold of Hippolyta’s tunic to keep from being blown over.

“I knew you wouldn’t leave me, Hippolyta,” he gasped.

She didn’t answer.

“Come, Hippolyta,” Artemis said sternly. “It’s not too late. I can still grant you sanctuary. Without my help, you’ll be torn to bits, just like the boy.” She beckoned toward the temple.

“Not unless Tithonus goes in there as well,” Hippolyta answered defiantly.

“Impossible!” The goddess’s voice was hard as stone. “Men are not allowed—”

“We live together or die together,” said Hippolyta.

“Why?” the goddess demanded.

“Because—because he’s my brother. Because there’s no reason he should die just for your hurt pride or Apollo’s. Either one of you could lift the curse on the Amazons without any such a sacrifice if you wanted to.”

A gryphon dived out of the sky at her, and she lashed out with her ax. She felt its beak crack under the impact before it wheeled away, shrieking in pain.

Tithonus squared his shoulders and called to the goddess, “If you’re so keen on sacrifices, why don’t you lie down under the dagger yourself?” It was the ultimate challenge. “Then you might not be so ready to watch humans die for your sake.”

“I will watch you die,” said Artemis grimly. “Both of you. And enjoy every last bloody moment.”

The beating of gryphon wings grew louder as the creatures massed above them for a full-scale attack.

“Together,” whispered Tithonus to Hippolyta.

She looked at him and smiled lopsidedly. “Yes, together.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

JUDGMENT

HIPPOLYTA SHOVED TITHONUS BEHIND her and lashed out with her ax. The ax clipped the leg of the closest gryphon and sent it darting up into the sky with a howl of pain. A paw batted the cap from her head as another beast made its strike. Hippolyta ducked. Whirling her ax above her head, she sliced feathers from a passing wing, then cracked another beak.

Meanwhile Tithonus set himself back to back with Hippolyta. He pulled out the knife she’d given him days earlier, and then he too busied himself slashing at their attackers. The screeches, sizzles, and howls of the gryphons were almost deafening, and the breeze whipped up by their wings buffeted the two on every side.

The gryphons renewed their attack, and one managed to slip though the slashing blades, its beak tearing a red stripe down Hippolyta’s arm. Another, sensing an advantage, followed the first in and raked its sharp claws across the back of Hippolyta’s tunic. At the same time, its heavy wing gave Tithonus such a knock on the head, he saw bright stars.

Still, the two children wouldn’t stop fighting. Hippolyta’s ax drew blood time after time. And if Tithonus wounded fewer, it was because he was smaller, with a shorter blade, not because his heart was any less stout.

But they could feel themselves growing tired. Muscles ached, and sweat ran down their brows so quickly neither one could see very well.

Hippolyta guessed that death was now very close at hand. Perhaps, she thought, perhaps this is what I deserve. She’d been only too ready to sacrifice Tithonus a short time ago, and now she would die in a vain effort to save him.