Small Secrets Kept By Goddesses

by Kat Beyer

“Your wolves have no names,” Cybele remarked.

“That’s true,” agreed Artemis. “They all know each other, you see; it’s not important to them.”

“So how do you call any of them when you want them?” asked Cybele.

“I never feel the need,” replied Artemis, coldly this time.

“Let’s race,” Cybele suggested.

“No, let’s not,” said Artemis. “You know how that sort of thing just gets to be a myth.”

“Oh, come on,” said Cybele.

“All right then,” Artemis sighed, and swung her quiver over her shoulder.

“Go!” cried Cybele.

They shot off like moonbeams, and the wolves (named and unnamed) followed them, down mountainsides cheering with wildflowers and rockslides, through the sudden quiet of pine forests, down to the roar of the sea.

Artemis stopped at the water, but Cybele kept running, and when she saw the other goddess standing on the shore, she called, “Don’t be an idiot! Are you a moon goddess or what?”

Artemis remembered how lightly the moon walks on the waves. She looked at Cybele’s slender dancing feet, and then down at her own, high arched and silver-ringed. (All goddesses have perfect feet.)

Artemis took a deep breath and stepped out across the water. In a moment she began to run, and in another she had caught up with laughing Cybele. They ran all day, and came back at sunset with a tuna to grill on the beach, together with crabs and oysters they pulled from the pools. The wolves, not caring for fish, got themselves rabbits in the rocks.

“I think I won the first half of the race, out onto the water,” said Cybele.

“But I beat you to the tuna,” said Artemis. “Thank you for teaching me to walk on water,” she added.

“No problem. Hope you don’t mind if it becomes a myth,” Cybele replied.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” said Artemis.

“Agreed!” laughed Cybele. “Pass the aïoli, please.”