Burning Up

Babies are not born cute or innocent: Not even deities. They're squishy and cry at the very worst times, as if they have this sixth sense that can tell when you're heading to the toilet or reaching for a trashy Hollywood gossip magazine. Thankfully, given that it was August, Poseidon was at my side for the first two weeks; in mid-September Ben's work transferred him to Boston and Lucy was more than willing to help when Poseidon was lecturing.

At Poseidon's request Ben, Lucy, and Alba lived with us until they received possession of their new home in October. Though we absolutely loved having them, three ignorant mortals mucking around for two weeks wasn't the easiest thing: Zeus's claim of being "practically human" was a long way off. Every night, after the house was asleep, Poseidon would sneak out and spend hours tweaking the currents and tides. On top of that, Percy was showing definite signs that he was not normal, and had the habit of attracting attention from all types of curious (thankfully, harmless) beings. A Kappa, who masked itself in the guise of a large Newfoundlander, was a particularly large nuisance, always leaving offerings of rather-stinky fish on the doorstep. Alba found it particularly hilarious, laughing at the dog who thought he was a cat.

In late October Ben et al. moved into to a small brownstone about four blocks from us. Our own house was oddly silent without them, and I found myself spending most days walking or reading, trying to complete my PhD at the kitchen table. Poseidon continued with his lecturing, coming home each night slightly exhausted and ready to be with Percy. He had adapted to fatherhood amazingly well – possibly through past experience with claimed children – and spent every evening playing, or reading, or walking.

Life, of course, is never easy – and, at Percy's five month mark in January, things started to crash down.

It started slowly, with Athena arriving at our doorstep in the middle of the night, making no efforts to mask her white gown or otherworldly glow; I answered the door on the fourth round of knocking, feeling a bit ridiculous with my pyjamas and messy hair. In her arms was an infant –

"Where's Poseidon?" she asked.

"Gone," I yawned back. "Come in, I'll make some tea – he'll be back by morning."

She sat on the couch, and I floundered around for the kettle and cups: God or not, tea always helped. "Who's that with you?"

"Annabeth," she said quietly. The name came out like a song; I would have butchered it like a hillbilly. "My daughter."

"Oh – " What could you say to that?

"Not like that," she corrected. "Virgin goddess – but, it's not all that hard to do. A bit of DNA and clay."

"If only mine was that easy," I grinned. "She's very pretty."

"Very," she agreed, eyes completely focussed on the child. Something big was going on, – something very big – but I was getting the distinct feeling that it wasn't for me to know. "How old?"

"A month."

"A bit younger than Percy, then."

"Yes."

The kettle boiled; I grabbed a box of cookies, and Athena nibbled politely. She didn't seem the least bit tired despite the early hour, though the baby was fast asleep. I dozed off, full of hot tea and very comfortable on the squishy couch, only to be startled awake by Poseidon's booming voice. "Athena? What are you doing?"

She cast a wary eye my way. "I can take the baby," I suggested, feeling a bit like a child around two grownups wanting to talk. "Introduce her to Percy?"

Annabeth was handed over with great hesitation; I made extra certain to hold her head as I moved upstairs. Percy, still asleep, didn't protest when I placed Annabeth beside him in the crib.

On leaving the nursery my ears were assaulted with Ancient Greek, the voices a bit too loud and strong to be coming from Poseidon and Athena in their human forms. The next few hours were spent eavesdropping; of course, the thing with listening-in is that you never get the full story – in my case, my Greek wasn't good enough to follow every word and idiom, and the two had the tendency to inject phrases from long-dead languages that I couldn't even name. By seven o'clock their anger started to fade, and at half-past I was dressed and preparing breakfast.

"Annabeth's in the nursery," I reported. "She sleeps as well as Percy."

She left with a nod, heading upstairs but not coming down again: One of those vanishing moves.

Poseidon was sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, looking as stressed as one of his undergrad students on midterm day. I poured cereal and prepared coffee; cut-up an orange; sat down with the newspaper, waiting for a hint. It didn't come until that night, lounging on the couch, watching a bad TV movie.

"Zeus has passed a new decree," he said quietly. "No god or goddess, from this day forth, can have contact with their mortal offspring for any reason. The punishments will be – severe."

The words took a moment to sink in. "You're leaving?"

"What? – No!" he said quickly. "I can live with smiting – the ocean's not going to spontaneously dissolve into nothingness. It might take a while to get the pieces back together; you'd have to visit at the beach."

He was serious. "But what about Percy?"

"Zeus wouldn't dare." I could feel every single one of his muscles tense.

"What about Athena?"

"That's an – unusual situation. Athena gives her – her brainchildren, for lack of a better word, as gifts to people. She won't break her vow, so it's the best way to display her devotion – there's got to be some pretty deep-rooted trust there for a god to give their child to a mortal."

"But?" – There was always a 'but.'

"Chase freaked," Poseidon deflated. "Athena's smart, but a bit impulsive – didn't ask the guy; didn't realize that he's a climbing academic, more-concerned with publications than parenthood. Athena was pretty pissed, but took Annabeth back – worried about neglect, probably – but, with this new 'decree,' the baby has to be returned."

It was downright cruel: Zeus forcing his own grandchild into a possibly-abusive home. Children couldn't be raised feeling unwanted. "Could we take her?"

"I asked, but Athena declined – " it wasn't all. "She's blaming me."

"You?" I sputtered. "You haven't done anything! – The world hasn't gone catatonic!"

"I missed the solstice meeting," he admitted. I hadn't even realized – "Official interference with official duties. Zeus sees it as a threat."

"You missed a meeting."

"I missed the meeting," he corrected. "One of the big guys miss it; quite suddenly its OK for the little guys; world descends into chaos. Zeus, despite all his talk about being superior and godly, is more mortal than the rest of us. There isn't really a ruler; we're equal, everyone has their part - his is to keep balance. But, he's taken it a bit further. He's paranoid – all 'leaders' are. Probably sees it as an attempt to claim power."

"That's ridiculous." If Poseidon was one thing, it wasn't power-mad.

"Maybe so," he agreed. "But tell him that."

People didn't change – why would gods?

February: Percy was six months old, sitting up, a ball of laughs and smiles. We met with Alba and Lucy almost every day, Alba always bringing Percy 'gifts' of twigs/stones, bits of candy, or toys to play with. The two, despite the age gap, were closer then I would have ever imagined, more like siblings than cousins. It was nice thinking that Percy would have someone to tell his secrets to as he grew up; Alba, after all, had also been claimed.

Things were calm from the Zeus front, so Poseidon continued teaching. However, that didn't mean things up on Olympus were quiet: The other gods and spirits must have been anticipating war. Hermes visited multiple times each day with scrolls and weird weapon-like objects, and there was a near-constant stream of minor spirits pledging allegiance to Poseidon. He handled the constant interruptions with grace, always bowing respectfully and calling each spirit by name, pulling the bigger players aside for hushed chats. Despite circumstances, we were as happy as ever: Young family, with a home and hopes for the future – Percy learning to play the cello. Percy on the swim team. Percy getting accepted to Harvard or Oxford. The thought of war was a distant fantasy – Poseidon, most evenings, was more concerned about getting a pet dog and setting-up an education savings account. He started to eat dinner; he started to sleep at night.

Zeus visited me the Friday before March break, appearing silently on the sidewalk as I walked with Percy. "Don't bother," I ordered, walking a bit faster. He kept pace easily.

"Do you think that it'd last forever?"

- past the mail boxes.

"Keeping a god like a pet? Trying to turn him human?"

"He came to me freely," I didn't look back.

"To bang – then leave."

"Oh, aren't you an embodiment of morality and virtue. Did it ever occur to you that not everyone in existence is a –- "

"Pot calling the kettle black," he tsked. "In front of a child, too."

"Go away."

"Or what?"

Here was Zeus: King of the gods, a zillion years old, all-powerful/-omniscient, reduced to a bully.

"Or what?"

The next morning we packed up the VW, buckled in Percy, and spent the day slowly weaving towards Navani. Normally it would take about three hours of straight driving, but it was the first day of Spring Break and neither I nor Poseidon wanted to move very fast. The sun was setting as the Bug pulled into the driveway.

I hadn't mentioned my encounter with Zeus, not wanting to add extra stress. It was probably a smart choice: Poseidon, carrying the bags, collapsed at the kitchen table in an exhausted heap, staring angrily at his briefcase – there were about a hundred Intertidal Ecology & Diversity papers to mark. He had bags under his eyes that I had never seen before.

"Maybe you should go for a swim?" He was always in a good mood when he returned.

His eyes moved out the window towards the beach: High tide, still surf, bright moon. "Sleep?"

"Swim," I insisted, practically stuffing him out the door before turning my attention to Percy. He was grumpy after the car ride and in need of a good play before bed; we settled down to peek-a-boo, listening to the radio croon soft jazz.

The next day was cold and windy, the sky grey and threatening rain. We bundled up in Wellies and cable-knit sweaters, and wandered the beach heading south. Poseidon held Percy, sometimes knee-deep in water, walking without a splash and pointing to all types of life that I had never noticed. Percy looked at everything with wide eyes.

"He's cute now," Poseidon joked. "Just wait until he's two – or four."

"He'll be just as wonderful."

"Yeah."

"What do you think he'll be able to do?"

He answered quickly, evidently having thought of the question before. "Water stuff."

"Descriptive."

He chuckled; the ocean mirrored him with a pleasant gurgle. "Most demi-gods don't manifest until they hit puberty. They'll show signs, of course – Percy's favourite time of day is bath." – and, boy, did he scream when it was time to get out of the tub – "A lot of them have attention problems, – stimulus over-load – and reading issues – their brain's been wired for the High languages."

"Weird."

"A bit," he agreed. "Probably because they mark our Golden Age - Ancient Gaelic, - before the Irish/Scottish split - Japanese, whatever, though Greek's the most prominent. Essentially every spirit speaks it now – it's the universal language. It's useful being born with the ability."

"Until you hit grade school."

"Which is when the camp takes over." - he'd mentioned it a couple times, though I still hadn't received a full explanation. Apparently, it showed. "It's a place where children can go to become comfortable with themselves – or, if they're in trouble, it's a haven. That happens more often then it should."

"So you're a closet camp counsellor?"

"You could say that," he winked. "A good friend oversees it; I've never met anyone so dedicated."

I attended summer camp as child – Camp Qwanoes, Camp Columbia. I had a half-dozen photo albums stuffed with memories; after my parents died I spent every summer working as a counsellor at Camp Olave. They were interesting places; so amazingly different than the rest of reality. Hiking, and picking wild blueberries, swimming – the kids were never worried about politics or war. At the end of the week they'd be pleasantly bronzed, bug-bitten, and exceedingly smelly; nobody wanted to leave.

"It's not too far from here, actually," he noted. "The Mashomack Preserve."

"What?" – I had visited the preserve before: Over two thousand acres of hiking trails and wildlife, open daily to the public. There'd never been anything … unusual about it.

"It's – complicated," he struggled. "The camp's on the preserve – it is the preserve. But, it's not. If you're – "

"Special?" I offered.

"Not human," he corrected. "If you're not human, you arrive at Μιγάς – Camp Half-Blood; if you're human, you get Mashomack."

"Double realities."

"More or less."

A group of humpbacks had joined us; I watched the whales instead of puzzling over how the laws of physics had just been laughed at.

Ben and Lucy arrived on Monday, their car stuffed with Alba's play things. The storm was still brewing outside, so we were, most of the time, stuck inside playing games, listening to music, and reading. I attempted to teach Poseidon and Alba how to play Trouble; Poseidon caught on quickly, and Alba came up with her own rules. Tuesday saw more rain; Wednesday rain and wind; and Thursday saw disaster.

Happy Victoria Day, and a great big "THANKS!" for all the reviews/favourites/alerts that flood my inbox! Next chapter will be up on May 29th!