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The Lightning Thief: Chapter 4: I meet a god
Sunday, May 8th, 2005
I had weird dreams full of barnyard animals, most of them wanting to kill me. I must've woken up once, but what I heard and saw made no sense, so I just passed out again. I remember lying in a soft bed, being spoon-fed something that tasted like buttered popcorn, only it was pudding, by someone I could barely make out. The next time I woke up, the girl with dark hair, Avery, was unconscious lying on top of a bed several rows down from me. All the blood was gone, and she was peacefully sleeping. A husky blond dude, like a surfer, stood in the corner of the bedroom, keeping watch over us.
He had blue eyes... at least a dozen of them on his cheeks, his forehead, and on the backs of his hands. I must've fallen asleep again, and when I finally came around for good, there was nothing weird about my surroundings, except that they were way nicer than I was used to. I was lying on a bed in what seemed like a lodge. Through the open window, I could see a meadow and green hills in the distance. The breeze smelled like strawberries.
There was a blanket over my legs and a pillow behind my neck. All that was great, but my mouth felt like sandpaper. My tongue was dry and nasty, and every one of my teeth hurt. On the table next to me was a tall drink. It looked like iced apple juice, with a green straw and a paper parasol stuck through a cherry. My hand was so weak I almost dropped the glass once I got my fingers around it.
"Careful," a familiar voice said. Morgan was leaning against the wall by the bed, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. Under one arm, he cradled a shoebox. He was wearing blue jeans, converse hi-tops, and a bright orange t-shirt that said Camp Half-Blood. Just plain old Morgan. Not the goat boy. So maybe I'd had a nightmare. Maybe I was still in my room, and the whole thing hadn't happened. I'd wake up, and May would have breakfast ready. And...
"You saved mine and Avery's life," Morgan said. He gestured to one of the beds, Avery still out cold. "I... well, the least I could do... I went back to the hill. I found this and thought you might want it. Sometimes they leave behind an aspect." Reverently, he placed the shoebox in my lap. Inside was a black and white bull's horn, the base clean cut. It hadn't been a nightmare.
"The Minotaur," I said.
"Um, Grayson, it isn't a good idea-."
"That's what they call him in the Greek myths, Isn't it?," I demanded. "The Minotaur. Half man, half bull." Morgan shifted uncomfortably.
"You've been out for over a day. How much do you remember?."
"Is Peter okay?."
"He's fine. They're all fine. The cleaning harpies made sure to get rid of all the blood and sulfur." I stared out the window towards the meadow. There were groves of trees, a winding stream, acres of strawberries spread out under the blue sky. Rolling hills surrounded the valley, and the tallest one, directly in front of us, was the one with the huge pine tree on top. Even that looked beautiful in the sunlight.
"Do they know where I am?," I asked.
"May doesn't. It wasn't supposed to go this way. We should've known earlier, and now Avery got hurt again. I'm a failure. I'm... I'm the worst satyr in the world." He moaned, stomping his foot so hard it came off. The inside of the converse was filled with styrofoam, except for a hoof-shaped hole.
"Oh, Styx!," he mumbled. Thunder rolled across the clear sky. As he struggled to get his hoof back in the fake foot, I thought, 'well...that settles it.' Morgan was a satyr. I was ready to bet that if I shaved his curly brown hair, I'd find tiny horns on his head. But I was too distracted to care that satyrs existed, or even minotaurs. All that meant was my life had been turned upside down, just as everything was seemingly going back to normal. Morgan was still sniffling, looking like he was expecting to be hit. His eyes were locked on Avery to make sure she was still breathing.
"It wasn't your fault." I tried comforting my friend before he started crying.
"Yes, it was. I was supposed to keep you safe."
"Did May ask you to protect me?."
"No. But that's my job. I'm a keeper. At least... I was."
"But why...," I suddenly felt dizzy, my vision swimming.
"Don't strain yourself," Morgan said. "Here." He helped me hold the glass and I put the straw to my lips. I recoiled at the taste because I was expecting apple juice. It wasn't that at all. It was sour grape strings. Liquid sour grape strings. And not just any sour strings. The exact same ones May would get me from the candy store. Drinking it, my whole body felt warm and good, full of energy. My grief didn't go away, but I felt as if May had just brushed her hand against my cheek, given me a hug the way she used to when they first took me in, and told me everything was going to be okay. Before I knew it, I'd drained the glass.
"Was it good?," Morgan asked. I nodded.
"What did it taste like?." He sounded so wistful; I felt guilty.
"Sorry," I said. "I should've let you taste." His eyes got wide.
"No! That's not what I meant. I just... wondered."
"Sour grape strings," I said, smiling. "May always buys them when she stops at this little store." He sighed.
"And how do you feel?."
"Like I could throw Nancy Bobofit a hundred yards."
"That's good," he said. "Really, that's good. I don't think you could risk drinking any more of that stuff."
"What do you mean?." He took the empty glass from me gingerly, as if it were dynamite, and set it back on the table.
"Come on. Chiron and Mr. D are waiting." I looked back at Avery, wondering if she would even wake up. Outside, the porch wrapped all the way around the farmhouse. My legs felt wobbly, trying to walk that far. Morgan offered to carry the Minotaur horn, but I held on to it. We'd paid for that souvenir the hard way, Avery almost losing her life. I wasn't going to let it go, but later I would see if Avery wanted it. As we came around the opposite end of the house, I caught my breath. We must've been on the north shore of Long Island because on this side of the house; the valley marched all the way up to the water, which glittered about a mile in the distance. Between here and there, I simply couldn't process everything I was seeing.
The landscape was dotted with buildings that looked like ancient Greek architecture. An open-air pavilion, an amphitheater, a circular arena... except that they all looked brand new, their white marble columns sparkling in the sun. In a nearby sandpit, a dozen high school-age kids and satyrs played volleyball. Canoes glided across a small lake. Kids in bright orange T-shirts like Morgan and Avery's were chasing each other around a cluster of cabins nestled in the woods. Some shot targets at an archery range.
Others rode horses down a wooded trail, and, unless I was hallucinating, some of their horses had wings. Down at the end of the porch, two men sat across from each other at a card table. The man facing me was small but porky. He had a red nose, big watery eyes, and curly hair so black it was almost purple. He looked like those paintings of baby angels- what do you call them, hubbubs? No, cherubs. That's it. He looked like a cherub who'd turned middle-aged in a trailer park. He wore a tiger-pattern Hawaiian shirt, and he would've fit right in at a shady poker game.
"That's Mr. D," Morgan murmured to me. "He's the camp director. Be polite. You met Avery already. She's just a camper, but she's been here longer than just about anybody. And you already know Chiron." He pointed at the guy whose back was to me. First, I realized he was sitting in a wheelchair. Then I recognized the tweed jacket, the thinning brown hair, the scraggly beard.
"Mr. Brunner!," I cried. The Latin teacher turned and smiled at me. His eyes had that mischievous glint they sometimes got in class when he pulled a pop quiz and made all the multiple choice answers B.
"Ah, good, Grayson. You're awake," he said. He offered me a chair to the right of Mr. D, who looked at me with bloodshot eyes and heaved a great sigh.
"Oh, I suppose I must say it. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. There. Now, don't expect me to be glad to see you."
"Uh, thanks." I scooted a little farther away from him because if there was one thing I had learned from living next to our one neighbor, it was how to tell when an adult has been hitting the happy juice. If Mr. D was a stranger to alcohol, I was a satyr.
"So... you, uh, work here, Mr. Brunner?."
"Not Mr. Brunner," the ex-Mr. Brunner said. "I'm afraid that was a pseudonym. You may call me Chiron."
"Okay." Totally confused, I looked at the director. "And Mr. D... does that stand for something?." Mr. D stopped shuffling the cards. He looked at me like I'd just belched loudly.
"Young man, names are powerful things. You don't just go around using them for no reason."
"Oh. Right. Sorry."
"I must say, Grayson," Chiron-Brunner broke in, "I'm glad to see you alive. It's been a long time since I've made a house call to a potential camper. I'd hate to think I've wasted my time."
"House call?."
"My year at Yancy Academy, to instruct you. We have satyrs at most schools, of course, keeping a lookout. But Morgan alerted me as soon as he met you. He sensed there was something special about you, so I decided to come upstate. I convinced the other Latin teacher to ah... take a leave of absence." I tried to remember the beginning of the school year. It seemed like so long ago, but I did have a fuzzy memory of there being another Latin teacher my first week at Yancy. Then, without explanation, he had disappeared, and Mr. Brunner had taken the class.
"You came to Yancy just to teach me?," I asked. Chiron nodded.
"Honestly, I wasn't sure about you at first. We contacted Ben and let him know we were keeping an eye on you if you were ready for Camp Half-Blood. He was shocked as to this whole new world but agreed so long as we kept you safe. But you still had so much to learn. Nevertheless, you made it here alive, and that's always the first test."
"Wait, Ben knew the whole time!?." This new information left my mind reeling.
"Morgan," Mr. D said impatiently, "are you playing or not?."
"Yes, sir!." Morgan trembled as he took the fourth chair, though I didn't know why he should be so afraid of a pudgy little man in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt.
"Do you know how to play pinochle?" Mr. D eyed me suspiciously.
"I'm afraid not," I said.
"I'm afraid not, sir," he said.
"Sir," I repeated. I was liking the camp director less and less.
"Well," he told me, "It is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men to know the rules."
"I'm sure the boy can learn," Chiron said.
"Please," I said, "What am I doing here? Mr. Brun-Chiron- why, would you go to Yancy Academy just to teach me?." Mr. D snorted.
"I asked the same question." The camp director dealt the cards. Morgan flinched every time one landed in his pile. Chiron smiled at me sympathetically, the way he used to in Latin class, as if to let me know that no matter what my average was, I was his star student. He expected me to have the correct answer. The silence caused the camp director to speak.
"Typical. That's how they usually get killed, blind ignorance. Young man, are you bidding or not?."
"What?," I asked. He explained, impatiently, how you bid in pinochle, and so I did.
"I'm afraid there's too much to tell," Chiron said. "I'm afraid our usual orientation film won't be sufficient."
"Orientation film?," I asked.
"No," Chiron decided. "Well, Grayson. You know your friend Morgan is a satyr. You know"- he pointed to the horn in the shoebox- "that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either, lad. What you may not know is that great powers are at work in your life. gods- the forces you call the Greek gods- are very much alive." I stared at the others around the table. I waited for somebody to yell, Not!. But all I got was Mr. D yelling, "Oh, a royal marriage. Trick! Trick!." He cackled as he tallied up his points.
"Mr. D," Morgan asked timidly, "if you're not going to eat it, could I have your diet coke can?."
"Eh? Oh, all right." Morgan bit a huge shard out of the empty aluminum can and chewed it mournfully.
"Wait," I told Chiron. "You're telling me there's such a thing as God."
"Well, now," Chiron said. "God—capital G, God. That's a different matter altogether. We shan't deal with the metaphysical."
"Metaphysical? But you were just talking about-"
"Ah, gods, plural, as in, great beings that control the forces of nature and human endeavors: The immortal gods of Olympus. That's a smaller matter."
"Smaller?." I still was having a hard time wrapping my head around all of this.
"Yes, quite. The gods we discussed in Latin class."
"Zeus," I said. "Hera. Apollo. You mean them." And there it was again... distant thunder on a cloudless day.
"Young man," said Mr. D, "I would really be less casual about throwing those names around if I were you."
"But they're stories," I said. "They're... myths, to explain lightning and the seasons and stuff. They're what people believed before there was science."
"Science!," Mr. D scoffed. "And tell me, Grayson Clarke, what will people think of your 'science' two thousand years from now?," Mr. D continued. "Hmm?. They will call it primitive mumbo jumbo, that's what. Oh, I love mortals. They have absolutely no sense of perspective. They think they've come so-o-o far. And have they, Chiron?. Look at this boy and tell me." I wasn't liking Mr. D much, but there was something about the way he called me mortal, as if... he wasn't. It was enough to put a lump in my throat, to suggest why Morgan was dutifully minding his cards, chewing his soda can, and keeping his mouth shut.
"Grayson," Chiron said, "you may choose to believe or not, but the fact is that immortal means immortal. Can you imagine that for a moment, never dying? Never fading? Existing, just as you are, for all time?." I was about to answer, off the top of my head, that it sounded like a pretty good deal, but the tone of Chiron's voice made me hesitate.
"You mean, whether people believed in you or not," I said.
"Exactly," Chiron agreed. "If you were a god, how would you like being called a myth, an old story to explain lightning? What if I told you, Grayson Clarke, that someday people would call you a myth, just created to explain how little boys can get over growing up when their fathers had abandoned them?." My heart pounded. He was trying to make me angry for some reason, but I wasn't going to let him.
"I wouldn't like it. But I don't believe in the gods."
"Oh, you'd better," Mr. D murmured. "Before one of them incinerates you." Morgan spoke up, his voice coming out small.
"P-please, sir. He's just been thrown into this. He's in shock."
"A lucky thing, too," Mr. D grumbled, playing a card. "Bad enough I'm confined to this miserable job, working with children who don't even believe." He waved his hand, and a goblet appeared on the table, as if the sunlight had bent, momentarily, and woven the air into glass. The goblet filled itself with red wine. My jaw dropped, but Chiron hardly looked up.
"Mr. D," he warned, "your restrictions." Mr. D looked at the wine and feigned surprise.
"Dear me." He looked at the sky and yelled, "Old habits!. Sorry!." More thunder. Mr. D waved his hand again, and the wine glass changed into a fresh can of diet coke. He sighed unhappily, popped the top of the soda, and went back to his card game. Chiron winked at me.
"Mr. D offended his father a while back, took a fancy to a wood nymph who had been declared off-limits."
"A wood nymph," I repeated, still staring at the Diet Coke can like it was from outer space.
"Yes," Mr. D confessed. "Father loves to punish me. The first time, Prohibition. Ghastly!. Absolutely horrid ten years!. The second time... well, she really was pretty, and I couldn't stay away. The second time, he sent me here. Half-Blood Hill. Summer camp for brats like you. 'Be a better influence,' he told me. 'Work with youths rather than tearing them down.' Ha!. Absolutely unfair." Mr. D sounded about six years old, like a pouting little kid.
"And..." I stammered, "your father is..."
"Di immortales, Chiron," Mr. D said. "I thought you taught this boy the basics. My father is Zeus, of course." I ran through D names from Greek mythology. Wine. The skin of a tiger. The satyrs that all seemed to work here. The way Morgan cringed as if Mr. D were his master.
"You're Dionysus," I said. "The god of wine." Mr. D rolled his eyes.
"What do they say, these days, Morgan?. Do the children say, 'Well, duh!'."
"Y-yes, Mr. D."
"Then, well, duh! Grayson Clarke. Did you think I was Aphrodite, perhaps?."
"You're a god."
"Yes, child."
"A god. You." He turned to look at me straight on, and I saw a kind of purplish fire in his eyes, a hint that this whiny, plump little man was only showing me the tiniest bit of his true nature. I saw visions of grapevines choking unbelievers to death, drunken warriors insane with battle lust, sailors screaming as their hands turned to flippers, their faces elongating into dolphin snouts. I knew that if I pushed him, Mr. D would show me worse things. He would plant disease in my brain that would leave me wearing a straight-jacket in a rubber room for the rest of my life.
"Would you like to test me, child?," he said quietly.
"No. No, sir." The fire died a little. He turned back to his card game.
"I believe I win."
"Not quite, Mr. D," Chiron said. He set down a straight, tallied the points, and said, "The game goes to me." I thought Mr. D was going to vaporize Chiron right out of his wheelchair, but he just sighed through his nose as if he were used to being beaten by the Latin teacher. He got up, and Morgan rose, too.
"I'm tired," Mr. D said. "I believe I'll take a nap before the sing-along tonight. But first, Mr. Oakley, we need to talk, again, about your less-than-perfect performance on this assignment." Morgan's face beaded with sweat.
"Y-yes, sir." Mr. D turned to me.
"Cabin eleven, Grayson Clarke. And mind your manners." He swept into the farmhouse, Morgan following miserably.
"Will Morgan be okay?" I asked Chiron. Chiron nodded, though he looked a bit troubled.
"Old Dionysus isn't really mad. He just hates his job. He's been... ah, grounded, I guess you could say, and he can't stand waiting another century before he's allowed to go back to Olympus."
"Mount Olympus," I said. "You're telling me there really is a palace there?"
"Well now, there's Mount Olympus in Greece. And then there's the home of the gods, the convergence point of their powers, which did indeed used to be on Mount Olympus. It's still called Mount Olympus, out of respect to the old ways, but the palace moves, Grayson, just as the gods do."
"You mean the Greek gods are here? Like... in America?."
"Well, certainly. The gods move with the Heart of the West."
"The what?."
"Come now, Grayson. What you call 'Western civilization.' Do you think it's just an abstract concept? No, it's a living force. A collective consciousness that has burned bright for thousands of years. The gods are part of it. You might even say they are the source of it, or at least, they are tied so tightly to it that they couldn't possibly fade, not unless all of Western civilization was obliterated. The fire started in Greece. Then, as you well know... or as I hope you know since you passed my course... the heart of the fire moved to Rome, and so did the gods. Oh, different names of course... Jupiter for Zeus, Venus for Aphrodite, Minerva for Athena, and so on, but the same forces, the same gods."
"And then they died."
"Died?. No. Did the West die?. The gods simply moved, to Germany, to France, even to Spain for a while. Wherever the flame was brightest, the gods were there. They spent several centuries in England. All you need to do is look at the architecture. People do not forget the gods. Every place they've ruled, you can see them in paintings, in statues, on the most important buildings for the last three thousand years. And yes, Grayson, of course, they are now in your United States. Look at your symbol, the eagle of Zeus. Look at the statue of Prometheus in Rockefeller Center, the Greek facades of your government buildings in Washington. I defy you to find any American city where the Olympians are not prominently displayed in multiple places. Like it or not... and believe me, plenty of people weren't very fond of Rome either... America is now the heart of the flame. It is the great power of the West. And so Olympus is here. And we are here." It was all too much, especially the fact that I seemed to be included in Chiron's we as if I were part of some club.
"Who are you, Chiron?. Who... who am I really?." Chiron smiled. He shifted his weight as if he were going to get up out of his wheelchair, but I knew that was impossible. He was paralyzed from the waist down.
"Who are you?," he mused. "Well, that's the question we all want to be answered, isn't it?. I have my suspicions of course. But for now, we should get you a bunk in cabin eleven. There will be new friends to meet. And plenty of time for lessons tomorrow. Besides, there will be s'mores at the campfire tonight, and I simply adore chocolate." And then he did rise from his wheelchair. But there was something odd about the way he did it. His blanket fell away from his legs, but the legs didn't move. His waist kept getting longer, rising above his belt. At first, I thought he was wearing very white velvet dress pants, but as he kept rising out of the chair, taller than any man, I realized that the velvet wasn't pants; it was the front of an animal, muscle, and sinew under coarse white fur.
The wheelchair wasn't a chair at all. It was some kind of container, an enormous box on wheels, and it must've been magic because there's no way it could've held all of him. A leg came out, long and knobby-kneed, with a huge polished hoof. Then another front leg, then hindquarters, and then the box was empty, nothing but a metal shell with a couple of fake human legs attached. I stared at the horse who had just sprung from the wheelchair: a huge white stallion. But where its neck should be was the upper body of my Latin teacher, smoothly grafted to the horse's trunk.
"What a relief," the centaur said. "I'd been cooped up in there so long; my fetlocks had fallen asleep. Now, come, Grayson Clarke. Let's check up on Ms. Taylor, and then you've to meet the other campers."
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