Before I proceed with the disclaimer, a note: this and the next chapter were originally going to be a single chapter, but as a lot of important ground is covered it got exceedingly long, and I eventually decided to split it in two. So y'all are in for double the Jason Williams goodness this time! Feel free to review both in one review, or separately if you prefer. Now, here we go! ~Μαησηνας
As before, I'm merely a respectful demigod trying to bring more tales of Camp Half-Blood to the general public. I don't own the Percy Jackson series, Camp Half-Blood, Delphi Strawberry Service (although I doubt Mr. D. wants it much), Star Wars, any of the works of Jimmy Buffett or the Bee Gees, or indeed anything but the---um---obviously fictitious plot and characters. And now, on with the chapter:
Chapter Two: We Hitch a Ride with a Goat
That first episode of shadow travel—which is what I would later learn it was called—was, without question, the worst moment of my life up to that point. It was something like a much more intense version of the second the sharpest drop on a roller coaster or a really intense water slide begins—only what would've just been a few seconds of sheer terror and free-falling, weightless panic there kept going for what felt like an eternity, the shock a thousand times multiplied with every second. When you add the sheer terror I'd started with to the fact that I've never liked roller coasters in the first place, well…not fun. At all. Our surroundings were such a deep black that they made the darkness in the cafeteria that morning seem like a bright and sunny afternoon by comparison, and you couldn't shake the panicky feeling that the fall had somehow made you go completely blind. A cyclone of irrational terrors mixed in with the more rational ones swirled hauntingly through my mind, and just when you felt you might be getting used to it all, a gut-wrenching lurch in another direction would send you back to square one.
And if you think that last paragraph was confusing, that's nothing compared to actually experiencing it.
Biagio screamed the whole time—I'd had no idea how high his voice could go until then—I gave a strangled wail of utter despair that died out before long (it sounded uncannily like an asthmatic cyborg had just informed me that he was my father) and even Flint—who I somehow suspected had done this before—seemed to be hyperventilating. My fingers somehow found what felt like a dog collar attached to our mount a few inches up from my death grip on its fur, and I grabbed onto it gratefully.
It was a good thing that I had. An instant later, we abruptly shot straight upwards at an even greater velocity that we'd been barreling forward and down previously, conveniently answering my unspoken question about what on Earth could be more terrifying. I hung on as tightly as I could, still caught up in sheer terror too wretched to begin to describe and an unearthly wind blasting my face, and presently the darkness began to lessen—I could see my fingers, which had gone totally white, gripping the dog collar, which was made out of an off-gold metal. Bronze, perhaps?
In a rush we burst out of the ground in an explosion of shadowy nothingness (kind of like a champagne cork flying out of a bottle, I imagine), and I let go of Mrs. O' Leary's collar and collapsed to the ground, my whole body shaking uncontrollably and random gasps escaping my mouth.
Biagio remained on his feet somehow, stumbling around woozily. He looked equally rattled, if not more so, and for the first time I could ever remember, his hair was completely messed up and his tuxedo rumpled. Monsters and unreal underground journeys were one thing, but seeing him lose his cool somehow felt even more supernatural. "I…I really think I prefer my Ferrari," he choked out after a few seconds.
My senses came back to me gradually and, looking past Biagio, I saw the world slowly starting to swim back into focus. I stood up, shaking my head and feeling exceedingly fragile, and began to take stock of my surroundings.
We appeared to be in the midst of a sort of clearing in an unfamiliar-looking forest, which my gut told me was a good, long way from back in Philly where our journey had started. For one thing, the weather had changed—the wind had picked up considerably, ruffling my hair and Mrs. O' Leary's fur, and the cloud cover had broken up into a whole range of cumulonimbus mountains, which were sailing by silently, allowing sudden, violent bursts of sunshine to break through.
I turned to face Flint, who was looking like his normal calm, slightly jocular self again—now, of all times. I gasped out something that I remember as being along the general lines of "My head! What…we…you…the…just…what was going ON there? What…what happened!"
He tugged at his fedora apologetically. "I'm sorry, Jason, I really am. I know you and Biagio must be seriously freaked out right about now"—
"That's an understatement," Biagio muttered, straightening the black carnation in his buttonhole.
--"And I know you want me to explain what the heck is going on, but it's kind of a long story. I'll tell you everything as soon as our next ride gets here."
A flicker of apprehension shot through me like someone had clicked a lighter. "Oh, great. And just what is our next ride—A HYDRA?!?"
At the mention of the word hydra, Mrs. O' Leary pricked up her ears excitedly and thumped her tail on the ground, making the entire clearing rumble. Even after that had died down, the rumbling continued for a few more seconds, as if a jet was passing over the forest.
Flint glanced apprehensively at the sky like he was afraid it was going to start raining, although how he could possibly be worried about inclement weather after a morning of being chased by bloodthirsty monsters, I didn't know. "Careful, Jason. Er—no. We've arranged somewhat more conventional transportation for the rest of the way. We came out here mainly to throw the "Kindly One"—he made air quotes, like I was supposed to know what he meant—"off. We're about halfway to Camp Ha—I mean, we're about halfway there now."
With an air of finality, he tugged at the collar of his spectacularly ugly plaid sweater—which didn't match his neon purple-and-green leggings at all—and stared expectantly into the forest.
All this time, it had been clear that our little hound-back journey through absolute darkness had totally rocked Biagio's world. After recovering from the kneeling-on-the-ground-gasping phase, he'd spent the past several minutes stumbling around the clearing with his arms outstretched and a dazed, glassy expression on his face, like he wasn't sure anymore what was real and what wasn't. Slowly, though, he'd begun to come back to his sense, and this time he was the one to protest at Flint's latest statement, his British accent abruptly replaced by his natural Italian one out of pure shock.
"Just what is 'conventional' for you people, anyway?!? And who are you, in the first place?" he complained. "What was that thing chasing us just now? And where are we? What's this camp you mentioned just now? And how can you…"
Biagio's rapid-fire interrogation was abruptly cut off by the sound of a twig snapping in the woods, so suddenly and conspicuously we might've been in a bad horror movie. Both of us jumped a foot.
We weren't to be kept in suspense much longer. More ominous crunching sounds resounded through the forest, making it clear in a hurry that something very large was approaching us quickly. Biagio and I started edging back nervously, then threw ourselves to the ground simultaneously as whatever it was burst into the clearing in a crash of timber.
After our past experiences that morning I'd been expecting another monster, so I was startled to hear the chugging of an engine fill the air. I got to my feet again, brushing dirt and twigs off of my polo shirt, to see a large white van idling in the midst of the clearing, gleaming in the sun. Painted on the side was a stylized logo that seemed to depict a strawberry field amongst Greek columns at sunrise, with—I squinted—DELPHI STRAWBERRY SERVICE written in bold next to it. A fruit van? I groaned. Things were getting weirder by the minute here.
Flint seemed to relax a bit more, his shoulders sagging in relief. "All right, you guys. Our ride is here. Jump in, let's go!" He pulled one of the back doors open and looked at us expectantly.
Biagio and I glanced at each other, alarmed indecision written all over our faces. The situation was an exact mirror of the one that had led to us skateboarding through the school hallways that morning. The same thoughts I'd had then were clearly running through both of our heads now—a battle royale between giving in to the total weirdness of whatever was happening, trusting Flint, and just going with it, or listening to that annoying voice of sanity buried somewhere in the back of our brains. This was a prime example—in the real world, getting into a strange van at the urging of a guy who regularly disco dances on cafeteria tables for fun and profit would be lunacy, but in this crazy nightmare of hellhounds and monsters and exploding old ladies, it not only made sense, it was the only logical thing to do.
Here Flint cut in again, with a sigh. "Come on, you guys—we're in the middle of a forest in Connecticut! It's not like you have a lot of other options!"
For a moment as I stood there, irresolute, I reflected on how unreal this whole experience felt—like it was so impossible it had no connection to my real life. It was sort of like a fire drill at school, but with more near-death experiences—without any warning I'd been caught up in this unreal whirlwind of activity, and it felt like at any moment I'd wake up and return to my regular life. The more I thought about it, the more my stomach lurched—what was happening to me? Had I really been attacked by monsters? Was I hallucinating, and if not, how on earth could harpies be real? At the same time, though, I got the totally contrary feeling of familiarity like I had before. Why did I suspect that if it weren't for that, I would be twenty times as freaked out?
In my moment of indecision, it was Biagio's totally insane prefrontal cortex (the center of rational decision-making in the brain, the slow development of which is the cause of much teen idiocy, for you non-science-geek types out there) that carried the day with typical impulsive flair. Grabbing my wrist, he dragged both of us into the van and sat down, leaving me little to do but fumble for a seatbelt.
Flint sighed with relief and turned to Mrs. O' Leary, who'd been waiting patiently for us all this time, panting loudly enough to sound like a small jet engine. "Good girl, Mrs. O' Leary! Go to camp now!" he shouted, then clambered into the van and slammed the door. My last view of the clearing was one of Mrs. O' Leary again dissolving into the shadows before the engine rumbled to life and we were off, jolting unevenly over the floor of the clearing.
The guy driving was thickset, tanned and blond—which didn't look terribly Northeastern to me—and had a bunch of what looked like old scars—about an inch long each—on his hands and neck. Perhaps he'd been the wrong half of a badly done knife-throwing act years ago, I mused. For the moment he was perfectly stationary, staring straight at the road ahead (after threading the needle between altogether too many century-old oak trees for my liking, we'd burst back onto the pavement and were now barreling along a deserted road at about eighty miles an hour) and giving no sign to acknowledge us. I winced as I realized what an odd group we were—two shell-shocked-looking teenagers, one clad in a rumpled golden tux, and Flint, who as usual looked like he'd come directly from an eighties thrift store. Considering all that, it didn't take me long to break the silence.
"All right, Flint, you promised to explain what's going on. Let's hear it!" I tried to sound brave, but my voice was hollow and it didn't sound very convincing. Flint leaned back in his seat, looking thoughtful.
"Well, Jason, it's kind of a long story and no matter how well I tell it you still won't believe me at first, but here goes. You know what that thing was that was chasing us earlier?" He shuddered.
I took a deep breath before answering. "You're gonna think I'm crazy"—
"Try me," said Flint in an odd voice. I wondered for the millionth time how much more to him there was than I was seeing.
"—but…it wasn't a harpy, was it?" I looked nervously at him, sure that he'd tell Argus to head for the nearest mental institution. But that was the furthest from his actual reaction to my statement that I'd been attacked by an Ancient Greek monster.
He nodded briskly. "Pretty close. Actually, it was a Fury, one of Hades' avengers. They're a lot like harpies, but a lot nastier, and a lot of half-bloods have had nasty run-ins with 'em."
Biagio broke in again, sounding incredulous. "You're not seriously suggesting that Harpies and Furies are real, are you?"
"I am," Flint responded calmly. "So are hellhounds like Mrs. O' Leary, Minotaurs, hydras, and pretty much any other Greek monster you can think of. Okay, I'll say it, here goes: The Greek gods of Mount Olympus are real, too. They're still around. And you two, well…" he trailed off, but what with the bombshell he'd just dropped, neither of us noticed.
Biagio chuckled. "All right, now seriously…" he caught sight of Flint's expression and stopped himself uncertainly. Flint was great at deadpanned expressions, but the look he was giving us seemed too grave to be fake.
On the other end of the van, I'd been hit by a bolt from the blue, like a lightning strike from Zeus himself. When Flint had said that the gods were real, I'd very nearly passed out on the spot. I know you might be thinking that I was a little gullible to believe him just like that, and I'll grant that I didn't buy it a hundred percent right away, but something in what he said had just resonated with me in a way I couldn't explain. I looked desperately around at the prosaic, gray interior of the van, looking for some sense of normalcy to prove that I wasn't totally insane, but then I noticed that the seatbelt buckles had Greek omegas (Ω) on them. I groaned, sweat pouring from my brow, and it was again a few moments before I could speak. And I'm no wimp, either, no matter what Brian might have told you.
"The Greek gods?" I finally choked out. "Zeus…Hermes…Athena…um, Poseidon…Hephaestus…those guys are REAL? Are you serious?!
"Right." Flint took a deep breath. "Plus Dionysus, Aphrodite, Hades, Apollo, Artemis, Ares, Hestia, Demeter, Persephone and a couple of minor gods like Janus and Morpheus. Never pays to leave anyone out, or they'll get seriously mad at you. They're real, Jason. And they're in America.
"The gods are in America?" said Biagio incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Not at all, mon ami," said Flint breezily. "See, well, how to put this…you remember that the Greek gods moved to Rome when it became the center of the world, right?"
"Yeah, and their names changed," I mused. "Jupiter for Zeus, Neptune for Poseidon, Venus for Aphrodite…"
"That's it. Now, as far as mortals are concerned that's the end of the story. But the gods were forgotten but not gone, if you'll excuse the turn of phrase. They kept moving with whatever country in Western Civilization was the strongest—Germany, France, Britain—and now they're in the U.S. Of course, they've changed with the times a bit—Mount Olympus above the Empire State Building, Hades in Los Angeles, Apollo's Maserati sun chariot, and all that—but it's still everything you've read about in the myths. Gods, monsters, and heroes. And that brings us to you two.
He leaned forward and gave us an appraising glance. "I'm guessing that now you're thinking, sure maybe the Greek gods are real, but what does that have to do with us? Why did the Fury come after us?
"H'm. I don't mean to be insensitive here, but…both of you only live with one parent, right? The other one supposedly died or divorced or something?"
I winced, wondering what on Earth that had to do with anything, but nodded. "How did you know…" spluttered Biagio, red in the face, looking like an angry, brunette Jonas brother. Flint plowed on, seemingly oblivious to our reaction.
"You two have ADHD? Dyslexia?" He gave us a knowing glance, like he'd seen it all before. I frowned, totally bemused.
"Well, yeah," mumbled Biagio, staring intently at the carpet beneath his Italian leather shoes. "What's that have to do with anything?" I wanted to add that I didn't have ADHD, at least not officially, but I kept my mouth shut.
Flint gave us a sympathetic glance. "I'm sorry to give you a shock here, but, well, you're demigods. Your other parents were gods or goddesses. They aren't dead, or divorced—they're on Mount Olympus right now."
My jaw dropped. It had been getting a lot of exercise that day. I'd been beginning to think that nothing Flint said could surprise me anymore, but I'd clearly been mistaken. "My mom…is a goddess?!?" I gasped.
Flint nodded. "And you are a half-god, half-human hero—just like Heracles and Theseus and Bellerophon. And that's why you're going to Camp Half-Blood right now."
I had to give Biagio credit for quickness on that one. Why my mind was still on Bellerophon? he spoke up again. "Camp Half-Blood? You never explained what that place is."
"Ah, yes," said Flint sagely. "You're cutting right to the heart of the matter there. All right, I'll explain, and I'll have to go into a bit of ancient history for this: the gods, as you know, aren't exactly known for marital fidelity—Zeus being the best example, I suppose—so they have a ton of kids, and those kids, being powerful demigods (that's the official term for sons or daughters of the gods), attract monsters a lot. Adversity builds character, sure, and that's probably why the Greek heroes became so famous, but that doesn't work if you get eaten. So thousands of years ago, a centaur named Chiron decided to tutor young demigods to help them become great heroes. He had a cave up on a hillside, and he'd raise them and teach them the arts, and how to fight, and so on. He taught all the great heroes. Heracles, Achilles, the original Jason—I'm guessing you're named after him, incidentally—Winston Churchill, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, George Washington—remember, the gods moved with history. A lot of modern celebrities and famous figures are really demigods. Just about anyone you can think of—a famous general is probably a son of Zeus or Ares, a lot of popular musicians are descendants of Apollo, the god of music, a good many Hollywood stars are kids of Dionysus or Aphrodite"—
"I think I know a football player who might be a son of Janus," I put in. "He's the god of beginnings and endings and doorways, as I recall, and no mere mortal could go through that many teams in such a short amount of time."
"Right," said Flint, looking pleased that I seemed to be catching on. "Well, now Chiron lives in Long Island, and that's where we're headed. His hero training was formalized a couple decades ago into Camp Half-Blood, and now that's where all heroes go to learn the tricks of the trade—a summer camp for children of the gods. They send out people like me to find kids who might be demigods, and bring them here. Your seeing the Fury was a sure sign—monsters are usually invisible to mortals because of the Mist. It makes monstrous or godly stuff look normal to them—if another student had wandered in while you were being chased, it probably would've looked to them like you were getting mauled by some old granny. The Iliad even mentions it a few times."
My head was spinning, and I reflected on the whole unbelievable adventure for the millionth time. I just couldn't get over it. I was a demigod—I probably had superhuman powers! I knew somewhere that I shouldn't believe that this could all be real, but another, much larger part of my mind—like I've mentioned earlier—somehow knew that Flint was right. I guess that was the Olympian blood in me. And the more I thought about it, the more I knew I hadn't imagined anything I'd seen. While I was wrestling with this, I came up with a more pertinent question: "People like you? What do you mean?"
Flint looked oddly uncomfortable, but developed a knowing smile, one I'd always come to dread during his pranks back at school. "Well, I suppose it's time I tell you the truth about who I am. Flint Greenbaum, satyr at your service." And with that, he kicked off his shoes, revealing furry, goat-like ankles ending in polished gray hooves, and at the same time pushed his fedora back to reveal curly horns protruding from his mullet.
Neither of us could do anything but gape at him in shock. As we were struggling to find words, the van (as I would later learn) passed through the borders of Camp Half-Blood. The air seemed to get fresher, my mind seemed to get clearer, and Argus, our driver, underwent a dramatic change. Each and every one of the scars on his body turned into a bright blue eye, staring straight at us. Suddenly, I remembered who he'd been in Greek mythology—the hundred-eyed watchman dude.
We didn't stop screaming for a solid sixty seconds.
Well, there we are! I hoped you liked it, and that my explanation of the gods and so on was satisfactory. Now, on to the third chapter!