Gods and Horses Can Play Cards

Disclaimer: I don't own PJO, Rick Riordon does. I don't own anything.

I had the weirdest dream; it was full of barnyard animals, most of them wanted to kill me, the rest wanted some food.

I probably woken up several times, but what I saw and heard made no sense whatsoever so I just fell back asleep. What I remember is lying on a bed, being spoon-fed something that tasted like buttered popcorn, but it wasn't because it was pudding. The boy with curly blond hair hovered over me, looking bored as ever.

When he saw my eyes open, he said something, "What'll happen at the summer solstice?"

"What?" I managed to reply.

He scanned the space behind him, like what he was going to say was top secret, "What was stolen? What's going on? There's only a few weeks left!"

"Sorry," I muttered. "I don't know what…"

Next, somebody knocked on the door, and the boy shoved more pudding in my mouth.

The next time I awoke, the guy was gone.

A husky, blond dude, who reminded me of a surfer, stood in the corner of the bedroom, watching over me. He had blue eyes, and a lot of them. He had them on his cheeks, the back of his hands, his forehead.

When I finally awoke for good, there was nothing unusual about my surroundings, except for the fact that they were a lot nicer than I was used to. I was sitting on a deck chair, looking across the meadow at the green hills in the distance. The wind smelled like strawberries, there was a blanket on my legs, and a pillow behind my neck. I would've been comfortable, except for the fact my mouth felt like a scorpion's nest. My tongue was dry and every one of my teeth ached.

Next to me was a table; on the table was a tall drink, like some kind of frozen apple juice. It had a green straw and paper umbrella stuck through a cherry.

My hand was so weak that when I picked it up, I almost dropped it.

"Careful," a familiar voice said.

Grover was leaning against one of the porches railings, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. On the porch railing next to him, was a shoe box. Grover was wearing blue jeans, Converse high-tops, and a bright orange T-shirt that said CAMP HALF-BLOOD. He was just Grover, not the goat boy.

Okay, so it was a nightmare. My mom was alright, we were still on vacation, we stopped here for some reason, and…

"You save my life," Grover said, interrupting my thoughts. "Thanks. And the least I could do, well, was that…I…uh…went back to the hill and got this. I thought you might want it."

He picked up the shoe box on the railing and set it gingerly on my lap.

I opened the box; inside it was a black-and-white bull's horn, the bottom was sharp and jagged from being ripped off and the tip had on dried blood. No, it wasn't a nightmare.

"The Minotaur," I said.

"Uh…Pelagia, it isn't such a—"

"That's what they call him, right?" I asked, "The Minotaur; half man, half bull."

Grover shifted his weight nervously, "You were out for two days, how much do you remember?"

"My mom, is she really?"

He avoided my eyes, looking down.

I gazed across the meadow, there were orchards trees, a twisting stream, and acres of strawberries spread out under the blue sky. The valley was enclosed by rolling hills, and the tallest one had a humongous pine tree, even that looked stunning in the daylight.

My mom was gone. The world should look dark and cold, nothing should look beautiful.

"I'm sorry," Grover sniffed. "I'm a failure. I'm…I'm the worst satyr in the world, I know it."

He stomped his foot onto the ground so hard that his shoe came off. The inside of his shoe was filled with Styrofoam except for a hoof-shaped hole in the middle.

"Oh, Styx!" he yelled.

Thunder boomed in the background, which was weird because the sky was sunny and clear.

Grover struggled to get his hoof back in the hoof hole. Alright, that's it! Grover's a satyr. I'll bet anyone that if I shaved his curly brown hair, I would find tiny horns.

I didn't care, though; so what if satyrs, or even Minotaurs, existed? That just proved that my mom had turned into light.

I was alone, an orphan. I had nowhere to live. I wouldn't live with Smelly Gabe alone. I would live on the streets. I'd do something.

Grover was still sniffling, looking like he was expecting to be hit. Poor satyr.

"It wasn't your fault," I said.

"Yes. Yes, it was, I was supposed to protect you."

"Did my mom ask you to protect me?"

"No, but that's my job. Or it was. I was a Keeper."

"But why…" my vision suddenly got hazy. My head felt like I had just been spinning in circles.

"Don't hurt yourself," Grover said, "here." He closed the shoe box and set my drink on it. I drank it and was surprised by the taste, I was expecting apple juice. This, though, this didn't taste like that at all. It tasted like cookies, chocolate chip cookies, my mom's homemade, blue, chocolate chip cookies. It was buttery and soft, tasting like the chips were melting. My misery didn't go away, but I felt as if my mom had just gave me a cookie and a hug and told me everything was going alright like she did when I was little.

Before I even knew it, the glass was empty. I stared into it.

What the—?

I just had a warm drink, but the ice cubs in the glass were still frozen. Weird.

"Was it good?" Grover asked.

I nodded in response.

"What did it taste like?" He asked longingly, I felt a bit guiltily.

"Sorry, should've poured some in a cup," I replied.

His eyes got as wide as saucers, "No! No….that's not what I meant, just wondering."

"Chocolate chip cookies," I answered, "my mom's homemade chocolate chip cookies."

"How do you feel?"

"Like I could hit Nick Bobofit so hard he'll forget his name."

Grover grinned, "Good. Great actually, but I don't think we can risk any more of that stuff."

"What? Any more of that stuff?"

He took the glass from me carefully and set it back on the table, "Come on. Chiron and Mr. D are waiting."

We walked along the porch, which wrapped all the way around the farmhouse.

My legs trembled as I tried to walk that far. Grover offered to hold the shoebox but I declined, I paid for that souvenir the hard way and wasn't going to let go of it.

When we reached the opposite side of the farmhouse from where we recently stood, I caught my breath. We had to be on the north shore of Long Island because on this side of the house, the valley went all the way to the water, which shimmered beautifully. Between here and the water, I tried to process everything that was there, but failed. The expanse was scattered with buildings that looked like ancient Greek architecture—an opened pavilion, an amphitheater, and a circular arena—except all the buildings looked brand new, the white columns sparkled in the sunlight. In a nearby sandpit, about a dozen of high school age kids and satyrs were playing volleyball. Canoes floated across a small lake. Kids in bright orange CAMP HALF-BLOOD shirts, like Grover's, were all around; some chasing each other by a gathering of cabins near the woods, some shooting targets at an archery range, other rode horses down a trail, and (unless I had gone crazy, which wouldn't surprise me because of everything I've seen) some even had wings.

Down at the end of the porch, sat two men opposite each other at a card table. The boy who had spoon-fed me pudding was sitting on the railing beside them.

The man facing me was small, but porky. He had red noise, big watery eyes, and curly black hair that was almost purple. He looked like one of those baby angels….hubbubs ? No, that's not it. Cherub! Yeah, he looked like a cherub that turned middle-age in a trailer park. He wore a tiger pattern Hawaiian T-shirt. He would've fit right in at one of Gabe's poker parties, but I think this dude could out gamble even my step-father.

"That's Mr. D," Grover mumbled, only audible for me to here. "He's the camp director, be polite. The boy, that's Anthony Chase. Just a camper, but he's been here longer than anybody. And you already know Chiron…"

He pointed to the man whose back was turned to me.

He was sitting in a wheelchair, had a tweed jacket, had thinning brown hair, and scraggly. He seemed familiar. Wait a minute….

"Mr. Brunner!" I yelled.

The Latin teacher turned and smiled at me, he had a mischievous gleam in his eyes, like when he pulled a pop quiz and made all of the multiple choice answers B.

"Good, Pelagia," he said. "Now we have four for Pinochle."

He gesture to the chair left of himself, I sat down.

Mr. D looked at me and heaved a great sigh, "Alright, I'll guess I'll say it. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. There, I said it; now don't expect me to be joyful to see you."

"Ok…thanks," I said, scooting closer to Mr. Brunner. If there was one thing I learned from living with Gabe, one thing at all, it was how to tell if an adult had been hitting the happy juice. If Mr. D was a stranger to alcohol, I was a satyr.

"Anthony," Mr. Brunner called to the blond boy, who jumped off the railing once his name was called. Mr. Brunner introduced us, "This young lad helped nurse you back to health, Pelagia." He turned towards the blond, "Anthony, my boy, why don't you check on Pelagia's bunk? We'll be putting her in cabin eleven for now."

"Sure, Chiron," Anthony replied.

He was probably my age, about my height, but a whole lot more athletic looking. He had a deep tan, curly blond hair, and grey eyes. Intimidating and analyzing grey eyes.

He glanced at the shoebox in my hands and then at me like 'Why do you have a shoebox.' I thought he was going to ask that until he said, "You drool when you sleep."

He turned around and ran towards the cabin. How nice, that's exactly what you tell someone.

"Okay," I said, trying to change the subject. "Do you…um…work here, Mr. Brunner?"

"Not Mr. Brunner," the not-Mr. Brunner said, "That was just a pseudonym. You may call me Chiron."

"Alright," I said, extremely perplexed. "And…Mr. D, does that stand for something?"

Mr. D stopped shuffling the cards and looked at me as if I just said something completely rude. What? I just asked the guy his name. "Young lady, names are a powerful thing. You don't just go around using them for no apparent reason."

"Oh, right, sorry."

"I must say, Pelagia," Mr. Brun—Chiron said. "I'm quite happy to see you're alive. It's been a long time since I've made a house call to a potential camper and I hate to think I've wasted my time."

"Wait, what? House call?"

"When I went to Yancy Academy to instruct you. We have satyrs at most schools, obviously, keeping a look out. Grover alerted me, though, as soon as he met you. He sensed you were special, so I decided to come upstate. I convinced the other Latin teacher to…uh…go on break."

Oh yeah! It seemed like so long ago, but I faintly remember another Latin teacher who disappeared for reasons unknown and Mr. Brunner took his place.

"You came to Yancy Academy just to teach me?" I asked.

Chiron nodded, "To be honest, I wasn't completely sure about you at first. We had contacted you mother, saying we were keeping an eye on you in case you were ready for camp. But you still had so much to learn. However, you made it here alive, and that's always the first test."

"Grover!" Mr. D snapped impatiently. "Are you playing or not?"

"Yes, sir!" Grover quaked as he took the fourth chair, though I wasn't sure why he should be so afraid of the middle-aged cherub in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt.

"You do know how to play pinochle?" Mr. D asked me.

"No," I replied.

"No, sir," Mr. D said.

"Sir," I repeated, liking him less and less.

"Well," he told me, "it is, along with gladiator and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men and woman to know it."

"I'm sure the girl can learn," Chiron said.

"What is this place? Why am I here? Mr. Brunn—Chiron, why did you to Yancy just to teach me?"

Mr. D snorted, "I had asked the same question."

He dealt the cards and Grover visibly winced every time one landed in his pile.

Chiron smiled at me sympathetically, the way he had done if Latin class, as if to let me know no matter my grade average, I was his star student. He expected me to have the right answer. "Pelagia, did you mom tell you nothing?"

"She…" I felt a lump in my throat thinking about my mom, "she told me that she was afraid to send me here, even though my dad wanted her to. She said once I was here, I probably wouldn't be allowed to go. She wanted to keep me close."

"Typical," Mr. D said. "That's how they usual get killed. Girl, are you bidding or not."

"What?" I asked.

Mr. D explained, annoyed, what bidding in pinochle was, and so I did.

"I'm afraid there's too much to tell," Chiron said. "And our usual orientation film won't be sufficient."

"Orientation film? What?"

"No. Pelagia, you know your friend, Grover, here is a satyr. You know"—he pointed towards the shoebox—"that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either. What you may not know is that there are powerful forces at work in your life. Gods, the Greek gods, are very much alive."

I stared at the table waiting. Surely someone is going to yell, "Not!" but all I got was Mr. D cackling and tallying up his points yelling, "Oh, a Royal Marriage. Trick! Trick!"

"Mr. D," Grover asked fearfully, "if you're not going to have it, my I have your Diet Coke can?"

"Eh? Oh, all right."

Grover bit a huge shard out of the aluminum can and chewed it somberly.

"Whoa," I said. "You're telling me there's a thing as God?"

"Well, now," Chiron replied. "God—as in capital 'G', God. That's a different matter altogether. We shall not deal with the metaphysical."

"Metaphysical? But you were just—"

"Ah, gods, as in plural, great beings that control the forces of nature and humans actions; the immortal gods of Olympus, that's a smaller matter."

"What? Smaller?"

"Yes, quite. The gods we discussed in Latin class."

"Oh, like Zeus, Hera, Apollo, Athena."

There it was again, thunder on a clear day.

"Young lady," Mr. D said. "I would really be less casual about tossing those names about, if I were you."

"But they're just myths!" I said. "Stories! Things to help people explain stuff before there was science!"

"Science!" Mr. D scoffed. "And tell me, Pelagia Jackson, what will people think of you so called science two thousand years into the future. They will call it primitive mumbo jumbo. Oh, I love mortals—they think they have come oh so far. And have they, Chiron? Look at this girl and tell me."

I didn't like Mr. D much, to tell you the truth, but there was something in the way he called me a mortal, as if he wasn't.

"Pelagia," Chiron said. "You may choose to believe it or not, but immortal means immortal. Never dying, fading. Existing as who you are right now for all eternity."

I was about to answer that it seemed like a pretty sweet deal, but the tone of his voice made me hesitate.

"Whether people believe in you or not," I said.

"Exactly," Chiron agreed. "If you were a good, how you like it to be called a myth? Something to explain lightning. What if I told you, Pelagia Jackson, that someday people will call you a myth, just to explain how little girls can't get over losing their mom?"

My heart pounded. He was trying to make me angry for some reason, but I wouldn't let him, "I wouldn't like it, but I do not believe in gods."

"Oh, you better believe," Mr. D growled, "before one of them turns you to a pile of ash."

"P-p-please, sir," Grover said, speaking for the first time. "She's in shock, she just lost her mom."

"Luck thing, too," Mr. D grumbled, putting down a card. "It's bad enough I have to work here with kids who don't even believe."

Mr. D waved his hand and a goblet appeared. Literally, appeared. Out of thin air. Poof. The goblet then filled itself with red wine. Whoa!

My jaw dropped, but Chiron didn't even look up from his cards.

"Mr. D," he warned, "your restraints."

Mr. D looked at the wine in feign surprise. He then looked to the clear sky. "Sorry! Old habits!"

Thunder sounded again.

Mr. D waved his hand and the goblet morphed into a Diet Coke can. He opened the lid, sighed miserably, and went back to the card game.

Chiron winked at me, "Mr. D got in trouble with his father a while back, took a liking to an off-limits wood nymph."

"Wood nymph," I repeated, gawking at the Diet Can.

"Yes," Mr. D confessed. "Father loves to punish me. The first time, Prohibition. Ghastly! Unquestionably horrid ten years! The second—well, she was very pretty—the second time, he sent me here, Camp Half-Blood. Summer camp for brats like yourself. 'Be a better influence,' he said. 'Work with youths instead of tearing them down.' Ha! Completely unfair if you asked me! Super unfair!"

He sounded like a pouting six year old.

"And…" I said. "Your father is?"

"Di immortals, Chiron," Mr. D said. "Didn't you say you taught this girl the basics? My father is Zeus, or course."

I ran through D names in Greek mythology. Wine, the skin of a tiger, satyrs all seemed to work here, the way Grover cringed, as though Mr. D was his master. No way…

"You're Dionysus," I said. "God of wine."

Mr. D rolled his eyes, "What do they say these days, Grover? Don't the children say, 'Well, duh!'?"

"Y-y-yes, Mr. D," Grover stammered.

"Then well, duh! Pelagia Jackson! Who'd you think I was? Aphrodite, perhaps?"

"Whoa, you're a god," I said, clutching the top of my head.

"Yes, child."

"You're a god! A god! You! You're a god!"

Mr. D turned to me, staring at me straight in the eyes. In his eyes was some kind of purplish fire, a hint that this whiny, tiny, plump man was showing me only a bit of his true nature. I saw images of grapes strangling non-believers until they were limp, drunken warriors insane with battle lust, the tortured shrieking of sailors as their hands turned into flippers, their faces lengthening into snouts. I knew if I pushed him, he'd show me worse. He'd plant some kind of virus in my head, driving me insane. I would be stuck in some rubber room in a straightjacket for the rest of my life, muttering under my breath, unable to get the images out of my head.

"Would you like to test me, child?" he asked quietly.

"No, sir," I replied.

The fire died down a bit. He turned back to the card game, "I believe I win."

"No, not quite, Mr. D," Chiron replied, setting down a straight and tallied the points. "The game goes to me."

I held my breath, thinking that Mr. D was going to vaporize Chiron right out of his wheelchair. Mr. D, however, just sighed exasperated, as if he was used to getting beaten by the Latin teacher.

"I'm tired," Mr. D said, reminding me of a sore loser. "I'm going to take a nap before the sing-along tonight. First, though, Grover, we need to talk."

Grover's face shined with sweat, "Y-yes, sir."

Mr. D turned to me, "Cabin eleven, Pelagia Jackson. Behave yourself."

He walked into the farmhouse, Grover following glumly.

"Will Grover be alright?" I asked Chiron.

Chiron nodded, though he looked a bit bothered, "Dionysus isn't really mad, he just hates his job. He's been…er…how I can say this? Ah…he's been grounded, you could say. He's too impatient to stand waiting another century before he's allowed to go back to Olympus."

"Mount Olympus," I said. "You mean there's an actual palace there?"

"Well, there is a Mount Olympus in Greece, but there is also the home of the gods, the convergence of their powers, their home, which used to be in Greece. It's still called Mount Olympus, out of respect of the ancient ways, but it moves, Pelagia, just like the gods and goddesses."

"You mean the Greek gods are here? Like…like…they're in America?"

"Certainly, the gods move with the heart of the West."

"The heart of the—what?"

"Come now, Pelagia. What you call 'Western Civilization,' do you think it's an abstract idea? No, it's a living force, and the gods of Olympus have been contacted to it for thousands of years. You could even say they are the foundation of it, or, at least, that they're so securely tied to it that they couldn't fade unless all of Western civilization was entirely annihilated. The fire started in Greece, and then, as you know—or I hope you know because you passed my course—the heart of the fire moved to Rome, and so did the gods. They did with different names—Jupiter-Zeus, Venus-Aphrodite, Minerva-Athena—but they were the same forces, same gods."

"And then they died?"

"Died? Did the west die? No, they simply moved to where ever the heart was brightest, to Germany, France, Spain—where ever. They spent several centuries in England. People do not forget the gods; all you need to do is look at the architecture. Every place they ruled, you can see them in art work; statues, paintings, on the most important buildings. And yes, Pelagia, now they're in the United States. Look at your symbol, the eagle of Zeus. The statue of Prometheus at Rockefeller Center, the Greek facades of your government buildings in Washington. Try to find any American city where the Olympians or not prominently displayed. Like it or not—and believe me, several people weren't fond of Rome, either—America is now the heart of the flame. It is the great power of the west, and Olympus is here. So here we are."

Oh my god, or is it 'gods' now? This was too much to handle; the Greek gods existed! And he kept saying 'we,' like I was apart in a club; the Club of the West. Calm down, Pelagia. Deep breaths.

"Who are you, Chiron? Who…who am I?"

Chiron smiled and shifted his wait, like he was about to rise up out of his wheelchair, but that was impossible; he was paralyzed from the waist down.

"Who are you?" he mused. "Now, isn't that the question we all want answered? But, for now, let's introduce you to cabin eleven. Besides, there are s'mores at the camp fire today, and I absolutely adore chocolate."

Just pretend I didn't say he was paralyzed from the waist down, because next he rose from his chair. It was weird, though; his blanket fell of his legs, but his didn't move. His waist just kept getting longer and longer, rising above his belt. For a moment, I thought he was wearing velvet underwear, but then he kept rising, taller than any human. He wasn't human (or, at least, fully human) nor was he wearing underwear. The white velvet was the front of an animal, muscle and sinew under coarse white fur. The wheelchair wasn't a wheelchair, but some kind of box that had magic of some sort because it shouldn't have been able to fit all of him. A leg came out, long and knobby-kneed, with a hoof. Then another front leg, then hindquarters, and, at last, the box was empty, nothing but a metal shell with false human legs connected to it.

I ogled at the horse who had just sprung from the wheelchair; a huge, white stallion. Where it's neck should, however, was the upper body of my Latin teacher, easily attached to the horse's trunk.

"What a relief," the centaur said exhaling. "I'd been stuck in this thing for far too long, I'm afraid my fetlocks have fallen asleep. Now, come, Pelagia Jackson, let's meet the other campers."