by David Slavin
“DON’T DO IT, MOM!”
“. . . come home to your mamma, safe and sound!”
Mom starts crying. That does it. The floodgates open. I start wailing, but when I look up, I don’t feel so bad.
I guess nobody likes to see a mother cry! Still sniffling, we walk up the gangplank and climb aboard the Greek Freak. Our helmsman greets us.
“I’m Phaethon, your helmsman,” he mutters mournfully. “My father is Helios, the Sun God. He granted me one wish, and I asked to drive his sun chariot across the sky. He said it would be too much for me. I said it wouldn’t be, but it was, and I crashed. As punishment, I’m doomed to drive a school chariot for all eternity. And now, I must drive this boat to the Underworld. Anchors aweigh.”
Hey, he’s the only driver we could find!
We trim the mainsail, lower the boom, and batten down the hatches. (Okay, I have no idea what any of that stuff means—I just pretend to.) Heracles starts rowing, and the next thing you know, we’ve set sail.
We’re barely out of the harbor, and already I’m a whole bunch of sicks: heartsick, homesick . . . and seasick!
After a while, it’s not so bad being out on the water. It’s actually quite peaceful! Sunlight dances on the deep blue ocean, and salty breezes fill my lungs. The Underworld feels far, far away. Then, because it’s almost impossible for me to be happy for too long, I suddenly realize that I have no idea where we’re going! I find Poseidon and ask him to explain.
“Ya got me,” says Poseidon.
“Don’t you know?” I say. “You are God of the oceans.”
“Look around, dude,” he says. “The oceans are huge. You expect me to know every last inch of them? Do you know all the weirdos in the world?”
“Then . . . how will we figure out where we’re going?”
“Ask Phaethon—he’s got the map.”
I head up to our trusty helmsman and decide to flip the script on him. “You’re Phaethon, our helmsman,” I say. “Your father is Helios, the Sun God. He granted you one wish, yada yada yada, I got it.”
Phaethon looks shocked. “I . . . I . . . I’m Phaethon.”
“Right. So, Phaethon, do you have the map to the Underworld?”
“It’s in that basket there. I’m Phaethon, your helmsman.”
I reach for the large, rolled-up map and spread it out in front of me. I’m pretty shocked by what I see.
WHAT THE WHAT???
“Wow, that’s bad,” murmurs Phaethon. “Almost as bad as crashing your father’s sun chariot—”
“What happened to the map, Phaethon???” I say.
“Beats me,” replies Phaethon. “It’s been sitting in that basket the whole time.”
I look down into the basket. I’m pretty shocked by what I see, PART TWO!
Bruiser! That stupid hamster stowed away and ate our map! Then it hits me. “If you’re here,” I say to the ravenous rodent, “then I know who else is, too!” I grab Bruiser and start searching. I reach the lifeboat hanging off the back of the ship and throw open the cover.
“I told you no one could stop us,” says Puneous. “Oh, and I’ll tell you one more thing: if I don’t get out of this lifeboat soon, I’m going to HEAVE HO!”
When the rest of the crew hears that Puneous stowed away—and then sees what his boy Bruiser did to the map—a number of options are considered.
Principal Deadipus steps in and takes charge.
“Calm yourselves, children! Let us examine the situation before jumping to any conclusions. Now, it is true that a portion of our map has been lost—”
“You mean eaten!” says Adonis. “By a rat!”
“But I am sure we have other options at our disposal. Poseidon, you are king of the oceans. Do you know how to guide us to the Underworld?”
“Nope,” says Poseidon.
“Very well. Phaethon, you are our helmsman. Do you know how to guide us to the Underworld?”
“Nope,” says Phaethon.
“I see. Then I believe it is safe to assume that . . . WE ARE DOOMED!!!”
“Principal Deadipus,” interjects Mathena.
“WOE IS ME!!!”
“PRINCIPAL DEADIPUS!” screams Mathena.
“WHAT IS IT, MATHENA???”
“I can guide us to the Underworld.”
“You? Seriously? But how?”
“How else?” replies Mathena. “With math!”
“HUZZAH! WE ARE SAVED!” cries Deadipus. “Wait—did you just say, ‘With math’?”
Mathena takes this crazy-looking doohickey out of her bag. “I made this before we left. I call it a sextant—it’s a doubly reflecting navigation instrument that measures the angular distance between an astronomical object and the horizon for the purposes of celestial navigation. I can estimate latitude by calculating angle with time of day, and measure lunar distance with another celestial object to determine Greenwich Mean Time and, therefore, longitude. Understand?”
Whoa! What happened? Must have dozed off for a bit! I see Mathena taking measurements and writing them down on the munched-up map.
“Mathena, can you really do this?” I ask.
“Yes, I can,” Mathena replies.
“And can you tell what those arrows with DANGER!, AVOID!, and BEWARE! mean?”
“No, I can’t.”
(I should’ve stopped at “Yes, I can.”)
“So,” I ask, “when do you think we’ll reach that DANGER! arrow?”
“By my calculations, I’m figuring . . . right now.”
“Is that what your sextant thingy is saying?”
“No, that’s what my eyes are saying,” Mathena replies. “LOOK!!!”
“What the heck is that?” I ask.
“Either he’s got another eye in the back of his head, or that’s a Cyclops!” replies Mathena. “I’ve read about them—they’re very fond of boats!”
“Oh,” I say. “What’s so bad about that?”
“They like to eat them!” replies Mathena.
“Oh. That’s bad.” No one else is saying anything (a huge one-eyed giant will do that to you), so finally I look up at him and splutter, “Umm . . . h-h-h-hello, sir. Will you p-p-please let us p-p-pass?”
“WHY???” thunders the creature.
“Because we need to get by you?” I reply.
“WHY?”
“We’re on our way to the Underworld,” I say.
“WHY?”
“To find my uncle Hades.”
“Our uncle Hades,” Adonis chimes in.
“WHY?”
“To bring him back to Mount Olympus, where we live.”
“WHY?”
“We . . . can’t really tell you that.”
“WHY?”
“It’s a secret.”
“WHY?”
“Our mother doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“WHY?”
“We . . . can’t really tell you that, either.”
“WHY?”
“What’s with this dude?” mutters Gaseous. “Talk about a whysguy!”
Just when things couldn’t get any worse, it starts sleeting—and we start sneezing! Then we look up and realize it’s not sleet at all. The salivating Cyclops has wrapped a napkin around his neck, and he’s grinding pepper on us! We’re being seasoned!
“Achooo!!!” I sneeze. “Pardon me for asking this, but is ‘Why?’ all you can say?”
“WHY?”
“I’m curious.”
“WHY?”
“I’d just like to know.”
“WHY?”
“See? There you go again!”
“Oddonis, please—let me handle this,” says Principal Deadipus, turning to the ogre. “I am Principal Deadipus of the Mount Olympus Middle School. If you do not let us pass, I’m afraid I will have to call your parents.”
“WHY?”
“Because you are not allowing us to sail through!”
“WHY?”
“Only you can answer that question!”
<
br /> “WHY?”
“BECAUSE YOU ARE THE ONE WHO IS OBSTRUCTING US!”
“WHY?”
“Oh, you are IMPOSSIBLE!” screams Deadipus.
Way to handle it, Principal D! Clearly, this is getting us nowhere. I turn to the beast and ask, “Could you excuse us for a minute?”
“WHY?”
“My friends and I need to talk things over.”
“WHY?”
“Well, to be honest, you’re kinda driving us crazy.”
“WHY?”
“Never mind!”
“I figured it out, you guys,” says Gaseous as we all huddle together. “That’s not a Cyclops. That’s a WHYCLOPS!”
“Cyclops, Whyclops—either way, he’s not letting us through!” I say. “What are we supposed to do?”
“The same thing Odysseus did to the Cyclops,” answers Adonis. “Poke him in the eye!”
“Sounds good to me!” says Poseidon.
“Me too!” echoes Puneous.
“Me five!” adds Heracles.
“Have you seen the size of that Whyclops?”
“I can totally take him!” says Adonis.
“You???”
“Heracles can totally take him!” says Adonis.
I can already imagine how that’ll turn out!
Hmmm.
“Maybe there’s another way,” I say. “Just follow my lead.” I turn back to the Whyclops. “Tell me, Whyclops. What is the first letter in the word ‘yo-yo’?”
“WHY?”
“That is correct! And what is the first letter in the word ‘yellow’?”
“WHY?”
“RIGHT AGAIN!!! You’re really good at this!”
“WHY?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Because you’re very, very smart!!!”
I whisper back to the crew, “Everybody think of Y words, and Heracles—start rowing!”
“What’s the first letter in ‘yak’?” asks Mathena.
“WHY?”
“GOOD!” we all cheer.
“Yogurt?” yells Puneous.
“WHY?”
“HOORAY!” we all yell.
“Yowza?” screams Gaseous.
“WHY?”
“Yodel?” hollers Poseidon.
“WHY?”
“Umm . . . errr . . . uhhh,” mumbles Heracles.
We’re almost through the Whyclops’s legs! The only problem now is that the Whyclops is so excited that he’s jumping up and down—and if one of his size-fifty feet lands on us, we’re goners!
“How about ‘YAY’?” we shout.
“And ‘YES’?”
“WHY?”
“‘YAHOO!!!’” I roar.
“WHY?”
“Why?” I call back. “I’ll tell you why! Because we’ve sailed past you, Whyclops, and you can’t get us anymore!”
“WHY?” the Whyclops moans.
“That’s easy!” yells Mathena. “We’re WHYS beyond our years!”
“That. Was. TOTALLY AWESOME!!!” bellows Adonis.
“I can’t believe we did that!” agrees Poseidon.
“WE ROCK!” echoes Puneous.
“OH, YEAHHHHH!!!” roars Heracles.
Seriously??? WE??? If WE had followed my brother’s plan, WE would be sailing through the Whyclops’s small intestine right about now! And one more thing: what’s with Puneous?
“Hey,” I say to Puneous. “Why are you on the Gods’ side? You’re one of us!”
“Really?” hisses Puneous. “You sure didn’t make me feel like that when you excluded me from this trip!”
Ouch. One more thing for me to feel guilty about. Puneous walks off in a huff. I’m hoping he’ll get over it, though. After all, we just scored a major victory! Everyone’s feeling relieved and excited after our close encounter of the one-eyed kind. Even Phaethon is pumped! He runs around the boat giving us all high fives.
Phaethon’s always been a total downer, so I’m happy he’s happy . . . until I realize that if he’s high-fiving, then NOBODY’S DRIVING THE BOAT!
Thanks a lot, Phaethon! I’m about to utter a big “OH, NO!” but I’m shocked when an even bigger “OH, YES!!!” comes out of my mouth instead! See, we’ve run aground—right onto a beautiful beach! And it’s not just any beautiful beach: it’s a kid paradise!
We all pile out of the boat and make a beeline for the beach, but Principal Deadipus stops us.
“HALT! Stop right there, you ruffians! How dare you? Where are your manners? We are guests on this island, and representatives of Mount Olympus! We must exhibit civility! Decorum! Etiquette! Even in the face of unlimited sno-cones, bouncy castles, and hot tubs. Wait—HOT TUBS??? OUT OF MY WAY! LAST ONE IN IS A ROTTEN EGG!!!”
“Is this great or what?” asks Gaseous as we float in the perfectly heated pool. “Who ever thought a trip to the Underworld could be FUN?”
“Not me!” I reply.
Puneous paddles by, wearing the tiniest water wings ever. “Maybe we should skip the Underworld and stay here!”
Hmmm.
No! Mustn’t . . . think . . . like that!
Mathena relaxes on a lounge chair, sunning herself while cuddling two cute piglets from the petting zoo. “This is the life,” she sighs. “If only I had some calculus homework, too!”
“You’ve officially gone bananas,” says Gaseous, peeling a banana. “In fact, you’re nuts!” he adds, nibbling from a bowl of nuts.
“You know what’s really nuts?” Mathena replies. “We haven’t seen anybody else here! That banner says WELCOME TO MUMCE’S BEACH PARTY! So where’s the party? And who is Mumce?”
The piglets start squealing like mad. They jump off Mathena’s lounge chair and scurry away.
“Excellent questions, my child!” says a woman’s voice. “This is your party, and I . . . am Mumce. But you may call me Mumzy Wumzy!”
We all turn our heads and there—standing by a frozen yogurt dispenser—is a dazzling enchantress.
“She’s gorgeous!” Mathena whispers.
“You can say that again!” replies Gaseous. “And Mumce’s pretty, too!”
“Welcome, my children,” says Mumce. “Enjoy my wondrous island. I made it just for you.”
“Can do, Mumce!” says Gaseous, hoovering fro-yo straight from the machine. “Thanks!”
“Please,” Mumce purrs. “Call me Mumzy Wumzy.”
“Whatever you say, Mumzy Wumzy! Got any hot fudge?”
“Of course,” says Mumce. “I’ve got EVERYTHING!”
Mumce’s right: her beach BBQ is LIT! We’re eating and drinking and dancing and playing and swimming and diving and snorkeling and mini-golfing and volleyballing and chilling like we’ve never chilled before! It’s HEAVEN! As Adonis and I compete to see who can make the most epic frozen yogurt sundae of all time, Mumce sidles up next to us.
“Having a good time, kids?”
“This is the BOMB, Mumce!” says Adonis.
“Mumzy Wumzy,” scolds Mumce.
“Oh, yeah—sorry, Mumzy Wumzy!”
“That’s my good boy!”
“It’s great, Mumzy Wumzy,” I say. “I’m just sorry we have to leave!”
“Who says you have to leave? You can stay as long as you like!”
“Thanks,” I reply. “But we’ve gotta go soon. We have to get to the Underworld.”
“The Underworld?” Mumce says. “No, no, no—that’s too dangerous for my babies!”
Okay, that’s a little weird.
“The Underworld is no place for children! You belong here . . . with me.”
Weirder.
“That’s so nice of you, Mumzy Wumzy,” I say. “But we really can’t stay.”
“Oh, but you MUST!” replies Mumce. “Don’t you understand? I built this island for YOU. Mumzy Wumzy wants to be a mommy. Mumzy Wumzy NEEDS to be a mommy. And you will all be Mumzy Wumzy’s children . . . forever!”
WEIRDEST!
“Okaaaay, Mumzy Wumzy,” I say. “Umm . . . we’re going to have o
ur yummy wummy sundaes now.”
“Of course! Indulge yourselves, my precious angels! Your mommy just wants you to be happy!”
Mumce heads off to tend to her party, while Adonis and I start quietly passing the word: emergency meeting at the s’mores station!
“Listen up, you guys,” I say. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What problem?” replies Gaseous. “Too many s’mores???”
“I hate to say this, but Oddy’s right,” says Adonis. “Mumzy Wumzy is loony toony! She wants us to be her babies!”
“I’d be down with that!” says Gaseous.
“You won’t be when you have to spend the rest of your life here, gasbag!” scoffs Adonis.
“So what are you proposing we do?” asks Mathena.
“What else?” replies Adonis. “Attack!”
“Sounds good to me,” says Poseidon.
“Me too,” echoes Puneous.
“Me six!” adds Heracles.
“Not again!” I moan. “Even you, Puneous?”
“Hey, we tried it your way with the Whyclops—”
“Yeah! And it worked!”
Mathena interrupts and suggests, “Why don’t we ask Principal Deadipus what he thinks?”
“There’s more of us than there are of her,” says Adonis. “Just leave it to the big guys, ladies. We’ll take care of Mumce before you’re done with your s’mores.”
“Boys.” Mathena sighs.
“It could work, though, right?” I say. “Adonis’s plan, I mean. After all, there are four of them, and Mumce’s just—”
“Wree! Wree! Wree!”
I’m interrupted by three shrieking pigs—and one teeny-tiny piglet—hoofing their way back to the fire pit. Nothing odd about that, except for the fact that the pigs . . . ARE WEARING TOGAS! The leader of the pork stops right in front of me.
“Witch is such a strong word,” murmurs Mumce as she strolls in behind the pigs. “My sister Circe—now, she’s a witch. I much prefer ‘magic maker’ or ‘sorceress.’ Or just plain old . . . MOM.”