by P. J. Hoover
My heart pounded. He wanted me, his worst student, to write a story for him? It was impossible. But it was also the only chance I was ever going to get of saving Mom, me, the farm, and my future.
“I’ll do it,” I said, reaching for the scroll.
He pulled it out of reach. “It must be an amazing story,” he said. “Filled with fantastical adventures. Epic heroes. It must be a story of legend. Something never seen before. A story that will last for all the ages.”
I gulped. He completely had the wrong guy for this task. I wasn’t a storyteller. I didn’t even like writing.
But no. I was not going to let that sway me.
“No problem,” I said, trying again for the scroll.
“I’m serious, Homer,” Elder Pachis said. “This is your only chance. If you don’t fill this scroll with the most epic story ever, then you may never set foot in this school again. Your farm will be taken away. You’ll never be a soldier. You and your mother will be out on the streets. So, what do you say?”
My mind screamed at me to run away. To pinch myself until I woke up from this horrible nightmare. I could not believe I’d let myself get into this situation in the first place. Still, I had no choice.
I nodded my head and plastered a smile on my face. “I am totally up for the job,” I said, holding my hand out for the scroll. “I’ll write you the best story in the universe.”
“It has to have an arc,” Elder Pachis said.
I nodded. He was not talking about a boat.
“And character growth.”
I kept on nodding. People grew all the time. I’d grown five inches in the last six months.
“And motivation,” Elder Pachis said. “All these things make up a great story.”
“I’m on it,” I said. Between Mom, my dreams of being a soldier, and keeping the farm, I was loaded to the eyebrows with motivation.
“And the project is due in ten days,” Elder Pachis said. “If yours is even an hour late, it’s as good as a failure.”
I held out the hourglass I wore on a chain around my neck. Dad gave it to me before he went out for his last campaign. He told me I should use it to count the days until he got back. Except when the other soldiers returned, he wasn’t with them. I’d stopped counting two years ago.
“No way will it be late,” I said. Ten days was plenty of time to write a story. Ten turns of the hourglass. That was forever.
Elder Pachis eyed me once more and finally handed me the scroll. I flipped the hourglass, resetting it, to make sure we were starting at the same time.
“Oh, and one final thing,” he said.
“Anything.”
“It must be in Dactylic Hexameter.”
“No problem,” I said. I had no idea what that was, but I’d figure it out. How hard could it be?
FALAFELS WITH THE GODS
I SHOVED THE SCROLL INTO MY TUNIC AND GRABBED a reed pen and some ink from the supply shelf and then hightailed it out of there. I had to get on with finding my story. I could write about this whole stupid school experience. Now that was a story. And I’d finish it with me handing this dumb scroll filled out completely back to Elder Pachis. He’d be so impressed by my story that I’d watch as tears rolled down his cheeks. It would be my moment of glory.
But I wasn’t a block out of school when the smell of falafels wafted over to me. Man, I loved me some falafel.
I wandered into the plaza and over to my favorite falafel cart. There were only four stools, three of which were already occupied. The two barstools on the right were taken by these two guys who always came after their work shift at the manure factory. They smelled like dung and had so many missing teeth, I figured the only thing they could eat was falafel. On the third barstool was some teenager with curly brown hair wearing a hat and tattered clothes that looked like he’d just wandered in from a traveling caravan.
I plunked down on the fourth barstool—the one on the far left.
“Sup, Homer,” the kid behind the serving bar said. He had spikey dark hair that came to his shoulders, light skin, and super long eyelashes that made his dark green eyes seem really huge. He was also the closest thing I had to a best friend.
“Sup, Dory,” I said.
Dory ran the falafel cart. Not for himself. That would actually be super cool. I could see the fun in that kind of life, making falafels all day long. But no, Dory was a slave. His master—yep, you got it: Demetrios’ dad—owned the falafel cart. He just made Dory run it for him since Dory was pretty good at cooking.
“Slow day today,” Dory said, shoving a hot falafel in front of me. He never asked for cash. When I could, I’d bring along special treats from the farm to give him in exchange. But with this whole disaster at school, I’d completely forgotten to stop by home and get anything.
“Great,” I said, picking at the falafel. But now, with it here in front of me, I realized that I wasn’t all that hungry. I had bigger things on my mind. “You can help me with something.”
“Sure, watcha got?” Dory said, wiping his greasy hands all over the front of his green apron. Once, I’d made the mistake of watching how much olive oil he put into the falafels. It had taken me a whole week to eat another one. But I’d pushed past the gross factor, because falafels were worth it.
“A project at school. I need a story to fill this.” I pulled the scroll from my tunic. My thumb left a huge splotch of grease on the scroll. I tried to wipe it, but that just made the grease stain smear even more. But Elder Pachis had never said anything about the scroll looking nice. It just needed a story.
An amazing story.
Within ten days.
His words rushed back to me with a haunting swiftness. I had to do this. Everything was at stake. I could never face Mom again if I failed. I could never go home. And I’d never be in the army.
Dory took a step back and looked at the scroll like it might bite him. “You know I can’t read or write, Homer.”
That’s right. Aside from having no freedom and not being able to own any property, slaves in Ionia weren’t allowed to read or write. Demetrios’ dad claimed it might make them too powerful, and then they’d revolt.
I put up my hands. “That’s okay. I can. You can just help me come up with the story. You’re good with stories and ideas.”
Dory looked at me like I’d confused him with someone else. “No, I’m not.”
“You totally are,” I said. “Remember last week when you were telling me about how you spiced the soup? How Demetrios turned bright red and started crying? That was so funny. I was crying.”
“That story was like two minutes long,” Dory said. “It wasn’t even a story.”
“It was awesome,” I said, even though now that I thought about it, I could see that he was right. A story about spiced soup wasn’t going to get me the second chance I needed with Elder Pachis.
“What about that story you told about setting the falafel cart on fire?” I said. “You smothered the fire with Demetrios’ new coat. Man, I loved that story.”
Dory grinned. “Okay, that actually was pretty funny. But your teacher might not think so. That coat probably cost more than what he makes in a year.”
“Hmm …,” I said. “You’re probably right. But you can help me think of something.”
“What kind of story do you need?” the guy at the barstool next to me asked.
I turned to look at him. He was a teenager, like I thought, probably only four or five years older than me or Dory, with scruffy brown hair wound into curls so tight he could have stored pencils in them. Maybe he had a story he could tell me.
“Do I know you?” I asked because he looked kind of familiar.
“Do you?” the guy said.
“I’m Homer,” I said.
I expected him to tell me his name next. That’s what any polite person might have done. But instead, he just said, “Homer. That works.”
“Works for what?”
“It has a nice ring to it,” he said.
“Glad you approve.” I wasn’t sure why this guy cared how my name sounded. My name was my name. It wasn’t like I planned to change it if some teenager didn’t think it rolled off the tongue nicely.
“So, Homer,” the guy said. “What kind of story do you need?”
“Just something for school,” I said. “It’s no big deal.”
“Really?”
Yeah, not really. Just saying it made the complete horror of my situation come back to me. It was a big deal. And I needed help.
So, I told him and Dory all about my trouble at school and everything Elder Pachis had said and the ten days and the scroll. And as I recounted the error of my ways, I realized with complete certainty the trouble I’d gotten myself into. This was the kind of story I was never going to find. And even if through some ridiculous means I managed to find this kind of story, I knew nothing about story telling. If I tried to write it down, it wouldn’t even be worth the cost of the papyrus. I might as well use it in the outhouse to wipe.
Dory and the guy listened until I was done. I picked at my falafel a little bit more even though I’d completely lost my appetite.
“So you need an epic story,” the guy said. “An excellent adventure.”
I nodded. “That pretty much sums it up.”
“Nothing exciting happens in Ionia,” Dory said, further confirming my certain failure.
“True that,” the guy said.
“You guys are no help at all, you know that?” I grabbed the scroll and tightened it. My other fingers left grease stains too, but I didn’t care. I was going to have to go home to Mom and break the bad news. Maybe we could move to a mountain cave or something. Live off the land—as long as bandits didn’t find and kill us.
“I can help,” the guy said.
“Yeah, whatever.”
“No really,” he said. “You think it’s just a coincidence that I’m sitting here right now?”
I glanced around the marketplace. There were at least ten other food trailers, most with a couple empty seats.
“You said you liked the falafels,” Dory said, putting his hands on his hips.
“They are pretty good, but they’re not the reason I’m here.”
I crossed my arms. I didn’t know if this guy could tell or not, but I was not in the mood for joking today. “Just spit out whatever you’re trying to say, okay?”
“Sure,” the guy said. He placed a hand on his chest and kind of gave a half bow. “I am Hermes, messenger of the gods.”
I glanced to Dory, and we both busted out laughing.
“What?” the guy said.
“You expect us to believe you’re Hermes?” I said.
He nodded.
“You’re a god?” Dory said.
“Yep.”
“You?”
“Why is that so hard to believe?” the guy said.
“Because you look like a teenager,” I said.
The guy who was pretending to be Hermes smirked. “That’s because I want to look like a teenager. But check this out.” And as we watched, the silly little hat sitting on his head transformed, and two white wings grew from the sides of it. His skin brightened, almost like he was covered in golden glitter. And his smile widened, showing off perfect teeth that the two guys sitting next to him would have killed for.
“Oh my gods,” I said. “You weren’t lying.”
“Of course I’m not lying,” Hermes said.
“You’re sparkling,” Dory said.
“You think it’s too much?” Hermes asked, looking down at his arm.
“Just a little,” I said, and the glitter factor on his skin lowered back down to a simmer.
“I don’t know,” Dory said. “I kind of like the sparkle.”
“What about the hat?” Hermes said, smoothing the wings back.
“The wings are pretty cool,” Dory said. “But that hat is so last century.”
“Whatever,” Hermes said, and the wings and sparkle faded away. “What I’m trying to tell you is that I am a god, and I can help you with this whole story thing.”
A small spark of hope ignited inside me. What if Hermes was telling the truth? What if he really could help me?
“You can tell me a story?” I asked, knowing my eyes had probably grown as wide as the Ionian gold coins with King Telamon’s face on them.
“Of course not,” Hermes said. “I’m not telling you a story.”
“But you just said—”
“I said I could help you.”
“How?” I asked.
“How many days did you say you had?” Hermes asked.
I pulled the hourglass out from under my tunic. “Ten,” I said, holding it out.
Hermes reached forward and grasped the hourglass in his hand.
“My dad gave me that,” I said, wanting to pull it back from him but also not wanting him to change his mind and not help me.
But Hermes released it, letting it fall against my chest. It felt really warm, like it had been left next to the fire for a little too long.
“It’s a nice hourglass,” Hermes said, and then he dug into his pocket and pulled something out. He set it on the bar in front of me and Dory. It was tiny wooden horse, not even as tall as my hand. It had legs, but it also had four wheels like it was some kind of kid’s pull toy. There was small door on the side of the horse, like a little compartment or something.
“Oh, a toy,” Dory said. “I love toys.”
“What’s inside?” I asked, as Hermes flipped the door open.
He lifted it up and held it out. Dory and I both leaned forward and peeked into the tiny horse. Something reached from inside the horse and grabbed us, yanking me off my barstool and through the impossible opening.
INTO THE HORSE
“GODS, WHAT’S THAT SMELL?” DORY SAID.
Gone was the delicious scent of deep fried falafel. Instead, it reeked of weeks old body odor combined with fresh sweat.
“Silence!” a gruff voice whispered. A voice that definitely belonged to a grown-up man, not a kid like Dory and me.
I don’t know what had happened, but we were no longer at the food trailer. Instead, wherever we were was pitch black. And moving, bumping along like it was being pulled. Small gaps in the surrounding walls let flickering light through, illuminating the space around me enough so I could see silhouettes in the dark.
The voice left no room for discussion. I snapped my mouth shut and prayed that Dory did the same.
He didn’t.
“Homer?” he whispered from next to me.
“Right here,” I said, feeling for his arm.
“Where are we?” he said.
“No idea.”
The cart or whatever it was continued to roll, and the falafel started moving around funny in my stomach, making me seasick. I was not going to retch. Not that it would matter if I did. It might even make the place smell better.
“No talking,” the gruff voice said again. “We’re almost there.”
I had no clue where there was. But I also could tell that it wasn’t a good idea to ask.
The cart bumped along and finally came to a stop. And then this huge crowd that I couldn’t see because they were outside started cheering. It was like a party or something, and music played, and there were screams and laughs and all sorts of celebrating like the yearly Ionia Day parade King Telamon sponsored.
I guess the guy who told us to shut up figured no one would hear us now if we started talking. Or at least if he started talking.
“Here’s the plan,” the guy said. I still couldn’t see his face, but from the sound of his voice, he sat right across from us.
Dory edged closer to me but didn’t say a word.
“The celebrating should go all throughout the night,” the guy said. “And then, once things quiet down, we climb out, open the gates, and attack.”
Attack? I had no clue what this guy was talking about.
“I say we attack now, Odysseus,” some guy with a whin
y voice said.
I had no idea how to spell the name that he said, but it sounded like O-D-C-Us. I could work out that detail later.
“We’re not attacking now,” the guy, who must be named Odysseus, said.
“But if we go right now, they’ll never even notice us,” the whiny-voiced guy said.
“No, Eurylochus,” Odysseus said. It sounded like Yur-E-Lo-Cus.
“But—” he started.
“Don’t question me again,” Odysseus said. “We wait until they fall asleep. Then, we attack.”
And with that, the conversation was over.
A couple of the smelly guys with us in the cart started snoring. One of them let out a giant fart in his sleep. The already rank odor in the cart doubled. I tried not to gag.
Five minutes went by. Then ten. Finally, I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.
“Who are we attacking?” I asked Dory.
“What did you say?” the Odysseus guy asked. Guess he wasn’t asleep. But now seemed as good a time as any to figure out what was going on. I couldn’t really see myself taking a snooze.
“I asked who we’re attacking,” I said.
“Where have you been the last ten years?” he said.
Elder Pachis always said there was no such thing as a stupid question, but I guess I’d just asked one. Whatever the answer, I hadn’t learned it stuck back in Ionia in the boring classroom.
“I’m just a little confused,” I said.
More like a lot confused, and it was only getting worse by the second. I was supposed to be eating falafels.
“Ah, that happens before a great battle,” Odysseus said. “Nervous energy. You need to learn to control it.”
“I will,” I said. “I promise. Just catch me up to speed if you don’t mind.”
“We’re attacking the Trojans, of course,” Odysseus said.
I’d heard of the Trojans. I was pretty sure they used to live across the sea or something like that. Elder Pachis had droned on about their downfall at one point. It seemed like the kind of thing I’d fallen asleep during. Now I was kind of wishing I’d paid more attention.
“Why are we attacking the Trojans?” Dory asked.
“Because they’re scum!” someone else in the cart bellowed. “Their coward prince, Paris, stole Helen right out from under the nose of King Menelaus. Stole her away. Tried to keep her for himself.”