Twisting the locket between her fingers, she wondered for about the millionth time since the Scroll had given her its answer how her father would be when she found him. After all, the Scroll had told her that he was alive, hadn’t it? So what had stopped him, or any of the others, from coming home? Or making contact? Her mind returned to the day the expedition left, hearing the men’s shouted goodbyes as they boarded the plane at Heathrow, all khaki trousers and smiles, intent on finding the site of the village of some old Amazonian tribe, one whose legendary chieftain had dusted his skin with gold and danced in the moonlight, and pondered, yet again, what could possibly have gone wrong.
(Me, I’d already be thinking about those monstrous jungle spiders, big enough to throttle a finch, or merciless anacondas, ready to wrap round you like a taco and squeeze you till you’re human guacamole.8)
Sighing, she turned her attention to the stands of towering trees rocketing out of the endless canopy like flagpoles topping a ginormous circus tent. Pushing her forehead against the window, she stared at the swathe of leaves, knowing that he was down there somewhere, hidden far below, in the shadowy world beneath them. She would find him, she told herself, she would, and then they’d be a proper family again.
A sudden explosion of red, blue and gold from the treetops made her jump, as a flock of macaws burst screeching into the air.
‘Did you see that?’ gasped Rose, now bolt upright in her seat, blinking as the birds swirled and squawked in wide noisy circles.
She turned to Hazel, the only other passenger in the private cabin, who was seated across an expanse of pink carpet in a raspberry-coloured squishy chair. The young pop star was wearing pink cotton trousers and a pink T-shirt with a pink eye-mask snapped firmly over her eyes, her blonde ponytail swishing from side to side as she bobbed to the music playing through her earphones. And yes, they were pink, too.
‘Haze?’
Rose watched as Hazel reached absently into the basket beside her seat for yet another bottle of French spring water (specially imported for the flight) and held it out like a microphone out in front of her, miming the words and blowing kisses to her fans. Punching one hand in the air, she kicked out a spangly pink sneaker. ‘Got to see me, baby!’ she trilled.
Rose giggled, hardly able to believe that it was only a few weeks ago that she had met Hazel Praline – the Hazel Praline – and now they were actually friends. Sinking back into her seat, she was still faintly amazed that she, boring old Rose from Camden, was travelling with Hazel Praline in the megastar’s private plane. Hazel Praline whose posters were tacked all over the wall of her bedroom, whose Saturday morning TV show, in which Hazel played a fearless horse rider rounding up cattle between bursting into song, Rose watched every weekend, whose concert she’d been so desperate to attend. And who now – even if it had felt like forever rather than a few weeks to Rose as she waited for Hazel to finish all her London interviews and film publicity and blah blah blah – had personally brought her out to the jungle.
But then, there had been so many unbelievable things this summer.
Like meeting Alex and Aries. At first she’d hardly even believed that they were ghosts. And small wonder since Ancient Greek ghosts, as some of you already know, look just as solid as you and me.9 Now she felt her heart lurch, wishing they were with her and, stifling a snort of laughter, she imagined Aries uncomfortably buckled into one of the squishy seats, hooves in the air, complaining loudly, and Alex hopelessly trying to cheer him up. She’d never known anyone like them, so totally brave and funny and loyal. She wondered if they’d had the heroes’ welcome they’d talked about when they returned to the Greek Underworld. It was funny really, she reflected, because before meeting them she’d only ever thought of Greek heroes as muscle-bound and brimming with confidence. Not a boy and a ram as bald as a pickled onion.
‘My stomach!’ squealed Hazel, jolting Rose from her thoughts as the plane dropped abruptly.
Snapping off her eye-mask, the young star blinked in the sunlight as the tannoy crackled into life and the pilot’s voice crooned across the stylish deck.
‘Good afternoon, ladies! In a few minutes we will be starting our descent into Barcelos Airport. Buckle up!’
‘We finally there?’ muttered Hazel, reaching for the giant sunhat on the seat beside her. ‘I’m gonna fix us some watermelon coolers when we arrive!’
‘Sounds good,’ said Rose, clicking her seat belt together, freshly glad that Hazel was with her for company. She’d been such huge fun back in London.
Rose looked out, feeling her stomach loop the loop, as gaps opened up in the jungle through which the broad Rio Negro, its water black as liquorice, twisted and writhed. The town of Barcelos seemed little more than a cluster of whitewashed buildings nestled into a long curve of dark water and, closer now, catching her breath, she could make out houses with grey corrugated iron roofs, criss-crossed by narrow palm-lined roads. A blue bus rumbled sluggishly past a schoolyard filled with playing children.
‘Here we go!’ trilled Hazel, as the plane’s tone changed, and it turned towards the runway. Catching sight of Rose’s face, she smiled broadly. ‘Won’t be long now, Rose. We’ll find him. You’ll see!’
Rose stared down, watching as the plane flew over a row of grander waterfront buildings, dominated by a church, its big blue doors propped open at the top of a flight of steps that ran down to the river. Red fishing boats bobbed against the bank. A four-tiered river cruiser gleamed at the end of a whitewood jetty.
Now for those non-Brazilian geographers amongst you, Barcelos is a long way north-west of the coordinates the Scroll had given Rose, but Hazel had insisted they fly here, rather than Manaus which was closer, because Manaus was also the biggest, hippest, city in the jungle and bound to be a-brimmin’ with fans a-circling her like flies in the Texan heat. Besides, she’d pointed out, after everything that’d happened to them in London, wouldn’t Rose prefer a relaxing river cruise, too? Rose, as you might have imagined, wouldn’t. She’d hated the thought of leaving her father a second longer in the jungle than she had to, but had bit back her impatience. After all, as she’d had to remind herself, it was completely amazing that Hazel was taking her at all.
As the plane lurched again, Rose spotted the runway, little more than a thin strip of tarmac, and a few seconds later the plane bounced down in a squeal of hot rubber tyres and rumbled to a stop.
‘C’mon!’ cried Hazel, dragging an overstuffed bag and three hatboxes behind her as the flight-attendant, a slim woman dressed in a neat pink uniform, opened the plane door.
For a moment, Rose stood in the doorway as Hazel clattered down the metal steps. Heat punched her in the chest, bringing with it the mingled smells of pineapple and sun-warmed bananas. Faint shrieks and howls rang out across the runway from the trees encircling the airport perimeter and, stepping out, Rose felt her stomach fill with butterflies. Then, quickly shaking her head, she hoisted her rucksack on to her back and scolded herself silently that whatever lay ahead it couldn’t possibly be as daunting as squaring up to a sorceress and surviving her wrath.
She rolled her eyes.
What was she doing even thinking about Medea? After all, she was thousands of miles away, wasn’t she? On a different continent, scrubbing floors and buffing boots, doing her community service?
Which unfortunately brings me to yet another of those troublesome ‘M’ words.
Mistaken.
5 See, there’s another.
6 And another.
7 What d’ya mean, ‘mooch-hole’ isn’t a word? It is now.
8 Monstrous? Merciless? What did I tell you about those ‘M’ words?
9 Unlike other ghosts, they don’t waft, waver or go ‘Whoo!’ Nor do they haunt houses, lurk in wardrobes or loom menacingly. And they’d never be seen dead under a drooping sheet. In fact, they eat, drink, blow their noses and do all manner of boringly ordinary things just like us. Yes, including going to the toilet. Thank you for mentioning that.
At that moment, several miles below Rose’s feet, down in the Greek Underworld, Aries, the ghost ram of the Golden Fleece, was snorting at his marble bottom. Now, since a marble bottom is likely to make anyone snort, I’d better explain that the bottom in question actually belonged to his statue. And statues, as we all know, are often made of marble, making a marble bottom perfectly fine and, indeed, much better than, say, having a bottom made of jelly. However, I don’t know why you want to talk about jelly bottoms when I’m trying to tell you about his statue.
Ah, yes.
Truly splendid, the statue was a gift from Athena, the goddess of wisdom, who always rewarded Greeks returning from a quest with a prize. Gleaming creamy-white, it stood on a lawn in the Underworld Zoo, home to the ghosts of all the Greek monsters. The life-sized figure captured Aries perfectly, showing him in a furious battle charge. Its broad back reared upwards, its massive shoulders braced tightly, its front hooves hovered above the ground, as though he was poised to hurtle forwards. Two glorious gold-dusted horns – horns that had taken the sculptor days of tippy-tapping until they curled precisely like Aries’ own and were quite as twirly as Danish pastries – tilted forwards ready to butt anything, or anyone, out of his path.
Not that Aries was in the mood to admire any of that today.
No, because at that moment his attention was fixed on the crude wooden target that had mysteriously appeared on the statue’s derriere and from which three arrows jutted.
‘He’s done it again!’ he fumed, recognising Jason’s latest attack.
The day before yesterday, he’d found his statue wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. Last week, a black curly moustache had appeared painted beneath its magnificent muzzle. A moustache, Aries scowled, that had taken Hex, Medea’s ex-familiar black mamba, two days of rubbing (and grumbling) to polish clean.
Now, staring at the offending arrows, he felt his brain start to simmer furiously.
Wasn’t it enough that the leopard-skinned twerp had stolen the Fleece all those years ago? Leaving him, Aries the noble ram of legend, doomed to an eternity of bald ghosthood in the Underworld? Not to mention his being stupid enough to let Medea get her icy-white fingers on his golden coat for her cruel magic? Clearly not, because even now Jason insisted on treating Aries like some big, silly, walking joke. A joke that everyone else always found hugely amusing. Aries snorted furiously. If only they knew the truth about their so-called hero. What if, like him, the dancing girls had actually been in the forest that night and seen Jason’s knees knocking whilst Medea sorted out all the scary bits? The dancers wouldn’t be as pink and giggly then, he was sure. And would Athena still be simpering around him, cupping her face in wonder as she listened to his bragging? Hardly. His flanks began quivering with rage at the unfairness of it all, certain that things would be very different down here if they’d seen what had truly happened for themselves. And sighed. In the Underworld, people lapped up the story of a handsome hero over a bald ram every time.
He glared at the arrows and harrumphed bitterly. Just imagining Jason’s ridiculous grin as he’d fired those despicable arrows sent a shudder down his spiralling horns, the sort of shudder that made them positively itch to butt the swaggering hero into the nearest pile of steaming Minotaur doo. For years Jason had picked on him, and it had become ten times worse since the ram had come back from London.
Rearing up, Aries threw his shoulders into the air and paddled his hooves over the grass, for a moment perfectly mimicking the statue in front of him.
Which was when he heard a familiar voice.
‘Aries! You’ll knock yourself out!’ it yelled.
Sliding his treacly-brown eyes sideways, Aries saw Alex running towards him, tall and rangy, waving his arms wildly in the air, whilst Hex swayed up from the boy’s shoulders in a silvery question mark. Then, undeterred, he hurled himself forward, galloping towards the statue in a blizzard of dust.
Veering sideways at the last second, Aries seized the edge of the target in his mouth, snapping its rope and with the flourish of an Olympic discus thrower entertaining a cheering crowd, tossed it into the air. Clopping after it, he speared it as it landed. Then, imagining it was Jason, he flung it down onto the ground and stamped on it, smashing the wood and splintering the thin arrow shafts – crack, crack, crack – before snatching up the wreckage in order to hurl it into the nearby lake.
Which was when he realised that Alex was now standing right beside him, with his arms folded, sighing loudly.
‘Feel better now?’ he said, picking up one of the broken arrow shafts and tapping its feathers against his palm.
‘Much,’ replied Aries primly, fixing Alex with a stubborn right-eyed stare.
This was because his left eye was now hidden behind a shard of the smashed target, which despite much flinging had remained stuck firmly on his horns and now veiled half of his face like a hat worn at a jaunty angle.
‘You shouldn’t let Jason get to you like this,’ said Alex, stepping forward to pull the wood free.
Aries sighed, wearily disappointed to see that the boy was wearing his ‘zoo-keeper’s face’ again. The same old look he always gave Aries when the ram talked about Jason. Or when he listened to the Minotaur moan about Theseus or the Chimera10 chunter about Bellerophon.11 That same old mixture of patience and frustration that showed that whilst Alex was truly sorry about what had happened to the monsters, he was truly tired, too, at hearing yet again how fabulous animals hated the Greeks who’d killed them or, in Aries’ case, stolen the Fleece he’d loved most in the world.
‘But don’t you see?’ said Aries, yanking his horn back as Alex pulled off the last shard of target. ‘Jason couldn’t attack it if it was where it should be. In the Heroes’ Pavilion.’ He scuffed a hoof through the dust. ‘With all the others.’
‘The others-s-s?’ hissed Hex. ‘I thought that’d be the las-s-st place you’d want it?’
The others, as some of you will recall, were the statues of Greece’s most famous heroes. All displayed in the Pavilion, it was Jason and his fifty Argonauts that held pride of place, gracing its grand entrance hall. Standing high on their plinths, majestic and awe-inspiring, they gazed blindly at one another across an expanse of black marble floor, lofty beneath the circlets of laurels that were placed on their heads each morning after their daily dusting. However, Athena had flatly refused to allow Aries’ statue, celebrating the courage he’d shown back in the summer, to stand with them.
‘You told me,’ hissed the snake, slithering down from Alex’s shoulder to bring his face close to Aries’ left ear, ‘that the Argonauts-s-s were jus-s-st a bunch of braggers-s-s, bullies-s-s and thieves-s-s. And that Jas-s-son des-s-served to be their captain becaus-s-s-e he was-s-s the bigges-s-st fraud of the lot!’
‘He is!’ snapped Aries. ‘His statue should be crunched up into tiny pieces and used for the Nemean Lion’s litter tray! But the fact remains that the Pavilion is the place that people expect to see Greek heroes. Not stuck in the zoo, halfway between that lot –’ he glanced over his shoulder at the lake – ‘and that!’ he finished, glaring ominously at a nearby villa-shaped building behind him.
Ah, yes.
Well, there was nothing wrong with the crystal waters of the lake. In fact, it housed the fabulous Pipers of Poseidon – one of the more glamorous attractions in the zoo, a band of blue-skinned mermen and women who played a splendid watery symphony on their conch shells every afternoon at three.
No.
The problem was the neighbouring small building. This was because it housed the – how can I put this nicely? – zoo lavatories.
That’s right, public conveniences.
And Aries did have a point. After all, who expects to see statues of heroes within earshot of toilet noises? I mean, imagine if Lord Nelson wasn’t up on his column but down in the square below with his naval nose pressed up against a block of Trafalgar Square loos.
It’s hardly dignified, is it
?
Sighing, Aries looked at the plinth of his statue, now scuffed with sandal marks, from where Jason had clambered up.
‘I know it’s hard,’ said Alex, looking into Aries’ eyes, ‘but that’s just the way things are down here. Goddesses will always prefer statues of hunky men to rams in their Pavilion because that’s what heroes look like to them.’ He shrugged, glancing over at the trunk of a nearby oak tree riddled with arrows, and rubbed Aries’ head. ‘And look! He only managed to hit the target three times.’
‘Despite the s-s-size of it,’ added Hex, snapping his tongue back quickly as Aries swung round and fixed him with a hot stare.
Quickly realising his mistake, Hex dropped onto the ground and zigzagged between the ram’s hoofs. Then, snagging a dock leaf on his fang, he slithered up onto the statue’s horns and hung down to busily rub Jason’s sandal scuffs off the marble.
‘The important thing to remember,’ he hissed, glancing up between polishes, ‘is-s-s that we know what we did. Unlike Jas-s-son, who you keeping ins-s-sis-s-s-ting didn’t do what he’s-s-s famous-s-s for, we really did s-s-save Ros-s-se and Hazel.’
Aries sank down onto his haunches and stuck out his bottom lip sulkily. It was different for Hex, he decided, his eyes following the snake’s circling snout as he rubbed at the statue again, because escaping from Medea’s clutches had been prize enough.
And Alex?
Of course Aries knew that the boy wouldn’t give a mouldy fig for statues or fame. Or, he sighed, toadying poets who wrote epic poems about quests. Of course flouncy Jason and his wretched crew had a whole book devoted to how they’d snitched the Fleece. Written by Apollonius some years after the voyage, from the account given by Jason himself, since the ship’s log had been unfortunately lost overboard on the trip, The Argonautica was on the scroll-shelf of every god and goddess, soldier, schoolchild and citizen in the Underworld. Oh yes, Aries groaned inwardly, down here they just couldn’t get enough of his glittering story of bravery and glory.
Rampage! Page 2