The Sea of Monsters pjatob-2

by Rick Riordan

  With that, he clopped out of the apartment and down the hall, Tyson calling after him, "Pony! Don't go!"

  I realized I'd forgotten to tell Chiron about my dream of Grover. Now it was too late. The best teacher I'd ever had was gone, maybe for good.

  Tyson started bawling almost as bad as Annabeth. I tried to tell them that things would be okay, but I didn't believe it.

  The sun was setting behind the dining pavilion as the campers came up from their cabins. We stood in the shadow of a marble column and watched them file in. Annabeth was still pretty shaken up, but she promised she'd talk to us later. Then she went off to join her siblings from the Athena cabin—a dozen boys and girls with blond hair and gray eyes like hers. Annabeth wasn't the oldest, but she'd been at camp more summers than just about anybody. You could tell that by looking at her camp necklace—one bead for every summer, and Annabeth had six. No one questioned her right to lead the line.

  Next came Clarisse, leading the Ares cabin. She had one arm in a sling and a nasty-looking gash on her cheek, but otherwise her encounter with the bronze bulls didn't seem to have fazed her. Someone had taped a piece of paper to her back that said, YOU MOO, GIRL! But nobody in her cabin was bothering to tell her about it.

  After the Ares kids came the Hephaestus cabin—six guys led by Charles Beckendorf, a big fifteen-year-old African American kid. He had hands the size of catchers' mitts and a face that was hard and squinty from looking into a blacksmiths forge all day. He was nice enough once you got to know him, but no one ever called him Charlie or Chuck or Charles. Most just called him Beckendorf. Rumor was he could make anything. Give him a chunk of metal and he could create a razor-sharp sword or a robotic warrior or a singing birdbath for your grandmother's garden. Whatever you wanted.

  The other cabins filed in: Demeter, Apollo, Aphrodite, Dionysus. Naiads came up from the canoe lake. Dryads melted out of the trees. From the meadow came a dozen satyrs, who reminded me painfully of Grover.

  I'd always had a soft spot for the satyrs. When they were at camp, they had to do all kinds of odd jobs for Mr. D, the director, but their most important work was out in the real world. They were the camp's seekers. They went undercover into schools all over the world, looking for potential half-bloods and escorting them back to camp. That's how I'd met Grover. He had been the first one to recognize I was a demigod.

  After the satyrs filed in to dinner, the Hermes cabin brought up the rear. They were always the biggest cabin. Last summer, it had been led by Luke, the guy who'd fought with Thalia and Annabeth on top of Half-Blood Hill. For a while, before Poseidon had claimed me, I'd lodged in the Hermes cabin. Luke had befriended me… and then he'd tried to kill me.

  Now the Hermes cabin was led by Travis and Connor Stoll. They weren't twins, but they looked so much alike it didn't matter. I could never remember which one was older. They were both tall and skinny, with mops of brown hair that hung in their eyes. They wore orange CAMP HALF-BLOOD T-shirts untucked over baggy shorts, and they had those elfish features all Hermes's kids had: upturned eyebrows, sarcastic smiles, a gleam in their eyes whenever they looked at you—like they were about to drop a firecracker down your shirt. I'd always thought it was funny that the god of thieves would have kids with the last name "Stoll," but the only time I mentioned it to Travis and Connor, they both stared at me blankly like they didn't get the joke.

  As soon as the last campers had filed in, I led Tyson into the middle of the pavilion. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. "Who invited that?" somebody at the Apollo table murmured.

  I glared in their direction, but I couldn't figure out who'd spoken.

  From the head table a familiar voice drawled, "Well, well, if it isn't Peter Johnson. My millennium is complete."

  I gritted my teeth. "Percy Jackson … sir."

  Mr. D sipped his Diet Coke. "Yes. Well, as you young people say these days: Whatever."

  He was wearing his usual leopard-pattern Hawaiian shirt, walking shorts, and tennis shoes with black socks. With his pudgy belly and his blotchy red face, he looked like a Las Vegas tourist who'd stayed up too late in the casinos. Behind him, a nervous-looking satyr was peeling the skins off grapes and handing them to Mr. D one at a time.

  Mr. D's real name is Dionysus. The god of wine. Zeus appointed him director of Camp Half-Blood to dry out for a hundred years—a punishment for chasing some off-limits wood nymph.

  Next to him, where Chiron usually sat (or stood, in centaur form), was someone I'd never seen before—a pale, horribly thin man in a threadbare orange prisoner's jumpsuit. The number over his pocket read 0001. He had blue shadows under his eyes, dirty fingernails, and badly cut gray hair, like his last haircut had been done with a weed whacker. He stared at me; his eyes made me nervous. He looked… fractured. Angry and frustrated and hungry all at the same time.

  "This boy," Dionysus told him, "you need to watch. Poseidon's child, you know."

  "Ah!" the prisoner said. "That one."

  His tone made it obvious that he and Dionysus had already discussed me at length.

  "I am Tantalus," the prisoner said, smiling coldly. "On special assignment here until, well, until my Lord Dionysus decides otherwise. And you, Perseus Jackson, I do expect you to refrain from causing any more trouble."

  "Trouble?" I demanded.

  Dionysus snapped his fingers. A newspaper appeared on the table—the front page of today's New York Post, There was my yearbook picture from Meriwether Prep. It was hard for me to make out the headline, but I had a pretty good guess what it said. Something like: Thirteen-Year-Old Lunatic Torches Gymnasium.

  "Yes, trouble," Tantalus said with satisfaction. "You caused plenty of it last summer, I understand."

  I was too mad to speak. Like it was my fault the gods had almost gotten into a civil war?

  A satyr inched forward nervously and set a plate of barbecue in front of Tantalus. The new activities director licked his lips. He looked at his empty goblet and said, "Root beer. Barq's special stock. 1967."

  The glass filled itself with foamy soda. Tantalus stretched out his hand hesitantly, as if he were afraid the goblet was hot.

  "Go on, then, old fellow," Dionysus said, a strange sparkle in his eyes. "Perhaps now it will work."

  Tantalus grabbed for the glass, but it scooted away before he could touch it. A few drops of root beer spilled, and Tantalus tried to dab them up with his fingers, but the drops rolled away like quicksilver before he could touch them. He growled and turned toward the plate of barbecue. He picked up a fork and tried to stab a piece of brisket, but the plate skittered down the table and flew off the end, straight into the coals of the brazier.

  "Blast!" Tantalus muttered.

  "Ah, well," Dionysus said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Perhaps a few more days. Believe me, old chap, working at this camp will be torture enough. I'm sure your old curse will fade eventually."

  "Eventually," muttered Tantalus, staring at Dionysus's Diet Coke. "Do you have any idea how dry one's throat gets after three thousand years?"

  "You're that spirit from the Fields of Punishment," I said. "The one who stands in the lake with the fruit tree hanging over you, but you can't eat or drink."

  Tantalus sneered at me. "A real scholar, aren't you, boy?"

  "You must've done something really horrible when you were alive," I said, mildly impressed. "What was it?"

  Tantalus's eyes narrowed. Behind him, the satyrs were shaking their heads vigorously, trying to warn me.

  "I'll be watching you, Percy Jackson," Tantalus said. "I don't want any problems at my camp."

  "Your camp has problems already… sir."

  "Oh, go sit down, Johnson," Dionysus sighed. "I believe that table over there is yours—the one where no one else ever wants to sit."

  My face was burning, but I knew better than to talk back. Dionysus was an overgrown brat, but he was an immortal, superpowerful overgrown brat. I said, "Come on, Tyson."

  "Oh, no," Tantalus said. "The mon
ster stays here. We must decide what to do with it."

  "Him," I snapped. "His name is Tyson."

  The new activities director raised an eyebrow.

  "Tyson saved the camp," I insisted. "He pounded those bronze bulls. Otherwise they would've burned down this whole place."

  "Yes," Tantalus sighed, "and what a pity that would've been."

  Dionysus snickered.

  "Leave us," Tantalus ordered, "while we decide this creature's fate."

  Tyson looked at me with fear in his one big eye, but I knew I couldn't disobey a direct order from the camp directors. Not openly, anyway.

  "I'll be right over here, big guy," I promised. "Don't worry. We'll find you a good place to sleep tonight."

  Tyson nodded. "I believe you. You are my friend."

  Which made me feel a whole lot guiltier.

  I trudged over to the Poseidon table and slumped onto the bench. A wood nymph brought me a plate of Olympian olive-and-pepperoni pizza, but I wasn't hungry. I'd been almost killed twice today. I'd managed to end my school year with a complete disaster. Camp Half-Blood was in serious trouble and Chiron had told me not to do anything about it.

  I didn't feel very thankful, but I took my dinner, as was customary, up to the bronze brazier and scraped part of it into the flames.

  "Poseidon," I murmured, "accept my offering."

  And send me some help while you're at it, I prayed silently. Please.

  The smoke from the burning pizza changed into something fragrant—the smell of a clean sea breeze with wild-flowers mixed in—but I had no idea if that meant my father was really listening.

  I went back to my seat. I didn't think things could get much worse. But then Tantalus had one of the satyrs blow the conch horn to get our attention for announcements.

  "Yes, well," Tantalus said, once the talking had died down. "Another fine meal! Or so I am told." As he spoke, he inched his hand toward his refilled dinner plate, as if maybe the food wouldn't notice what he was doing, but it did. It shot away down the table as soon as he got within six inches.

  "And here on my first day of authority," he continued, "I'd like to say what a pleasant form of punishment it is to be here. Over the course of the summer, I hope to torture, er, interact with each and every one of you children. You all look good enough to eat."

  Dionysus clapped politely, leading to some halfhearted applause from the satyrs. Tyson was still standing at the head table, looking uncomfortable, but every time he tried to scoot out of the limelight, Tantalus pulled him back.

  "And now some changes!" Tantalus gave the campers a crooked smile. "We are reinstituting the chariot races!"

  Murmuring broke out at all the tables—excitement, fear, disbelief.

  "Now I know," Tantalus continued, raising his voice, "that these races were discontinued some years ago due to, ah, technical problems."

  "Three deaths and twenty-six mutilations," someone at the Apollo table called.

  "Yes, yes!" Tantalus said. "But I know that you will all join me in welcoming the return of this camp tradition. Golden laurels will go to the winning charioteers each month. Teams may register in the morning! The first race will be held in three days time. We will release you from most of your regular activities to prepare your chariots and choose your horses. Oh, and did I mention, the victorious team's cabin will have no chores for the month in which they win?"

  An explosion of excited conversation—no KP for a whole month? No stable cleaning? Was he serious?

  Then the last person I expected to object did so.

  "But, sir!" Clarisse said. She looked nervous, but she stood up to speak from the Ares table. Some of the campers snickered when they saw the YOU MOO, GIRL! sign on her back. "What about patrol duty? I mean, if we drop everything to ready our chariots—"

  "Ah, the hero of the day," Tantalus exclaimed. "Brave Clarisse, who single-handedly bested the bronze bulls!"

  Clarisse blinked, then blushed. "Um, I didn't—"

  "And modest, too." Tantalus grinned. "Not to worry, my dear! This is a summer camp. We are here to enjoy ourselves, yes?"

  "But the tree—"

  "And now," Tantalus said, as several of Clarisse's cabin mates pulled her back into her seat, "before we proceed to the campfire and sing-along, one slight housekeeping issue. Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase have seen fit, for some reason, to bring this here." Tantalus waved a hand toward Tyson.

  Uneasy murmuring spread among the campers. A lot of sideways looks at me. I wanted to kill Tantalus.

  "Now, of course," he said, "Cyclopes have a reputation for being bloodthirsty monsters with a very small brain capacity. Under normal circumstances, I would release this beast into the woods and have you hunt it down with torches and pointed sticks. But who knows? Perhaps this Cyclops is not as horrible as most of its brethren. Until it proves worthy of destruction, we need a place to keep it! I've thought about the stables, but that will make the horses nervous. Hermes's cabin, possibly?"

  Silence at the Hermes table. Travis and Connor Stoll developed a sudden interest in the tablecloth. I couldn't blame them. The Hermes cabin was always full to bursting. There was no way they could take in a six-foot-three Cyclops.

  "Come now," Tantalus chided. "The monster may be able to do some menial chores. Any suggestions as to where such a beast should be kenneled?"

  Suddenly everybody gasped.

  Tantalus scooted away from Tyson in surprise. All I could do was stare in disbelief at the brilliant green light that was about to change my life—a dazzling holographic image that had appeared above Tyson's head.

  With a sickening twist in my stomach, I remembered what Annabeth had said about Cyclopes, They're the children of nature spirits and gods… Well, one god in particular, usually …

  Swirling over Tyson was a glowing green trident—the same symbol that had appeared above me the day Poseidon had claimed me as his son.

  There was a moment of awed silence.

  Being claimed was a rare event. Some campers waited in vain for it their whole lives. When I'd been claimed by Poseidon last summer, everyone had reverently knelt. But now, they followed Tantalus's lead, and Tantalus roared with laughter. "Well! I think we know where to put the beast now. By the gods, I can see the family resemblance!"

  Everybody laughed except Annabeth and a few of my other friends.

  Tyson didn't seem to notice. He was too mystified, trying to swat the glowing trident that was now fading over his head. He was too innocent to understand how much they were making fun of him, how cruel people were.

  But I got it.

  I had a new cabin mate. I had a monster for a half-brother.

  SIX

  DEMON PIGEONS

  ATTACK

  The next few days were torture, just like Tantalus wanted.

  First there was Tyson moving into the Poseidon cabin, giggling to himself every fifteen seconds and saying, "Percy is my brother?" like he'd just won the lottery.

  "Aw, Tyson," I'd say. "It's not that simple."

  But there was no explaining it to him. He was in heaven. And me… as much as I liked the big guy, I couldn't help feeling embarrassed. Ashamed. There, I said it.

  My father, the all-powerful Poseidon, had gotten moony-eyed for some nature spirit, and Tyson had been the result. I mean, I'd read the myths about Cyclopes. I even remembered that they were often Poseidon's children. But I'd never really processed that this made them my… family. Until I had Tyson living with me in the next bunk.

  And then there were the comments from the other campers. Suddenly, I wasn't Percy Jackson, the cool guy who'd retrieved Zeus's lightning bolt last summer. Now I was Percy Jackson, the poor schmuck with the ugly monster for a brother.

  "He's not my real brother!" I protested whenever Tyson wasn't around. "He's more like a half-brother on the monstrous side of the family. Like… a half-brother twice removed, or something."

  Nobody bought it.

  I admit—I was angry at my dad. I felt like
being his son was now a joke.

  Annabeth tried to make me feel better. She suggested we team up for the chariot race to take our minds off our problems. Don't get me wrong—we both hated Tantalus and we were worried sick about camp—but we didn't know what to do about it. Until we could come up with some brilliant plan to save Thalia's tree, we figured we might as well go along with the races. After all, Annabeth's mom, Athena, had invented the chariot, and my dad had created horses. Together we would own that track.

  One morning Annabeth and I were sitting by the canoe lake sketching chariot designs when some jokers from Aphrodite's cabin walked by and asked me if I needed to borrow some eyeliner for my eye… "Oh sorry, eyes.”

  As they walked away laughing, Annabeth grumbled, "Just ignore them, Percy. It isn't your fault you have a monster for a brother."

  "He's not my brother!" I snapped. "And he's not a monster, either!"

  Annabeth raised her eyebrows. "Hey, don't get mad at me! And technically, he is a monster."

  "Well you gave him permission to enter the camp."

  "Because it was the only way to save your life! I mean… I'm sorry, Percy, I didn't expect Poseidon to claim him. Cyclopes are the most deceitful, treacherous—"

  "He is not! What have you got against Cyclopes, any-way?

  Annabeth's ears turned pink. I got the feeling there was something she wasn't telling me—something bad.

  "Just forget it," she said. "Now, the axle for this chariot—"

  "You're treating him like he's this horrible thing," I said. "He saved my life."

  Annabeth threw down her pencil and stood. "Then maybe you should design a chariot with him."

  "Maybe I should."

  "Fine!"

  "Fine!"

  She stormed off and left me feeling even worse than before.

  The next couple of days, I tried to keep my mind off my problems.