Olympian Challenger

by Astrid Arditi

  If my outside matches my inside, I must look a mess.

  “The other contenders have started coming in. You’ll all meet at the Olympian Palace, and then you’ll be shown to your dwellings. It’s been a long time since we’ve had guests, so be assured, no expense has been spared and—” Aphrodite pauses mid-sentence and angles her head to the side. “I’m sorry, duty calls. Triton will be with you shortly to show you the way.”

  She flashes the most dazzling smile to Jumping Boy then shimmers away—literally. One second she’s here, scintillating like the Rockefeller Center’s Christmas tree, then the next she’s disappeared, leaving me to face the boy who unwittingly dragged me here, whether I’m in Heaven, a comatose state, or—I turn my back to the sea so I can get my bearings. I’m lost in the clouds, on a mountain. A majestic palace of white marble shoots up from the snowy top—Mount Olympus.

  Confusion brings tears to my eyes, but a strident horn distracts me. I whirl toward the seaside once more, but not before stealing a look at the boy who finally lost his cool composure and is plainly gawking now.

  From the waves, a middle-aged man slithers against the sand while trumpeting in a conch shell. Only his naked torso is visible at first, and then with a powerful push of his arms, he pulls himself out of the ocean, revealing a dolphin-like tail.

  My jaw goes slack before I remember my manners and resume a mild expression. I elbow the boy next to me so he can do the same, which wins me a nasty glare. At a few muttered words, the bearded man’s tail morphs into leathery legs and feet, the same texture as dolphin’s skin.

  He lifts himself up gracefully and comes to stand before us on the mosaic bank, blowing his conch shell one last time for good measure. It’s a miracle he doesn’t pierce my eardrums.

  “I am Triton, son of Poseidon and Amphitrite.” He bows gallantly. Although it feels like I should curtsy, I don’t know how, so instead I nod stiffly. But I smile when our eyes meet so he doesn’t get offended.

  “I’m Hope Diaz.”

  Hateful boy doesn’t share my concerns for politeness. He blatantly smirks at the newcomer’s unshapely legs. Triton, instead of looking embarrassed, addresses him with contempt.

  “And your name, boy?”

  “Heath Harris, fish.”

  “You will learn to respect me. To respect all of us,” Triton promises ominously. Facing me, he resumes a gentle smile. “I will lead you to the Olympian Palace now. Please, follow me.”

  Triton’s stroll is slow but graceful, though I sense he’s more comfortable in water, his element as the son of Poseidon. I want to slap myself for nurturing the thought that this could all be real, but it’s better than the alternative—me being dead.

  I can’t make myself follow him, as kind to me as he’s been. “I’m sorry… But I can’t go with you. I need to return home.”

  “Home?” he echoes. “Why?”

  “I didn’t mean to come here. If you could just point me to the exit?”

  Heath snorts from behind my back. I should have let him drown—although I’m not the one who rescued him in the end.

  “My apologies, Hope Diaz, but you cannot return.”

  My lips quiver, and if it weren’t for Hateful Heath standing close to me, I would turn into a blubbering mess. Triton slows down to gaze at me.

  “If you would just follow me. Everything will be explained. I’m only an envoy.”

  “More like a fish,” Heath mutters.

  Triton blows in his conch shell, freezing Heath on the spot. “That’s enough! I can’t send you home, but I can make your life miserable here.”

  The warning wasn’t directed at me, but the sight of petrified Heath, his mouth opened in silent protest, is enough to stop me from begging again to leave. It’s the middle of the night in New York. My mom won’t miss me yet.

  I can wait a while longer to escape…

  Chapter 5

  We ascend the mountain all the way to the top. The walk is quiet, as neither Heath, whose invisible bindings have been thawed, nor I dare to address our guide. I don’t mind the silence. It allows me to take in the superb scenery of Mount Olympus.

  We climb past luscious gardens of intense greens and huge blooms, the most exquisite little town paved in cobblestone, and snowy peaks. Our walk doesn’t last more than half an hour, but in that time I may as well have traveled to the end of the world and back. If this is Heaven, then humanity is blessed.

  The Olympian Palace looms over it all, the blue tint of the moon reflected on its pristine marble pillars. Before entering the palace at Triton’s invitation, I stop to gaze once more at the path we have walked. If my wish is granted, I’ll be well on my way before dawn streaks the sky and will never lay eyes on Mount Olympus again.

  The slope of the mountain appears to have expanded until I can barely discern the seashore. As I stand gaping, Triton ambles closer to me.

  “Mount Olympus follows the gods’ whims. It diminished to facilitate the challengers’ ascension, and now that you’re all gathered here, it can stretch out again.”

  “If we’re all here, does that mean it’s midnight?”

  Triton nods and nudges me toward the staircase leading to the palace. Heath waits under the large archway encased in columns sculpted with laurel leaves, tapping his foot against the marble.

  Before we step inside the palace, Triton bends at the waist.

  “I will take my leave now. Walk straight ahead until you reach the throne room. Aphrodite awaits.”

  I curtsy clumsily. “Thank you.”

  When I straighten up, Heath is gone. And to think he’s the reason I’m here in the first place…

  I enter the palace with dainty steps, awe keeping me in check. There are three corridors running from the entryway—one to my left, one to my right, and one ahead. The one ahead is wider and lined on both sides by larger-than-life statues. The first ones are, on the left, a bearded older man, and on the right a beautiful woman with her hair pulled up and a severe expression. It contrasts starkly with the benevolence on the man’s face. He holds a lightning bolt in one hand and a royal scepter in the other, while she carries a smaller scepter and a peacock rests at her side. I know enough about mythology to guess these are the gods’ rulers, Zeus and Hera.

  After Hera is Aphrodite, whom I’ve already met. Across from her is a man with a marred face and a crooked back, holding a flame in the palm of his hand. I wish I could linger all night to admire the twelve statues in the hallway, but time is precious and I need to be on my way. Looking straight ahead to avoid further distractions, I hurry toward the throne room.

  If the hallway was impressive, the throne room is spectacular. Circular and large as a football field, it is girded by gigantic statues of women serving as pillars. High above my head is an oculus, a round window that opens on the starry sky with the blue moon glowing at the center.

  Between the giant colonnades, twelve ivory thrones form a half circle against the far wall. And on the opposite side of the room, three more gilded thrones face them.

  In the center of the throne room, a large crowd is gathered. With their expensive garments, confident demeanor, and ethereal beauty, they have to be gods, but given they stand instead of sitting in the thrones, they must be minor divinities.

  Before them, a mismatched group of about twenty-five contenders cowers behind Aphrodite. They are all about my age, but not one face is familiar. Some assume an air of confidence while others dart anxious glimpses around.

  I am scared. And if I ever had an ounce of confidence, it is nowhere to be found as trumpets resonate in the throne room. Then the stampede starts.

  The love goddess ushers us away from the thrones until we stand side by side with the gods in the audience. The sound of hooves against stone amplifies, coming from the hallway I crossed moments ago. Although we are complete strangers, the challengers huddle close together, searching for strength in numbers. Which is totally pointless because we are mere humans, and they are gods.

 
Thunder roars in the peaceful night sky as a chariot, led by eight white steeds, barges into the throne room. The minor divinities in the audience cheer their ruler on, the sound filling the throne room like the potent rush of a waterfall.

  Zeus stands erect in the chariot, cinched in a white toga, reins draped across a muscular forearm while in one hand he carries a shield and in the other his scepter. A majestic eagle perches on his left shoulder.

  Eagle and master share the same hawkish gaze, though Zeus’s lips, partially hidden by a well-tended beard, are curled up in a cordial smile. I’m guessing the smile is deceptive and like the hunting bird, the King of the Gods can be just as merciless with his prey. Electricity crackles in the air.

  The horses halt before Zeus’s throne, one of the two largest in the center. Lightning bolts and laurel leaves are etched in the ivory. He levitates up from his chariot until he settles down in his throne, his eagle perching above him. When I’m done gawking at Zeus, the chariot and the steeds have vanished.

  I look for Aphrodite to ask how they just disappeared, but she’s gone as well. The rest of the audience looks jaded, as if horses vanishing into thin air is a common occurrence in this place. I shift my weight from one foot to the next as I wait breathlessly for the rest of the show. Because it does feel like a show, a mise-en-scène planned for the newcomers.

  Human feet stomp the hallway’s marble floor next. The sound of an army marching to the front. Ten young women, draped in white Grecian dresses and shod in thick leather sandals, open the march. Despite their youth, the determination on their beautiful faces is that of warriors. The first one holds a brightly flaming torch. A woman with red ringlets in a convoluted up-do follows the torch bearer, although it is obvious by her exquisite get-up that she’s the one leading the group. A shimmery golden veil masks her face, and her dress, the same style as her escort’s, is spun of gold. Pigeon-egg-sized rubies fasten the fabric at the shoulders.

  The audience doesn’t make a sound as Hera walks toward her throne at her husband’s side, her peacock in tow. Once she’s seated, the bird fans its tail at her feet, showing off its beautiful feathers.

  I’m surprised at the lack of enthusiasm the queen receives, so I glance at the minor divinities closest to me. One goddess in a green dress, hair tinged the same hue, seems downright scared; a god with skin thick and shiny as gold averts his gaze. Hera isn’t popular among her people, it seems.

  A familiar conch shell resonates in the throne room. Triton ambles into view, his powerful torso swelled with pride.

  “Behold Poseidon, Ruler of the Sea!”

  Triton’s father sits in a shell chariot pulled by four horses with golden manes and brazen hooves. Their heads are strange, resembling seahorses, with gills where their ears should be.

  Poseidon is brother to Zeus, but their differences are more striking than their likenesses. Where Zeus looks kind and in control, a storm rages in Poseidon’s blue eyes. The piece of fabric that barely covers the sea god’s muscular body billows as he walks out of his carriage and takes the seat near Hera. His jet-black curls, falling between his shoulder blades, are topped with a band of gold. In his hand he holds a trident.

  There is no fanfare or chariot to announce the next newcomer’s arrival—only the ringing sound of leather soles against marble and an admiring hum from the crowd.

  A tall woman of impressive stature with an intelligent gaze walks alone. Her brown waves are pinned away from her striking face and cascade down her back, all the way to her waist. A sword in a sheath dangles from the belt cinching her midnight blue gown. She takes her place at Zeus’s side, opposite Hera. She’s got to be Athena, Goddess of Wisdom. She’s the patron of scholars and has always been my favorite Olympian goddess, which her elegant entrance reinforces.

  The rumble in the hallway starts again. Another chariot wheels in, with no stallion to tow it. The hunchback I saw facing Aphrodite as a statue earlier fiddles with a complex dashboard on the horseless chariot. Everything about him is crooked, from his tortuous fingers to his nose leaning toward the right side of his face—he looks like a train wreck survivor. But as he enters the throne room, only he thinks of acknowledging us, and the lopsided smile he gives us becomes the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all day.

  A human boy claps enthusiastically. “I knew Hephaestus would be cool!”

  I stare at the kind god as he sits in the smaller, rigid throne beside Athena with a wince of pain.

  After Hephaestus comes Aphrodite, who’s changed into a bejeweled, floor-length gown with an outrageous side slit. She dances her way to her throne next to the kind hunchback, surrounded by beautiful maidens who, far from dimming the love goddess’s beauty, only serve to showcase it.

  Feet and hooves ring against the hallway’s floor. Screaming warrior women, fierce expressions on their beautiful faces, run inside the throne room, pointing lances and swords ahead threateningly. Their cries are ferocious. They are followed by a chariot of gold pulled by white horses. A dazzling man with caramel skin and white-blond hair stands at the helm.

  Beside the chariot, an equally beautiful young woman rides a white mare. She’s almost identical to the charioteer at her side. A huntress’s short white dress shows off her lean legs. She wears leather sandals laced around her calves and a quiver strapped to her back. The woman sits beside Poseidon, with her twin brother beside her.

  The audience’s looks are filled with unadulterated hatred as the next chariot wheels in. This one is driven by four black stallions, and the god lounging on black velvet pillows exudes the same darkness as his horses.

  “Hades,” the shiny god next to me mutters through gritted teeth—the Death God, I remember.

  He’s similar to his brothers, Zeus and Poseidon, but gloomier. From his midnight beard to the unending depth of his dark eyes and the icy cruelty of his smile, everything about Hades is depressing. I’d rather be thrown in a tank full of snakes than be locked in a room for a minute with him.

  The keys at his belt rattle mournfully, making the hair on my arms stand, as he descends from his chariot in front of the throne next to Aphrodite. One of the girl contenders beside me exhales a faint breath, as if she’s about to pass out. I look in her direction, but instead of finding her, my gaze locks with a god, barely more than a boy, standing on the outskirts of the crowd.

  His aloofness as he stares at the scariest god of all is probably what intrigues me at first, but once I start looking, I can hardly tear my gaze off him. His longish hair is snow white, but his deep-set eyes are black as coal. Contrary to the other minor divinities, who seem to enjoy each other’s company, this one is alone. He is achingly handsome, as a god should be, but too pale and lanky. There’s something odd about him, and considering I just watched a god that appears dipped in gold without blinking an eye, that says something.

  Disturbingly beautiful—this is the most accurate description for him, like a white tiger at the zoo.

  An inkling of pain squeezes my chest as I’m forced to look away, but the show continues and I must see who comes next.

  Chapter 6

  This beautiful torture comes to an end. All of us insipid humans exhale sharply when all the thrones are filled and Zeus addresses us at last.

  “Welcome to Mount Olympus.” His voice rumbles like thunder, making the pillars quake. “For centuries, gods and humans alike have awaited their new hero. And now the time has come!”

  The blue moon shines brighter through the oculus as if answering his statement. A few daring souls among the group of contenders make faint whooping sounds. Most of us are too awestruck to cheer. Fortunately, the rest of the audience makes up for our shyness.

  “We called upon you today, and the blood in your veins answered.” Our blood? “As descendants of the gods,”—no, no way—“you should have been trained and taught in the Olympian tradition, but you’re all cruelly ignorant. Your demi-god ancestors are long gone, and the modern world has failed you in trying to erase our existence.”
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  The green goddess nods emphatically in agreement. “It’s time they remembered.”

  I turn Zeus’s words in my mind, hoping to come up with an alternative interpretation. But it makes sense—why some of us could read the invitation but most couldn’t, how we could set foot in Mount Olympus without getting smoldered to ashes—especially if, as Zeus previously stated, our divine ancestors have been dead for centuries, maybe even millennia. It doesn’t make us demi-gods, just mortals with an infinitesimal amount of godly DNA.

  Zeus continues. “For this reason, you’ll be given a week to train and come to terms with your Olympian heritage. Then if the auspices concur that the time has come, the competition will commence.”

  Although this program sounds fascinating, and I’m more than a little bit intrigued as to what the competition will entail, time is ticking. I should leave soon if I want to be home for breakfast. I’m tempted to raise my hand and ask where the exit is, but interrupting the all-powerful god feels reckless. Surely a daughter charred by one of his lightning bolts would ruin my mom’s already bird-like appetite.

  “You will be shown to your dwellings and train under the supervision of Olympus’ greatest heroes. By the end of the week, the twelve Olympian gods will each select heroes-in-the-making to sponsor. This is a great honor and your chance to succeed. Whoever chooses you will help you with their wisdom and expertise only. The rules are clear that gods are forbidden to intercede on behalf of their champions in the course of a quest, at the risk of immediate disqualification.” Zeus takes a moment to let his piercing stare linger on us. “In the end, victory will depend solely upon you.”

  I want Athena to sponsor me, but then I remember I’m not participating. The twelve seated gods survey our pitiful group, their frowns an indication they expect to be disappointed, while the minor divinities take wagers as they observe us. I don’t hear any bets placed on me. I won’t argue with them. I have no business playing the champion. I don’t belong here.