by Rick Riordan
The ichor turned white-hot. I was sure my face was about to get an extreme dermal peel.
Then the fiery essence fluttered and shimmered like a pool full of moth wings – and the ichor vanished. The heat dissipated. The stone tiles disintegrated into dust and rained into the empty pit. On my arms, the terrible burns faded. The split skin mended itself. The pain ebbed to a tolerable level of I’ve-just-been-tortured-for-six-hours agony, and I collapsed, shaking and cold, on the stone floor.
‘You did it!’ Grover cried. He looked at the dryads, then at Meg, and laughed in amazement. ‘Can you feel it? The heat wave, the drought, the wildfires … they’re gone!’
‘Indeed,’ said the lead dryad. ‘The Meg’s weakling servant has saved nature! Hail to the Meg!’
‘HAIL!’ the other dryads chimed in.
I didn’t even have the energy to protest.
The chamber rumbled more violently. A large crack zigzagged down the middle of the ceiling.
‘Let’s get out of here.’ Meg turned to the dryads. ‘Help Apollo.’
‘The Meg has spoken!’ said the lead dryad.
Two dryads hauled me to my feet and carried me between them. I tried to put weight on my feet, just for dignity’s sake, but it was like roller-skating on wheels of wet macaroni.
‘You know how to get there?’ Grover asked the dryads.
‘We do now,’ said one. ‘It is the quickest way back to nature, and that is something we can always find.’
On a Help, I’m Going to Die scale from one to ten, exiting the maze was a ten. But, since everything else I’d done that week was a fifteen, it seemed like a piece of baklava. Tunnel roofs collapsed around us. Floors crumbled. Monsters attacked, only to be stabbed to death by seven eager dryads yelling, ‘HAIL!’
Finally, we reached a narrow shaft that slanted upward towards a tiny square of sunlight.
‘This isn’t the way we came in,’ Grover fretted.
‘It is close enough,’ said the lead dryad. ‘We will go first!’
No one argued. The seven dryads raised their shields and marched single file up the shaft. Piper and Herophile went next, followed by Meg and Grover. I brought up the rear, having recovered enough to crawl on my own with a minimum of weeping and gasping.
By the time I emerged into the sunlight and got to my feet, the battle lines had already been drawn.
We were back in the old bear pit, though how the shaft led us there, I didn’t know. The Meliai had formed a shield wall around the tunnel entrance. Behind them stood the rest of my friends, weapons drawn. Above us, lining the ridge of the cement bowl, a dozen pandai waited with arrows nocked in their bows. In their midst stood the great white stallion Incitatus.
When he saw me, he tossed his beautiful mane. ‘There he is at last. Medea couldn’t close the deal, huh?’
‘Medea is dead,’ I said. ‘Unless you run away now, you will be next.’
Incitatus nickered. ‘Never liked that sorceress anyway. As for surrendering … Lester, have you looked at yourself lately? You’re in no shape to issue threats. We’ve got the high ground. You’ve seen how fast pandai can shoot. I don’t know who your pretty allies with the wooden armour are, but it doesn’t matter. Come along quietly. Big C is sailing north to deal with your friends in the Bay Area, but we can catch up with the fleet easy enough. My boy has all kinds of special treats planned for you.’
Piper snarled. I suspected that Herophile’s hand on her shoulder was the only thing keeping the daughter of Aphrodite from charging the enemy all by herself.
Meg’s scimitars gleamed in the afternoon sun. ‘Hey, ash ladies,’ she said, ‘how fast can you get up there?’
The leader glanced over. ‘Fast enough, O Meg.’
‘Cool,’ Meg said. Then she shouted up at the horse and his troops, ‘Last chance to surrender!’
Incitatus sighed. ‘Fine.’
‘Fine, you surrender?’ Meg asked.
‘No. Fine, we’ll kill you. Pandai –’
‘Dryads, ATTACK!’ Meg yelled.
‘Dryads?’ Incitatus asked incredulously.
It was the last thing he ever said.
The Meliai leaped out of the pit as if it were no higher than a porch step. The dozen pandai archers, fastest shots in the West, couldn’t fire a single arrow before they were cut to dust by ashen spears.
Incitatus whinnied in panic. As the Meliai surrounded him, he reared and kicked with his golden-shod hooves, but even his great strength was no match for the primordial killer tree spirits. The stallion buckled and fell, skewered from seven directions at once.
The dryads faced Meg.
‘The deed is done!’ announced their leader. ‘Would the Meg like enchiladas now?’
Next to me, Piper looked vaguely nauseous, as if vengeance had lost some of its appeal. ‘I thought my voice was powerful.’
Grover whimpered in agreement. ‘I’ve never had nightmares about trees. That might change after today.’
Even Meg looked uncomfortable, as if just realizing what sort of power she’d been given. I was relieved to see that discomfort. It was a sure sign that Meg remained a good person. Power makes good people uneasy rather than joyful or boastful. That’s why good people so rarely rise to power.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ she decided.
‘To where shall we get out of here, O Meg?’ asked the lead dryad.
‘Home,’ said Meg. ‘Palm Springs.’
There was no bitterness in her voice as she put those words together: Home. Palm Springs. She needed to return, like the dryads, to her roots.
45
Desert flowers bloom
Sunset rain sweetens the air
Time for a game show!
Piper did not accompany us.
She said she had to get back to the Malibu house so as not to worry her father or the Hedge family. They would all be leaving for Oklahoma together tomorrow evening. Also, she had some arrangements to attend to. Her dark tone led me to believe she meant final arrangements, as in for Jason.
‘Meet me tomorrow afternoon.’ She handed me a folded sheet of dandelion-yellow paper – an N.H. Financials eviction notice. On the back, she’d scribbled an address in Santa Monica. ‘We’ll get you on your way.’
I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but without explanation she hiked towards the nearby golf-course parking lot, no doubt to borrow a Bedrossian-quality vehicle.
The rest of us returned to Palm Springs in the red Mercedes. Herophile drove. Who knew ancient Oracles could drive? Meg sat next to her. Grover and I took the back. I kept staring forlornly at my seat, where Crest had sat only a few hours before, so anxious to learn his chords and become a god of music.
I may have cried.
The seven Meliai marched alongside our Mercedes like secret-service agents, keeping up with us easily, even when we left bumper-to-bumper traffic behind.
Despite our victory, we were a sombre crew. No one offered any scintillating conversation. At one point, Herophile tried to break the ice. ‘I spy with my little eye –’
We responded in unison: ‘No.’
After that, we rode in silence.
The temperature outside cooled at least fifteen degrees. A marine layer had rolled in over the Los Angeles basin like a giant wet duster, soaking up all the dry heat and smoke. When we reached San Bernardino, dark clouds swept the hilltops, dropping curtains of rain on the parched, fire-blackened hills.
When we came over the pass and saw Palm Springs stretched out below us, Grover cried with happiness. The desert was carpeted in wild flowers – marigolds and poppies, dandelions and primroses – all glistening from the rainfall that had just moved through, leaving the air cool and sweet.
Dozens of dryads waited for us on the hilltop outside the Cistern. Aloe Vera fussed over our wounds. Prickly Pear scowled and asked how we could possibly have ruined our clothes yet again. Reba was so delighted she tried to tango with me, though Caligula’s sandals really were not designed for
fancy footwork. The rest of the assembled host made a wide circle around the Meliai, gawking at them in awe.
Joshua hugged Meg so hard she squeaked. ‘You did it!’ he said. ‘The fires are gone!’
‘You don’t have to sound so surprised,’ she grumbled.
‘And these …’ He faced the Meliai. ‘I – I saw them emerge from their saplings earlier today. They said they heard a song they had to follow. That was you?’
‘Yep.’ Meg didn’t appear to like the way Joshua was staring slack-jawed at the ash dryads. ‘They’re my new minions.’
‘We are the Meliai!’ the leader agreed. She knelt in front of Meg. ‘We require guidance, O Meg! Where shall we be rooted?’
‘Rooted?’ Meg asked. ‘But I thought –’
‘We can remain on the hillside where you planted us, Great Meg,’ the leader said. ‘But if you wish us to root elsewhere you must decide quickly! We will soon be too large and strong to transplant!’
I had a sudden image of us buying a pickup truck and filling the bed with soil, then driving north to San Francisco with seven killer ash trees. I liked that idea. Unfortunately, I knew it wouldn’t work. Trees were not big on road trips.
Meg scratched her ear. ‘If you guys stay here … you’ll be okay? I mean, with the desert and all?’
‘We will be fine,’ said the leader.
‘Though a little more shade and water would be best,’ said a second ash.
Joshua cleared his throat. He brushed his fingers self-consciously through his shaggy hair. ‘We, um, would be most honoured to have you! The force of nature is already strong here, but with the Meliai among us –’
‘Yeah,’ Prickly Pear agreed. ‘Nobody would bother us ever again. We could grow in peace!’
Aloe Vera studied the Meliai doubtfully. I imagined she didn’t trust life-forms that required so little healing. ‘How far is your range? How much territory can you protect?’
A third Melia laughed. ‘We marched today to Los Angeles! That was no hardship. If we are rooted here, we can protect everything within a hundred leagues!’
Reba stroked her dark hair. ‘Is that far enough to cover Argentina?’
‘No,’ Grover said. ‘But it would cover pretty much all of Southern California.’ He turned to Meg. ‘What do you think?’
Meg was so tired she was swaying like a sapling. I half expected her to mutter some Megish answer like dunno and pass out. Instead, she gestured to the Meliai. ‘Come over here.’
We all followed her to the edge of the Cistern. Meg pointed down at the shady well with its deep blue pond in the centre.
‘What about around the pool?’ she asked. ‘Shade. Water. I think … I think my dad would have liked that.’
‘The creator’s daughter has spoken!’ cried a Melia.
‘Daughter of two creators!’ said another.
‘Twice blessed!’
‘Wise solver of puzzles!’
‘The Meg!’
This left the last two with little to add, so they muttered, ‘Yep. The Meg. Yep.’
The other dryads murmured and nodded. Despite the fact that the ash trees would be taking over their enchilada-eating hangout, no one complained.
‘A sacred grove of ashes,’ I said. ‘I used to have one like that in ancient times. Meg, it’s perfect.’
I faced the Sibyl, who had been standing silently in the back, no doubt stunned to be around so many people after her long captivity.
‘Herophile,’ I said, ‘this grove will be well protected. No one, not even Caligula, could ever threaten you here. I won’t tell you what to do. The choice is yours. But would you consider making this your new home?’
Herophile wrapped her arms around herself. Her auburn hair was the same colour as the desert hills in the afternoon light. I wondered if she was thinking about how different this hillside was from the one where she was born, where she’d had her cave in Erythraea.
‘I could be happy here,’ she decided. ‘My initial thought – and this was just an idea – is that I heard they produce many game shows in Pasadena. I have several ideas for new ones.’
Prickly Pear quivered. ‘How about you put a pin in that, darling? Join us!’
Putting a pin in something was good advice coming from a cactus.
Aloe Vera nodded. ‘We would be honoured to have an Oracle! You could warn me whenever anyone is about to get a cold!’
‘We would welcome you with open arms,’ Joshua agreed. ‘Except for those of us with prickly arms. They would probably just wave at you.’
Herophile smiled. ‘Very well. I would be …’ Her voice seized up, as if she were about to start a new prophecy and send us all scrambling.
‘Okay!’ I said. ‘No need to thank us! It’s decided!’
And so Palm Springs gained an Oracle, while the rest of the world was saved from several new daytime TV game shows like Sibyl of Fortune or The Oracle Is Right! It was a win–win.
The rest of the evening was spent making a new camp down the hillside, eating take-away dinner (I chose the enchiladas verdes, thanks for asking) and assuring Aloe Vera that our layers of medicinal goop were thick enough. The Meliai dug up their own saplings and replanted them in the Cistern, which I guessed was the dryad version of pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps.
At sunset, their leader came to Meg and bowed low. ‘We will slumber now. But whenever you call, if we are within range, we shall answer! We shall protect this land in the name of the Meg!’
‘Thanks,’ said the Meg, poetic as always.
The Meliai faded into their seven ash trees, which now made a beautiful ring around the pond. Their branches glowed with a soft, buttery light. The other dryads moved across the hillside, enjoying the cool air and the stars in the smoke-free night sky as they gave the Sibyl a tour of her new home.
‘And here are some rocks,’ they told her. ‘And over here, these are more rocks.’
Grover sat down next to Meg and me with a contented sigh.
The satyr had changed his clothes: a green cap, a fresh tie-dyed shirt, clean jeans and a new pair of hoof-appropriate New Balance shoes. A backpack was slung on his shoulder. My heart sank to see him dressed for travel, though I was not surprised.
‘Going somewhere?’ I asked.
He grinned. ‘Back to Camp Half-Blood.’
‘Now?’ Meg demanded.
He spread his hands. ‘I’ve been here for years. Thanks to you guys, my work is finally actually done! I mean, I know you still have a long way to go, freeing the Oracles and all, but …’
He was too polite to finish the thought: but please do not ask me to go any further with you.
‘You deserve to go home,’ I said wistfully, wishing I could do the same. ‘But you won’t even rest the night?’
Grover got a faraway look in his eyes. ‘I need to get back. Satyrs aren’t dryads, but we have roots, too. Camp Half-Blood is mine. I’ve been gone too long. I hope Juniper hasn’t got herself a new goat …’
I recalled the way the dryad Juniper had fretted and worried about her absent boyfriend when I was at camp.
‘I doubt she could ever replace such an excellent satyr,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Grover Underwood. We couldn’t have succeeded without you and Walt Whitman.’
He laughed, but his expression immediately darkened. ‘I’m just sorry about Jason and …’ His gaze fell on the ukulele in my lap. I hadn’t let it out of my sight since we returned, though I hadn’t had the heart to tune the strings, much less play it.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘And Money Maker. And all the others who perished trying to find the Burning Maze. Or in the fires, the drought …’
Wow. For a second there, I’d been feeling okay. Grover really knew how to kill a vibe.
His goatee quivered. ‘I’m sure you guys will make it to Camp Jupiter,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been there, or met Reyna, but I hear she’s good people. My buddy Tyson the Cyclops is there too. Tell him I said hi.’
I thought abou
t what awaited us in the north. Aside from what we’d gleaned aboard Caligula’s yacht – that his attack during the new moon had not gone well – we didn’t know what was going on at Camp Jupiter, or whether Leo Valdez was still there or flying back to Indianapolis. All we knew was that Caligula, now without his stallion and his sorceress, was sailing to the Bay Area to deal with Camp Jupiter personally. We had to get there first.
‘We will be fine,’ I said, trying to convince myself. ‘We’ve wrested three Oracles from the Triumvirate. Now, aside from Delphi itself, only one source of prophecy remains: the Sibylline Books … or rather, what Ella the harpy is trying to reconstruct of them from memory.’
Grover frowned. ‘Yeah. Ella. Tyson’s girlfriend.’
He sounded confused, as if it made no sense that a Cyclops would have a harpy girlfriend, much less one with a photographic memory who had somehow become our only link to books of prophecy that had burned up centuries before.
Very little of our situation made sense, but I was a former Olympian. I was used to incoherency.
‘Thanks, Grover.’ Meg gave the satyr a hug and kissed him on the cheek, which was certainly more gratitude than she’d ever shown me.
‘You bet,’ Grover said. ‘Thank you, Meg. You …’ He gulped. ‘You’ve been a great friend. I liked talking plants with you.’
‘I was also there,’ I said.
Grover smiled sheepishly. He got to his feet and clicked together the chest straps of his backpack. ‘Sleep well, you guys. And good luck. I have a feeling I’ll see you again before … Yeah.’
Before I ascend into the heavens and regain my immortal throne?
Before we all die in some miserable fashion at the hands of the Triumvirate?
I wasn’t sure. But after Grover left I felt an empty place in my chest, as if the hole I’d poked with the Arrow of Dodona were growing deeper and wider. I unlaced the sandals of Caligula and tossed them away.
I slept miserably and had a miserable dream.