Simply the Quest

by Maz Evans

  ‘I don’t see what you’re moaning about,’ said the chubby bloke. ‘You said you weren’t prepared to walk to a restaurant. You wanted me to drive you. So I did.’

  ‘To a motorway service station!’ said Patricia. ‘When I asked for a table with a view, I didn’t mean the M27! So this is the fence, Mr Boil. You just need to climb it and put the camera on top.’

  Boil. Darn silly name, Hephaestus thought.

  ‘Why don’t you do it?’ demanded Boil.

  ‘Because I am a lady,’ said Patricia. ‘So stop being such a lazy slob and get your great backside up that fence. Now.’

  Hephaestus smiled as the bloke approached his fence. He’d just added a new layer of Disarming Varnish last week. Time to see how well it worked.

  Boil put a hand tentatively on the fence.

  ‘My glasses!’ he shouted. ‘They’ve disappeared!’

  ‘They’ve probably just fallen off,’ said Patricia, taking a step away from the enchanted fence. ‘Keep going, Mr Boil.’

  He placed a foot on the bottom of the fence.

  ‘My shoe!’ he said. ‘Where’s my shoe?’

  ‘Go faster!’ called Horse’s-Bum from a fair distance away.

  So he did. The next step took care of his other shoe, then his socks, his shirt and his trousers. By the time he reached the top, only his vest and pants remained.

  ‘I am not taking another step,’ he said. ‘Get me down!’

  ‘As you wish,’ mumbled Hephaestus, pushing a button on a remote control in his robes.

  Immediately, the wooden slats of the fence reconfigured into a giant slide, whooshing Boil, his camera and his pants down into the brown slush at the bottom of the fence.

  ‘Well, that was traumatic,’ said Patricia, looking in disgust at the muddy mess in underpants before her.

  ‘You found it traumatic!’ raged the lad. ‘Look at me!’

  ‘That’s the trauma.’

  ‘You’re disgusting.’

  ‘You’re buying me dinner,’ said Patricia as they made their way back over the field. ‘This time I’m choosing the restaurant. We’re going to Maison La Poche.’

  ‘The fancy French place?’ groaned Boil. ‘If you want overpriced snails, I’ll peel them off my shower curtain and charge you a tenner . . . What should I wear?’

  ‘Some cleaner pants!’ said Patricia. ‘We’ll have to come back here on Thursday. I’m covering for a colleague at Spendapenny until then. Pathetic little slacker.’

  ‘Chucking a sickie?’ asked Boil.

  ‘Having a baby,’ said Patricia. ‘I loathe the work-shy. Come along, Mr Boil!’

  The dopey pair made their way back across the dark Wiltshire countryside, and Hephaestus smiled into his cocoa. So they wanted a trap? Well they were gonna get one.

  14. Non-Event

  ‘So what does the Air Stone actually do?’ Elliot asked Hermes on Monday morning, as Hades’s chariot raced along the low-way, the immortal road system that ran directly beneath the Earth’s own.

  ‘Mate,’ said Hermes. ‘Not being funny, but you look rough as a satyr’s stubble. Sleepless night?’

  ‘Mum night,’ said Elliot quietly. ‘She wouldn’t stay in bed unless I read to her. So I did. All night . . .’

  Hermes nodded and gave him a gentle punch on the arm.

  ‘According to What’s What,’ saidVirgo officiously, ‘the Air Stone controls the element of air.’

  ‘Don’t know how you’d manage without that,’ said Elliot, to a cheeky wink from Hermes.

  ‘Think about it,’ said the Messenger God. ‘If you control the air, you control the weather.’

  ‘So you get nicer holidays?’ said Elliot, thinking back to some of the soggier nights he and Mum had suffered on their camping trips.

  ‘Bit more to it, mate,’ said Hermes. ‘The weather brings warmth, light, water. The basics of life on Earth. If you have power over those, you have some serious boom at your fingertips.’

  Elliot tried not to think about what Thanatos would do with that power.

  Not your problem, said his dark voice.

  ‘And we’re here,’ said Hermes, pulling the horses to a halt beneath some roadworks in a suburb of Reading.

  ‘What is this place?’ asked Virgo.

  ‘My bruv – Hercules,’ said Hermes. ‘He’s organizing a party today – he runs an events business. Well. Kinda . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Virgo, nose wrinkled.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Hermes as he flitted towards the building.

  Virgo found herself experiencing a flutter of excitement at meeting the mighty Hercules. Her research had frequently named him as the greatest hero of all time. She hoped he wouldn’t be too upset when she took that title from him. With him on her side, she was sure to win her quest. She’d be whizzing around in her star-ball – constellation – in no time.

  Hermes knocked at the door, which was answered by a small golden penate, the knee-high household effigies reserved for manual work. Elliot’s was the only mortal dwelling that Virgo had seen – but even so, No. 26 Elm Avenue seemed very strange. The hallway was almost completely dark, and sticky cobwebs hung from every surface.

  ‘This place needs a visit from Hestia,’ muttered Virgo, pulling some cobwebs out of her hair. ‘It’s most sub—’

  ‘BOO!’

  Virgo shrieked as a gigantic plastic skeleton swung down from the ceiling and cackled in her face.

  ‘What was that?!’ she cried, stepping backwards and immediately bouncing up into the air. She tried to get her footing, but the surface of the floor kept propelling her upwards. She was not enjoying this quest at all.

  Suddenly, an almighty werewolf emerged from the darkness, brandishing a giant club through the cobwebs. Hermes stepped in front of Elliot and raised his fists.

  ‘Hermes!’ boomed an almighty voice from inside the werewolf, before giving Hermes a chest-bump that sent him flying across the hallway. ‘Good to see you!’

  Virgo decided it was time to act. She used the bouncy surface to propel herself at the werewolf, landing squarely on its head. She was surprised, therefore, when that head came off in her hands. She decided that the optimal course of action was to scream extensively.

  ‘Virgo – chill, babe,’ said Hermes, helping her back to the ground as Elliot suffered some form of laughing seizure. ‘Meet my bro – Virgo, this is Hercules.’

  Virgo looked up at the werewolf. It now had a human head, surrounded by flowing grey hair.

  ‘Sorry ’bout that – hidden trampoline,’ grinned the gigantic man inside what was obviously a costume. Virgo had known this all along.

  If the sheer size of the man didn’t give away the man’s identity, the bronze kardia around his neck did. The kardia of a Hero. So this was Hercules.

  ‘You’re here just in time,’ said Hercules. ‘The birthday girl is due back any minute. She’s desperate for a scary party, so her parents are throwing one as a surprise – come on through.’

  ‘Nice one, bruv,’ said Hermes. A giant spider dropped down from the stairs and landed on his head.

  ‘Great to see you all,’ boomed Hercules amiably. They went through to the front room, which was covered in artefacts Virgo recognized from Hercules’s adventures. There was a lion-skin rug on the floor, a boar’s head on one wall, a deer’s head on the other, a large club on the coffee table and a bow and arrow hanging from the TV. All were draped in blood-stained fake body parts. The effect was most unsettling.

  ‘This must be Elliot and Virgo – good to meet you, kids.’

  Elliot winced as Hercules squashed his hand in a friendly handshake. Virgo opted for a wave.

  ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Hercules,’ she said, as Hercules piled her up with biscuits in the shape of dismembered fingers. ‘Congratulations on the new business.’

  ‘Well . . . keeps me out of trouble,’ smiled Hercules, pointing Elliot towards a jug of human blood. ‘Tomato juice,’ he said with a wink. ‘You just
caught me, actually. Tomorrow I’m taking a group of workmates on an extreme wilderness experience in the Amazonian rainforest. We’ll have no food, no water, no shelter – we’ll be trekking day and night with no sleep, to fend for ourselves in one of the most hostile terrains on Earth.’

  ‘Mate – sounds hardcore,’ said Hermes.

  ‘It’s going to be the best retirement party ever,’ grinned Hercules.

  ‘This is cool,’ said Elliot, picking up the bow and a quiver of arrows.

  ‘Watch it, E!’ said Hermes, wincing. ‘That arrow is dipped in Hydra blood.’

  ‘So?’ said Elliot.

  ‘Mate – it’s one of the most dangerous substances in the world,’ said Hermes. ‘Hydra blood is so poisonous it can kill an immortal. Serious non-bosh.’

  ‘Epic,’ whispered Elliot.

  Virgo had noticed that the risk of serious bodily harm seemed to excite mortal boys enormously.

  ‘You can have it,’ said Hercules. ‘I’m trying to have a clear-out – you’d be amazed how much Hippolyte’s Girdle fetched on gBay . . . Happy to see it go to a good home. Those arrows are brilliant – they will always hit their mark. And you’re never too young to learn how to handle a poisonous bow and arrow.’

  Virgo took a deep breath. It was time for business. Her kardia depended on it.

  ‘Hercules – we need to enlist your expertise,’ she said. ‘We’re on a quest and . . .’

  A wax penate rushed into the front room, pushing his spectacles nervously up his nose.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Mr Hercules,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news. Mr and Mrs Fontley are refusing to pay for their event.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ said Hercules. ‘That romantic bungee-jump cost me a fortune! It was great!’

  ‘It was their sixtieth wedding anniversary, sir,’ said the penate. ‘They never did find her teeth and his wig.’

  ‘I don’t understand!’ said Hercules, throwing his hands up. ‘People ask for the event of a lifetime, but when I deliver, they complain! Next you’ll be telling me they didn’t enjoy off-roading on their mobility scooters. So, how’s Dad?’

  ‘He’s all right,’ said Hermes. ‘Getting a load of grief from Hera, but you know all about that.’

  ‘Oh – she’s not so bad,’ said Hercules.

  ‘You’ve got a short memory, mate,’ said Hermes. ‘She sent two snakes to poison you in your crib!’

  ‘I know,’ sighed Hercules. ‘She really knew how to throw a christening. So what’s this quest?’

  ‘We need to obtain the Air Stone from the Natural History Museum,’ said Virgo.

  ‘Ah – the NHM – great venue,’ said Hercules. ‘I organized a brilliant event there just last month – we played laser tag all around the exhibits at night.’

  ‘Sounds awesome, bruv,’ said Hermes.

  ‘I know, right?’ said Hercules. ‘No idea why Mother Superior didn’t enjoy her eighty-seventh birthday . . . Listen – I’m sorry, guys. The hero game isn’t for me any more. I just want a quiet life.’

  ‘But you’re the greatest hero of them all!’ said Virgo. ‘You were adored by generations.’

  ‘Until I wasn’t!’ snapped Hercules. ‘One minute I’m slaying hydras, saving maidens and can’t leave the house without someone wanting to carve my effigy in marble. The next – “Ooooh, he doesn’t slay hydras as well as he used to,” or, “He saves the wrong sort of maidens,” or, “We need to airbrush his marble effigy – he’s put on a few pounds . . . ”’

  ‘People still talk about your adventures now, bruv,’ said Hermes. ‘You’re a proper legend.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Hercules. ‘Everyone wants Hercules the hero. But do they want Hercules the clarinet player? Or Hercules the fan of foreign cinema? Or Hercules the performance poet? No. They just bang on about the old days. Fame is like dandruff. Once you’ve had it, it keeps coming back for no reason. No, I’ve moved on. You guys should try Theseus. He’s still got plenty of fire in his belly.’

  ‘If you’re sure, bruv,’ sighed Hermes.

  ‘I am,’ said Hercules. ‘Good luck, though.’

  Virgo was displeased. But if she couldn’t harness Hercules’s strength, at least she could benefit from his experience.

  ‘Hercules, may I ask you a personal question?’ she said.

  ‘Please,’ smiled Hercules. ‘Unless it’s about my scar. That’s a private matter between me and that giant mutant tortoise.’

  ‘What do you need to become a hero?’

  Hercules paused to consider his answer. ‘Courage, heart and wisdom,’ he said finally.

  ‘You’re stuffed, then,’ whispered Elliot. Virgo’s elbow slipped into his ribcage.

  ‘And easy access to a hospital,’ added Hercules. ‘You do not want to drive to a distant A&E with a giant-mutant-tortoise bite on your bum. Trust me . . .’

  ‘Mr Hercules, Mr Hercules, they’re here!’ cried a bronze penate.

  ‘OK, everyone!’ whispered Hercules. ‘Places!’

  The hero gestured to Elliot, Virgo and Hermes to hide behind the sofa while he tried – unsuccessfully – to conceal himself behind a pot plant in his werewolf costume.

  The key turned in the lock.

  ‘Hello?’ cried a small voice.

  ‘BOO!’ yelled the skeleton, dropping from the ceiling as a terrified wail went up from the hallway.

  ‘What the—?’ shouted a man’s voice as the lights went on in the front room.

  ‘SURPRISE!’ shouted Hercules, leaping out from behind the plant.

  Virgo observed a small mortal girl in a pink dress – she estimated the child was about four years old – screaming at the sight of Hercules in his costume. An angry male mortal entered the room, followed by a stream of similar-sized little girls in party dresses, covered in cobwebs. They took one look at the werewolf and the bloodstained room and let out a cacophony of further screams.

  Elliot and Virgo put their fingers in their ears.

  ‘What do you call this?’ roared the adult mortal as Hercules pulled off his head with a grin.

  ‘Hi there, Mr Elsmore,’ boomed Hercules. ‘Here you go. One surprise scary party.’

  ‘YOU IMBECILE!’ roared Mr Elsmore as a small girl vomited on his feet. ‘I ordered a surprise fairy party! Tilly is only four years old!’

  ‘Don’t worry, angel!’ cried a woman’s voice behind them. ‘Mummy’s got you a fairy cake! Everybody . . . Happy birthday to you . . . Happy birthday to you . . .’

  A mortal female, whom Virgo presumed to be Tilly’s mother, emerged with a huge cake in the shape of a giant fairy, with candles lighting up her wings. This appeared to calm Tilly and her friends, whose tears came to a halting stop as Tilly-Mum processed through the room, stepping carefully over dismembered limbs.

  ‘Happy birthday, dear Tilly . . .’ boomed Hercules. ‘Oh – Mrs Elsmore – you might want to watch out for—’

  As Mrs Elsmore went to put the cake down on the table her left foot hit another hidden trampoline.

  ‘Look!’ cried little Tilly, pointing. ‘Fairy flying!’

  And she was right. Her cake – and her mother – briefly took flight as the trampoline threw them into the air. Virgo watched the cake hurtle across the room, landing squarely on Mr Elsmore’s head. What a fascinating mortal birthday celebration!

  ‘Wait until I get my hands on you!’ cried Mr Elsmore, handing his screaming daughter to his wife and making for Hercules across the room.

  ‘Er – right – we’ve gotta scoot, we need to get over to Theseus,’ shouted Hermes as Hercules ran into the garden. ‘Cheerio, bruv.’

  ‘See you, guys,’ cried Hercules over his shoulder. ‘And remember, if anyone wants to base-jump from a skyscraper, I’m always happy to arrange baby showers . . .’

  15. Labyrinth

  Theseus’s restaurant, Labyrinth, enjoyed a formidable reputation in fine-dining circles. The first restaurant to earn the World’s Best Restaurant fifty times in succession, seve
n Michelin stars and an Oscar nomination, the waiting list for tables was so long that husbands made reservations to propose to their next wife. Labyrinth was particularly famous for its legendary twenty-four-course tasting menu, which included one course you had to digitally download, one that was an emotion served three ways and one that was presented through the medium of interpretive dance.

  It was hard to say what was more famous about Labyrinth: the innovative food combinations or the stories of the chef who created them. Theseus was the bad-boy rock star of the cookery world. A rival chef allegedly said he’d eat his hat if the food was better than his own. Theseus promptly served his trilby with a béarnaise sauce so exquisite that the chef immediately retrained as a chartered surveyor. Even when Theseus deliberately gave three hundred diners food poisoning because his gas bill was too high, R. A. C. Bill from the Sunday Times described his resulting diarrhoea as ‘edgy and bold’ and gave it five stars.

  Hermes filled Elliot and Virgo in on Labyrinth’s illustrious history on the way to the Oxfordshire village of Whinney. As Elliot strolled past the endless queues of bejewelled and tuxedoed diners begging for a table, he had to admit he felt pretty cool.

  ‘All right, mate!’ chirped Hermes as they approached the maître d’. ‘Table in the name of Fashion – party of three.’

  ‘Oui, of course, Monsieur Hermes,’ said the maître d’. ‘Always a pleasure to see you. We ’ave ze best table in ze ’ouse for vous. Follow me.’

  They were led to a round table right in the centre of the sumptuous restaurant. Elliot looked around the room, which was filled with satisfied diners, moaning with delight at their delicious meals as a string quartet played elegantly in the background. He and Mum hardly ever ate out and certainly nowhere this posh. She always said that one day they’d have tea at the Ritz. Elliot felt his heart darken. There were a lot of things they’d never do ‘one day’.

  ‘Mate,’ said Hermes, his belly gurgling as the waiter approached. ‘What’s cooking?’

  ‘We have ze à la carte menu?’ said the waiter.

  ‘Boom,’ said Hermes.