by Rick Riordan
Over the roar of the storm, I could hear the blue-robed one yelling at the green-robed one, Give it back! Give it back! Like a kindergartner fighting over a toy.
The waves got bigger, crashing into the beach, spraying me with salt.
I yelled, Stop it! Stop fighting!
The ground shook. Laughter came from somewhere under the earth, and a voice so deep and evil it turned my blood to ice.
‘Come down, little hero,’ the voice crooned. ‘Come down!’
The sand split beneath me, opening up a crevice straight down to the centre of the earth. My feet slipped, and darkness swallowed me.
I woke up, sure I was falling.
I was still in bed in cabin three. My body told me it was morning, but it was dark outside, and thunder rolled across the hills. A storm was brewing. I hadn’t dreamed that.
I heard a clopping sound at the door, a hoof knocking on the threshold.
‘Come in.’
Grover trotted inside, looking worried. ‘Mr D wants to see you.’
‘Why?’
‘He wants to kill… I mean, I’d better let him tell you.’
Nervously, I got dressed and followed, sure that I was in huge trouble.
For days, I’d been half expecting a summons to the Big House. Now that I was declared a son of Poseidon, one of the Big Three gods who weren’t supposed to have kids, I figured it was a crime for me just to be alive. The other gods had probably been debating the best way to punish me for existing, and now Mr D was ready to deliver their verdict.
Over Long Island Sound, the sky looked like ink soup coming to a boil. A hazy curtain of rain was coming in our direction. I asked Grover if we needed an umbrella.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It never rains here unless we want it to.’
I pointed at the storm. ‘What the heck is that, then?’
He glanced uneasily at the sky. ‘It’ll pass around us. Bad weather always does.’
I realized he was right. In the week I’d been here, it had never even been overcast. The few rain clouds I’d seen had skirted right around the edges of the valley.
But this storm… this one was huge.
At the volleyball pit, the kids from Apollo’s cabin were playing a morning game against the satyrs. Dionysus’s twins were walking around in the strawberry fields, making the plants grow. Everybody was going about their normal business, but they looked tense. They kept their eyes on the storm.
Grover and I walked up to the front porch of the Big House. Dionysus sat at the pinochle table in his tiger-striped Hawaiian shirt with his Diet Coke, just as he had on my first day. Chiron sat across the table in his fake wheelchair. They were playing against invisible opponents – two sets of cards hovering in the air.
‘Well, well,’ Mr D said without looking up. ‘Our little celebrity.’
I waited.
‘Come closer,’ Mr D said. ‘And don’t expect me to kowtow to you, mortal, just because old Barnacle-Beard is your father.’
A net of lightning flashed across the clouds. Thunder shook the windows of the house.
‘Blah, blah, blah,’ Dionysus said.
Chiron feigned interest in his pinochle cards. Grover cowered by the railing, his hooves clopping back and forth.
‘If I had my way,’ Dionysus said, ‘I would cause your molecules to erupt in flames. We’d sweep up the ashes and be done with a lot of trouble. But Chiron seems to feel this would be against my mission at this cursed camp: to keep you little brats safe from harm.’
‘Spontaneous combustion is a form of harm, Mr D,’ Chiron put in.
‘Nonsense,’ Dionysus said. ‘Boy wouldn’t feel a thing. Nevertheless, I’ve agreed to restrain myself. I’m thinking of turning you into a dolphin instead, sending you back to your father.’
‘Mr D –’ Chiron warned.
‘Oh, all right,’ Dionysus relented. ‘There’s one more option. But it’s deadly foolishness.’ Dionysus rose, and the invisible players’ cards dropped to the table. ‘I’m off to Olympus for the emergency meeting. If the boy is still here when I get back, I’ll turn him into an Atlantic bottlenose. Do you understand? And Perseus Jackson, if you’re at all smart, you’ll see that’s a much more sensible choice than what Chiron feels you must do.’
Dionysus picked up a playing card, twisted it, and it became a plastic rectangle. A credit card? No. A security pass.
He snapped his fingers.
The air seemed to fold and bend around him. He became a holograph, then a wind, then he was gone, leaving only the smell of fresh-pressed grapes lingering behind.
Chiron smiled at me, but he looked tired and strained. ‘Sit, Percy, please. And Grover.’
We did.
Chiron laid his cards on the table, a winning hand he hadn’t got to use.
‘Tell me, Percy,’ he said. ‘What did you make of the hellhound?’
Just hearing the name made me shudder.
Chiron probably wanted me to say, Heck, it was nothing. I eat hellhounds for breakfast. But I didn’t feel like lying.
‘It scared me,’ I said. ‘If you hadn’t shot it, I’d be dead.’
‘You’ll meet worse, Percy. Far worse, before you’re done.’
‘Done… with what?’
‘Your quest, of course. Will you accept it?’
I glanced at Grover, who was crossing his fingers.
‘Um, sir,’ I said, ‘you haven’t told me what it is yet.’
Chiron grimaced. ‘Well, that’s the hard part, the details.’
Thunder rumbled across the valley. The storm clouds had now reached the edge of the beach. As far as I could see, the sky and the sea were boiling together.
‘Poseidon and Zeus,’ I said. ‘They’re fighting over something valuable… something that was stolen, aren’t they?’
Chiron and Grover exchanged looks.
Chiron sat forward in his wheelchair. ‘How did you know that?’
My face felt hot. I wished I hadn’t opened my big mouth. ‘The weather since Christmas has been weird, like the sea and the sky are fighting. Then I talked to Annabeth, and she’d overheard something about a theft. And… I’ve also been having these dreams.’
‘I knew it,’ Grover said.
‘Hush, satyr,’ Chiron ordered.
‘But it is his quest!’ Grover’s eyes were bright with excitement. ‘It must be!’
‘Only the Oracle can determine.’ Chiron stroked his bristly beard. ‘Nevertheless, Percy, you are correct. Your father and Zeus are having their worst quarrel in centuries. They are fighting over something valuable that was stolen. To be precise: a lightning bolt.’
I laughed nervously. ‘A what?’
‘Do not take this lightly,’ Chiron warned. ‘I’m not talking about some tinfoil-covered zigzag you’d see in a second-grade play. I’m talking about a two-foot-long cylinder of high-grade celestial bronze, capped on both ends with god-level explosives.’
‘Oh.’
‘Zeus’s master bolt,’ Chiron said, getting worked up now. ‘The symbol of his power, from which all other lightning bolts are patterned. The first weapon made by the Cyclopes for the war against the Titans, the bolt that sheered the top off Mount Etna and hurled Kronos from his throne; the master bolt, which packs enough power to make mortal hydrogen bombs look like firecrackers.’
‘And it’s missing?’
‘Stolen,’ Chiron said.
‘By who?’
‘By whom’ Chiron corrected. Once a teacher, always a teacher. ‘By you.’
My mouth fell open.
‘At least’ – Chiron held up a hand – ‘that’s what Zeus thinks. During the winter solstice, at the last council of the gods, Zeus and Poseidon had an argument. The usual nonsense: “Mother Rhea always liked you best,” “Air disasters are more spectacular than sea disasters,” et cetera. Afterwards, Zeus realized his master bolt was missing, taken from the throne room under his very nose. He immediately blamed Poseidon. Now a god cannot usurp another god�
��s symbol of power directly – that is forbidden by the most ancient of divine laws. But Zeus believes your father convinced a human hero to take it.’
‘But I didn’t –’
‘Patience and listen, child,’ Chiron said. ‘Zeus has good reason to be suspicious. The forges of the Cyclopes are under the ocean, which gives Poseidon some influence over the makers of his brother’s lightning. Zeus believes Poseidon has taken the master bolt, and is now secretly having the Cyclopes build an arsenal of illegal copies, which might be used to topple Zeus from his throne. The only thing Zeus wasn’t sure about was which hero Poseidon used to steal the bolt. Now Poseidon has openly claimed you as his son. You were in New York over the winter holidays. You could easily have snuck into Olympus. Zeus believes he has found his thief.’
‘But I’ve never even been to Olympus! Zeus is crazy!’
Chiron and Grover glanced nervously at the sky. The clouds didn’t seem to be parting around us, as Grover had promised. They were rolling straight over our valley, sealing us in like a coffin lid.
‘Er, Percy…?’ Grover said. ‘We don’t use the c-word to describe the Lord of the Sky.’
‘Perhaps paranoid,’ Chiron suggested. ‘Then again, Poseidon has tried to unseat Zeus before. I believe that was question thirty-eight on your final exam…’ He looked at me as if he actually expected me to remember question thirty-eight.
How could anyone accuse me of stealing a god’s weapon? I couldn’t even steal a slice of pizza from Gabe’s poker party without getting busted. Chiron was waiting for an answer.
‘Something about a golden net?’ I guessed. ‘Poseidon and Hera and a few other gods… they, like, trapped Zeus and wouldn’t let him out until he promised to be a better ruler, right?’
‘Correct,’ Chiron said. ‘And Zeus has never trusted Poseidon since. Of course, Poseidon denies stealing the master bolt. He took great offence at the accusation. The two have been arguing back and forth for months, threatening war. And now, you’ve come along – the proverbial last straw.’
‘But I’m just a kid!’
‘Percy,’ Grover cut in, ‘if you were Zeus, and you already thought your brother was plotting to overthrow you, then your brother suddenly admitted he had broken the sacred oath he took after World War II, that he’s fathered a new mortal hero who might be used as a weapon against you… Wouldn’t that put a twist in your toga?’
‘But I didn’t do anything. Poseidon – my dad – he didn’t really have this master bolt stolen, did he?’
Chiron sighed. ‘Most thinking observers would agree that thievery is not Poseidon’s style. But the sea god is too proud to try convincing Zeus of that. Zeus has demanded that Poseidon return the bolt by the summer solstice. That’s June twenty-first, ten days from now. Poseidon wants an apology for being called a thief by the same date. I hoped that diplomacy might prevail, that Hera or Demeter or Hestia would make the two brothers see sense. But your arrival has inflamed Zeus’s temper. Now neither god will back down. Unless someone intervenes, unless the master bolt is found and returned to Zeus before the solstice, there will be war. And do you know what a full-fledged war would look like, Percy?’
‘Bad?’ I guessed.
‘Imagine the world in chaos. Nature at war with itself. Olympians forced to choose sides between Zeus and Poseidon. Destruction. Carnage. Millions dead. Western civilization turned into a battleground so big it will make the Trojan War look like a water-balloon fight.’
‘Bad,’ I repeated.
‘And you, Percy Jackson, would be the first to feel Zeus’s wrath.’
It started to rain. Volleyball players stopped their game and stared in stunned silence at the sky.
I had brought this storm to Half-Blood Hill. Zeus was punishing the whole camp because of me. I was furious.
‘So I have to find the stupid bolt,’ I said. ‘And return it to Zeus.’
‘What better peace offering,’ Chiron said, ‘than to have the son of Poseidon return Zeus’s property?’
‘If Poseidon doesn’t have it, where is the thing?’
‘I believe I know.’ Chiron’s expression was grim. ‘Part of a prophecy I had years ago… well, some of the lines make sense to me, now. But before I can say more, you must officially take up the quest. You must seek the counsel of the Oracle.’
‘Why can’t you tell me where the bolt is beforehand?’
‘Because if I did, you would be too afraid to accept the challenge.’
I swallowed. ‘Good reason.’
‘You agree then?’
I looked at Grover, who nodded encouragingly.
Easy for him. I was the one Zeus wanted to kill.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘It’s better than being turned into a dolphin.’
‘Then it’s time you consulted the Oracle,’ Chiron said. ‘Go upstairs, Percy Jackson, to the attic. When you come back down, assuming you’re still sane, we will talk more.’
Four flights up, the stairs ended under a green trapdoor.
I pulled the cord. The door swung down, and a wooden ladder clattered into place.
The warm air from above smelled like mildew and rotten wood and something else… a smell I remembered from biology class. Reptiles. The smell of snakes.
I held my breath and climbed.
The attic was filled with Greek hero junk: armour stands covered in cobwebs; once-bright shields pitted with rust; old leather steamer trunks plastered with stickers saying ITHAKA, CIRCE’S ISLE and LAND OF THE AMAZONS. One long table was stacked with glass jars filled with pickled things– severed hairy claws, huge yellow eyes, various other parts of monsters. A dusty mounted trophy on the wall looked like a giant snake’s head, but with horns and a full set of shark’s teeth. The plaque read: HYDRA HEAD NO. I, WOODSTOCK, NY, 1969.
By the window, sitting on a wooden tripod stool, was the most gruesome memento of all: a mummy. Not the wrapped-in-cloth kind, but a human female body shrivelled to a husk. She wore a tie-dyed sundress, lots of beaded necklaces, and a headband over long black hair. The skin of her face was thin and leathery over her skull, and her eyes were glassy white slits, as if the real eyes had been replaced by marbles; she’d been dead a long, long time.
Looking at her sent chills up my back. And that was before she sat up on her stool and opened her mouth. A green mist poured from the mummy’s mouth, coiling over the floor in thick tendrils, hissing like twenty-thousand snakes. I stumbled over myself trying to get to the trapdoor, but it slammed shut. Inside my head, I heard a voice, slithering into one ear and coiling around my brain: I am the spirit of Delphi, speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python. Approach, seeker, and ask.
I wanted to say, No thanks, wrong door, just looking for the bathroom. But I forced myself to take a deep breath.
The mummy wasn’t alive. She was some kind of gruesome receptacle for something else, the power that was now swirling around me in the green mist. But its presence didn’t feel evil, like my demonic maths teacher Mrs Dodds or the Minotaur. It felt more like the Three Fates I’d seen knitting the yarn outside the highway fruit stand: ancient, powerful and definitely not human. But not particularly interested in killing me, either.
I got up the courage to ask, ‘What is my destiny?’
The mist swirled more thickly, collecting right in front of me and around the table with the pickled monster-part jars. Suddenly there were four men sitting around the table, playing cards. Their faces became clearer. It was Smelly Gabe and his buddies.
My fists clenched, though I knew this poker party couldn’t be real. It was an illusion, made out of mist.
Gabe turned towards me and spoke in the rasping voice of the Oracle: You shall go west, and face the god who has turned.
His buddy on the right looked up and said in the same voice: You shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned.
The guy on the left threw in two poker chips, then said: You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend.
Finally, Eddie, our building super, delivered the worst line of all: And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end.
The figures began to dissolve. At first I was too stunned to say anything, but as the mist retreated, coiling into a huge green serpent and slithering back into the mouth of the mummy, I cried, ‘Wait! What do you mean? What friend? What will I fail to save?’
The tail of the mist snake disappeared into the mummy’s mouth. She reclined back against the wall. Her mouth closed tight, as if it hadn’t been open in a hundred years. The attic was silent again, abandoned, nothing but a room full of mementos.
I got the feeling that I could stand here until I had cobwebs, too, and I wouldn’t learn anything else.
My audience with the Oracle was over.
‘Well?’ Chiron asked me.
I slumped into a chair at the pinochle table. ‘She said I would retrieve what was stolen.’
Grover sat forward, chewing excitedly on the remains of a Diet Coke can. ‘That’s great!’
‘What did the Oracle say exactly?’ Chiron pressed. ‘This is important.’
My ears were still tingling from the reptilian voice. ‘She… she said I would go west and face a god who had turned. I would retrieve what was stolen and see it safely returned.’
‘I knew it,’ Grover said.
Chiron didn’t look satisfied. ‘Anything else?’
I didn’t want to tell him.
What friend would betray me? I didn’t have that many.
And the last line – I would fail to save what mattered most. What kind of Oracle would send me on a quest and tell me, Oh, by the way, you’ll fail.
How could I confess that?
‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s about it.’
He studied my face. ‘Very well, Percy. But know this: the Oracle’s words often have double meanings. Don’t dwell on them too much. The truth is not always clear until events come to pass.’
I got the feeling he knew I was holding back something bad, and he was trying to make me feel better.
‘Okay,’ I said, anxious to change topics. ‘So where do I go? Who’s this god in the west?’