The Twelve Labors of Nick

by Amy Wolf

  Before he could raise his sword, Nick thought he heard something from the entrance. There it was again: the sound of a woman crying, muffled by marble. Nick hated when somebody cried—Mom did all the time—and, like most guys, he didn’t know how to be comforting. Still, these sobs were intense, and Nick couldn’t just ignore them. What was it all about? Some worshipper dissed by Athena?

  “Hey,” Nick called, his voice echoing back at him. “Where are you? What’s wrong?”

  He was answered by sobs so wrenching he feared the woman might come apart. Nick slogged back toward the front where he found a small, dark room.

  “Are you there?” he asked, going in.

  His question was pretty dumb since her sobs were deafening. Nick heard a scurry, then sniffs between the wails.

  “Don’t look at me!” said a voice. It sounded kind of frantic.

  “Why not?” he asked. “Hey, I’m body-positive. I’ve been bullied a lot myself.” He paused. “Not for my looks—just for being Greek.”

  “That’s absurd,” said the woman, her voice gravelly like smoker’s.

  “Not in Palos Rojas,” he said. “These guys beat me up ‘cause my skin was too dark.”

  “That would never happen in Mýthos.”

  “Huh?” Nick asked. “Oh, you mean here.”

  “Sounds terrible,” she rasped, then resumed weeping. “I’m terrible too. Since I don’t want to kill you, I would suggest you leave.”

  “Why would you kill me?” Nick asked, peering around the darkness to see if he could spot her.

  “DON’T LOOK!” she cried. “I’m hideous, and I’ll just turn you to stone.”

  “Uh . . .” This was starting to ring a bell. “Medusa?”

  “Who else?”

  “But . . .” Nick stopped. “I thought that you were evil. That you liked turning men to stone.”

  She sighed.

  “At first, I did, since I was so filled with rage. But after all these years . . .” She exhaled. “I’m tired of hurting people.”

  Nick’s thoughts strayed—oddly, to Lady Gaga.

  “Were you born this way?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He could hear her move back, then blow her nose.

  “You see,” she said, “I was once a beautiful maiden—a priestess of Athena.”

  “Oh,” said Nick, interested.

  “Then, while I was praying here, Poseidon came in and he . . . he . . . defiled me.”

  “Bastard!” Nick cried, his blood pumping. “Was he punished?”

  “No,” said Medusa, “I was. Athena blamed me for my beauty and transformed me into . . . this. A horrible Gorgon who sprang from the loins of Typhon.”

  “Him again?”

  “What? Anyway, my hair is now made of snakes, and you know the rest.”

  “That sucks,” said Nick. “Why would Athena punish you?”

  “That is the lot of us women,” said Medusa. “Only Zeus can punish the gods, and he is guilty of the same crime.”

  “You need the #MeToo movement!” Nick cried.

  “I couldn’t say. But women here—other than goddesses—are expected to be dutiful, and a loss of purity is always considered their fault.”

  “Retro B.S.,” said Nick, then remembered where he was. “Well, I think what Athena did blows. And I intend to call her on it.”

  “No!” Medusa cried as he stomped back to the main hall.

  “It’s okay,” Nick called. “She favors me.”

  Trying to summon his courage (and, he had to admit, he didn’t have a great deal), Nick addressed the towering statue.

  “Mighty Athena,” he said, feeling silly as he talked to her feet. “Goddess of Wisdom, right? Doesn’t that have to do with Justice?”

  As at her brother’s temple, her voice sounded in his head.

  “I am the Goddess of Justice.”

  “Whoops.”

  Nick gathered himself.

  “Tell me why,” he asked, “you punish a victim and not her rapist? Where I come from, we don’t stand for this anymore. #TimesUp.”

  “You must understand that Medusa defiled my temple.”

  “BUT SHE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING.”

  OMG—was he really shouting at a goddess? And not even her, but her statue?

  “My priestesses must remain pure,” said Athena. “Her act was a great offense.”

  “That is just twisted,” said Nick. “How can you take out on a woman what was done to her by a man? How is that fair or just? I know I’m taking a chance here, but frankly, that makes me disrespect you.”

  What Nick heard—for the next few minutes—was a silence amplified by marble. He wondered how Athena was planning to finish him off. That long gold spear at her side was enough to do the trick.

  “Nikólaos, son of Chiron—”

  “Chironopolous,” Nick said.

  “Yes.” The voice in his head now softened. “Sometimes even gods heed mortals. As she who oversees Courage, Strategy, the Arts, and Crafts—”

  “I’m not sure crafts are going to help,” said Nick. “I once made a lanyard at camp—"

  “SILENCE. In any case,” she said, hardening, “never address the gods as you have done so today. Now go.”

  That was it?

  Being from L.A., Nick was used to earthquakes, but not one where he was the center! The tiled floor began to shake as the layered columns tilted. Even the sturdy roof vibrated with anger.

  “Get out!” Nick shouted while running for the doors. When he was almost through, he stopped. Just what kind of Hero was he to leave Medusa behind? He ran back into her room, crashing into tables until he felt the touch of flesh. Dragging her behind him, he fought to stay on his feet as the floor beneath him rumbled. Vaulting past those red doors, they just barely made it outside.

  “Jeez,” said Nick. “These gods can sure be touchy.”

  “They are the best and worst of us,” said Medusa, and Nick could hear her snakes hissing. He noticed that when guys in togas passed by, they started to run and scream.

  “Don’t look at me,” Medusa warned. “I must exile myself to an island.”

  “No,” said Nick, stamping a sandaled foot. “I just can’t believe that Athena could be so cold.”

  “Do not trust—” Medusa warned, but Nick had had enough. With a hand over his eyes, he brought up her head, then quickly snuck a look.

  “Wow,” he said.

  He hadn’t turned to stone—not if he could still talk. And he was looking at a girl not much older than him who had the prettiest face and the best flowing hair ever!

  “Your hair,” he mumbled, feeling his face flush hot.

  “It’s not snakes?” she asked, patting her own head.

  “Nope,” said Nick, “No reptiles.”

  “I must thank you,” she said, her eyes, a soft grey, misting.

  “Me?” Nick asked, awkwardly shifting feet. “Heck, it was all Athena.”

  “No,” she said, looking back at the temple. “You defended me, and even though she was angry, it took that, and your having the nerve to look at me, to turn me back to myself.” She tossed that thrilling hair that was like the color of flame. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Well,” said Nick, waving a hand, “it was nothing. I mean, being a Hero and all . . .”

  “I thought so,” she said.

  “What gave it away?”

  “Well, you are wearing armor forged by a god. And you had the guts to scold a goddess.”

  “Yeah,” Nick breathed, “yeah, I guess I did.”

  He tried to puff out his chest, but that was tough in a breastplate.

  “Shall we?” asked Medusa, gesturing toward those wide steps. “After all these hundreds of years, I have to admit I’m starving.”

  “Me too,” said Nick.

  He noticed that as they went down, she was as quick as he was.

  “You stayed in shape,” he remarked.

  “I’m a Gorgon,” she said. “And
Titan. We were born in shape.”

  Nick turned this over in his mind as she led him to a large market.

  “Got any drachmas?” he asked. “Heph didn’t give me any.”

  “Hmm,” she said, “no. But I do know a place where we can get a good dinner.”

  “Let’s go,” Nick enthused.

  As they pushed their way past tents, he had a sudden thought.

  “You know what?” he said. “I don’t want to call you Medusa.”

  “Well, that’s my name,” she said, flipping her hair so that it covered one bare shoulder.

  Nick tried to concentrate.

  “I know, but . . . when people hear it, they’re gonna think scary monster. I want to call you something more like you are now.”

  “Priestess of Athena?”

  “Too formal,” said Nick, trying to remember that one Greek day in class. “Who was that babe, uh, woman, who started an epic war? Like, she was so hot that her face ‘launched a thousand ships.’”

  “Do you mean the Peloponnesus?” she asked.

  “No, I can’t even spell that. It was a much shorter war-name.”

  “Troy?”

  “That’s it!” Nick shouted. “Now what was the hottie’s name?”

  “Helen,” said Medusa. “When Paris carried her off, it led to a war that lasted a decade.”

  “Helen,” Nick repeated, liking the sound. “From now on, you mind if I call you that?”

  “No,” said new-Helen. “Anything beats Medusa.”

  “Then Helen it is,” said Nick. “By the way, I’m Nick.”

  He thrust out a hand, and after a second, she took it.

  “I know,” said Helen, “I heard you tell the statue.”

  Nick had a strong urge to take a selfie with her. But what he found at his side was a sword and not his phone.

  They continued their stroll through Athens, passing more amazing statues. Man, Nick thought, these Greeks are really into dudes. Everywhere he looked, there were naked marble guys. Being from the U.S., he found it made him uncomfortable.

  Helen noticed.

  “So,” she said. “I take it you’re new to Mýthos?”

  “Very. See—"

  “I heard you say you’re the son of Chiron. That means you’re a centaur, right?”

  “Huh? No. I mean, yeah, he’s my dad, but I’m just a guy. My mom is like a hundred percent normal.”

  “Whatever that means,” said Helen.

  Nick hoped he hadn’t offended her: after all, it hadn’t been that long since she’d had snakes for hair.

  “So,” Nick said, as they walked through the pottery district where artisans made . . . more pots. “You immortal?”

  “No,” said Helen, leading him up to a house built around an open space. “My sisters are though.”

  “Oh.”

  Medusa—Helen—breezed in as if she lived there. She entered a room hung with a single tapestry where a handsome couple reclined. From their rich clothes and jewelry, Nick took them to be the owners.

  “Priestess!” the woman cried, running up to Helen. “How long has it been?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Helen. “You know how time flies when you’re under a curse.”

  “We heard about that,” said the man. “So glad it is over.”

  “Yes, well . . . this is Nikólaos. He’s the one who freed me. Turns out he’s a son of Chiron.”

  “Uh, that’s ‘the,’” Nick said, now wondering.

  “The most learned and wise of creatures!” the man exclaimed. “You are welcome inside our home.”

  “Thanks,” said Nick, trying to smile. When it came to social stuff, he was mainly—how did you put it?—a dud.

  “I am Agammemnon,” said the man.

  “Aren’t you famous?” asked Nick.

  “Not that Agammemnon,” he said. “This is my wife Calligenia.”

  “Nice to meet you, Caligula.”

  “Calligenia,” Helen hissed in his ear.

  “I imagine,” said Agammemnon, “that you both wish to bathe before eating. Please, follow me.”

  Nick, trailed by Helen, kept their host’s swirling robes in sight until they stopped at a sort of bathroom. There was a small stone tub in the corner which two women were already filling.

  Agammemnon bowed his way out, leaving Nick and Helen. They both began to blush.

  “Why don’t you—?” Helen asked, while he insisted, “Ladies first.”

  “Great,” they both said together, and Nick eased himself out. Though he couldn’t see, he heard the sound of a toga falling, followed by that of a body easing into the tub.

  “How is it?” he yelled just a little too loud.

  “Like being on Olympus,” she called.

  “I’ve, um, I’ve actually been there.”

  “Really? Is it as beautiful as they say?”

  “Yeah. Except for the Cyclopes and maybe Heph.”

  Nick was relieved that Helen was pretty quick. She emerged just a few minutes later in what looked like a courtesy robe. It reminded Nick of the Marriott.

  “Nice toga,” he said.

  “It’s called a peplos.”

  “Cool,” said Nick. He awkwardly put down his shield. “Guess it’s my turn.”

  He trudged back to the bathroom, turning a few shades of red as the women removed his armor.

  “Thanks,” he told them, once they’d gotten to the toga level. “I’ll take it from here.”

  They must have gotten the message since they left in a swirl of fabric. After stripping down, Nick lowered himself . . . into the tub just used by Helen.

  Don’t think about it, he scolded himself. Think about pottery and uh . . . temples.

  That must have done the trick since he relaxed as water swirled round his ears. It seemed like forever since he’d had a shower, but it was really just three days. So much had happened since then, especially . . . Helen. Did he have a chance with her? Nick wondered. Having never had a real girlfriend, he had no idea. But now his thoughts switched to his growling stomach. Man, he was starved! He leapt out of the tub, dried himself with a cloth, and put on his own new garment. He managed to find his way back to the where Helen sat with their hosts.

  “Peep the fit,” Nick announced. “Like my peplos?”

  Helen burst into laughter.

  “For a man, it’s called a chiton.”

  “Okay, then,” said Nick. By the time he got home, he’d know a lot more Greek. Wait a sec! “Hey,” he asked Helen, “how come these guys understand me but not the dudes outside?”

  “They aren’t mortal,” she told him. “Agammemnon is a son of Zeus and Calligenia was a wood nymph.”

  “Wow. Zeus has enough kids to form a pretty big choir.”

  Helen shot him a warning look.

  “JK,” Nick said to his hosts.

  “JK,” said Agammemnon, looking kind of confused. “Let us eat.”

  “I’m in.”

  Instead of sitting at a table, each diner had a couch where he or she could recline. Nick nearly drooled as courses came out courtesy of servants: among them was super-fresh fish topped with cheese and oil; bread made from what tasted like barley; and some dope dish mixing leeks and apples. There were bowls of olives (Yay!), and, for dessert, that gastrin thing, sweetened with honey and figs. Nick thought it was kind of strange not to see tomatoes or rice but how could he complain with this feast set before him?

  Nick especially liked the wine. They were served jug after jug, sometimes red and sometimes white. Now, Mom had always frowned on drinking, and, TBH, he’d only snuck a couple of beers. But here, Nick relished his Endlessly Refilled Cup, and, though its contents were weak, and seemed to be spiced—with garlic!—it was still wine, if not the drink of the gods, then that of worshippers everywhere! He fumbled with the huge cup and its two side handles for lifting. Nick lifted it all right, all through this sumptuous meal.

  “Take it easy,” Helen whispered. “We drink wine to savor it—not to ge
t drunk like a satyr.”

  “All hail Bacchus!” Nick yelled.

  “Dionysus,” Helen corrected. “And even he has a limit.” She rose from her couch. “Nick and I should retire,” she said. “He has much to accomplish tomorrow.”

  “So much,” Nick groaned, almost on the verge of tears. But what was it exactly?

  Helen helped him to his feet. Swaying, he followed nymph woman to a small room upstairs. Though it was light on furniture, all he cared about was the bed. Through his haze, Nick saw it was more like a living room couch. Whatev. He tossed aside a sheepskin—who needed it in this heat?—and tried to throw himself on. It took a few seconds to realize he’d hit the floor.

  “Ouch?” Nick said to Helen, who waited in the doorway. The way she shook her head reminded him of Mom.

  “Good night, Nikólaos,” she said. “May the gods protect you in sleep.”

  “‘K,” Nick answered, his nose pressed against tiles. “But not that Heph-as-tee-oos. Threw me off a cliff ‘cause he has mommy issues.”

  Helen’s shoulders shook with laughter as she left and went next door. The next thing Nick knew, she was standing over him and pouring water over his head.

  “Sleep well?” she asked.

  Nick blinked. He was still on the floor. And his head hurt worse than Zeus birthing Athena.

  “Pain,” he told her. “Head . . . throb . . . like drum.”

  “Of course it does,” she answered. “You’re like every centaur ever.”

  The Gods Meddle

  “I told you, I’m not a centaur!” Nick yelled, causing his head to vibrate.

  “And I,” she said, “wasn’t a horrible monster who once turned men to stone.”

  She left and Nick got up, finding his way downstairs. He hadn’t noticed before, but beneath a bright orange tapestry sat a statue of Bacchus. Figured.

  “Here,” said Helen, taking a bundle of leaves and placing it round his neck.

  “What’s this?” Nick asked. “The Wreath of Ultimate Shame?”

  She gave him a look made bold by eyes lined like the Sphinx’s.