Chapter 10

“Eh? Oh, all right.”

Grover bit a huge shard out of the empty aluminum can and chewed it

mournfully.

“Wait,” I told Chiron. “You’re telling me there’s such a thing as God.”

“Well, now,” Chiron said. “God—capital G, God. That’s a different matter

altogether. We shan’t deal with the metaphysical.”

“Metaphysical? But you were just talking about—”

“Ah, gods, plural, as in, great beings that control the forces of nature and

human endeavors: the immortal gods of Olympus. That’s a smaller matter.”

“Smaller?”

“Yes, quite. The gods we discussed in Latin class.”

“Zeus,” I said. “Hera. Apollo. You mean them.”

And there it was again—distant thunder on a cloudless day.

“Young man,” said Mr. D, “I would really be less casual about throwing those

names around, if I were you.”

“But they’re stories,” I said. “They’re—myths, to explain lightning and the

seasons and stuff.

They’re what people believed before there was science.”

“Science!” Mr. D scoffed. “And tell me, Perseus Jackson”—I flinched when

he said my real name, which I never told anybody—”what will people think of your

‘science’ two thousand years from now?” Mr. D continued. “Hmm? They will call it

primitive mumbo jumbo. That’s what. Oh, I love mortals—they have absolutely no

sense of perspective. They think they’ve come so-o-o far.

And have they, Chiron? Look at this boy and tell me.”

I wasn’t liking Mr. D much, but there was something about the way he called

me mortal, as if... he wasn’t. It was enough to put a lump in my throat, to suggest

why Grover was dutifully minding his cards, chewing his soda can, and keeping his

mouth shut.

“Percy,” Chiron said, “you may choose to believe or not, but the fact is that

immortal means immortal. Can you imagine that for a moment, never dying? Never

fading? Existing, just as you are, for all time?”

I was about to answer, off the top of my head, that it sounded like a pretty

good deal, but the tone of Chiron’s voice made me hesitate.

“You mean, whether people believed in you or not,” I said.

“Exactly,” Chiron agreed. “If you were a god, how would you like being called

a myth, an old story to explain lightning? What if I told you, Perseus Jackson, that

someday people would call you a myth, just created to explain how little boys can get

over losing their mothers?”

My heart pounded. He was trying to make me angry for some reason, but I

wasn’t going to let him. I said, “I wouldn’t like it. But I don’t believe in gods.”

“Oh, you’d better,” Mr. D murmured. “Before one of them incinerates you.”

Grover said, “P-please, sir. He’s just lost his mother. He’s in shock.”

“A lucky thing, too,” Mr. D grumbled, playing a card. “Bad enough I’m

confined to this miserable job, working with boys who don’t even believe.’“

He waved his hand and a goblet appeared on the table, as if the sunlight had

bent, momentarily, and woven the air into glass. The goblet filled itself with red

wine.

My jaw dropped, but Chiron hardly looked up.

“Mr. D,” he warned, “your restrictions.”

Mr. D looked at the wine and feigned surprise.

“Dear me.” He looked at the sky and yelled, “Old habits! Sorry!”

More thunder.

Mr. D waved his hand again, and the wineglass changed into a fresh can of

Diet Coke. He sighed unhappily, popped the top of the soda, and went back to his

card game.

Chiron winked at me. “Mr. D offended his father a while back, took a fancy to

a wood nymph who had been declared off-limits.”

“A wood nymph,” I repeated, still staring at the Diet Coke can like it was from

outer space.

“Yes,” Mr. D confessed. “Father loves to punish me. The first time,

Prohibition. Ghastly!

Absolutely horrid ten years! The second time—well, she really was pretty, and

I couldn’t stay away—the second time, he sent me here. Half-Blood Hill. Summer

camp for brats like you. ‘Be a better influence,’ he told me. ‘Work with youths rather

than tearing them down.’ Ha.’ Absolutely unfair.”

Mr. D sounded about six years old, like a pouting little kid.

“And ...” I stammered, “your father is ...”

“Di immortales, Chiron,” Mr. D said. “I thought you taught this boy the

basics. My father is Zeus, of course.”

I ran through D names from Greek mythology. Wine. The skin of a tiger. The

satyrs that all seemed to work here. The way Grover cringed, as if Mr. D were his

master.

“You’re Dionysus,” I said. “The god of wine.”

Mr. D rolled his eyes. “What do they say, these days, Grover? Do the children

say, ‘Well, duh!’?”

“Y-yes, Mr. D.”

“Then, well, duh! Percy Jackson. Did you think I was Aphrodite, perhaps?”

“You’re a god.”

“Yes, child.”

“A god. You.”

He turned to look at me straight on, and I saw a kind of purplish fire in his

eyes, a hint that this whiny, plump little man was only showing me the tiniest bit of

his true nature. I saw visions of grape vines choking unbelievers to death, drunken

warriors insane with battle lust, sailors screaming as their hands turned to flippers,

their faces elongating into dolphin snouts. I knew that if I pushed him, Mr. D would

show me worse things. He would plant a disease in my brain that would leave me

wearing a strait-jacket in a rubber room for the rest of my life.

“Would you like to test me, child?” he said quietly.

“No. No, sir.”

The fire died a little. He turned back to his card game. “I believe I win.”

“Not quite, Mr. D,” Chiron said. He set down a straight, tallied the points, and

said, “The game goes to me.”

I thought Mr. D was going to vaporize Chiron right out of his wheelchair, but

he just sighed through his nose, as if he were used to being beaten by the Latin

teacher. He got up, and Grover rose, too.

“I’m tired,” Mr. D said. “I believe I’ll take a nap before the sing-along tonight.

But first, Grover, we need to talk, again, about your less-than-perfect performance on

this assignment.”

Grover’s face beaded with sweat. “Y-yes, sir.”

Mr. D turned to me. “Cabin eleven, Percy Jackson. And mind your manners.”

He swept into the farmhouse, Grover following miserably.

“Then, well, duh! Percy Jackson. Did you think I was Aphrodite, perhaps?”

“You’re a god.”

“Yes, child.”

“A god. You.”

He turned to look at me straight on, and I saw a kind of purplish fire in his

eyes, a hint that this whiny, plump little man was only showing me the tiniest bit of

his true nature. I saw visions of grape vines choking unbelievers to death, drunken

warriors insane with battle lust, sailors screaming as their hands turned to flippers,

their faces elongating into dolphin snouts. I knew that if I pushed him, Mr. D would

show me worse things. He would plant a disease in my brain that would leave me

wearing a strait-jacket in a rubber room for the rest of my life.

“Would you like to test me, child?” he said quietly.

“No. No, sir.”

The fire died a little. He turned back to his card game. “I believe I win.”

“Not quite, Mr. D,” Chiron said. He set down a straight, tallied the points, and

said, “The game goes to me.”

I thought Mr. D was going to vaporize Chiron right out of his wheelchair, but

he just sighed through his nose, as if he were used to being beaten by the Latin

teacher. He got up, and Grover rose, too.

“I’m tired,” Mr. D said. “I believe I’ll take a nap before the sing-along tonight.

But first, Grover, we need to talk, again, about your less-than-perfect performance on

this assignment.”

Grover’s face beaded with sweat. “Y-yes, sir.”

Mr. D turned to me. “Cabin eleven, Percy Jackson. And mind your manners.”

He swept into the farmhouse, Grover following miserably.

“Will Grover be okay?” I asked Chiron.

Chiron nodded, though he looked a bit troubled. “Old Dionysus isn’t really

mad. He just hates his job. He’s been ... ah, grounded, I guess you would say, and he

can’t stand waiting another century before he’s allowed to go back to Olympus.”

“Mount Olympus,” I said. “You’re telling me there really is a palace there?”

“Well now, there’s Mount Olympus in Greece. And then there’s the home of

the gods, the convergence point of their powers, which did indeed used to be on

Mount Olympus. It’s still called Mount Olympus, out of respect to the old ways, but

the palace moves, Percy, just as the gods do.”

“You mean the Greek gods are here? Like ... in America?”

“Well, certainly. The gods move with the heart of the West.”

“The what?”

“Come now, Percy. What you call ‘Western civilization.’ Do you think it’s just

an abstract concept? No, it’s a living force. A collective consciousness that has

burned bright for thousands of years. The gods are part of it. You might even say

they are the source of it, or at least, they are tied so tightly to it that they couldn’t

possibly fade, not unless all of Western civilization were obliterated. The fire started

in Greece. Then, as you well know—or as I hope you know, since you passed my

course—the heart of the fire moved to Rome, and so did the gods. Oh, different

names, perhaps—Jupiter for Zeus, Venus for Aphrodite, and so on—but the same

forces, the same gods.”

“And then they died.”

“Died? No. Did the West die? The gods simply moved, to Germany, to France,

to Spain, for a while. Wherever the flame was brightest, the gods were there. They

spent several centuries in England. All you need to do is look at the architecture.

People do not forget the gods. Every place they’ve ruled, for the last three thousand years, you can see them in paintings, in statues, on the most important buildings. And

yes, Percy, of course they are now in your United States. Look at your symbol, the

eagle of Zeus. Look at the statue of Prometheus in Rockefeller Center, the Greek

facades of your government buildings in Washington. I defy you to find any

American city where the Olympians are not prominently displayed in multiple

places. Like it or not—and believe me, plenty of people weren’t very fond of Rome,

either—America is now the heart of the flame. It is the great power of the West. And

so Olympus is here. And we are here.”

It was all too much, especially the fact that I seemed to be included in Chiron’s

we, as if I were part of some club.

“Who are you, Chiron? Who ... who am I?”

Chiron smiled. He shifted his weight as if he were going to get up out of his

wheelchair, but I knew that was impossible. He was paralyzed from the waist down.

“Who are you?” he mused. “Well, that’s the question we all want answered,

isn’t it? But for now, we should get you a bunk in cabin eleven. There will be new

friends to meet. And plenty of time for lessons tomorrow. Besides, there will be

s’mores at the campfire tonight, and I simply adore chocolate.”

And then he did rise from his wheelchair. But there was something odd about

the way he did it. His blanket fell away from his legs, but the legs didn’t move. His

waist kept getting longer, rising above his belt. At first, I thought he was wearing

very long, white velvet underwear, but as he kept rising out of the chair, taller than

any man, I realized that the velvet underwear wasn’t underwear; it was the front of an

animal, muscle and sinew under coarse white fur. And the wheelchair wasn’t a chair.

It was some kind of container, an enormous box on wheels, and it must’ve been

magic, because there’s no way it could’ve held all of him. A leg came out, long and

knobby-kneed, with a huge polished hoof. Then another front leg, then hindquarters, and then the box was empty, nothing but a metal shell with a couple of fake human

legs attached.

I stared at the horse who had just sprung from the wheelchair: a huge white

stallion. But where its neck should be was the upper body of my Latin teacher,

smoothly grafted to the horse’s trunk.

“What a relief,” the centaur said. “I’d been cooped up in there so long, my

fetlocks had fallen asleep. Now, come, Percy Jackson. Let’s meet the other campers.”

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***