This is very boring, she thought, some time later.
THIS IS EXTREMELY BORING! she fumed. I always did hate playing musical statues. And being a real statue is even worse. I’d wish to go home but what to do about Freddie? I can’t just leave him.
Gradually Susan’s thoughts petered out. The light faded, and she felt herself drifting into a frozen state where time stood still.
SPLASH!
Susan’s face felt wet. Gasping and spluttering, she felt her stiff body return to life.
‘Thank goodness that worked!’ said King Midas, standing before her holding an empty jug. ‘Dionysus said I should wash in the river Pactolus to get rid of that cursed wish. Now the sands are gold, but mercifully you’re not.’
‘I’m soaking wet!’ said Susan. Her whole body tingled as the blood suddenly flowed again in her veins. Freddie sat up, shaking his wet head.
‘Susan, I want to go home,’ said Freddie, tugging on her sleeve. ‘I’ve got pins and needles everywhere.’
‘Just a little longer,’ said Susan. She turned to Midas. ‘How could you have wasted that wish?’ she demanded.
King Midas hung his head.
‘All right, I admit it, I was a ninny,’ said King Midas.
‘Ninny!’ squealed Susan, rubbing her stiff arms and legs. ‘Total dimwit you mean! Why didn’t you listen to me? I could have told you the best wishes.’
King Midas sighed.
‘You’re right, of course,’ he said. ‘Next time I’ll know better. Now cheer up and come along, both of you, we don’t want to miss the music contest. My old friend the woodland god Pan has challenged the god Apollo to a music competition. That’s no contest – Pan is the greatest!’
‘I want to go home,’ said Freddie stubbornly.
‘Nonsense,’ said Midas. ‘Wait till you hear Pan’s lovely music.’
‘I don’t want to hear lovely music!’ screamed Freddie.
‘How about a piggy-back ride there?’ said King Midas, scooping Freddie onto his back and galloping off. Freddie squealed with laughter.
He just wants to distract us from how silly he’s been, thought Susan, as she hurried after them into the forest.
Soon she found herself in a grove of gnarled olive trees, their silvery leaves rustling in the breeze, near the bottom of a sloping hillside. A crowd had gathered round the edges. In the centre of the grove was an empty armchair, covered in creamy ram skins. Beside the chair a tall, stony-faced young man paced up and down, his forehead wreathed with laurel, holding a lyre made from a gleaming tortoise shell. Nearby pranced a strange, hairy, bearded creature, half-man, half-goat, with horns jutting from his forehead.
‘Pan!’ shouted Midas.
The satyr came bounding up to Midas.
‘You’re sure to win, Pan,’ said Midas. ‘Your pipes can outplay Apollo’s lyre any day.’
‘I certainly think so,’ boasted Pan.
‘My daughter is quite an expert on the Pan pipes,’ boasted Midas.
I am? thought Susan.
‘And her lyre playing – oooh la la!’ said Midas, kissing his fingers.
‘This I must hear,’ said Apollo coldly.
‘Really I couldn’t,’ said Susan, backing off.
‘Play,’ said Apollo, offering her his lyre.
‘I’d love to but I can’t,’ said Susan. ‘I hurt my hand playing basketball – I mean, weaving baskets.’
‘But your lips are working fine,’ said Apollo, snatching Pan’s pipes from him and forcing them into Susan’s hand.
‘I haven’t practised for ages,’ said Susan. ‘I’m not –’
‘PLAY!’ ordered Apollo. ‘Or I’ll turn you into a tree.’
Susan brought the pipes to her lips.
‘Wrong end,’ muttered Pan.
‘Oops,’ said Susan. She hastily turned them round.
Apollo sniggered.
Then, puffing up her cheeks, Susan blew.
‘Plllllughhhhhhh,’ groaned the pipes.
‘Plllllughhhhhh! Peep! Plllgh! Peep!’
Apollo grimaced.
Susan flushed bright red and handed the pipes back to Pan.
‘I’m a little rusty,’ she murmured.
‘Wasn’t she great!’ beamed Midas. ‘My daughter the genius!’
Susan was so embarrassed she wanted to run away. Real parents were bad enough without being humiliated by fake ones.
A cry went up.
‘Here comes the judge!’
An ancient old man, dripping with leaves, was helped into the chair. Trees followed him, nodding when he nodded, moving when he moved, swaying when he swayed.
‘That’s the judge, the old mountain god Tmolus,’ whispered Midas.
‘Are you all right, Tmolus?’ asked Midas. ‘Not too cold for you?’
Tmolus cupped his ear.
‘Eh?’ squeaked Tmolus.
‘ARE YOU COMFORTABLE SITTING THERE?’ shouted Midas.
‘I am not spitting!’ shouted Tmolus.
‘Have you travelled far?’ asked Midas.
‘What jar?’ shouted Tmolus. ‘Stop spouting nonsense.’
‘He’s the judge?’ whispered Susan.
‘EH?’ said Tmolus. ‘Let the contest begin!’ The forest shook as he spoke.
Pan picked up his pipes.
A wild, eerie, frightening sound poured from his reeds.
Wow, thought Susan, swaying her shoulders. Freddie danced about to the spooky music, pounding and stamping. With a final flourish of fast notes, Pan finished.
Midas cheered. Susan clapped. Freddie whistled.
Everyone else was silent.
‘Bravo! Bravo! Encore! Encore!’ Midas whooped. ‘Now that’s what I call music, right, judge?’
‘Eh?’ said Tmolus.
Then Apollo stood. His long purple robes swept the ground. His top lip curled in a sneer as his left hand swept up the lyre. Then he began to play.
TWANG A-TWANG A-TWANG. The slow, stately melody, Susan thought, was haunting. But so depressing! She stole a look at the audience. Everyone looked utterly miserable.
Freddie tugged at her sleeve.
‘I need a wee,’ he said.
‘Shh,’ said Susan.
Freddie tugged harder.
‘I NEED A WEEWEE!’ he insisted loudly.
There was a sudden, terrible silence.
Apollo paused, his fingers poised over the strings.
‘What mortal dares interrupt the playing of the god of music?’ he demanded.
‘I need a wee,’ said Freddie stubbornly. ‘Where’s the loo?’
Apollo’s face was dark with rage.
‘How dare you?’ he spat.
‘Freddie!’ hissed Susan. ‘There aren’t any toilets here! Go behind a tree.’ If she could have made the earth swallow her up she would have done.
‘By Hercules,’ said King Midas, going up to Apollo, ‘when a boy’s gotta go, he’s gotta go. Come along, son,’ he added, steering Freddie behind a gnarled olive tree circled by a rough stone wall.
Pan gave a loud laugh. No one dared speak.
‘I will begin again,’ said Apollo frostily as Freddie returned, his shorts twisted about his waist. ‘The next mortal who so much as breathes will be turned into an onion.’
‘I don’t like onions,’ whispered Freddie.
‘SHHH!’ hissed Susan.
When Apollo finished playing his dirge, everyone except King Midas clapped and cheered. He stood instead, arms folded. Then he gave a loud yawn.
‘Boring!’ shouted Midas.
Tmolus awoke with a start.
‘Apollo is the winner,’ he said.
‘Boo!’ shrieked Midas. ‘Unfair! Pan was much better.’
‘The judge was asleep,’ protested Susan.
Slowly Apollo turned and stared down at Susan and King Midas. His face was flushed.
‘Did someone speak?’ he asked coldly.
‘I did,’ said Susan. ‘You played beautifully but you have to admit t
his contest was unfair.’
‘Not fair,’ said Freddie.
‘Pan is best, Pan is best,’ chanted Midas.
‘Shh,’ hissed Susan.
‘But he was better,’ insisted Freddie.
Apollo fixed them all with an angry stare.
‘Perhaps you are having trouble with your hearing?’ said Apollo.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Susan.
‘My ears are excellent too,’ said King Midas.
‘I just had my hearing test,’ said Freddie.
Apollo pointed his finger at them.
‘Let me help make your ears even better,’ he hissed.
BOING! BOING!
Susan grabbed her ears. They were sprouting under her hands. Taller and taller, furrier and furrier they grew.
‘Ha ha, Susan, you look so funny!’ shrieked Freddie, laughing and pointing. ‘Susan’s got donkey ears, Susan’s got donkey ears.’
‘So have you, Freddie,’ snarled Susan.
‘Help! Help!’ shouted Midas, trying to hide his huge ears under his hat.
‘Mummy!’ squealed Freddie.
Susan decided enough was enough.
She grabbed Freddie’s hand, and wished.
Eileen blinked.
‘So? I’m waiting,’ she said.
‘We’ve been gone for ages,’ said Susan. Just in case, her hands covered her ears. ‘Freddie and I were with King Midas.’
‘Yeah! I got turned into a statue and everything,’ said Freddie. ‘And Susan has donkey ears!’
Eileen sighed.
‘Well, she doesn’t now,’ said Eileen.
What a relief, thought Susan. She didn’t fancy wearing a hat for the rest of her life.
‘We have proof,’ said Susan. ‘Gold! Go on Freddie, show her your gold rose.’
Susan took out of her pocket a handful of ordinary pebbles, while Freddie stared as the faded pink petals crumpled to dust in his hand.
‘Ha!’ said Eileen.
7
HORRIFYING HERCULES
A camping holiday! It had sounded such fun when Mum and Dad suggested it. What they hadn’t said was that it would mean sharing a tent with her brother and sister, and hot muggy weather and endless long hikes where Susan would have to lug her own backpack. Freddie naturally got to carry a tiny pack with some sweets in it, and Susan was sure that Eileen’s pack was much lighter than hers. They’d just been out on what Mum called a midnight hike, but which was really just a night-time walk around nine p.m. – big deal. Finally they were back, and everyone was asleep. Everyone but Susan.
Susan lay hot and sweaty and uncomfortable in the tent. How she hated sleeping bags! What was the point of lying on stony ground in a damp old bag that smelled of cats when you could be tucked up snug at home in your cool, comfy bed? Plus the sound of Eileen snoring, and Freddie muttering, was enough to stop anyone sleeping.
Oh, I wish I were somewhere cool, thought Susan, yawning, her outstretched hand touching the jeans she’d tossed onto the ground.
Susan blinked. Was she asleep? One moment she was in a hot, humid tent, the next sitting on a grassy mountain slope. She breathed deeply.
Ah, fresh mountain air! Susan stood and gazed at the tall peaks all around her. She was on the highest of all, and still nowhere near the top, which was so high it was shrouded in mist. It feels as if I could touch the sky, she thought, raising her arms in happiness. Then she noticed her clothes. Or, rather, her lack of them.
Oh dear, thought Susan, I’m only wearing my nightgown. But come to think of it, no one had ever seemed bothered by her clothes, and her long night-dress looked a lot more like a flowing Greek tunic than jeans, that’s for sure. Susan decided not to worry.
What a glorious view! Wasn’t life grand? She inhaled, filling her lungs with the sweet smell of cypress trees. Wait a minute. What was that stench?
The horrid, stinky smell of sweaty fur suddenly filled Susan’s nostrils.
‘Pooh!’ she said, waving her hand in front of her face.
‘YOU!’ groaned a grumpy, oddly familiar voice. Susan turned round.
‘YOU! Oh no!’
Of all the Greek heroes, she would have to meet that double-crossing no-good Hercules again, still wearing that smelly old yellow lion skin tied round his waist, still carrying that same grubby olive-wood club. Doubtless still all brawn, and no brain.
‘I certainly hoped I’d seen the back of you, girly,’ said Hercules, looking disgusted. He was sitting in the shade of a cypress tree. ‘Things are hard enough for me without having you in the way.’
‘As I recall,’ snapped Susan, ‘I was very useful to you cleaning those stables. You’d still be there shovelling if I hadn’t come up with my brilliant plan. For which, incidentally, you never thanked me.’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Hercules, looking sulky.
‘Well, I do,’ said Susan.
‘Well, I don’t,’ said Hercules.
Susan decided to let bygones be bygones and change the subject.
‘What labour are you on now?’
‘The twelfth and final one,’ said Hercules, sighing.
‘So why don’t you get on with it instead of sitting here like a great big lummox?’ said Susan harshly. It was harder to let bygones be bygones than she’d thought.
‘Because I don’t know how to proceed,’ said Hercules. ‘This is the hardest one yet, and I’ve had some toughies, including grabbing Cerberus from Hades–’
‘Oh, that sweet old pooch,’ said Susan, waving her hands dismissively. ‘He’s just a big softie, really. I tamed him with Orpheus, you know.’
Hercules rolled his eyes. ‘We’ll see what Orpheus has to say about that.’
‘Go ahead, ask him,’ said Susan.
‘I certainly will,’ said Hercules.
They glared at each other. He was just as awful as ever, thought Susan. She decided not to waste another second in his company.
‘I’m off,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, good luck,’ and good riddance, she thought, heading down the mountain track. She’d have a nice stroll before going home.
‘Wait,’ said Hercules.
‘Why should I?’ snapped Susan. She did not turn round.
‘I – need – your – help.’ Hercules spoke as if the words had been torn out of his mouth with hot pincers.
With difficulty, Susan stopped herself from gloating.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘What’s this new labour all about?’
‘I have to bring that dog-face, Eurystheus, three golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides, which is somewhere here on the slopes of Mount Atlas.’
‘What’s so hard about yanking a few apples off a tree?’ said Susan.
Hercules looked as if he would have liked to yank her off the mountain.
‘Oh, just the small matter that Ladon, a hundred-headed dragon who never sleeps, is curled round the sacred tree trunk,’ he said. ‘Plus the tiny detail that no mortal can enter the garden. Oh, and did I mention that the Titan, Atlas, who holds the sky on his shoulders, built high, impenetrable walls around it, to protect his daughters, the nymphs who tend the garden. Other than that, it’s a piece of cake.’
‘No need to be sarcastic,’ said Susan. ‘What’s your plan?’
‘Bash the walls down and take my chance with Ladon,’ said Hercules dolefully.
Susan shook her head. ‘It’s always smash bash crash with you, Hercules,’ she said disapprovingly. ‘Why not simply ask the nymphs to give you the apples?’
‘Why should they? The daughters of evening tend the apples for Hera, the queen of heaven. Plus I can’t get into the garden to ask them, can I?’
‘Can’t you get someone else to fetch the apples for you? An immortal who knows the nymphs?’
‘Like who?’
Susan thought. ‘What about this Atlas then? Couldn’t he fetch the apples for you?’
Hercules gave a short laugh.
‘Oh sure. You’ve forgotten something. He su
pports the heavens on his shoulders. The sky would fall and crush the world if he left this mountain.’
Susan looked carefully at the giant before her. She had a crazy thought.
‘Why don’t you switch places with him?’ she asked. ‘That is, if you’re strong enough to hold up the sky?’
Hercules puffed out his gigantic chest.
‘I’m strong enough for anything,’ he boomed.
‘Then ask him,’ said Susan.
Hercules looked at her. A slow smile spread across his face.
‘I like that plan,’ he said. ‘I’d rather hold up the heavens than face that dragon. Let’s go.’
‘But I’m not wearing climbing shoes,’ protested Susan.
Hercules scooped her under his arm as if she were a feather. Then he started walking quickly up the winding mountain path.
Up and up and up they climbed, till they were lost in the swirling mist hiding the mountain’s summit.
‘Atlas stands at the very top,’ panted Hercules.
‘I hope we’re there soon,’ said Susan. ‘I don’t like being carried like a sack of potatoes.’
‘Sack of what?’ said Hercules.
‘Olives, olives,’ said Susan.
Then she heard a vague, indistinct moan. The higher they climbed, the clearer the words.
‘Oh, my aching back! Oooh, my poor shoulders!’ mumbled the voice.
‘Atlas! Yoo hoo! Atlas!’ shouted Hercules.
‘Who comes here to the ends of the earth?’ boomed a voice from high up in the clouds.
Looming before her, Susan saw a giant, as tall as a mountain. He was stooping forward, and on his massive shoulders rested the pale blue sky.
Hercules plonked Susan down, none too gently.
‘Oy, watch it!’ she complained.
‘It’s me, Hercules,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to ask a favour. Will you fetch me three golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides, and I will hold up the sky until you return.’
A look of disbelief, followed by absolute joy, spread over the giant’s sunburnt face.
‘I would love to stretch my legs again,’ said the Titan. ‘I will gladly do this errand for you.’
‘Great,’ said Hercules. ‘Thank you.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Atlas.
‘No, no, thank you,’ said Hercules.
Helping Hercules Page 7
