The Heir of Olympus and the Forest Realm

by Zachary Howe

  His hair was barely visible in the blackness of the ice, but it was longer than he was accustomed. Used to a weekly buzz cut, it had now been a couple weeks since he last held a pair of clippers, and the hairs were at least half an inch long. He wasn’t even sure what he would look like with long hair. Did it curl? Or would it just grow straight and eventually hang down in curtains? He decided he didn’t care. There was nothing he could do about it anyways. It was one thing to slice a few chin hairs—there was no way he could shave his whole head with this bionic blade.

  He visualized absorbing the ice back into his arm, and as he did so, watched it happen in reality. With just one thin pillow, he crossed his arms behind his head. He looked over at the blue flame on the wall and watched it burn. He strained his ears, hoping to listen to the rain, but he couldn’t hear it this deep in the cave. All he heard was the gentle pop of the fire from time to time. He looked up again and breathed deeply through his nose, starting to feel sleepy. He lay motionless as sleep approached. His eyelids drooped once, twice, and then closed for good.

  16

  Goddess in the Moonlight

  Gordie’s unconscious body jerked in his bed as he dreamt.

  Spears of lightning flashed across a smoky night sky as a downpour pelted him against the side of a rocky cliff. Thousands of feet below, a forest canopy stretched as far as his eye could see during the milliseconds that the world was lit ablaze with each lightning strike. Dark winged creatures circled below. He couldn’t make out the species, but he felt their malevolence and knew they were not merely birds. More and more of the winged demons flocked in until they became a roiling feathered tornado. Their shrill cries pierced the night in the lulls left by the deafening thunder cracks. He stood with his back pressed against the rock, horrified, staring down through the cyclonic eye created by the whirling bird creatures. A scream rose on the wind.

  Some part of his consciousness told him that the scream came from the bottom of the avian maelstrom, but he could not find the source. Slowly, its volume grew as a pale light rose from amidst the circling vultures. As the light drew closer its pace quickened. It sped toward him and the scream grew louder and louder. Soon, he saw that the light had a human shape and that the shape was feminine. It shot straight upward through the cloud of preying harpies until one last lightning strike eroded Gordie’s sight, just as an ultimate thunder boom shattered his hearing.

  The world was a white nothingness scored by an eerie, piercing, steady ringing, but he still felt the rain spray him and the wind whip him. He wrenched his head from side to side, trying to regain his senses. The dusky blackness of the night began to sprinkle its way back into his vision and as it became whole, a moonlight-white face appeared inches from his and screamed, “HELP!”

  Gordie fell out of his bed and wrestled with the sheets. Thunder roared outside the cave, making him jump, his shriek melting into the rumble from the clouds. He panted as he backed against the bed, planting his hands on the floor to ensure that he was indeed anchored to the earth.

  Artemis’s face remained emblazoned on his retinas and he shook his head to clear her image away. Thunder rumbled once more and he flinched again.

  With his elbows on his knees, he grasped the back of his head, pushing it between his legs. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Her face burst into life on his eyelids and he threw them back open. He leaned back against the bed, regaining his composure. He looked down at his hands, palms to the ceiling, and froze. His veins stood out, blue and scared on his right arm, but the blood beneath the skin of his left forearm coursed jet-black with anger. He clenched his fists and watched his muscles bulge. He was sure Artemis was in danger . . . and he had to save her.

  Springing to his feet, he pulled two pairs of socks out of his bag, tugging them on before he squished his feet into his sopping sneakers. The sensation was unpleasant, but he ignored it. His bat rested against the wall in the leather scabbard Chiron had molded for it. He slung it over his right shoulder, reached over his head with the same arm, and unsheathed his Excalibur. He smacked it against his palm once, twice, then deftly replaced it in its casing.

  Before he left, he took his bag and stuffed it under his blanket, fluffing everything up so at least a passing glance might suggest he was curled up beneath the sheets. It wasn’t foolproof, but he deemed it acceptable before sliding into the dimly lit corridor outside his room.

  As he approached the Great Hall, the blue light melded with the yellow, and he slowed his gait to listen for any potential night owls. All he heard was the dying crackle from the dining room fire. He swept into the open space. Running on his toes across the vast room, he tried to ignore the streaks of lightning in the skylights high above. He spared a glance at the hallway leading towards Chiron’s room and pushed away the stabbing guilt: he knew he was doing the right thing. Reaching the corridor that would lead him out into the wild night, he pressed on before he could second guess himself.

  Gordie spread his arms wide and let his fingertips brush the stone as he wound his way toward the cave mouth. When he reached the tunnel’s outlet he stopped, inches from the pouring rain, and looked out across the roiling green sea of trees. The boughs shook with the violence of the storm. Thunder cracked and so did branches as the trees crashed into one another. He looked up and watched lightning bolts chase each other in the sooty clouds. Scowling with anger, he pushed out into the tempest.

  Gordie was drenched at once. His full-body sweat-suit tripled in weight with the inundation. The earthen ramp down which he sprinted was nearly a mudslide until he reached the head of the path that turned into the forest where he ducked in under the trees.

  Suddenly, he was in a different world. Being under the canopy had the same muffling effect as being underwater. He saw the tree tops swaying overhead, but the storm seemed far less violent from below. The rain was far less penetrating, too. In here it was a light sprinkle, almost pleasant. The lightning still lit the under-forest, but the light produced was more comparable to a candelabra than a flood light. His feet squelched on the muddy path as he sprinted through the forest. The smell of damp wood was fresh, not rotten.

  Winding his way through the dark wood, he ignored the menacing shapes he thought he saw in the trees. He didn’t understand why he was so angry, but he was grateful for it. If not for the anger, he was sure the fear would turn him around, or immobilize him.

  The muddy path tried to swallow his sneakers as he pounded it with heavy footfalls. The night air stung his throat as he sprinted. He was searching for the point in the path where he could step off and find the stream inhabited by Pompeia, but he didn’t recognize any landmarks. He opened his ears, listening for the gentle trickle of the brook. The world was cacophonous.

  Millions of leaves argued in hushed tones, but the cumulative effect was a screaming rustle. Branches cracked and exploded like shotguns. Occasionally, a disgruntled hoot would penetrate the clamor. A yowl responded to the birds, and although it didn’t sound very imposing, it still made Gordie’s skin prickle. On five separate occasions he was certain he heard the murmur of the spring, but each time he stuck his head off the path to locate the stream, he realized, with mounting disappointment, that it was only the splattering rain.

  His spirits began to sink and the anger that had driven him began to wane. Soon his run was slowed to a brisk walk while he glanced nervously from side to side. A few minutes later he was creeping along as if to avoid detection. Shortly thereafter he stopped in the middle of the path and dropped to his knees.

  Frustration ate at him. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. He was afraid for himself; afraid for Artemis; angry at the lightning above and the caster of those spears; angry at himself for wandering out into the night.

  “Pompeia!” he screamed, his head thrown back, his fists clenched. “Pompeia! Where are you? I need you,” he whispered the last as his head drooped, chin tucked to his chest. He sat there, cold drops of rain splashing on his head, rippling on the mud benea
th him. Then he heard a deep groan, not a human groan, but one of old wood—ancient wood. He looked up, then fell back on his hands and butt, scrabbling like a crab.

  A great elm tree was leaning into the path where it had stood tall off the trail seconds earlier. The boughs creaked as they scraped against the neighboring trees; the leaves hissed at each other like a million snakes. Two knots nested in the wood high up on the trunk, just below the point where the limbs began to branch out, forming the bough-proper. As the tree leaned in, bending over Gordie, the two adjacent knots transformed. They swirled and spiraled and became two large egg-shaped protrusions with a heavy line segmenting each across its equator: eyelids. Slowly, the lids parted and two large amber eyes looked down at Gordie, who gaped back.

  The eyes continued to stare at him. They did not rove—they remained fixed. Two dark yellow orbs flecked with deep greens and pungent browns and a bloody red. The irises were the exact color and texture of the bark. The tree was still. Even the leaves had ceased their discourse. Gordie began to come to his senses despite the fright and incomprehension that fought his ability to reason.

  “H-hi, um, I don’t-don’t know if you could help me, but I was looking for a-a stream where a nymph named Pompeia hangs out?” He smiled, but the smile melted away as the tree continued to stare. Seconds passed that felt like minutes and nothing happened. Gordie was becoming antsy—a voice in the back of his mind instructed him to run. The impulse grew louder and louder. He was about to give in when the tree finally responded.

  A long branch that jutted out a foot below the steady eyes began to move. It rotated backwards until it came to a stop, pointing into the thick of the woods. The tree stared. Gordie looked into the darkness where the branch pointed, then back up at the eternal eyes.

  “So, uh, is that where the stream is?” he asked, annoyed at the tremble in his voice.

  Very slowly, the woody eyes blinked, and Gordie took that as a ‘Yes.’

  “Um, thanks?” he said. The tree blinked once more and began to rise back to its upright position. When it reached its full height, the eyes closed and then swirled. Two blind knots replaced them.

  Gordie stared a minute longer, then pushed himself back to his feet and looked into the gloom where the tree had pointed. He took a deep breath and stepped into the underbrush, skirting the living tree in case it decided to grab him. After walking in a few yards he looked back. The tree looked unremarkable, standing straight against the storm—its leaves had resumed their argument. He pressed on.

  In less than a minute he came across the stream. It was not the same spot where he had first met Pompeia, but his spirits lifted when he came upon it all the same. Gordie followed the stream uphill with his eyes. Its flow was heavy in the downpour. A little shelf created a miniature waterfall at knee-height a few feet up the spring. His eyes tracked the gentle downward slope of the stream. He wondered if he should walk along it until he found the rock that marked their first meeting place, but he thought it wouldn’t hurt to try contacting Pompeia from here. He was not disappointed.

  Seconds after he placed his face in the flow and gurgled the nymph’s name, she rose out of the water in front of him. Gordie stood facing her swirling features and grinned.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said. She smiled back and flicked her hands at him, splashing him with water. “Hey!” He laughed, and she did as well. Her giggle was intoxicating, and it took him a minute to remember what he was doing there in the first place.

  “I’m sorry to call you up like this, but could you take me back to Dasos?” he asked. Pompeia looked away. “What? What is it?” he prodded her, but she just shook her head and continued to look away. “Look, I really need to get there. It’s important. Can you please take me?”

  She lifted her hand and looked at him, obvious concern on her face. And fear. He reached out his left hand and grasped her waist. When he touched her, the water constituting her hips swirled madly for a moment before resuming its lazy buffeting. She looked down at the point of contact, then back up at him.

  “Please?” he whispered.

  Her features hardened with resolve and she nodded curtly. She grasped his wrist, lifted his hand to her face, and kissed his palm. Gordie’s face flushed with the heat of a volcano. She lowered his hand and held it firmly with both of her own. She gave him one last sad smile before she pulled him into the current.

  Water rushed into him, a sensation that he would never grow accustomed to: how many times would he have to drown? Fish darted out of his path as he bounced in and out of a wide river until he was tossed ashore.

  He was immediately aware of a few things.

  It was colder here, by fifteen to twenty degrees, and he felt the chill at once. It wasn’t raining in Dasos—something that he may have been grateful for if not for the temperature drop. It was nighttime, but a full moon shone in a cloudless sky and the land was completely lit—the mountain loomed, as visible as midday. And he was acutely aware of the immediate threat.

  He had landed on his side, facing the river and Pompeia, who was pointing frantically behind him. He pushed off the ground as the whistling sound approached and, as he gained his feet, an arrow quivered where his head had just been, its shaft half buried in the cold soil. Another whistling sound followed and he lifted his left arm in front of his face—a shield of Stygian ice burst outward just in time to send the second arrow glancing away.

  “Go!” he yelled, waving his free hand behind him—he heard the splash that meant Pompeia had ducked back into the current. He pulled his bat free while keeping his shield up, peering over the top to find the direction of the next arrow. Another whistle reached his left ear, and he wheeled to block the next shot. It hit the center of his shield and the force of it pushed him backward, but the arrow fell to the ground. He looked into the trees from where it had come and saw a silver blur streaking away from the water. Then she stopped to loose another arrow, and he darted forward.

  He had only taken one step by the time the next arrow arrived. The silver archer was already working her way around his flank to the right, still some eighty yards away. She stopped again and he lunged forward, but the next arrow stopped him immediately, and she was moving by the time he lowered his shield. This continued.

  She made her way around him in a semi-circle, working her way back when she reached the river. Gordie was standing in the middle of the tree-lined corridor in which he had arrived on his first two trips to this realm. His position left him completely exposed, but from here he could see her unobstructed when she broke into the clearing ahead, and he was awestruck.

  In life she looked exactly like the statue that depicted her in Apollo’s realm, yet it was completely wrong. Stone, no matter how it had been magically manipulated, could not replicate her grace and strength, poise and fury. These qualities shone out of her like the moon itself. It was breathtaking. But Gordie was growing weary and impatient.

  After she had shot three more arrows, he could see no way to get near her. As she broke into the clearing on her second pass he shouted, “Enough!”

  She froze in the clearing and glowered at him. He sheathed his bat and absorbed his shield, put his arms at his sides and glared back. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her bow. She was tall—a few feet taller than him, and the bow was nearly her height. She stared down the shaft of her nocked arrow and Gordie stared right back into her unblinking eye. A ghost of a smile touched her lips and she loosed.

  He spun to his right as the arrow whistled past his cheek, close enough to feel its tailwind ruffle his hair. He sprang forward as she reloaded. Gordie dove over the next arrow as he charged, and slid on his knees beneath the next like a high stakes game of limbo. Her arm was a blur as it reached back for the next arrow in her quiver over and over. He dodged and flipped and rolled and dodged again.

  When he had halved the distance, her frustrated snarl turned into a triumphant grin as she nocked three arrows at once. Fortunately, Gordie had seen this trick depicted on
Apollo’s mural and was expecting it. What he was not expecting was for the arrows to change course. The three missiles danced and spun around each other as they approached their target. He panicked, but at the last second realized their gambit, and continued to run straight ahead. One arrow flew an inch above his head, its tail feather tickling his hair. Another flew passed his right side at elbow height, and the other to his left at knee height. She had expected him to dodge, but he hadn’t taken the bait.

  Then she shouted in anger, a battle cry that chilled Gordie, before she loosed one more projectile. From ten yards away he stopped and caught the quivering arrow in his fist—its point continued twisting in his grip two inches away from the smooth skin between his eyes. He smiled as he tossed the arrow aside, and she lowered her bow. The hatred on her face was alarming, making his smile falter.

  “Look, I just want to—”

  “DIE!” She slung her bow over her back and pulled two curved, glinting daggers out of her belt as she sprang forward, all in one movement.

  “Not quite,” he said, but his light mood melted as he started evading the slashing knives. Again he was rolling, flipping, diving, twisting, as the thin blades hacked at him in a blur of silver.

  “Stop!” A blade slashed open the front of his sweatshirt as he sucked in his stomach.

  “Stop!” A few hairs were shaved off the top of his head.

  “STOP!” he screamed as he grabbed her wrists.

  As he caught her, they froze in a dead-lock. Her face was inches from his as she mirrored his lunge—Gordie recoiled from the ferocity of her glare.

  “Release me,” Artemis growled through clenched teeth.