by Anne Ursu
As the game went on, Zee felt the exhilarating quiet in his mind that happened every time he played. There was nothing else but this—him, the field, the opponents, the strategy, the ball. The harder he worked, the more he sweat, the better he felt. And his strategy was working; he kept Blum all tied up so he couldn’t get in a good shot on Kyle. The Bears couldn’t score.
Unfortunately, neither could the Rockets; no one on the team could do anything against their goalie. Zee felt his teammates looking at him, felt the weight of their expectations. With less than five minutes left to play, one of the Bears knocked the ball out of bounds at midfield, and as they were setting up for a throw-in, Ben sidled up to him. “Stewart’s gonna get it to you,” he whispered, nodding at the player behind the sidelines. “You’ve got to drive it. You’ve got to break away. You’re the only one who can score.”
“But—” Zee said.
“I’ll get Blum,” said Ben. “I’ll cover him, it’s okay.”
Zee glanced around. His whole team was looking at him. From midfield, Jason gave him a thumbs-up. Well, this is what Zee did. He may not have been much against Philonecron, but he could play soccer. With a quick nod, Zee shifted downfield, away from the Bears’ forward.
From the sidelines, Coach Johnson started yelling, “Zee, you’re out of position! If you want to play defense, play defense!”
As the coach’s words rang across the field, Stewart kicked the ball right at Zee, and he leaped up over the defender, heading the ball toward his feet, then he attacked all the way downfield. Sommers was waiting for him, ranging around the goal, looking like an oversize monkey with a very high metabolism. His eyes flared, and Zee’s flared right back, then he gave the ball a huge Philonecron-head kick. Sommers leaped up, stretched his arms out—and caught the ball.
An audible groan passed over the field; Zee didn’t know if it came from him or the whole team. But there was no time to mourn the lost opportunity—Sommers had kicked the ball, and it sailed high and far over Zee’s head down to midfield—right to Mike Blum. As Zee’s heart sank, Blum began to drive down the field. Poor Ben tried to keep up, but within seconds the Bears’ forward had broken away and was heading right toward Kyle.
Zee took off toward the Rocket end of the field as fast as he could, cursing himself out along the way. Blum was by the goal now, and Kyle sprang out in front of him, ready to block any strike. And when Blum kicked, Kyle was right there, his hands poised, and the ball shot right into his hands like a missile. Zee was about to let out a cheer when he realized that the ball hadn’t stopped. It exploded right through Kyle’s hands, struck his face, and ricocheted right off, dribbling right to Mike Blum. Kyle collapsed to the ground, and before Zee could react Mike shot the ball into the goal. As his team swarmed around him, the Rockets ran to their goalie, who was lying prone on the ground, coughing and splattering blood. The ref shooed them all back, then crouched next to Kyle while the team stood around helplessly. After a few long moments, he and Coach Johnson helped Kyle, who was spitting blood everywhere, up. As the two adults carried the fallen goalie off the field, Zee looked to the spot where he had fallen, and his eyes fixed on some small white things scattered on the ground. Zee had seen enough soccer injuries in his life to know that they were Kyle’s teeth.
When Zee met his mother outside the stadium, he didn’t feel much like talking. His mother, on the other hand, did. Her concern for Zee’s emotional well-being stopped when it came to soccer. It was a difficult adjustment for her to watch games in the States, where the play tended to be less skilled, and after games Zee usually had to hurry her into the car so the other kids didn’t hear his mum talking about how awful they were. It was always a relief for Zee on the days Mr. Mielswetzski picked him up—unfortunately, today was not one of those days.
“So,” she said as he approached her, “you were out of position there.”
“I know,” Zee said.
“Hmmmph,” Mrs. Miller said. “So, what happened to the keeper?”
“Goalie, Mum. His teeth got knocked out.”
“Good!” she said. “Next time he won’t have such soft hands!”
“Mum!” He looked around frantically to see if anyone had heard.
“Well, really, Zee, anyone could have caught that, couldn’t they? Anyway, he’ll be fine.”
Zee just got into the car, glowering.
“You kept that skinny boy from scoring the whole game,” Mrs. Miller continued, starting the car. “I watched you. What did he get on you last time, four goals? And this time he didn’t score any, and you haven’t played defense since you were eight? That’s pretty good.”
Zee shook his head. She would never understand. “I blew it, though. We lost. We should have at least tied.”
“Yes, you botched it. You were out of position. Won’t do that again, will you?”
“No,” Zee muttered.
“You can’t play every position, you know. You’re not supposed to do everything by yourself. You have to be able to count on other people.”
“All right, Mum,” Zee muttered. This sounded dangerously close to a talk about his feelings.
They pulled out of their parking spot, with Zee staring out of the window, replaying his mistakes. The night was dark, and in the streetlights you could see a few snowflakes dancing around in the evening breeze. As they pulled out of the driveway onto the street, Zee noticed a man standing under a streetlamp. He looked like the oldest person Zee had ever seen. He didn’t have a coat, either, and he looked like he’d walked out of Victorian London in his bowler hat and three-piece suit. The suit was in an odd color, too—like a swimming pool—but Zee knew his eyes must be playing tricks on him in the dark. Who wore an aqua-colored three-piece suit and bowler hat?
CHAPTER 8
The Yacht
ON ANY GIVEN DAY ON THE DEEP BLUE WATERS OF the Mediterranean Sea, you can find boats of all kinds, from the smallest wooden fishing boat to the largest freighter headed for any of the seven corners of the world, from small pleasure crafts to mammoth cruise ships teeming with huddled masses yearning for the lunch buffet. You can also find many of the most majestic luxury yachts in the world, owned by movie stars, foreign princes, and congressional lobbyists. But there is one yacht on the Mediterranean that makes all the star/prince/lobbyist yachts look like small wooden fishing boats, and that yacht you will never find.
It’s not that this yacht is lost, or sunken, or hidden somehow in a small cranny off the coast of Croatia—it sails right out in the open with all the fishing boats and pleasure crafts and freighters headed for those seven corners and mammoth cruise ships with their huddled masses. It’s just that, unless you’ve been invited by someone from the yacht—and even if so, you might think very carefully about whether you’d really like to accept that invitation—your eyes would pass over the ship and your brain would think, Look at that big puffy cloud, or, My goodness, the horizon’s clear today, or Gosh, I’d like some couscous right now.
And while right now you might be thinking, “Wow, I’d really like to see that yacht,” let me assure you that—as remarkable as it is, as palatial and plush, glorious and grandiose as it is—this is not a yacht you particularly want to visit. For the people on this yacht—and I use “people” for lack of a better word—those who live on it and the vast numbers who drop in for a visit, do not like mortals very much. Except for the ones who do, and those are the ones you should avoid most of all.
One day, not so long ago, in a velvet-and-fur-lined bedroom on one of the many decks, there sat a man who had just arrived on this yacht. Or something very like a man. He was too tall to be a man, really, and too evil looking, with his impeccably tailored tuxedo and thin, cruel, gray face; with his black spiky hair and deep red lips that exactly matched the color of his eyes. In fact, even if you had never seen one before, you would swear that he was some kind of god. And not a particularly nice one, at that.
Of course, this man had one characteristic you don’t normally e
xpect of gods—he was in a wheelchair. In fact, if you studied the matter carefully, you would quickly realize that this man had no legs. You might also notice that he had a distinctly sour expression on his face—as you might if all your plans for world domination had been thwarted in a most embarrassing fashion, and your legs had gotten fried off in the process.
You see, once upon a time, this particular god-like man had had a dream. It was a simple dream, really, and a beautiful one—as dreams always are. All he wanted for his life was to overthrow Hades and rule the Underworld with a friend—a brave, strong, mortal boy—at his side. But the boy had been corrupted by his cousin, a nasty, horrible Gorgon of a girl with the most unpleasant complexion, and all this god-like man’s plans—along with his legs—had been destroyed.
Ah, yes, you would think as you looked at his face, now I understand why he looks the way he does. But—and here you might squint a little—what is that, lingering behind his eyes? That is not bitterness at all, but something else. Something quite the opposite. It couldn’t be excitement….
Could it? This man’s Immortal life had been ruined, his whole Underworld lost to him forever, all his dreams had been cruelly destroyed—like a beautiful dove that has been shot through the heart with an arrow, the red blood marring its once pristine whiteness, letting out one final pathetic cry as it plummets to the ground and meets its doom. Like that. What could this man possibly have to look forward to?
And now, there, look—what is his mouth doing? That cruel, wide, red mouth spreading out upon his face. It looks like a grin, a horrible, evil grin—but it can’t be. For what would this man possibly have to grin about?
Unless…
Unless that was anticipation in his eyes. Unless that man did now have something to live for. Unless that man had come to this very yacht in order to achieve one aim….
Vengeance.
A few minutes later the man was rolling his way through a great doorway into a vast hall, and even if you had never seen one before you would know this hall was a throne room. The walls and ceiling of the room were covered in animate murals that all portrayed a blue-skinned man as he rode a golden chariot across the sea, or commanded a tidal wave as it threatened a small village, or sank an island to the bottom of the ocean. All around the room were solid gold statues of the same man—one of him wielding his trident angrily, one of him standing majestically, one seated with chin in hand as if deep in thought, one sprawled seductively on the ground like a supermodel selling blue jeans.
And there, in the middle of the room, seated on a massive golden throne, was the man himself. But he was nothing like a man—great and terrible, with deep blue skin and eyes like oceans. If you saw this man you would know, without a doubt, that this was a god. And an extremely powerful one, at that.
If you or I had seen this particular god, we would be quite scared indeed. But the man in the wheelchair was not scared, no, not at all—in fact, when he saw the god, another smile spread over his face. It was not a particularly nice smile, but since this god-like man was evil to his very core, we must assume it was the best he could do.
“Grandfather!” the god-like man exclaimed eagerly, as he rolled toward the throne. When he got close enough he held out his arms, as if to receive a hug.
The great and terrible god stood up imperiously, eyes flashing with rage. “Philonecron,” he intoned, his voice rumbling like the ocean, “is it true? The stories I’ve heard? Did”—his nose wrinkled up as if someone in the room had not changed his socks in some time—“mortals do this to you?”
“Yes, yes!” Philonecron said, eyes wide with the horror of it all. “An impudent mortal! She destroyed everything!” He shook his head. “She’s a sniveling little miniature Harpy! She has horrible manners. And,” he added, eyeing his grandfather carefully, “she thinks she’s the equal of gods!”
“I see,” the god said, eyes narrowing. “Well. I will show her what happens when she interferes with my progeny.”
Philonecron’s eyes flickered. “That,” he said, pleasure tingeing his voice, “is what I thought you’d say.”
Now let’s flash forward a few weeks—no, no, not quite that far, you don’t want to see what happens before it’s time, do you?—and look inside the same yacht to the same bedroom on the twenty-second deck, where the same god-like man (well, technically, half god, half demon) had made himself quite at home. The once fur-lined walls were now made of the smoothest ebony, the velvet-and-fur-trimmed bedding had been replaced with black silk sheets of impossibly high thread count and the otterskin rug with a Persian rug imported from the Underworld itself (just because Philonecron was banished from a realm did not mean he couldn’t take advantage of its fine quality goods, after all), and a wall had been removed to add a whole wing for an evil laboratory—all at considerable expense, of course, but there were so many jewels just strewn around Poseidon’s yacht that no one would miss four or five. Philonecron had changed too, since we saw him last. There were his legs, of course, which had grown two more inches since he arrived on the Poseidon. (If he were still in the Underworld, it would have only taken days, days! Here in the godsforsaken Upperworld, they grew more slowly than moss on Atlas’s rear end.) But there was something more, something that couldn’t be measured, something in his posture, in his face, in his blood red eyes. If you looked at him, you would not think, Ah, there is a man who had all his hopes for Underworld domination so cruelly thwarted by a sniveling freckle-faced miniature Harpy—no, no, you would think, Why, this Philonecron does not look so different from the Philonecron of old, from the Philonecron I saw in those halcyon days in the Underworld, when he collected human blood and gleefully plotted the eternal suffering of humankind.
He was not all the same, of course—there was the whole legs issue, and he didn’t wear a cape anymore because it kept getting caught in his wheelchair—but the point is, if you looked at him closely, you would find the sour look of before completely gone, and you would never know that he had spent months wandering the Upperworld in despair and agony before coming onto the Poseidon. Could it be that his new evil plan had been set in motion? Could it be that he was moving closer to what his heart most desired?
Chimes sounded in the room—a few bars of Bach’s Fugue in D Minor—and a grin spread across the god’s face.
“Come in,” Philonecron purred. The door swung open to reveal a man who looked as old as the sea itself. He was frail-looking and much smaller than most of the gods you would meet on the Poseidon, but you would not mistake him for a mortal. It was something about his skin, perhaps—pale and blue-tinged, with an almost translucent quality. Or his eyes—such a curious shade of blue-green, almost an aqua, really. That shade was perfectly matched in his suit, an ill-fitting three-piece suit with a pearl pocket watch chain attached to his waistcoat, and on either end of his small, shriveled head was a tuft of white hair, on top of which sat an aqua bowler hat. He looked like a hundred-and-twenty-year-old banker in his (oddly colored) Sunday best.
“Hello,” Philonecron said, drawing out the word like a caress. “I am so glad you came. Please, make yourself at home.” He smiled as magnanimously as he could, the effort straining his cheeks slightly.
The old man looked around the room suspiciously. “Looks different,” he said, his voice crackling with age.
“Oh, yes,” said Philonecron. “Well, I had to make some adjustments. It wasn’t to my taste.”
The old man eyed Philonecron warily. “He doesn’t like it when people mess with the rooms.”
“It’s all right. You see, I am his grandson, and I can do whatever I want. Besides, I find tackiness so oppressive, don’t you? Might as well be hanging out with…mortals.” He shuddered. “Well, may I offer you anything? An ambrosiatini? Octopus paté? Mermaid caviar?”
“No, no,” said the old man. “Let’s—What are you looking at?”
“Oh!” said Philonecron, who had indeed been eyeing the old man with a trace of disgust on his face. “Excuse me, I
’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I”—he pursed his lips as if trying to suppress what lay just behind them—“I was wondering if perhaps you need the name of a good tailor?”
The old man blinked. “Why?”
Philonecron let his eyes roll over the baggy suit again, opened his mouth, and quickly closed it again. “Oh, really,” he oozed, waving his hand dismissively, “no reason at all. Well, let’s get to business, shall we? I would like to thank you for entertaining my little proposition.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” the old man said, his eyes growing two shades lighter. “I always enjoy using my…talents…. Say, Poseidon’s approved this, right?”
“Oh, yes,” said Philonecron, eyes sparkling as they always did when he lied. “It was his idea.”
“Good,” said the old man. “Because I wouldn’t want him to get angry.”
“No, no,” said Philonecron. “We certainly wouldn’t want that.”
“Well, then. The mortal boy. How much do you know about him?”
“Oh!” Philonecron exclaimed. “Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes. We have a special bond, he and I.” Philonecron reached into a drawer and pulled out a soft leather book. “Here’s the dossier,” he added, running his hand lovingly over the smooth cover. “I’ve been working on it for some time. It should have everything you need.”
“Excellent,” said the old man, grabbing the book and flipping through it. “This will do just fine.” And with that, he opened his mouth, wide, wider, impossibly wide, so suddenly there was no face at all—just this massive gaping mouth, and before Philonecron could say, “Italian calfskin leather,” he dropped the book into that mouth and swallowed it whole.
Philonecron let out a small, almost imperceptible whimper, then gathered himself and flashed the old man a tight smile. “Well,” he exhaled. “I myself would have read the book, but to each his own. Now,” he said, “is there anything else I can do for you?”
