Beyond the Odyssey

by Maz Evans

  ‘So it exists?’ whispered Elliot, not daring to believe it could be true.

  ‘It does,’ said Proteus quietly.

  ‘Told you so, told you so, told you, told you, told you so,’ chanted Hypnos, doing a little victory dance in Zeus’s face.

  ‘How do we know you’re not lying?’ growled Zeus, belting the Daemon away.

  ‘I can’t lie,’ said Proteus plainly. ‘It comes with the job. I know everything that has been and that will ever happen, yet I cannot tell even the teensiest white lie. It makes updating my CV a real chore.’

  ‘But Athene said that no one has seen Panacea for centuries,’ said Virgo. ‘So where is she?’

  ‘The Isles of the Blessed,’ said Proteus. ‘She knew that while she remained on Earth she would be hounded for her cure, so she took her leave.’

  ‘So how do we get there?’ said Elliot, his mind pulsing. There was a cure for his mum. He was going to save her.

  ‘You can’t,’ said Hypnos. ‘Only the purest and most perfect can access the Isles of the Blessed after seven lifetimes of heroism. It’s so exclusive hardly anyone knows where it is or how to get there. A bit like Monaco . . .’

  ‘Besides, only Gods and Heroes can go to the Isles of the Blessed and only then if they surrender their kardia,’ said Virgo. ‘How will we get the potion from her?’

  ‘She didn’t take it with her,’ Proteus explained, looking straight at Elliot. ‘She knew that what she had created had enormous importance. Someday someone would need it so desperately they would be prepared to undergo the unthinkable to get it.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Elliot quietly. ‘Whatever it is. I’ll do it.’

  Proteus smiled and put his hand on Elliot’s shoulder.

  ‘I know,’ he whispered.

  ‘So where the bally heck is it?’ said Zeus.

  ‘The one place where Panacea knew it was safe from mortal hands,’ said Proteus. ‘She left it with Tiresias.’

  ‘The prophet?’ said Virgo. ‘But Tiresias is—’

  ‘What?’ shouted Elliot. ‘Dangerous? Far away? Hiding? I don’t care, I’ll find him.’

  ‘Dead,’ said Virgo bluntly.

  Elliot’s heart fell a thousand metres as his last ray of hope was extinguished.

  ‘Technically, yes,’ said Proteus.

  ‘Technically?’ Elliot asked. ‘Doesn’t sound that technical to me. Is he dead or isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Proteus. ‘And no. Tiresias is in the Afterlife.’

  ‘So how do we get there?’ said Elliot. ‘Can we fly . . . sail . . . crawl?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Proteus. ‘There is only one way to get to the Afterlife.’

  There was a heavy silence as all the immortals looked at one another.

  ‘Well!’ shouted Elliot in exasperation. ‘What is it?’

  Proteus looked uneasily at Zeus. The King of the Gods gave him a reassuring nod and put both his hands on Elliot’s shoulders.

  ‘Elliot,’ said Zeus. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘No, it’s not!’ Elliot cried. ‘We’ve come this far, we’re so nearly there – I can do it, I can do whatever it is! You swore to me – you swore you’d do whatever it took . . .’

  ‘I can’t help you with this,’ said Zeus, boring his kindly eyes into Elliot’s soul. ‘You can’t go there.’

  ‘Why not?!’ Elliot shouted, his voice broken by the sobs rising from his chest.

  ‘Because, my dearest boy, to get to the Afterlife,’ Zeus whispered, ‘you’d have to die.’

  17. Marriage Guidance

  Charles Equinas was a happy man. After all, why wouldn’t he be? He had everything a man could want. Money? Charles had plenty. A beautiful girlfriend? Charles had several. Good looks? Charles paid people to tell him so.

  The past five years had been everything he could have dreamt of and so much more. Throughout his career as a lawyer, he had helped clients to make their wills and dispose of their money after their deaths. And Charles had found an entirely safe place for it – his own bank account. For decades he had been leaving himself money in other people’s wills and had amassed a significant fortune. As he stood on the veranda of his villa in the south of France, he raised a glass to all the people whose money had put him there. The idiots.

  Charles was just deciding whether to play golf or take the yacht for a spin when he heard a commotion downstairs. He wasn’t expecting anyone, but nor was he unduly worried. He had hired the best security team money could buy to protect him. Nothing and no one could get past his guys.

  ‘Hello, Charles.’

  Every nerve ending in Charles’s body signalled Code Red. That voice. He hadn’t heard it for years. Five, to be precise.

  ‘Long time no see,’ said the woman. Charles would normally refer to all females as ladies. But not this one. He knew her too well.

  ‘Not long enough, it seems,’ he said drily.

  ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink? I’ve had a long, long journey. You’re not an easy man to find.’

  Charles’s mind raced to cover all the angles. If she’d found him, others could. Everything he had let other people work so hard for was at risk. This was more dangerous than a game of Russian roulette atop an icy clifftop in roller skates. And he knew his visitor to be the most dangerous opponent on Earth. He had to play this one as if his life depended on it. Because it did.

  He turned around and walked slowly to greet his ex-wife.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ he said, ‘for a middle-aged woman.’

  ‘You too,’ said Patricia Porshley-Plum, ‘for a dead man.’

  ‘Too kind,’ said Charles with a slight smile. He’d forgotten how delightfully chilly she could be. The air around them froze as they smiled icily at one another. ‘Let me get you that drink. My staff will fetch whatever you want.’

  ‘Ah – they’re my staff now. I only had to offer them double the pay to come and work for me too. There’s no loyalty these days. Besides, we have business to discuss.’

  ‘We do?’ said Charles, hoping his eyes didn’t betray the terror pumping around his heart. ‘Then let’s go into my office.’

  Charles ushered his ex-wife into a large leather chair on the other side of his desk.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘I want a divorce,’ said Patricia plainly.

  Charles wrinkled his brow.

  ‘Er – dear heart, as far as the world is concerned, I’ve been dead for five years. Why would you want—’

  ‘Not ours,’ said Patricia, ‘although I can think of several good reasons. Let me see now – you used to leave your wet towels on the floor for the housemaids to pick up, you never remembered to tell the butler to take the bins out and . . . ah, yes, you cleared all our joint bank accounts into a new identity then faked your own death.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Charles gravely. ‘Sincerely. That towel thing must have been most annoying . . .’

  The corner of Patricia’s mouth twitched. Charles allowed a smile to colour his lips.

  ‘I need divorce papers for Josie and David Hooper,’ said Patricia. ‘David is out of prison. I need to be named as the Hooper child’s legal guardian.’

  ‘You never struck me as the maternal type,’ queried Charles. ‘That was why we never had children.’

  ‘We never had children because there was a fifty per cent chance they might turn out like you. And because they are repulsive.’

  Charles sat back in his chair. So Patricia needed him. That was interesting.

  ‘Why would I do this?’ he said.

  ‘You’ve done it before,’ shrugged Patricia. ‘Charles Porshley-Plum was the most corrupt solicitor in the country!’

  ‘Charles Porshley-Plum is dead,’ said Charles. ‘I wrote his death certificate myself. Besides, I only help people I like. And I don’t like you, Patricia. Not one little bit.’

  Patricia’s lip twitched again. This was almost fun.

  ‘Don’t
you want to know how I found you?’ she whispered.

  ‘No,’ Charles lied.

  ‘Trust is priceless,’ sighed Patricia. ‘I’m not sure we ever had it. But you and your brother did – that must be why you left him everything in your will.’

  ‘That is correct,’ said Charles. ‘Because I knew that James would give it all back.’

  ‘Most of it,’ Patricia corrected.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Charles, a shard of fear piercing his heart.

  ‘He gave most of it back,’ Patricia said plainly. ‘Didn’t he tell you about the bit he kept for himself ?’

  ‘No,’ said Charles darkly. ‘He did not.’

  ‘Oopsie!’ giggled Patricia. ‘How careless of me. Yes, poor James. He is so terrible with money – even what he kept didn’t last him – all those holidays and fast cars gobbled it up. Then there was that doomed marriage to the model . . .’

  ‘James married a model?’ scoffed Charles. ‘What did she model? Clay?’

  ‘Footwear,’ said Patricia. ‘But she absolutely cleaned him out. He had credit cards, loans, debts coming out of his ears . . . He was quite destitute when I called on him over the weekend.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Charles.

  ‘Oh, but no need to worry,’ winked Patricia. ‘I made everything better and now he’s right back on his . . . feet. As I said, trust is priceless. Or at least – not nearly as expensive as I’d feared.’

  ‘What if I refuse to help you?’ said Charles, not really wanting to hear the answer.

  ‘Oh, pudding,’ pouted Patricia. ‘I think we both know the answer to that. I’d have no choice but to tell the police exactly where you are. You robbed a lot of people. I’m sure the authorities would be very interested to know that you’re living it up in the south of France.’

  ‘You were equally involved,’ said Charles. ‘You’d be put behind bars as quickly as I would. You’re bluffing.’

  ‘Try me,’ said Patricia, stone-faced. ‘I’ve already convinced the authorities that I was an innocent victim. The brainless morons.’

  If Charles had learnt two things in his business dealings, one was to know when you were beaten. And the other was that you never, ever messed with a dangerous woman.

  ‘If I do this, I never want to see or hear from you again,’ said Charles.

  ‘Sweetums, I didn’t want to see or hear from you while we were married,’ said Patricia. ‘You’re quite safe from me now.’

  Charles smiled and walked over to his filing cabinet.

  ‘So, I’m guessing you’re still trying to get your hands on Home Farm?’ he said, pulling the relevant documents out of a folder. ‘It’s been years, Patricia. You must be losing your edge.’

  ‘A foolproof plan takes time,’ said Patricia, her eyes following his every move as he forged the necessary dates and signatures on the relevant papers. ‘You of all people should know that. I must say, your death was most convincing. You fooled everyone with that “boating accident”.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charles, putting the documents in an envelope. ‘But how did you know I hadn’t drowned? The water is a treacherous place.’

  ‘Two things really,’ mused Patricia. ‘Firstly, I didn’t feel nearly happy enough. And secondly, you went sailing on a boating lake. Your biggest threat was being hit by a swan-shaped pedalo.’

  ‘It worked, though,’ smiled Charles, handing the envelope to his ex-wife. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

  ‘Of course, pumpkin,’ said Patricia, putting the documents into her handbag. ‘I’ll be on my merry way.’

  She walked to the door, but stopped before opening it.

  ‘Before I go, I do have a teensy, tiny confession to make,’ she whispered. ‘I was bluffing. I was never going to go to the authorities.’

  ‘I know,’ said Charles. ‘But a few fake documents to get rid of you is a small price.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Patricia. ‘But when are you going to pay your price, Charles?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘After all, you’ve been very naughty. And there are lots of people who want to see you pay.’

  ‘Patricia, if you say one word . . .’ Charles threatened.

  ‘Oops, me and my big mouth,’ chimed Patricia, opening the door to reveal two large men in black overcoats standing in the doorway. ‘You must remember the Preston twins, Donny and Digby? They just wanted a quick chat about what happened to their late mother’s life savings – I’m sure you can help them find some answers . . .’

  The two men stepped menacingly into the room.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ laughed Charles nervously. ‘I thought you were in prison! Actual bodily harm, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Mrs Porshley-Plum just paid our bail,’ said Donny. ‘And we didn’t do it.’

  ‘No, no – of course not,’ stuttered Charles.

  ‘It was attempted murder,’ said Digby, cracking his knuckles. ‘Now, about our mum . . .’

  ‘Patricia,’ said Charles, running back out on to the veranda. ‘Patricia, you’ve made your point. Don’t leave me here . . .’

  ‘Have fun, Charles,’ trilled Patricia. ‘Oooh, and by the way – my edge?’

  ‘No, please . . .’ said Charles as the Preston twins each took an arm and dragged him back into the office.

  ‘It’s sharper than ever,’ snapped Patricia, slamming the door on his screams.

  18. Those in Peril on the Sea

  ‘Here, sprat,’ said Poseidon, plopping a huge, writhing sack down at Elliot’s feet. ‘I like the cut of yer jib. Now not only can ye have the use of me beauty, The Pearl, to get ye where ye need to go, but here’s a little bonus.’

  Poseidon’s chariot had carried them up from the Coral Cove and they were on the tiny island where he moored The Pearl – a classic galleon, straight from the pages of any pirate adventure, with its high mast, billowing sails, wooden wheel and even a naughty mermaid carved on its prow. But what gave the ship its name – and its beautiful iridescent colour – was the fact that the whole vessel had been carved from a giant conch shell.

  Elliot glanced at the wriggling sack on the deck. It looked as though half a dozen baby elephants were wrestling inside.

  ‘Now this here be wind,’ said the God of the Sea.

  ‘Thought I smelt something a bit eggy,’ grumbled Zeus, wafting his hand in front of his nose.

  ‘That be yer wind,’ said Poseidon. ‘This be the wind. Well, one of them, to be precise. Boreas, the North Wind. He be a right pain in the sailor’s poop deck – he can blow ye all over the place. Ye’re better off with him in here; he’s a stroppy one.’

  ‘It would be more help if you’d just give us our bally Chaos Stones back,’ grumbled Zeus.

  ‘They’ll be staying with me,’ said Poseidon. ‘You worry yer beardy brains about finding that there potion.’

  Elliot had to agree. The Chaos Stones would have to wait. At least they were safe with Poseidon. All he wanted now was Panacea’s potion.

  ‘Where do we go?’ he asked Proteus.

  ‘Why not ask your compass?’

  ‘Compass?’ said Elliot.

  ‘The one Odysseus gave you,’ said Proteus knowingly.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Elliot fumbled for the small silver compass in his pocket, and pulled out Polyphemus’s fidget spinner instead. He spun it again. Still cool. He put it back and found the compass.

  ‘I don’t know which way we need to go,’ he said, opening the lid. ‘How will this help?’

  ‘Tell it where you want to go,’ said Proteus. ‘It will show you the way.’

  ‘Er, the Afterlife. Please?’ said Elliot to the compass.

  The needle spun until it pointed due west.

  ‘Follow it,’ said Proteus. ‘You’ll end up where you need to go.’

  ‘The Afterlife?’ said Elliot.

  ‘Eventually,’ smiled Proteus. ‘But remember, it’s not about the destination: it’s about the journey. It’s best you don’t know more than that, lest you try to change your
destiny.’

  ‘Some sat nav you make,’ muttered Zeus.

  Elliot watched as the Shepherd of the Sea stood on the prow of the ship, ready to dive back into the waves. This was his last chance to ask him. But did he really want to know the answer?

  ‘Proteus!’ he called. ‘There’s something I wanted to—’

  ‘I know,’ sighed Proteus.

  ‘Well,’ whispered Elliot, steadying his breath. ‘Do I do it? Do I get Panacea’s potion?’

  Proteus looked across the boundless sea, before turning his kind gaze back to Elliot.

  ‘One of the worst parts of my “gift” is that, while I will always give the right answers, people don’t always ask me the right questions,’ he said sadly. ‘Yes. Tiresias will give you the potion. That I can see.’

  Elliot was confused. This was great news. So why the sad face?

  But before he could ask any more questions, the Shepherd of the Sea leapt gracefully from The Pearl and vanished beneath the waves.

  ‘Now listen here, sprat,’ said Poseidon. ‘If ye’re heading west, ye need to keep a weather eye on the three terrors of the high seas. Firstly, there’s the Sirens. Sure they enchant ye with their song – but, before ye know it, there be a shipwreck. And I’m not just talking about their last album.’

  ‘Highly irrational,’ said Virgo. ‘No music could possibly have such a potent effect and cause people to lose their minds. Unless it’s that curious Gangnam song . . .’

  ‘Ye’ll see,’ said Poseidon. ‘Then, ye’ll need to navigate yer way betwixt Scylla and Charybdis. Charybdis be a monstrous whirlpool that sucks ships and all who sail them down to Davy Jones’s Locker.’

  ‘You mean we’d all drown?’ gasped Virgo.

  ‘Nay,’ said Poseidon. ‘Ye’ll go down to Davy Jones’s Locker. Cheap sportswear store – ye’ll end up buying all kinds of flotsam and jetsam ye don’t need. Ended up with a trapeze leotard last time I went . . .’

  ‘And Scylla?’ said Elliot, keen to get the journey underway. ‘What’s that?’