by Maz Evans
Title Page
Dedication
1. Lying Low
2. Home Is Where the Farm Is
3. A Star Is Born
4. Mom’s the Word
5. Strangers In the Night
6. The Swimming Lesson
7. Prisoner Forty-Who?
8. Patricia Horse’s-Bum
9. Bad Council
10. Plain Sailing
11. A Trip Down Memory Flame
12. The God of Fashion
13. For Better or Worse
14. Myths and Legends
15. A Safe Bet
16. All You Need Is Love
17. Family Matters
18. An Old Fiend
19. Be Careful What You Wish For
20. The Perfect Parents
21. On the Lookout
22. On the Wrong Track
23. Crowning Glory
24. By Royal Command
25. All That Glisters …
26. The Cave of Sleep and Death
27. Snordlesnot
28. Testing Times
29. Knock Knock
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
For Ian
Who thinks like Athene
Loves like Aphrodite
And marries like Zeus
You are a God amongst men.
It began on a Friday, as strange things often do. This particular Friday turned out to be stranger than most, although it had started normally enough. Elliot Hooper got up at 7:30 a.m. as normal, made his mom breakfast at 8:15 a.m. as normal, went to school at 8:55 a.m. as normal, and was in the headmaster’s office by 9:30 a.m., which was, in fact, slightly later than normal.
“Oh, Elliot,” sighed Graham Sopweed, headmaster of Brysmore Grammar School. “What are we going to do with you?”
Elliot scratched his shaggy blond head. He figured that “excuse me from school forever and make me Lord High Emperor of the Universe” wouldn’t be deemed an acceptable answer, so he said nothing.
“You seem rather … distracted lately,” said Mr. Sopweed to fill the silence. “Is everything okay? Is anything wrong at school? Or at home?”
Elliot avoided his headmaster’s concerned stare. School was … well, it was school. Annoying, boring, pointless. Nothing new there. But home? That was a different story …
“I’m fine,” he said after a lengthy pause. “Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, Elliot.” Mr. Sopweed sighed again, nervously flicking his floppy gray fringe. “You know you can call me Graham. Let’s all use the names our mothers gave us.”
There were many more creative names for Brysmore’s headmaster than the one his mother gave him, but the politest by far was Call Me Graham.
A shout outside nearly made the jumpy headmaster fall off his chair. Elliot couldn’t help but feel sorry for Call Me Graham. There were many theories at school as to why he was such a bag of nerves, not all of them started by Elliot. Some said it was because his wife had left him. Others said it was because she hadn’t. Elliot’s favorite was that Call Me Graham was actually a serial killer on the run. He could imagine the appeals on the news: So be on your guard against Graham Sopweed, the Cardigan-Clad Killer, and be sure to call this number if he’s bored someone you know to death …
“The … the … the thing is, Elliot, everyone at Brysmore wants to help you to achieve your fullest potential,” Call Me Graham went on.
“Mmm. Not everyone, sir,” muttered Elliot.
“Whatever do you mean?” squealed Call Me Graham, nearly pulling a button off his cardigan. “Everyone at Brysmore is committed to encouraging, nurturing, and inspiring every pupil in our care. We’re always here for a friendly word, helpful advice, or to make sure we know—”
“WHERE IS THAT SNIVELING RUNT OF A PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A BOY?!”
The office door blasted open with a furious roar, making Call Me Graham scream like a kitten on a roller coaster.
Elliot was all too familiar with that loathsome voice.
“Ah—hello,” whimpered Call Me Graham. “As you can see, I am just having a little chat with Elliot … ”
“Hooper,” sneered the new arrival, lurching up behind Elliot’s chair and polluting his airspace with weapons-grade body odor.
There was only one person who could make Elliot’s surname sound like a dirty word. It was Mr. Boil, head of history, Brysmore’s deputy headmaster and, unless there was a schoolmaster somewhere on the planet who minced his students into sausages, the world’s worst teacher.
Boil was a stumpy, piggy little man who was the only person Elliot knew with fat eyes. He squashed them behind a pair of thick, bottle-lensed glasses and glared at his pupils like most people look at used cat litter, as if he had a permanently nasty smell under his nose. (In fairness, he did—his own.)
His few remaining strands of dark, greasy hair were pasted over the top of his head, held in place by hope alone. To the naked eye, Mr. Boil had three chins, but who knew how many more were lurking beneath his shirt, which always smelled like three-week-old vegetable soup? He truly hated everyone, but reserved a special revulsion for Elliot, who had been getting up his pudgy nose for the past year.
“Sir?” asked Elliot, innocently.
“Don’t you ‘sir’ me, Hooper,” growled Boil, bringing his sweaty face inches from Elliot’s own. “What you did in my assembly was disgraceful, disrespectful, and downright disgusting!”
“Yes, we were just getting on to that … ” stammered Graham.
“He disgraced the Brysmore name!” roared Boil. “He shamed himself! He shamed the school! He ruined my brilliant PowerPoint presentation on Napoleon’s favorite socks! He—”
“He fell asleep,” said Call Me Graham quietly, looking at Elliot’s pale face and dark-rimmed eyes. “Let’s try to keep a little perspective, Mr. Boil. This isn’t the first time this has happened lately, Elliot. Why are you so tired?”
“Pah!” spat Boil. “Out all hours terrorizing old ladies, I expect! Or playing violent computer games until dawn! Or putting my underpants up the school flagpole! Again!”
Elliot tried not to smirk at the memory of his all-time favorite prank—which Boil knew but could never prove—that Elliot was responsible for last year. But pranks were long gone. These days Elliot couldn’t afford any more trouble.
“Hooper!” shouted Boil. “The headmaster asked you a question! Don’t be so disrespectful … !”
“It’s quite all right,” whispered Call Me Graham, “Elliot can take all the time he—”
“SHUT UP, GRAHAM!” shouted Boil over his shoulder, his chubby eyes not leaving Elliot’s face. “And look at the state of you! When was the last time that shirt saw an iron? A tramp would turn his nose up at those shoes. And if I’ve told you once about that pocket watch—jewelry is forbidden at Brysmore … Well—come on, then! Let’s hear your pathetic excuse!”
“Yes, talk to us, Elliot. Perhaps we can help,” said Graham kindly. “You’re only twelve, after all. We don’t expect you to get everything right.”
Elliot’s fingers instinctively tightened around the old watch in his pocket. For a moment, he considered telling the truth. Perhaps his headmaster could help him? Elliot certainly didn’t know what to do. Maybe if he just explained about …
But as soon as the thought formed in his head, he silently crushed it. Elliot had to keep what was happening at home a secret. Telling anyone was far too risky.
“Mr. Boil’s right, sir,” said Elliot, the lie jamming in his throat. “I keep staying up late playing computer games. It’s all my own fault.”
“You see!” wobbled Boil triumphantly, punching the air with an arm the size of a fatty leg of lamb and knockin
g Call Me Graham backward off his chair. “I knew it!”
“Do you have nothing to say in your defense, Elliot?” asked Call Me Graham from the floor. “Anything else we should know?”
“No, sir,” Elliot mumbled.
“I tell you what he needs to know,” sneered Boil with a grin that could curdle custard. “He’s failing at this school. His grades have dropped across the board. And if he doesn’t get eighty-five percent in all the end-of-term exams, he’s out of Brysmore for good. You’ve got my mock history test on Monday, Hooper. That should give you a much-needed kick up the—”
“Thank you, Mr. B-Boil,” stuttered Call Me Graham.
Elliot’s heart sank at the reminder of the exams he was sure to fail. He tried to find time to study at home, he really did.
“Please, Elliot,” said Call Me Graham. “Let us help you.”
As he looked into the kindly eyes of his cowardly headmaster, Elliot once again considered telling the truth about home, about Mom. He didn’t know how much longer he could carry on like this. It was getting to be too much.
“I … it’s just … sometimes … ” he began, searching for impossible words.
“Detention!” bellowed Boil, as he lumbered jubilantly out of the office. “Hooper—see me after school!”
At 4:30 p.m., when Elliot had arranged all the books in the history department into alphabetical order for Boil’s detention, he finally made it outside into the darkening but still very welcome evening air. The crowds of proud parents eager to drive their children home had long since left, but no one had been there for Elliot earlier and no one was there for him now. No one ever was. With a quick backward glance, Elliot dived off the driveway, hopped over the school fence into the fields beyond, and started the long walk home.
The stroll back to Home Farm was Elliot’s favorite part of his day. Or it was on dry days—when it was pouring with rain he didn’t feel the love for the mile-long hike. But today was one of those mild early-winter evenings that made him content simply to wander through the fields as the stars assembled above.
He raised his head to feel the fresh air on his face, but his peace was interrupted by a gaggle of Brysmore girls walking in the opposite direction, pointing and staring at Elliot before retreating behind their hands in giggling fits.
Had Elliot listened to these, or any of the other silly girls at school, he would have known that he was considered one of the better-looking boys at Brysmore. But he didn’t listen to what anyone said and he didn’t care what anyone thought. He went through his school life—most of his life, in fact—on his own. There was a time when he’d enjoyed hanging out with his mates and might have been considered quite popular. But things had changed. Right now he didn’t have time for friends. And besides, friends had parents. And parents asked too many questions.
Elliot arrived at Home Farm just as the stars started to rule the night sky. They were especially bright tonight, and cast their dreamy glow over the ancient stone circle of Stonehenge, which was just visible from his front gate. The mysterious stones looked magical in the glistening light, and Elliot drank in his favorite view. He lifted the rope that held the rotting gate in place and dragged his tired feet up the path. He and Mom had laid those stones together, and every crooked step reminded Elliot of them flinging mud at each other in fits of giggles as they worked.
The farm had been his family’s home for generations. He could see the holes where fallen tiles made the roof look like a mouth missing some teeth, the dirty windows that blocked more light than they let in, and the peeling red paint on a door that could barely keep out a draft, let alone a burglar. And Elliot loved every crumbling brick.
He put his key in the lock—a pointless exercise for a door that could be knocked in by a strong cough—but before he could push it open, a terrible screech erupted behind him.
“Coo-eeee! Have you got a sec, poppet?”
There were so many irritating words in that sentence, but none as irritating as their speaker. Elliot slapped on a fake grin and turned around.
“Hello, Mrs. Porshley-Plum,” he called in his least sincere voice.
“Hello, pickle!” Patricia Porshley-Plum shrieked in return, using one of the countless stupid nicknames she used in place of anyone’s real name. “Have you got a seccy?”
“I’ll have to be quick—I need to—”
“Gre-eat!” squealed Patricia as she approached the house, tottering slightly as the heels on her shoes struggled with both the uneven path and the ample backside they were supporting. “Shall we go in for a cup of tea?”
“I’d love to,” Elliot lied as he shut the door behind him, “but Mom’s got another stomach bug.”
“Oh, no, sugarplum!” Mrs. Porshley-Plum pouted dramatically, her dark-pink lipstick making her mouth look like a monkey’s bottom. “Perhaps I should come in and see her?”
“It’s contagious,” said Elliot quickly, running out of imaginary illnesses to keep his mother safe from this annoying neighbor. “And squishy. And smelly. Seriously. Stay away.”
“I see,” said Patricia, her narrow eyes scanning every inch of her young neighbor, as if she could spot the lie on his shirt. Patricia’s mouth always smiled, but her eyes never did. She straightened her tweed jacket over her generous hips. “Well, when she’s feeling better, we must have That Chat,” she added with a ridiculous wink.
Patricia had been trying to have That Chat with Elliot’s mom, Josie, for a while. At Nan’s funeral the previous year, she had whispered to Josie at the graveside about her new property-development business and how the farm was sitting on a valuable piece of land.
When the doctor came to Grandad’s bedside six months later, Mrs. Porshley-Plum popped by the next day and made an offer for the farm to “get him into a decent nursing home.”
The morning that Elliot and Josie laid Grandad to rest, Patricia Porshley-Plum called to say that if they fancied moving on, now that the two of them were completely alone in the world, she’d happily take the farm off their hands for a quick sale.
“Patricia Horse’s-Bum will never get her hands on this family’s home!” Josie had raged that night. “She can keep her plastic houses for her plastic people! This is a real family home for a real family and if she thinks she can flash her cash and move us out then she can stick her checkbook right up her—.”
Elliot smiled at the memory of his mom’s rude suggestion. But she was right. This was their home and Elliot needed to protect it. He just didn’t have a clue how.
“I’d better go and see to Mom—lovely to see you, Mrs. Horse’s … Mrs. Porshley-Plum,” he said.
“And you, sweet-cheeks,” trilled Patricia. “Get Momsy to call me—aaargh!”
Maybe it was the crooked paving stones, the ridiculous heels, or because her nose was stuck so far in the air she couldn’t see where she was going, but Patricia Porshley-Plum crashed down on the path like a newborn foal on roller skates, spilling herself and the contents of her handbag all over it.
“Let me help you,” Elliot offered. “I’ll get these for you.” He picked up the mysterious items that fill a lady’s handbag and replaced nearly all of them. “Here you go,” he said, giving the overflowing bag back to the world’s most irritating neighbor.
“Thank you. I’ll see you soon,” said Patricia, her eyes smiling even less than usual as she turned and staggered down the rest of the path, finally leaving Elliot to make it into his house.
Once his front door had closed on the world, Elliot took a moment to rest against it. Home. At last.
He dropped his schoolbag next to the pile of mail on the mat and picked up the letters. All were reminders about unpaid bills. As if he needed reminding.
“Mom?” he called softly in case she was enjoying a nap. “I’m home.”
He peered around the door into the cozy living room, but Mom wasn’t in her usual battered armchair by the fireplace. Elliot checked the kitchen, Mom’s bedroom, and tentatively knocked on all the bathroom
doors, but there was no reply to his gentle calls.
With a dark fear rising through his veins, Elliot started to look more frantically, flinging open doors and running through rooms.
“Mom!” he shouted. “Mom—where are you?”
He desperately searched every corner of the farmhouse, even looking under the beds. Racing past the kitchen for a third time, Elliot’s stomach tightened into a familiar knot. The back door was ajar. His heart plummeted.
It had happened again. Mom had disappeared.
“Virgo! Virgo! Wake up!”
“Brrlpmpmgh—pencil sharpeners!” burbled Virgo, her long silver hair flopping over her face as she woke with a start in the middle of the Zodiac Council meeting.
“Whatever are you babbling about, child?” grumbled Pisces, the large fish whose turn it was to chair the council in November. “So have you done it?”
Virgo tucked her hair neatly behind her ears and fidgeted slightly in her sumptuous red chair—sofa, really—one of twelve that surrounded the circular golden table, which was elaborately engraved with every councillor’s zodiac sign.
She had only been half listening as the other eleven members of the council (twelve if you counted the Gemini twins separately) discussed whether to renew Dionysus’s liquor license, and if the Cyclopes were entitled to half-price eye care. Her mind had started to wander, as it frequently did these days, to what life might be like outside Elysium, her heavenly home above the Earth’s clouds.
This was absolutely not because there was anything wrong. Not at all! Virgo’s life, like her, was completely perfect. Administering the immortal community was, after all, an immense privilege—the Zodiac Council had been appointed by Zeus himself when he and the other Olympians retired. Now it was responsible for organizing every aspect of immortal life, from government to garage sales.
But however scintillating it was to ensure that sea nymphs had regulation swimming goggles, or that chimeras’ smoke alarms were tested quarterly, Virgo found herself wondering if there wasn’t something … else? Nearly two thousand years in the same job looked excellent on the résumé, but it was possibly getting slightly … less than fascinating. Immortal life was a gift, a miracle, a blessing. It just went on a bit.
