by Clea Hantman
“No!” I yelled, banging my fists against the door in pure frustration. I tried my powers on the lock, but nothing. I guess they were gone again. OH! To have freedom within our reach, and then to have it ripped away again. It was too much to take.
I looked down at my timepiece. There was little time left, perhaps seven or eight hours. That probably wasn’t even enough time to make it through the maze, even if we hadn’t been locked in a freezing cold cell with no way out.
“Daddy,” I whispered. And then, even quieter, “Apollo.”
Then I leaned my head against the door and cried.
Sometimes sisters know exactly what to do to make you feel better. At that moment I felt two sets of warm arms around me.
“It’s okay,” Polly said.
“Yeah, we’ll be okay,” Era added.
I turned to both of them and squeezed them tight. “I’m sorry, I know it’s my fault. I got you in this mess. I’m so very, very sorry.”
“I’m sorry I got so caught up in my bath,” said Era. “I love you both dearly. Dearly!”
“Yes, yes, I love you both, too. Very much,” said Polly. “We mustn’t work against each other. We must help each other. Who knows how long we may be here?”
“I’m afraid,” said Era with wide eyes, “we may be here forever, just as they said.”
“I’m afraid you may be right,” agreed Polly. “If Father could have rescued us, I suspect he would have done it already.” Her eyes drifted to her wrist, and we sat there silently. “Oh, he should have been here by now!” she cried.
“You know,” I said, “I could take the cleaning all day long and into the night. I could, I really could. But I can’t bear the thought of not seeing my friends again. And our other dear sisters! And Apollo!”
“I cannot bear the idea of never seeing another tree,” said Polly. “Or Pegasus!”
“Oh, yes, Pegasus,” we all concurred.
“It’s just that it is so cold and unfriendly here. So dark and dead. I want to see life!” Polly had a single tear rolling down her cheek.
“Well,” said Era, “I don’t think I can bear to be without clean beautiful clothes. And a fluffy bed. And my nettle leaf shampoo. And boys! I mean, maybe I could clean all day if I knew that in the end, I could make myself all pretty and then have a dance or two around a ballroom with a handsome young man.”
We all laughed. Even Era. The idea of going to a ball in Hades after a day of cleaning the Furies’ clothes was, well, humorous, in a sad sort of way.
“I think I know how we can get through this. But we all must do our part,” said Polly.
“You know a way out?” I cried.
“No, Thalia. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up. It’s just that I think we can make the best of this.”
“What do you mean?” asked Era.
“I believe if we focus on the good from our lives, remembering fun and joy and love and laughter, it will make this unbearable reality a little less cold.”
“What do you mean, focus?” I asked. “How do we focus?”
“Well…” Polly thought for a moment. “I think we should take turns telling a story about something that happened to us back home. Even if we think we’ve told it before.”
“Like the story about how I summoned Cupid to help me win the attentions of Percival?” asked Era, excited by the prospect of retelling a tale she’s told a thousand times, about when she wore the most beautiful silk gown and kissed one of the handsomest gods in all of Olympus.
“Exactly,” said Polly.
“And I know, when we’re tired of telling stories,” I suggested, “we can sing! That might drive the Furies crazy!”
“Yes, yes, we can sing,” said Polly. “But we mustn’t think about what will make the Furies mad or glad or any such thing. We should do it strictly for ourselves. For each other. And one day, if we get out of here…”
“If,” I said sadly.
“No, one day, when we get out of here,” said Polly, “we will be that much more thankful for our wonderful lives and for each other. What do you say?”
“Yes!” cried Era and I.
“Now, let’s take a look at this scroll they left us.” Polly picked it up and started to read it. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s a list of thirty-two thousand, three hundred and twenty chores. But hey, that’s fine—it’s not a list of thirty-two thousand, three hundred and twenty-one chores, and that’s a good thing!”
I tried to be as upbeat as Polly, but that was too much. She seemed to sense this as she moved on to read the list, a little less perkily.
“Okay, let’s see what it says. ‘Chore number one,’” and then her smile faded.
“What does it say?” asked Era.
“Is it really that bad?” I asked, knowing full well it probably was.
Polly just winced and read on, “‘Chore number one: clean up dead squished toad.’”
FOURTEEN
Apollo went back in the direction from which he had come, in search of a Secret Society Witch Tart. Only problem was, he didn’t know what they looked like. Nor did he know where exactly to find one.
Before coming to the lair of the horrible, squawking creatures he had met before, he made a sharp left into a new hall. Down a new corridor he ran, this one well lit, until he happened upon a very large earthworm. Very large. The earthworm was over five feet long and at least two feet wide. It was wearing a top hat. He had no idea why or how a giant earthworm would have ended up here in Hades, but there was no time to think about that.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Apollo.
“That would be ma’am,” said the earthworm angrily.
“Oh, excuse me, it’s just, well, the hat and all,” said Apollo awkwardly.
“You have some nerve commenting on my hat. Have you taken a look at your ridiculous outfit?”
“Yes, I know, I am wearing a rather odd outfit for Tartarus, but believe me, back on earth, well, in the future, in the United States, well, Georgia, in this one high school, this football uniform is a very respectable choice of clothing.”
The earthworm made a “hmpf” noise and started to slither away.
“Wait, I need to ask you something.”
“What is it? I haven’t got all day,” said the worm impatiently, still slinking down the hallway. Apollo followed her.
“Do you happen to know where I can find a Secret Society Witch Tart?”
The earthworm gasped. “No, that’s secret.” She continued to move away from Apollo as fast as she could. Which wasn’t all that fast—earthworms aren’t known for their speed.
“Look, it’s tremendously important. I’m a god, a very important god. Maybe you’ve heard of me—Apollo is the name.”
“Of course I have heard of Apollo, and such a god would not be in Tartarus, nor would he be caught dead wearing such absurd clothing. Good day.”
With that, the worm slithered around a corner and out of sight, and Apollo was left to search for another inhabitant of Tartarus. Hopefully a friendlier and more helpful one.
Moments later he came upon a young man. A very normal-looking young man. When Apollo tapped him on the shoulder, he jumped three feet in the air and let out a petrified yelp.
“Oh, sorry to have startled you, sir. It is sir, isn’t it?”
The man just looked at Apollo without so much as a blink.
“Right, okay, my name is Apollo, I’m a God, and…”
The man began to laugh hysterically.
“No, really, I am.”
The man didn’t seem so scared anymore. “Okay, then do a trick, Apollo. Perform some great feat. Prove it.” And he laughed some more.
“Well, you see, I can’t. It’s really a very long story, and I haven’t much time, but trust me, I am the god Apollo. Now, I have a question of grave importance. Do you know where I can find a Secret Society Witch Tart?”
The man looked frightened again. He shivered and shook, and then he made a run for it. He was gone in an instant.
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Apollo thought about running after him, but what good would it do him?
So he continued to wander along the unending halls of Tartarus. It seemed like he had covered miles of hallway before he came upon another soul. This time it was a woman. She was young and beautiful. For some reason, she was crying.
“Excuse me,” said Apollo, “I don’t mean to interrupt. Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not all right,” the woman said, looking up at Apollo with a mournful, tear-streaked face. “I’m stuck in Tartarus. And for what? What! Just because I turned a young man into stone!”
“Well, that doesn’t seem like such a bad crime,” Apollo consoled, patting her on the shoulder. “Maybe you could…wait! Does that mean you’re a witch?” he asked.
“Turning a man into stone shouldn’t mean you have to spend an eternity in Tartarus,” she cried. “You understand. Just because he was Demeter’s boyfriend, that’s still no reason!”
“Oh, he was betrothed to a goddess? Well, that does get into sticky territory there. You know, you really shouldn’t mess with the goddesses.” Apollo realized they were straying from the point. “Anyway, you didn’t answer me. Does this mean, if you have the power to turn someone into stone, that you are a witch?”
“Gods, schmods! I will mess with whomever I want! Wait till they see the damage I can do from down here. You just wait!”
The young woman looked at Apollo again, like she was actually noticing him for the first time. And seeing him young and handsome, she quickly lost her angry look and smiled a flirtatious smile.
But Apollo didn’t notice. “So you are a witch? Wonderful!”
“Yes, I am a witch,” said the woman. She was twirling a piece of her long blond hair around her index finger coyly.
“You aren’t, by chance, a Secret Society Witch Tart, are you?”
The young woman wrinkled her nose. “Oh, heavens no, those old broads are ugly. In case you haven’t noticed, I am beautiful. That’s why Demeter’s boyfriend fancied me over her!”
“Right, okay.” Apollo plunged ahead, not wanting to get off track. “Do you know where I might find a Secret Society Witch Tart?”
“Well, you know, it’s secret,” she said as she batted her eyelashes.
“So I’ve heard,” said Apollo, a little exasperated. “But do you think you could tell me?” He made an earnest attempt to flirt back. He lowered his chin and looked up at her from under his long eyelashes.
“Well, I don’t know. What can you do for me?”
Apollo began to sweat around his shoulder pads. “Um, well, I am actually the powerful god Apollo, only my powers are not intact at this moment. Once I have regained them, perhaps I can speak with Demeter and get you out of here.”
The young witch began to laugh. “You, a god? Hardly. Don’t get me wrong, you are good-looking, but that getup? No, no, I don’t believe you.”
“Really, I am!” But it was no use.
“Still, I think I can find something for you to do for me.”
Apollo was scared to ask. “What, exactly?”
“If you give me a single kiss, I think I may be able to tell you where you can find a silly old Witch Tart.”
“A single kiss?”
“Yes, a single one. On the lips.”
Apollo knew better than to make deals with witches, and as harmless as a single kiss on the lips sounded, he knew it could be very dangerous. Still, this was Thalia’s life at stake. Plus her sisters’ and possibly his own. He had to find a Witch Tart, pronto, and this might be his only chance.
He looked into the eyes of the young witch. They were jet black and cold as ice. But as he got closer, he could swear he saw a figure, a shadow, really, dancing a little jig in each pupil. It scared him a bit; he shut his own eyes so as not to see and planted a dry kiss on the young witch’s lips.
Apollo stepped back and opened his eyes, and then he gasped. The woman before him was no longer a young and beautiful witch—she was decrepit and old. Her long fair hair had turned a dirt brown color, and it was dry and frizzy on the ends. Her pale silk gown was now tattered and torn and bulging in places a gown shouldn’t bulge.
Apollo didn’t understand. He took a step back. And another.
“Don’t go away so fast, young man. You said you were looking for a Secret Society Witch Tart. Well, you have found one. Now, why would you want such a creature in your midst?”
“Are you really a Witch Tart?” asked Apollo.
“I am more real than you. Apollo, did you say it was?”
“But I am Apollo—I really am. This body, well, it’s from the future; that’s why it looks so odd to you. It’s simply a disguise.”
“Hmmm, yes.” But it was obvious she didn’t believe him. She giggled.
Then she stopped abruptly. “What is it you want, young man?”
“I must contact the Fates.”
“Well, if you are the great and powerful Apollo, you do not need a lowly old witch, Secret Society or not, to do that.”
“Yes, but see, like I told you, I am without my powers right now.”
“So you said. Hmmm. No. I do not do favors for silly clowns or ridiculously dressed mortals.”
“But I am neither. Please, you are my only hope. I must contact the Fates. I need their help on a most dire matter.”
“And what is that?”
“Well, it’s a rather long story, but suffice it to say that my true love, Thalia, and two of her sisters are trapped here in Tartarus and I must get them out.”
“No one leaves Tartarus, you fool. Besides, I heard from a recently dead arrival that Thalia wants nothing to do with the god Apollo. You really must keep up with the godly gossip if you’re going to walk around claiming to be one of the gods!”
“With all due respect, Madam Witch Tart, Thalia does indeed want something to do with me, or at least I am fairly certain that she does. Now, please, call on the Fates for me.”
“No,” said the witch.
“Please!” said Apollo.
“I’ll tell you what,” said the witch.
“Yes, please,” begged Apollo.
“No matter who you are, I shall call on the Fates for you—”
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” cried Apollo.
“Wait! I was not finished. Under one condition.”
“Of course, name it!” exclaimed Apollo.
“You must bring me a three-ounce vial of Cerberus’s slobber!”
“The three-headed dog?”
“That is the one!” said the witch.
“But that’s all the way back at the gates! I’m up against a clock here. Don’t you have a quicker job, perhaps?”
“No, that is the condition. I need a few drops of it for a spell. Get the slobber and I will command the attentions of the Fates. Fail and you’re on your own.”
“Fine. I will get you the slobber. But you better hold up your end of the bargain,” said Apollo.
“And remember,” said the witch, “Cerberus’s slobber is deathly poisonous to mortals. So you better hope you are in fact the one and only Apollo!” And then she cackled and howled so hard, it hurt Apollo’s ears.
No problem, thought Apollo. He was a god.
But then he had a thought.
He might be a god, but the body he was inhabiting was all mortal.
FIFTEEN
Polly was finishing up chore number seven: “Make jewelry out of Alek’s earwax.”
“Done—that’s only thirty-two thousand, three hundred and thirteen left to go!” she said cheerfully, and then she frowned at how pathetic that sounded.
Era and I were scrubbing the yellow stains out of the armpits of all the Furies’ lace tops. They had given us eyelash brushes and a small vial of baking soda to complete this task.
“Go on, finish your story, Pol,” I said, rubbing at a particularly difficult stain. Polly had been telling us of a time when she and Mother had happened upon a lost lamb on one of their long walks through the pas
tures back home.
“Well,” Polly said, shifting back into storytelling mode, “I wanted so desperately to pet it, but I knew better, so I just watched from afar. But then Mother said that it was okay, that we could take it home because it was an orphan. So she picked it up and placed it in my arms. You know, she was so gentle that lamb didn’t seem scared at all.”
“She was gentle,” Era repeated, her eyes taking on a faraway look.
“Gentle but strong,” I agreed. “She was kind, but she had so much strength in her. Everybody says so.”
“Strength? Strength? That woman had about as much strength as a caterpillar!” The voice was coming from behind us.
Polly, Era, and I turned to see that there was a fourth person in the room. It was Hera. Hera the Horrible. As if this place wasn’t bad enough already. She was wearing some tacky fur-lined bikini under a black velvet robe that barely covered her pasty white flesh. She began to laugh her horrifying cackle, the one that makes you feel like pins are burrowing into your skin with every chuckle.
She snapped her fingers, and suddenly Meg, Alek, and Tizzie appeared beside her, looking as surprised to see Hera as we were.
“You really need to do something with this place,” Hera boomed. “It’s a dump! Some drapes would be nice, wouldn’t they, Tizzie? Polly, you really should conjure some up—OH, WAIT!—you don’t have any powers!” And the cackling started all over again.
“Seriously, though.” Hera tried to catch her breath, but she started to wheeze. “Lack of powers does not excuse poor taste. You really could have spruced up the place a little for me.” Green smoke oozed from under the impossibly long, velvety train of her cover-up as her eyes fixed on each of us, one by one, with mockery and glee.
“Now, on to the business at hand. A little bird told me that you little weasels tried to escape. Stupid, stupid girls. Needless to say, I am not pleased, not hardly. Nor am I pleased with you three,” and she turned on the Furies a furious glare. “You’ve all interrupted my lovely vacation with Zeus. We were enjoying a seaweed wrap when I got the news. Let the responsibility of my uneven tan rest upon all your shoulders!” She swept her robe above us, indicating us all.
