by Rick Riordan
He made a face. “Hello? God of prophecy, remember?”
“About that,” I said. “Why do you need an Oracle? Why don’t you dole out your own prophecies?”
He looked skyward and rendered his reply in haiku:
“I’m a free spirit
Adrift in sunshine and song.
Office hours bore me.”
I thought about questioning whether hours was one syllable or two. But I let it slide, figuring he knew, seeing as he’s the god of poetry.
Then I blurted out another question. “Why can’t the Oracle have a boyfriend?”
I’m not sure why I asked. I wasn’t interested in anyone. (Well, not anymore, anyway.) Guess I was just curious.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he broke off a leaf from a nearby laurel bough and crushed it between his finger and thumb. The air filled with its pungent aroma.
“Love can cloud the mind,” he said at last. “An Oracle with an obstructed view is of no use.” His voice was sorrowful, and I remembered that he had once been madly in love with a nymph named Daphne who turned into a laurel tree to escape his amorous attentions. I guess he knew about clouded minds.
I changed the subject. “Why do prophecies have to be so confusing? I mean, how come I can’t just say straight up what’s going to happen?”
He heaved a sigh, as if he’d answered the same question a million times before (which, given that he’s immortal, maybe he had). “That would be as much fun as a two-piece jigsaw puzzle. Mystery, intrigue, hints of danger, unusual rhymes—those are what makes a memorable prophecy! Take this one, for instance:
“Pinochle and Ping-Pong, ambrosia squares and nectar,
An attic with an Oracle, a disembodied leopard,
A centaur in a wheelchair, a wine dude, serving time,
This omphalus of Half-Blood will welcome offspring half-divine.”
Full disclosure: I had to look up omphalus. You hit the first syllable, by the way, like you would in emphasis. The word means navel, as in the center point of something, not your belly button, though I suppose you could use it that way to impress your friends. I might pierce my omphalus when I’m older. Or mock your enemies. You really don’t know where your omphalus is? Ha-ha!
But such navel contemplation came later. At that moment, Apollo was looking at me expectantly.
“Right,” I said. “The prophecy describes Chiron, Dionysus, and the Big House, obviously.”
“Obvious to you, sure,” Apollo agreed. “But what if I told you that little prophetic nugget was delivered more than a thousand years ago?”
I had a sudden vision of people back then hearing the words pinochle, Ping-Pong, and dude. Gods only knew what they thought they meant. Food? Weapons? Clothing? They wouldn’t have had a clue. And what did Chiron make of the bit about the centaur in a wheelchair?
The truth struck me like a cold, wet cloth to the face. Unless they were immortal, the people who heard that prophecy died without understanding what it meant. They may have gone crazy or even perished on quests attempting to decipher its meaning.
The thought made me really sad, then super-anxious about prophecies I might utter someday. “Apollo,” I whispered, “will my words send people on hopeless quests?”
“Oh, Rachel.” Apollo patted my hand comfortingly. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s just peachy.” I didn’t mean to sound bitter, but honestly, I was starting to have significant second thoughts about the whole Oracle gig.
Apollo stood up then. “You need sleep,” he said. “But before I go, I have something for you.” He pointed at the ceiling. A beam of golden light issued from his fingertip. A moment later, a present clumsily wrapped in gold foil paper thudded next to me. (I found out later that the beam of light almost gave the Stoll brothers heart attacks.) “Open it.”
Inside was a rickety-looking three-legged stool. “Um…thanks?” I said.
“It’s the original,” he told me. “From Delphi. Well, from the Big House attic, more recently, where it languished underneath the posterior of your predecessor for far too long.”
Understanding dawned on me. “This is the tripod of Delphi. The one the first Oracle sat on thousands of years ago. You’re giving it to me?”
“I could have let you try stealing it, I suppose,” Apollo said, scratching his head, “but that didn’t go so well for Heracles when he tried it. He was punished with a year of women’s work for his crime.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me? Women’s work?”
Apollo waved dismissively. “Housework, chores, whatever. All that mattered was that for a blowhard like Heracles, washing dishes and sweeping floors was a well-deserved punch in the ego.” He patted the stool lovingly. “The butts of many powerful women have rested here.”
“I’m honored to be adding my derriere to the list.” As the words came out of my mouth, I realized I meant it. For good or bad, I was the new Oracle of Delphi. I celebrated the momentous occasion by throwing up again.
Things have been a little quiet around my cave of late (unless you count my recent mural-eradicating, sofa-flipping, curtain-shredding tantrum, which I sincerely hope you won’t). For some reason, the pilot light of prophecy has gone out, and Apollo hasn’t been able to reignite it.
But don’t worry. I predict I’ll be spouting green smoke and confusion again by the time you’re ready for a quest. And that will be soon, I have a feeling….
Tired of living with mortals who smell of BO, cigars, and garlic? Then step through the border and leave the stench behind! Powered by the strongest Mist and guaranteed to repel even the most determined monsters* and nosiest mortals, this invisible barrier surrounds Camp Half-Blood with the best demigod protection magic can conjure. And that’s not all! As an added bonus, inside the borders of camp, you’ll be enveloped in delightful springtime weather all year round. So if you’re ready to say good-bye to stink, slush, and certain death, come through the border today!
Created by Zeus himself to embody the life essence of his dying daughter, Thalia Grace, this storied tree marks the easternmost boundary of Camp Half-Blood. The pine flourished for five years, strengthening the border with its magic. Then Luke Castellan, foul minion of Kronos, poisoned it with elder python venom. The valiant tree clung to life until the Golden Fleece, that ancient mystical blanket shorn from a flying ram, restored its vigor. The Fleece’s curative powers even released Thalia from her piney imprisonment—sap-free! Today the Golden Fleece and the Athena Parthenos energize the camp’s protective barriers, but the pine tree remains as a tribute to Thalia Grace’s bravery. It also smells really nice.
THALIA: Leo, did you get this stupid recording device working yet? What? I can’t hear you! What? Gods, and people wonder why I joined Artem—Oh. Hi, everyone. Apparently, I’d muted Leo.
LEO: You’d be surprised how often people do that to me.
THALIA: Would I? So, we’re talking with Sally Jackson, mother of Percy, and Frederick Chase, father of Annabeth, via a four-way videoconference setup that Leo vows will work just fine.
LEO: Did I vow? Not on the River Styx. I know better!
SALLY: Hello, Thalia, dear. You’re looking particularly punk today. And Leo—
LEO: As smokin’ hot as always, am I right?
SALLY: Well, smoking, anyway. You’re smoldering through your T-shirt.
LEO: Whoops. Let me put me out. There.
THALIA: Anyway…we’re here to get insight into how mortal parents feel about Camp Half-Blood. Ms. Jackson, Dr. Chase, you’ve never actually set foot in the camp, is that right?
SALLY: That’s correct. Even though I can see through the Mist better than most mortals, I can’t get through the magic border. I suppose if someone gave me direct permission to enter, I might be able to, but even then, I’m not sure. The closest I ever got was the summit of Half-Blood Hill, and honestly, I’m not anxious to try that again.
LEO: Yeah, Peleus the dragon might snack on you. Or the Athena Parthenos might zap
you with her laser-beam eyes. Wait…does the statue even have laser-beam eyes, or is that just my wishful thinking? Not that I’d want you to be zapped, Mrs. J.
SALLY: Thank you, dear, that’s very comforting to know.
THALIA: How about you, Dr. Chase?
FREDERICK [puts down model airplane he was tinkering with]: Hmm? Oh, yes. Camp. No, never been, though it would be fascinating to study from a historical point of view. From what Annabeth has told me, the only uninvited mortal to make it through unscathed was Rachel Dare.
THALIA: I heard there was this pizza guy once…but that’s probably just a camp legend. Ms. Jackson, you may recall that I was there—in pine-tree mode—the first time Percy passed through. I don’t remember it, though, because…well, I was a tree.
SALLY: I’m a little foggy on the details myself.
FREDERICK: Something about a Minotaur?
SALLY: Everything about a Minotaur.
THALIA: Can’t say my first time at the border was much better. Fighting off monsters one minute, then—ZAP!—oozing tree sap the next.
FREDERICK: My word, Thalia, I just realized…I’ve never thanked you for saving Annabeth’s life that day!
THALIA: It’s ancient history, Dr. Chase, no worries.
FREDERICK: Perhaps I could ship you this model of Amelia Earhart’s 1921 Kinner Airster biplane that I just finished. It’s a lovely replica!
THALIA: That’s really not necessary. But tell me, both of you, now that things have settled down in the demigod world, wouldn’t you ever want to see Camp Half-Blood for yourselves?
SALLY: Well…yes, of course, if there were no Minotaurs or, ah, laser-beam-shooting impediments. In fact, after Percy’s first summer there, I did ask Chiron if he’d open the camp for just one day so families could visit. Mortal families, that is.
LEO: I’m guessing Chiron said no.
SALLY: Yes.
LEO: Wait…he said yes?
SALLY: No, he said no.
LEO: I’m confused.
THALIA: What else is new?
SALLY: Chiron told me that he did have a visitors’ day once, about a hundred years ago. But it did not go well.
THALIA: What happened?
SALLY: Somehow an eidolon, a manticore, and a disgruntled Party Pony found out about it. The eidolon possessed a camper’s half sister, the centaur got his hands on a cap of invisibility, and the manticore disguised himself as a family dog. They infiltrated the camp.
THALIA: Not a bad plan, though I prefer a direct assault myself.
SALLY: It might have worked, except the centaur wasn’t the sharpest kopis in the drawer. He couldn’t help showing off during the archery exhibition. Shot three bull’s-eyes before someone noticed the bow was floating in midair.
THALIA: What about the manticore and the eidolon?
SALLY: They caught the manticore spiking the volleyballs. With its tail spikes, that is, not actually hitting the balls over the net.
THALIA: Volleyball existed a hundred years ago?
FREDERICK: Yes, indeed! Volleyball, or mintonette as it was originally called, was invented in 1895 by William G. Morgan in—Sorry. Once a professor, always a professor.
SALLY: The eidolon caused the most destruction. It hurled a jar of Greek fire at the climbing wall, which then dripped with flames for hours afterward. That’s where Chiron came up with the idea of adding lava as a permanent feature for the wall, by the way.
THALIA: That Chiron. Always finding ways to turn death-defying challenges into much worse death-defying challenges. So what happened to the intruders?
LEO: Festus!
FREDERICK: Gesundheit.
SALLY: I think he means Festus, his bronze dragon.
LEO: The one and only! You know he was originally built for border patrol, right? What I heard, he had a killer body back then. Like, literally—he had this spiky exterior plating so he could use his body to kill. Man, I bet he body-slammed that manticore right back to Tartarus!
SALLY: Chiron did mention there had been some body-slamming. As for the eidolon, it took the combined powers of Aphrodite’s children to charmspeak the spirit out of the girl.
LEO: And the centaur?
SALLY: Chiron sorted out the cause of his fellow centaur’s anger—something about not getting his fair share of root beer the last time he was at camp. Chiron, being kindhearted, let him return to his tribe with a warning. But the camp hasn’t held another visitors’ day since.
THALIA: I guess I see why. And now that I think about it, a family day might be depressing for some of the campers who don’t have family. I mean…who’d come visit me? Or Leo?
LEO: Speak for yourself, Tree Girl. I may not have much family, but all the ladies would flock to me like moths to my flame. Aw, yeah!
THALIA: Aw, yech.
FREDERICK: Now, now. We’d visit both of you! Er, that is, if you do schedule a visitors’ day, and if I can remember to put the date on my calendar….
SALLY: [coughs] I think the important thing is that I know Percy and the rest of you have a safe place to be. I don’t feel a driving need to see the camp for myself. It’s just comforting to know that when my son is there, he’s with friends who have his back.
LEO: Also his front, his sides, and his top. I draw the line at his bottom, though.
SALLY: However, there is something I’d like to get on the record. Something I think all mortal parents would agree with.
THALIA: Sure, go ahead, Ms. Jackson.
SALLY: Demigods, we love you.
FREDERICK: Agreed.
SALLY: But if you don’t start Iris-messaging us a little more often, we’re going to sic Coach Hedge on you. Take care of yourselves, and make us proud. You always do!
Recently recovered from a massive spiderweb deep within the bowels of Rome, this priceless forty-foot-tall chryselephantine* statue of the goddess Athena is accessorized with a sphinx-and-griffin crown, a handheld statue of the goddess Nike, a shield, and a snake. It exudes its protective and somewhat fierce magic from its new home atop Half-Blood Hill.
Ask anyone here and they’ll tell you I’m a levelheaded guy. Big on logic, small on drama. A think-first, leap-second sort of demigod. Comes with being Athena’s kid, I guess.
So I was a little freaked-out when the visions started hitting me.
Demigods have nightmares regularly—as you’ll find out soon enough, I’m afraid. But these visions would happen when I was awake. I’d be walking along, not a care in the world, when—BAM! My brain would be flooded with images of some ancient Greek festival. I saw athletic events like in the Olympics, plus musical contests, poetry readings, and even beauty pageants. I witnessed winners receiving amphorae of olive oil (super valuable back then). I watched a parade that ended with a life-size wooden statue of Athena being ceremoniously draped with a huge colorful cloth.
This mental slide show scrolled through my mind on four separate occasions. By the fourth rerun, I wanted answers. One, what the heck was this festival? Two, where were the visions coming from? And three, why was I having them?
I got the answer to the first question by doing a little digging in our cabin’s research library. Buried in one book was a description of a festival called the Great Panathenaia that was held every four years in Athens in honor of my mother. I learned that the wooden statue was the Athena Polias, meaning Athena “of the city,” and the cloth was a special peplos (a versatile garment that could be worn as a floor-length skirt, a top-and-skirt ensemble, a shawl, or—Gods, I sound like Valentina! Sorry!) woven with images depicting Athena’s greatest triumphs, like the time she defeated the giant Enceladus.
So I’d been seeing the Great Panathenaia. Now I just had to figure out where the visions were coming from and why I was seeing them.
The “where” proved surprisingly easy to solve. Every time the visions hit me, I was near Half-Blood Hill. Therefore, my logical brain told me, something in that area was causing the visions. Conclusion: the something was the Athena Parthenos.<
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If you don’t believe that’s possible, just go up to Half-Blood Hill and experience the Athena Parthenos’s power for yourself. The statue radiates magic. Its eyes follow you. It’s so lifelike, you expect it to speak. Trust me, once you feel its power, you’ll understand why I decided the statue was channeling the pictures from the past into my head.
So that left the question of why. I explored several possibilities but kept coming back to one: Mom was giving me a not-so-subtle hint. I deduced she missed having a festival dedicated just to her. I further deduced she wanted me to resurrect that festival here at Camp Half-Blood. She would never come right out and tell me that, of course. Demanding to be honored isn’t her style. That’s why she used the statue as a go-between.
Just to be sure I was right, though, I whispered my conclusions to the Athena Parthenos. Yes, I felt a little silly talking to a statue, and of course, the statue didn’t reply. Neither did Mom. Not directly, anyway. But that night, an amphora of olive oil appeared beside my bunk. This either meant she was giving me a favorable omen or she wanted me to make a whole lot of pizza. I figured it was the former.
The next morning, I told my siblings and Chiron everything. The Athena kids were all over remaking the festival. Chiron himself had attended the original Panathenaia back in the day, so he readily greenlit the project.
Our inaugural Camp Half-Blood Panathenaia is scheduled for next August, to coincide with the dates of the original festival and Mom’s “sprang from Zeus’s head” day. That gives us Athena kids about a year to construct a wooden Athena Polias statue, weave a ginormous peplos, organize the competitions, and plan the procession. (Some of my siblings suggested just making a peplos for the Athena Parthenos, but firstly I don’t think there’s enough cloth on Long Island to make a serape that big, and secondly the ancient Athenians didn’t do it that way. They used a wooden statue made especially for the festival. I want to do it the traditional way because, well, this is all about bringing back a tradition.)
