by Rick Riordan
I pulled out a close-up of a twentysomething man with chiseled features and a sultry expression. “Anyone recognize him?”
Valentina’s jaw dropped. “It’s James Dean!”
“The sausage tycoon?” Butch asked.
“Not Jimmy Dean, you idiot. James Dean. The actor.” Valentina smoothed her hand over the photo. “He was a total hottie.”
“Hottie!” Paolo confirmed in a heavy Brazilian accent. “Rebel. Eden. Dead young.”
“Right,” I said. “James Dean rocketed to superstardom in 1955 with two movies, East of Eden and Rebel Without a Cause.”
“What did Paolo mean by ‘dead young’?” Connor asked.
I showed them a third photo of James. He was sitting in a sleek silver race car with the number 130 painted on the hood and sides. “This was taken around September twenty-second, 1955. Nice car, huh? It’s a Porsche 550 Spyder.” I laid down one last photo. “And this was taken on September thirtieth.”
They all gasped. The Spyder was a mangled wreck of twisted metal, identifiable only by the number 130.
“James and a friend were driving to Salinas, California, for a race,” I told them. “They stopped at a roadside store. The accident happened about half an hour later. James was killed in the crash.” I chewed my lip. “I think Heloise cursed the car when it was at the rest stop. She installed something, enchanted the chassis. I don’t know, exactly, but that was her secret project, code-named Harmonia’s necklace.”
Sherman frowned. “Car accidents happen all the time, Nyssa.”
“Yeah, but listen to this: the guy who hit them claims he never saw the car coming. After the crash, parts salvaged from the Spyder were installed in other cars—and those cars were in horrible accidents. The wreck itself toppled from a truck bed and crushed a man’s leg. A pair of thieves suffered freak injuries while trying to steal the steering wheel and seat covers. A garage housing the Spyder’s remains caught fire—but the car itself was untouched. Need I go on?”
“Where’s the car now?” Sherman asked.
“It vanished in 1959. No mortal knows where it is.”
“Hang on,” Butch said. “No mortal?”
I gazed toward the western hills. “It’s in Bunker Nine. I think my dad hid it there. Or maybe Heloise did, to prevent the curse from hurting any more people.” I looked at them. “Or to keep it as a trophy of her success.”
So that’s the story. Maybe the curse on number 130 has faded. You want to touch that wreck in the shadows and find out, be my guest. Me, I’m steering clear.
SCENE: The set of a game show. Three campers sit behind a table with dinger bells in front of them. Apollo stands behind a podium. He’s dressed as a cheesy game show host—open shirt, bright gold lamé jacket, skinny black pants.
APOLLO: Welcome to our first annual Camp Half-Blood quiz show! Please give a warm welcome to our contestants. From Athena cabin…Bea Wise! [applause] From Ares cabin…Arnold Beefcake! [applause] And representing our cloven-hoofed friends…Ferdinand Underwood the satyr! [hoof stomps] Contestants, you know the rules. I ask a question. If you know the answer, ding your bell. Are you ready?
WISE [tapping temple]: I think, therefore I am.
BEEFCAKE [flexing]: Do your worst!
UNDERWOOD: Um, I ate my bell.
APOLLO: Excellent! Then let’s begin. First question: Name the serpent I slayed.
[Ding-ding!]
APOLLO: Wise?
WISE: That’s not a question.
APOLLO: Sorry, “That’s not a question” is incorrect.
WISE: No, wait, I meant—
[Ding-ding!]
BEEFCAKE: The serpent was Python!
APOLLO: Correct!
BEEFCAKE [showing two thumbs-up]: Ayyyyy!
APOLLO: Next question—
UNDERWOOD: So, should I just say ding-ding if I know the answer or—?
APOLLO: Who falsely accused me of flaying him alive after a music contest?
UNDERWOOD: Blaa-blaa!
APOLLO: I’m sorry, “blaa-blaa!” is incorrect. Also, you didn’t ring in. The correct answer is Marsyas the satyr.
WISE: Hang on! I knew that! You didn’t give me a chance to answer!
APOLLO: He thought he was so great on those stupid twin pipes, but I showed him.
BEEFCAKE: Yeah, you did!
WISE: I thought you were falsely accused.
UNDERWOOD: Blaa-blaa!
APOLLO: Final question: Do you know what time it is?
[Ding-ding!]
WISE [checks sun’s location]: Two twen—
APOLLO: It’s dancing time! [rips off jacket and shirt and starts Hula-Hooping] Hit it, boys!
[Satyrs enter flailing ribbon sticks and tootling on reed pipes, and cavort about the sun god]
BEEFCAKE: Oh, yeah! [rips off shirt, twirls it in the air] Now it’s a party!
WISE [rubbing temples]: I can’t believe I studied for this.
FERDINAND: Ding-ding?
Scouting around for a place of natural beauty for your next meeting? Consider reserving this idyllic, out-of-the-way clearing! Majestic old-growth trees surround a blanket of soft grass. Leaves rustle in the gentle breezes wafting in from the nearby shore. It’s a short hike north of the pegasus stables but worth every step. Iris-message ahead and the forest dryads will arrange for snacks and drinks.
Note: Special permission needed to use the rosebush topiary thrones.
I was honored when Percy Jackson asked me to tell you about the survival-skills class I teach. Honored but puzzled, because I teach Reed Pipe Music Composition and Appreciation, not Survival 101.
So I sent paper-airplane letters to two satyrs who’d taught the class before, Grover Underwood and Gleeson Hedge, to ask for their advice. Here are their replies:
[Sent on a slightly chewed brown paper bag]
Dear Woodrow,
California is dry. Thanks for asking.
I used the KISS approach—Keep It Simple, Satyr—when I taught the class, because so many students were ADHD. Here, in a nutshell, is my lesson plan. (If you don’t have a nutcracker, you can probably borrow one from the dining pavilion dryads.)
Step one: Scan your surroundings for immediate threats. Examples: Fast-approaching monsters with claws deployed and fangs dripping venom; cavernous pits rimmed with rotten banana peels; clowns (both happy- and sad-faced).
Step two: Take inventory. Helpful items to look for: Water. Food. Fire. More food.
Step three: Stay put and wait for rescue. Note: This last step only works if others are looking for you.
Hope this helps!
Wildly yours,
Grover
[Written on the back of a crayon drawing of a daddy satyr, a mommy wind nymph, and a tiny baby kid]
Woodrow,
Surviving is all about beating the odds. Also the evens. Those evens can be sneaky, so don’t take your eyes off them!
As for the beating, you can’t go wrong with a sturdy length of wood. Ash is best—strong, lightweight, makes an excellent crack sound when it connects with its target. Stay away from pine. Smells nice, but too sticky. And you never know who might be living inside it.
If you don’t have a club handy, try a hoof-kick to the solar plexus, a horn-stab to the throat, and a rump-butt to the gut. Boo-ya!
Coach
I appreciated this sage advice but decided to seek my own technique for survival training. So I did what I often do when contemplating a challenge: I looked to the stars for guidance. That’s when it hit me—I could teach demigods to look to the stars for guidance!
Constellations are awesome orientation and navigation tools. They have great historic significance, too, since they’re made up of beings and people placed in the heavens by the Greek gods. So it was a win-win concept.
Here’s a little taste of my proposed lesson plan:
WHATEVER, MOTHER (OR THE W-M-SHAPED CONSTELLATION)
Cassiopeia, queen of Ethiopia, bragged that she and her daughter, Andromeda, were more beautiful
than Poseidon’s girls, the Nereids.
“Gods, Mother, embarrass me much?” groaned Andromeda.
The Nereids complained to their dad. As punishment for Cassiopeia’s boast, Poseidon sent Cetus the sea monster to wreak havoc on Ethiopia. The only way to end the reign of terror was to sacrifice Andromeda to the beast.
Naturally, Cassiopeia didn’t tell her daughter that. Instead, she lured Andromeda to the coast with promises of a lovely spa day by the sea. Once there, she chained her to a rock within easy snacking distance of Cetus.
“Mo-ther!” Andromeda was heard to complain over the pounding of the waves. “These chains clash with my outfit! The salt spray is making my hair frizz! And when is my masseuse getting here?”
“Here he comes now!” Cassiopeia called back as Cetus reared out of the surf and charged the princess. (Note: Grover would have identified Cetus as an “immediate threat.”)
Seconds before the monster struck, a figure swooped out of the sky. It was the hero Perseus! He drew his sword of diamonds (“Ooo! Shiny!” Andromeda was heard to say over Cetus’s snarls), slew the beast, freed Andromeda, controlled her frizz with smoothing serum, and married her. They had nine children, founded the city of Mycenae, and lived happily ever after.
When they died, Perseus and Andromeda were turned into constellations. They’re so dim, though, that they can be hard to find. Instead, look for Cassiopeia, who was also set in the stars. As pushy in the heavens as she was on Earth, you can’t miss her pattern: five bright stars that form a W or M shape, depending on how you look at it. Find it, and you’re on the right track to getting home.
FYI: Mother and daughter constellations are very close to each other. So close, in fact, that if you listen in on a moonless night, you can hear Andromeda telling Cassiopeia to “back off and give her some space already.”
BEAR WITH ME
Zeus was sneaking around behind Hera’s back—again—with a lovely female named Callisto, who happened to be one of Artemis’s Hunters. Why Callisto broke her vow to stay away from men is anyone’s guess. Some say Zeus tricked her by disguising himself as Artemis.
Hera found out about Zeus’s infidelity—again—and with one angry poof turned Callisto into a bear, which she then asked Artemis to hunt. Or maybe she asked Arcas, who was Zeus and Callisto’s son and a skilled archer. The details are a little murky. Either way, Callisto the bear was staring down the pointy end of a drawn arrow when Zeus finally took notice.
“Hmm. This may be partially my fault,” Zeus confessed as he defused the threat. Callisto reared up on her hind legs, crossed her paws over her hairy chest, and gave him the bear version of “You think?”
“Let me make it up to you.” He transformed her into stars and lobbed them into the sky. He did the same for Arcas, figuring the boy would be safe from Hera that way. The stars formed patterns that looked like bears, which is why the Greeks named them the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper.
Ha-ha! Just kidding! The Greeks called them Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, or the Great Bear and the Little Bear. Ursa Major looks like a—well, like a big water dipper, actually, with a bent handle and a wide-mouthed bowl. Ursa Minor is a smaller version of a dipper with a handle that bends up instead of down.
FYI: Rumor has it that Zeus and Callisto secretly hang out when he’s in his Roman form. He hides in the planet Jupiter—or maybe he becomes the planet Jupiter—and she revolves around him in the nearby moon named after her. Watch for a supernova in that quadrant of the sky when Hera discovers their trysts.
LOOK TO THE STARS FOR GUIDANCE
So, how do these stories help if you’re lost? If you can pick out Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, and Cassiopeia in the night sky, you can find north. The three constellations are bunched up around Polaris, the one fixed star in the sky. Find the constellations, and you can find Polaris. Find Polaris, and you’ve found north. Find north, and you can figure out where east, west, and south are. And then you’re as good as home!
Note: When I shared my lesson plan with Grover, he pointed out that this method of navigation only works if you know in which direction your home lies. Also, it has proven to be less effective during daylight hours. Oh, well. It’s a start.
Winged horses need a place to call home, too, and Camp Half-Blood is delighted that some have made theirs here. Cleaning the stables might not be much fun, but the flights more than make up for it. So if you fancy a horse-powered swoop through the sky, stop by and meet the herd—and be sure to bring donuts!
This site should come with a warning sign: KEEP OUT! If ever you find yourself near the monstrous anthill, be sure to ditch any shiny metal you might have on your person. The giant ants find it irresistible. What they don’t like are certain waterways. The Zephyros Creek runs between the main campgrounds and the ants’ lair, which is probably why they haven’t invaded—though the queen ant might just do a flyby sometime. If they ever decide to cross Long Island Sound, however, New York City could be in for a world of hurt.
Come to a land apart…a land of misty magic and moist tropical breezes, where delightful humidity thickens the air and kisses your skin until it glows. You’ll know you’re near when sweat trickles down your back, dampens your hair, and weighs down your clothes. Once here, give voice to your offering to the geyser gods—a poem, a song, or a joke told with spot-on comedic timing. Then thrill to the whoosh of water from the amazing twin gushing geysers! Bow in the presence of the powerful palikoi! And be sure to fill out the customer satisfaction survey before you leave!
Being a god of a local underground water supply, I’m naturally tapped in to the goings-on at Camp Half-Blood. Exploding toilets? Heard about that one. Son of Poseidon claimed in a stream during capture the flag? Got the details courtesy of Zephyros Creek. Underwater kiss? Canoe Lake gushed about it for days afterward.
Stories like that trickle in to Paulie and me all the time. We’ve heard stuff that made us flush. I’d tell you more, but I don’t want to flood you with information that might bog you down. But pay us a visit sometime if you want.
We’d come to you, but Chiron has banned us from the showers.
Is there a tastier treat on a hot summer day than a plump, juicy, sun-warmed strawberry? Mouthwateringly delicious, you can’t eat just one. Luckily, here at Camp Half-Blood, strawberries are always on the menu—and on the outbound delivery truck!
Unless you’re a child of Demeter or Dionysus, you’ll probably overlook the strawberry fields while you’re at Camp Half-Blood. I get that. Unlike the combat arena, the climbing wall, Half-Blood Hill, and other common areas, the fields are ordinary—well, except for the whole growing-perfect-berries-year-round thing.
It’s too bad if you overlook the place, though, because the strawberries play a vital role at camp. They make us money, which pays for a lot of useful stuff here at Camp Half-Blood. Think that complimentary orange T-shirt you’re wearing just magically appeared out of nowhere? Not quite.
You might be interested in knowing how the decision to grow strawberries came about. Then again, you might not. Feel free to move on to the next chapter if you’re not. Just know you’ll be missing out on some truly delicious camp info.
Still with me? Okay, here’s how it went down.
Back in ancient times, Camp Half-Blood was self-sustaining—a bastion of locally grown produce and free-range meat and poultry products. When the camp moved to Long Island, though, the crops and herds didn’t come with it. For a long while campers had to make do by hunting, fishing, and gathering, Old-World-caveman-style. What we couldn’t hunt and gather, we traded for with local farmers, which was okay when Long Island was sparsely populated.
Then New York City ballooned into a megalopolis and urban sprawl oozed onto the island, with communities erupting nearby almost overnight. After the third mortal sighting of teenage demigods running through neighborhoods with bows and arrows, Chiron decided it was time to make some changes.
He convened the head counselors of the nine inhabited cabins to discu
ss the issue. (The Hephaestus kids were on a quest for Celestial bronze, and Zeus’s cabin was empty because he’d curtailed his extracurricular activities to appease Hera. The Hunters were on a stopover, though, so Cabin Eight was occupied.)
“We need a way to supply the camp,” Chiron said. “Any ideas?”
“Yes! We take what we need by force!” bellowed the leader of the Ares cabin.
“Or we could just, you know, steal it,” suggested the Hermes representative.
“No, no!” The son of Apollo whipped out his lyre. “We should sing for our supper, as did the minstrels of yore!”
“Of your what?” asked the Dionysus counselor.
“What?”
“‘The minstrels of your,’” the Dionysus girl said impatiently. “Of your what?”
A representative of the visiting Hunters intervened. “Not your. Yore.”
The Dionysus girl gave up.
“This is getting us nowhere.” The daughter of Athena stood. “Chiron, the camp needs a steady source of income.”
“Agreed,” Chiron said. “Suggestions?”
“One.” She rested her fingertips on the table and surveyed the others with great solemnity. “We will sell something that people will buy in massive quantities.”
“Wine!” called the Dionysus girl.
“Weapons!” yelled the Ares boy.
“Vocal arrangements in four-part harmony!” sang out the Apollo counselor.
“Food.”
All eyes turned to the Demeter boy who had spoken. He shrugged. “People always need food. Big city like New York, lots of people—lots of customers.”
Chiron stroked his beard. “I like it. But what kind of food?”
That wasn’t an easy question to answer. The Athena and Dionysus cabins wanted to sell food associated with their godly parents: olives and olive oil in honor of Athena; and grapes, grape juice, grape jelly, and wine (again) for Dionysus. The Hermes, Artemis, and Ares kids suggested putting their herding, hunting, and slicing-and-dicing talents to use and opening a butcher shop. Poseidon’s daughter campaigned loudly for a seafood shack that offered “both Manhattan and New England clam chowder.” Apollo’s son, still stuck on his original idea, tried to woo the Aphrodite counselor to his cause by pointing out that music was the food of love. She wasn’t buying it—and neither, she said disdainfully, would any self-respecting customer.
