by Jon Scieszka
As we wove through the crowd, I grabbed the nearest cop by the shoulder.
“Hey!” I told him. “Presidential motorcade coming! You guys better clear the streets!”
I pointed down Seventh Avenue. Of course there was no motorcade, but I did my best to imagine one.
See, some demigods can actually control the Mist. They can make people see what they want them to see. I wasn’t very good at it, but it was worth a shot. Presidential visits are common enough, with the United Nations in town and all, so I figured the cop might buy it.
Apparently he did. He glanced toward my imaginary line of limos, made a disgusted face, and said something into his two-way radio. With the wax in my ears, I couldn’t hear what, but all the other cops in the square started herding the crowd toward the side streets.
Unfortunately, the celedon had reached center stage.
We were still fifty feet away when she grabbed the mike and tapped it. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM echoed through the streets.
“Grover,” I yelled, “you’d better start playing that lyre.”
If he responded, I didn’t hear it. I sprinted for the stage. The workers were too busy arguing with the cops to try stopping me. I bounded up the steps, pulled my pen from my pocket, and uncapped it. My sword, Riptide, sprang into existence, though I wasn’t sure it would help me. Apollo wouldn’t be happy with me if I decapitated his backup singer.
I was twenty feet from the celedon when a lot of things happened at once.
The golden singer belted out a note so powerful I could hear it through the wax plugs. Her voice was heartbreakingly sad, filled with longing. Even muffled through the wax, it made me want to break down and cry—which is what several thousand people around Times Square did. Cars stopped. Police and tourists fell to their knees, weeping, hugging each other in consolation.
Then I became aware of a different sound—Grover, frantically strumming his lyre. I couldn’t exactly hear it, but I could feel the tremor of magic rippling through the air, shaking the stage under my feet. Thanks to the empathy link, I caught flashes of Grover’s thoughts. He was singing about walls, trying to summon a box around the celedon.
The good news: It sort of worked. A brick wall erupted from the stage between me and the celedon, knocking over the mike stand and interrupting her song. The bad news: By the time I figured out what was going on, I couldn’t stop my momentum. I ran straight into the wall, which wasn’t mortared, so I promptly collapsed on top of the celedon along with about a thousand bricks.
My eyes watered. My nose felt broken. Before I could regain my bearings, the celedon struggled out of the pile of bricks and pushed me off. She raised her arms in triumph as if the whole thing had been a planned stunt.
She sang, “Ta-daaaaah!”
She was no longer amplified, but her voice carried. The mortals stopped sobbing and rose to their feet, clapping and cheering for the celedon.
“Grover!” I yelled, not sure if he could hear me. “Play something else!”
I picked up my sword and struggled to my feet. I tackled the golden lady, but it was like tackling a lamppost. She ignored me and launched into song.
As I wrestled her, trying to pull her off balance, the temperature onstage began to rise. The celedon’s lyrics were in Ancient Greek, but I caught a few of the words: Apollo, sunlight, golden fire. It was some kind of ode to the god. Her metal skin grew hot. I smelled something burning and realized it was my shirt.
I stumbled away from her, my clothes smoldering. The wax had melted out of my ears so I could hear her song clearly. All around Times Square, people started dropping from the heat.
Over at the barricades, Grover played wildly on the lyre, but he was too anxious to focus. Random bricks fell from the sky. One of the monitor speakers on stage morphed into a chicken. A plate of enchiladas appeared at the celedon’s feet.
“Not helpful!” I shouted through the pain of the rising heat. “Sing about cages! Or gags!”
The air felt like a blast furnace. If the celedon kept this up, Midtown would burst into flames. I couldn’t afford to play nice anymore. As the celedon started her next verse, I lunged at her with my sword.
She lurched away with surprising speed. The tip of my blade missed her face by an inch. I’d managed to stop her singing, and she was not happy about it. She glared at me with outrage, then focused on my blade. Fear flickered across her metallic face. Most magical beings knew enough to respect Celestial bronze, since it could vaporize them on contact.
“Surrender and I won’t hurt you,” I said. “We just want to take you back to Apollo.”
She spread her arms. I was afraid she was going to sing again, but instead the celedon changed form. Her arms grew into golden feathery wings. Her face elongated, growing a beak. Her body shrank until I was staring at a plump metal bird about the size of a quail. Before I could react, the celedon launched herself in the air and flew straight for the top of the nearest building.
Grover stumbled onto the stage next to me. All across Times Square, the mortals who had collapsed from the heat were starting to recover. The pavement still steamed. Police started shouting orders, making a serious effort now to clear the area. Nobody paid us any attention.
I watched the golden bird spiral up until she disappeared over the highest billboard on the Times Tower. You’ve probably seen the building in pictures: the tall skinny one that’s stacked with glowing advertisements and Jumbotron screens.
To be completely honest, I didn’t feel so great. I had hot wax melting out of my ears. I’d been charbroiled medium rare. My face felt like it had just been rammed into a brick wall . . . because it had. I had the coppery taste of blood in my mouth, and I was really starting to hate music. And quails.
I turned to Grover. “Did you know she could morph into a bird?”
“Uh, yeah . . . But I kind of forgot.”
“Great.” I nudged the enchilada plate at my feet. “Could you try to summon something more helpful next time?”
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I get hungry when I get nervous. So what do we do now?”
I stared up at the top of the Times Tower. “The golden girl wins round one. Time for round two.”
You’re probably wondering why I didn’t put more wax in my ears. For one thing, I didn’t have any. For another thing, wax melting out of my ears hurts. And maybe part of me was thinking: Hey, I’m a demigod. This time I’m prepared. I can face the music, literally.
Grover assured me he had the lyre figured out. No more enchiladas or bricks falling from the sky. I just had to find the celedon, catch her by surprise, and distract her by . . . well, I hadn’t figured out that part yet.
We took the elevator to the top floor and found stairs to the roof. I wished I could fly, but that wasn’t one of my powers, and my pegasus friend Blackjack hadn’t been answering my calls for help lately. (He gets a little distracted in the springtime when he’s searching the skies for cute lady pegasi.)
Once we made it to the roof, the celedon was easy to find. She was in human form, standing at the edge of the building with her arms spread, serenading Times Square with her own rendition of “New York, New York.”
I really hate that song. I don’t know anybody who’s actually from New York who doesn’t hate that song, but hearing her sing it made me hate it a whole lot more.
Anyway, she had her back to us, so we had an advantage. I was tempted to sneak up behind her and push her off, but she was so strong I hadn’t been able to budge her before. Besides, she’d probably just turn into a bird and . . . Hmm. A bird.
An idea formed in my mind. Yes, I do get ideas sometimes.
“Grover,” I said, “can you use the lyre to summon a birdcage? Like a really strong one, made from Celestial bronze?”
He pursed his lips. “I suppose, but birds shouldn’t be caged, Percy. They should be free! They should fly and—” He looked at the celedon. “Oh, you mean—”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll try.”
<
br /> “Good,” I said. “Just wait for my cue. Do you still have that blindfold from Pin the Tail on the Human?”
He handed me the strip of cloth. I shrank my sword to ballpoint-pen form and slipped it in the pocket of my jeans. I’d need both hands free for this. I crept up on the celedon, who was now belting out the final chorus.
Even though she was facing the other way, her music filled me with the urge to dance (which, believe me, you never want to see). I forced myself to keep going, but fighting her magic was like pushing my way through a row of heavy drapes.
My plan was simple: Gag the celedon. She would turn back into a bird and try to escape. I would grab her and shove her into a birdcage. What could go wrong?
On the last line of “New York, New York,” I jumped on her back, locking my legs around her waist and yanking the blindfold across her mouth like a horse’s bridle.
Her grand finale was cut short with a “New Yor—urff!”
“Grover, now!” I yelled.
The celedon stumbled forward. I had a dizzying view of the chaos below in Times Square—cops trying to clear the crowd, lines of tourists doing impromptu high-kick routines like the Radio City Rockettes. The electronic billboards down the side of the Times Tower looked like a very steep, psychedelic waterslide, with nothing but hard pavement at the bottom.
The celedon staggered backward, flailing and mumbling through the gag.
Grover desperately strummed his lyre. The strings sent powerful magic vibrations through the air, but Grover’s voice quivered with uncertainty.
“Um, birds!” he warbled. “La, la, la! Birds in cages! Very strong cages! Birds!”
He wasn’t going to win any Grammys with those lyrics, and I was losing my grip. The celedon was strong. I’d ridden a Minotaur before, and the golden lady was at least that hard to hold on to.
The celedon spun around, trying to throw me. She clamped her hands around my forearms and squeezed. Pain shot up to my shoulders.
I yelled, “Grover, hurry!” But with my teeth clenched, the words came out more like, “Grr—huh.”
“Birds in cages!” Grover strummed another chord. “La, la, la, cages!”
Amazingly, a birdcage shimmered into being at the edge of the roof. I was too busy getting tossed around to have a good look, but Grover seemed to have done a good job. The cage was just large enough for a parrot, or a fat quail, and the bars glowed faintly . . . Celestial bronze.
Now if I could just get the celedon into bird form. Unfortunately, she wasn’t cooperating. She spun hard, breaking my grip and shoving me over the side of the building.
I tried not to panic. Sadly, this wasn’t the first time I’d been thrown off a skyscraper.
I’d like to tell you that I did some cool acrobatic move, grabbed the edge of a billboard, and vaulted back up to the roof in a perfect triple flip.
Nope. As I bounced off the first Jumbotron screen, a metal strut somehow snagged my belt and stopped me from falling. It also gave me the ultimate wedgie of all time. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, my momentum spun me upside down and I peeled right out of my pants.
I plummeted headfirst toward Times Square, grabbing wildly for anything to slow me down. Luckily, the top of the next billboard had a rung across it, maybe for extremely brave maintenance workers to latch their harnesses onto.
I managed to catch it and flipped right side up. My arms were nearly yanked out of their sockets, but somehow I kept my grip. And that’s how I ended up hanging from a billboard over Times Square without my pants.
To answer your next question: boxers. Plain blue boxers. No smiley faces. No hearts.
Laugh all you want. They’re more comfortable than briefs.
The celedon smiled at me from the top of the roof, about twenty feet above. Just below her, my jeans hung from the metal strut, blowing in the wind like they were waving me goodbye. I couldn’t see Grover. His music had stopped.
My grip weakened. The pavement was maybe seven hundred feet down, which would make for a very long scream as I fell to my death. The glowing screen of the Jumbotron was slowly cooking my stomach.
As I was dangling there, the celedon began a special serenade just for me. She sang about letting go, laying down my troubles, resting by the banks of a river. I don’t remember the exact lyrics, but you get the idea.
It was all I could do to hold on. I didn’t want to drop, but the celedon’s music washed over me, dismantling my resolve. I imagined that I would float down safely. I would land on the banks of a lazy river, where I could have a nice relaxing picnic with my girlfriend.
Annabeth.
I remembered the time I’d saved Annabeth from the Sirens in the Sea of Monsters. I’d held her while she cried and struggled, trying to swim to her death because she thought she would reach some beautiful promised land.
Now I imagined she was holding me back. I could hear what she’d say: It’s a trick, Seaweed Brain! You’ve got to trick her back or you’ll die. And if you die, I’ll never forgive you!
That broke the celedon’s spell. Annabeth’s anger was way scarier than most monsters, but don’t tell her I said that.
I looked up at my jeans, dangling uselessly above. My sword was in pen form in the pocket, where it did me no good. Grover had started to sing about birds again, but it wasn’t helping. Apparently the celedon only turned into bird form when she was startled.
Wait . . .
Out of desperation, I formed Stupid Plan Version 2.0.
“Hey!” I called up. “You really are amazing, Miss Celedon! Before I die, can I have your autograph?”
The celedon halted midsong. She looked surprised, then smiled with pleasure.
“Grover!” I called. “Come over here!”
The lyre music stopped. Grover’s head poked over the side. “Oh, Percy . . . I—I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay!” I faked a smile, using our empathy link to tell him how I really felt. I couldn’t send complete thoughts, but I tried to get the general point across: He needed to be ready. He needed to be quick. I hoped he was a good catch.
“Do you have a pen and paper?” I asked him. “I want to get this lady’s autograph before I die.”
Grover blinked. “Uh . . . jeez. No. But isn’t there a pen in the pocket of your jeans?”
Best. Satyr. Ever. He totally got the plan.
“You’re right!” I gazed up at the celedon imploringly. “Please? Last request? Could you just fish the pen out of my jeans and sign them? Then I can die happy.”
Golden statues can’t blush, but the celedon looked extremely flattered. She reached down, retrieved my jeans, and pulled out the pen.
I caught my breath. I’d never seen Riptide in the hands of a monster before. If this went wrong, if she realized it was a trick, she could kill Grover. Celestial bronze blades work just fine on satyrs.
She examined the pen like she’d never used one before.
“You have to take the cap off,” I said helpfully. My fingers were beginning to slip.
She laid the jeans on the ledge, next to the birdcage. She uncapped the pen and Riptide sprang to life.
If I hadn’t been about to die, it would’ve been the funniest thing I’d ever seen. You know those gag cans of candy with the coiled-up toy snake inside?
It was like watching somebody open one of those, except replace the toy snake with a three-foot-long blade.
The Celestial sword shot to full length and the celedon thrust it away, leaping backward with a not-very-musical shriek. She turned into a bird, but Grover was ready. He dropped Apollo’s lyre and caught the fat golden quail in both hands.
Grover stuffed her in the cage and slammed the door shut. The celedon went crazy, squawking and flapping, but she didn’t have room to turn back to human form, and in bird form—thank the gods—she didn’t seem to have any magic in her voice.
“Good job!” I called up to Grover.
He looked sick. “I think I scratched Apollo’s lyre. And I just cage
d a bird. This is the worst birthday ever.”
“By the way,” I reminded him, “I’m about to fall to my death here.”
“Ah!” Grover snatched up the lyre and played a quick tune. Now that he wasn’t in danger and the monster was caged, he seemed to have no problem using the lyre’s magic. Typical. He summoned a rope and threw it down to me. Somehow he managed to pull me to the top, where I collapsed.
Below us, Times Square was still in complete chaos. Tourists wandered around in a daze. The cops were breaking up the last of the high-kick dance routines. A few cars were on fire, and the outdoor stage had been reduced to a pile of kindling, bricks, and broken sound equipment.
Across the Hudson River, the sun was going down. All I wanted to do was lie there on the roof and enjoy the feeling of not being dead. But our job wasn’t done yet.
“We’ve got to get the celedon back to Apollo,” I said.
“Yeah,” Grover agreed. “But, uh . . . maybe put your pants on first?”
Apollo was waiting for us in the lobby of the Empire State Building. His three golden singers paced nervously behind him.
When he saw us, he brightened—literally. A glowing aura appeared around his head.
“Excellent!” He took the birdcage. “I’ll get Hephaestus to fix her up, and this time I’m not taking any excuses about expired warranties. My show starts in half an hour!”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
Apollo accepted the lyre from Grover. The god’s expression turned dangerously stormy. “You scratched it.”
Grover whimpered. “Lord Apollo—”
“It was the only way to catch the celedon,” I interceded. “Besides, it’ll buff out. Get Hephaestus to do it. He owes you, right?”
For a second, I thought Apollo might blast us both to ashes, but finally he just grunted. “I suppose you’re right. Well, good job, you two! As your reward, you’re invited to watch me perform on Mount Olympus!”
