by Holub, Joan
Artemis swooped lower to land on a branch a safe distance away, but close enough to eavesdrop. She wanted to make sure Ephialtes didn’t plan to return to MOA. She also wanted to make sure Otus was okay.
“Ow,” Ephialtes moaned in his girlish voice as he sat up. He pressed his hand to his forehead.
“You’re bleeding,” said Otus, pointing to a cut above his brother’s left eyebrow.
“Well, you’re missing a tooth,” said Ephialtes, pointing to Otus’s mouth.
“Where?” asked Otus, sitting up as well.
“Bottom row.” Suddenly Ephialtes began to laugh.
Otus stared at him. “What’s so funny?”
“We’re identical again!” Ephialtes whooped. A slow grin spread across Otus’s face as he realized it was true.
Laughing hysterically, they began to roll around amid the leaves like giant kids. Eventually, their giggles died away.
Lying on his back amid the leaves, Ephialtes sighed. “You know what I want?” Artemis crossed her talons, hoping it wasn’t to go back to MOA to steal Heracles’ olive wreath again. “A real meal for a change,” the giant went on. “The Mount Olympus cafeteria serves such tiny portions. Even though I ate six trays of food at every meal, I’m starving all the time. It’s no wonder I stumbled in that match. I was weak from hunger.”
“That had to be the reason,” Otus agreed. “If we head home now, Mom’ll probably have dinner on the table by the time we get there. A humongous plate of her skunk cabbage stew, and you’ll be good as new.”
Ephialtes looked undecided, but Otus jumped up. “Last one there is a rotten giant!” he challenged. When he took off through the forest, Ephialtes couldn’t resist leaping up to follow.
As the two brothers loped homeward, Artemis circled overhead and let out a loud cak-cak-cak. Otus glanced up. When his eyes met hers, he nodded his approval, then winked.
Why, he’d challenged his brother on purpose—to get him to return home! Artemis realized. Curving her beak into a smile as best she could, she winked back. Then, as he waved good-bye, she tipped her wings and fluttered them in farewell. It made her feel a little sad to see him leave so suddenly. She promised herself that she’d write to him later to fill him in on the results of the rest of the Games.
As she flew back to the sports fields, Artemis thought about how different twins could be. Otus was as kind and big-hearted as Ephialtes was hot-tempered and reckless. Nevertheless, they were still brothers. And they were buddies. Just as she and Apollo had once been. And she wished so much they could be again!
The fields were deserted as she approached them. The footraces and other outdoor events must have already ended. That meant—oh no! The Python-o-thon! Heart pounding, she glided down to the gymnasium and took her goddess form again. Then she yanked open the gym door, dashed inside and down a hall to reach the main part of the gym.
It was so crowded that the audience had overflowed into the aisles. Artemis could hardly see the stage. As she elbowed her way through the crowd, she heard a boy cry, “Stop! I beg you. I can’t take this anymore!”
Her heart plummeted until she realized the voice wasn’t Apollo’s, but some other unlucky boy’s. When she finally made it close to the stage, she saw a mortal boy tightly wrapped in Python’s coils. Since she didn’t recognize him, she guessed he wasn’t from MOA. In accordance with the contest rules, which forbade intentional physical harm, Python relaxed its hold on its victim, but didn’t let him go. Twirling the tip of its tail like a lasso, the serpent grinned. “Yee-hah! Answer my question, or I’ll make mincssemeat out of you, mortal!”
The crowd around her groaned. “Boo! Hiss!” someone yelled.
Python’s cruel eyes gleamed. “Hisss? Now you’re ssspeaking my language!” That familiar dry rattle of a laugh echoed through the gym. “Give up?” it goaded the boy.
Trapped in Python’s coils, the boy could barely nod. “Say theos, then,” prompted Python. Theos was the Greek word for uncle.
“Theos!” the boy cried.
Laughing wickedly, Python released him, its tail immediately sweeping him off toward the exit. “Begone, you fool. And count yourssself lucky. Many who match witsss with me don’t live to tell the tale!” The boy coughed and sputtered as he reeled dizzily off the stage.
Lifting its head high, the Python swayed side to side. “Isss that the bessst you’ve got?” it taunted the audience. Its beady eyes scanned the gym as if searching for another challenger. “Don’t be shy. Whoever’s nexsst, ssstep on up!”
Artemis shuddered.
Ta-ta-ta-TAH! the heralds trumpeted on their salpinxes. “And now,” they announced in unison, “fresh from his wrestling championship, we have our next contestant . . . Heracles!”
Heracles? Artemis jerked her head back. What was he doing here? Athena had said he wasn’t going to compete! Judging from the surprised burst of chatter spreading through the crowd, no one else had expected him to either.
Artemis watched him confidently climb the steps to the stage. If Heracles beat Python before Apollo even got a chance to try, Apollo might be disappointed. But she sure wouldn’t be!
Apollo liked Heracles, even if he was a little jealous of him. On the other hand, Apollo wouldn’t exactly be happy if Heracles lost.
She surveyed the crowd, searching for her brother but not finding him. Instead, her eyes lit on Athena. She was determinedly pushing her way closer to the stage, with Persephone and Aphrodite right behind her. From the grim look on her face, Artemis knew that this had come as a complete surprise to her, too. She must be so scared for her crush!
15
The Contessst
OVER HERE!” ARTEMIS YELLED TO HER FRIENDS. She jumped up and down until they saw her and veered in her direction.
The three goddessgirls looked relieved to see her alive and well, but didn’t ask about what had happened with the giants right away. They had other more immediate concerns. “I don’t know why Heracles is doing this!” Athena wailed.
“Maybe your dad put him up to it when he crowned him earlier?” suggested Persephone. They all glanced over at the principal. He and Hera were sitting front row center on their blue and gold thrones, which had been moved for them between each event.
As the girls watched, Zeus grinned at Heracles encouragingly, and even sent him a thumbs-up. From Zeus’s relaxed attitude, Artemis doubted that anyone had told him about the fight in the arena after the wrestling match. It was a lucky thing Pheme hadn’t been able to come to the Games!
“I bet you’re right,” said Aphrodite. “Zeus probably figured a contest between the Olympic wrestling champ and Python would be a spectacle worth watching.”
That makes sense, thought Artemis. And though no one said it, that must also mean Zeus didn’t have much faith in Apollo’s chances of beating the crafty serpent or even providing much of a challenge. Ouch! But she could understand such reasoning. After all, Heracles had proved his mettle against any number of beasts during his twelve labors. He’d have the best chance at winning of anyone!
Persephone put her arm around Athena and gave her a quick hug, to help calm her friend’s nerves. Up onstage, Heracles approached Python now, his favorite trusty club braced against one shoulder, his championship olive wreath still perched on his head. Python eyed the club, then whipped its gaze toward Principal Zeus. “Contessst rules ssstate no weaponsss allowed.”
Zeus nodded. “Sorry, Heracles,” he boomed in a commanding tone. “Python’s right!” As usual, his voice was so loud that the entire gym could hear him.
As Heracles reluctantly tossed his club to the far edge of the stage, Aphrodite whispered to Artemis. “You okay? We looked for you after we got outside. What happened to the giants?”
“I’ll explain later,” Artemis whispered back. She was just glad her effort to break up the fight had been a success. “Who won the other contests?”
Aphrodite beamed. “Ares won all three footraces.”
“Awesome,” said Artem
is. “How about the rest?”
Persephone overheard and replied, “Hades won the long jump. He said it was because of all the practice he gets jumping over rivers of red-hot lava in the Underworld.”
“And Hyacinth, a mortal from Earth, won the discus-throwing contest,” said Aphrodite.
“Zeus should be happy,” said Artemis. “Three of the four champions are from MOA!”
“And there’s still this contest with Python,” added Aphrodite. All four goddessgirls looked up at the stage.
Artemis could see that the serpent had already managed to lock eyes with Heracles. They were circling each other warily. “Yesss,” said Python. “You’re thinking that physssically you could beat me. However, thisss match will be about witsss.”
From the look on Heracles’ face, Artemis knew he’d just now figured out that Python could read his mind. Suddenly, he lost his confident bearing and began to look a tad nervous.
“I’ll now pose two quessstions. When you fail to anssswer correctly—as you no doubt will—you’ll cry theos and I’ll win! I do ssso love to win!” Python hissed and snorted a few times. It was laughing at Heracles! All part of its master plan to demoralize him, no doubt.
“Bring it on!” said Heracles, his confidence seeming to return.
“Quessstion number one!” hissed Python, officially beginning their match of wits. “What creature movesss on four legsss in the morning, on two in the afternoon, and upon three in the evening. Yet the more legsss it gets, the weaker it becomes?”
Athena clenched her hands into fists. She leaned forward as if willing Heracles to figure out the answer.
Artemis wasn’t very good at riddles, but it was a sure bet that Athena was. If only Heracles could read her friend’s mind!
“Ha!” Heracles replied. “Easy peasy, Python. Because I’ve heard this riddle before. You stole it from the Sphinx who guards the entrance to Thebes.”
Hearing this, Athena relaxed and even smiled. “Thank godness he knows this one!”
“The answer is humankind,” Heracles said in a cocky voice. “Mortals crawl on all fours as babies, then walk on two feet as adults, and sometimes walk with canes in old age—as if the cane is a third leg.”
“Well, I still don’t get it,” Aphrodite whispered to the other goddessgirls.
“Morning is early and symbolizes the first part of life—being a baby,” Athena explained.
“Oh!” said Aphrodite, quickly catching on. “And afternoon is in the middle of a day, sort of like the middle of a person’s life when they are an adult. And then evening symbolizes the last part of the day or the last part of life!”
“Very good, Heraclesss” said Python, pulling their attention back to the contest. The serpent dipped its head and flicked its long, forked tongue. Artemis could tell it was being very careful to keep a distance between itself and Heracles. It was afraid of him! Interesting!
“Let’s see how you fare with quessstion number two,” Python continued. “A ten-year-old boy visitss the marketplace with two men—one thirty years old and one fifty years old. Without repeating any relationship—grandfather, father, or son, for example—can you name the five family relationshipsss between them?”
The crowd fell silent, and Artemis guessed that, like her, they were all trying to work out the answer to Python’s question. It didn’t seem like it should be very hard. The boy was probably the son of the thirty-year-old man, who was therefore the boy’s father. And the fifty-year-old man would be the boy’s grandfather. That’s three relationships, she thought, counting on her fingers. Oh yes, and the boy would also be the grandson of the fifty-year-old man. So that made four. But what was the fifth? Then she remembered that the thirty-year-old man was the son of the fifty-year-old one. But that would make two sons and Python had said no relationships could be repeated.
Heracles must have been thinking along the same lines because he said, “It doesn’t work for the boy to be the son of the thirty-year-old man. Hmm.” Then he snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! The boy isn’t his son at all. He’s his nephew!”
Python’s tail went wild, slapping the stage, then whipping angry circles in the air. It was obviously worried Heracles had figured this one out, too, but it wasn’t giving up yet. “Do go on.”
“No problem!” Heracles grinned. “The fifty-year-old man is the grandfather of the boy, which makes the boy his grandson. So far, that’s three relationships, including the nephew one. And the thirty-year-old man is the fifty-year-old’s son. That’s four. And since the boy is the nephew of the thirty-year-old man, that means the thirty-year-old man is his uncle!”
“Hisss what?” asked Python as if it hadn’t heard.
“His uncle, his theos!” Heracles exclaimed.
Python grinned so widely then it bared its fangs. The whole audience gasped, fearing for Heracles’ safety.
“Oh, no!” said Athena from beside Artemis. As usual she’d grasped what had happened a split second before everyone else.
“Yahoo! I win! I win!” Python rasped jubilantly. Stretching straight up in the air, the serpent twirled around on the tip of its tail. There was a moment of confusion before Heracles and everyone else caught on. Then they all let out a huge groan. The riddle had been a trick! Without meaning to, Heracles had cried “uncle” by uttering the word “theos,” which of course meant, “I give up.”
“Poor Heracles,” Persephone murmured. “He guessed both riddles, but he still lost!”
Heracles’ shoulders slumped as he retrieved his club. He dragged it behind him and it bumped down the steps as he left the stage in defeat. Artemis glanced over at Zeus. He shrugged at Heracles and gave him a thumbs-up as if to say: Oh, well. Can’t win them all. Good job, anyway. Zeus was a lot of things, but a poor sport wasn’t one of them. Unlike Ephialtes.
The heralds blew on their salpinxes, quieting the audience. “And now for our last contestant!” they shouted. “Competing in his one and only Olympic event—give it up for Mount Olympus Academy’s Apollo!”
Though Principal Zeus and the crowd cheered politely, Artemis couldn’t help cringing. Had it really been necessary for the heralds to mention that this was Apollo’s one and only event?
As Apollo climbed the steps to the stage, Artemis whistled and clapped, showing her support. His hands were trembling, she couldn’t help noticing. “C’mon, c’mon, you can do it, bro,” she murmured to herself.
“Ssso,” hissed Python, as Apollo approached. “We meet at lassst!” It made the dry, rattling-snorting sound that meant it was laughing. “I hope you’re asss much fun as your sissster.” Its face swung around to scan the crowd and Artemis instinctively ducked. No way was she going to let that sneaky snake hypnotize her into revealing any more secrets!
Aphrodite was staring at her in surprise, probably wondering where all of her supposed bravery had suddenly gone to. Peeking over the edge of the stage, Artemis saw that the serpent had swung back to study Apollo. “Well, I certainly hope she’s here watching because I wouldn’t want her to misss your crushing defeat! Especially since it’ll be partly her fault!”
Now all of Artemis’s friends were staring at her. “What does it mean by that?” Athena asked.
Artemis gulped. “Tell you later,” she promised, adding her earlier visit to see Python to the mental checklist of things she’d have to explain to her friends when all this was over.
Quick as a whip, Python coiled its tail around Apollo’s knees and yanked him close. Its face lowered to within inches of Apollo’s. Its yellow eyes glowed, seeming to will him to return its piercing stare.
But no matter how long and hard Python gazed at him, Apollo stubbornly kept his head turned aside. The serpent’s head darted this way and that, trying to catch his eye. “What’s wrong—scared to look at me?” it taunted, sounding frustrated.
“No, I just don’t want you reading my mind,” Apollo answered truthfully. After all, he couldn’t lie.
“What’s your second question?”
Apollo demanded.
Python’s head reared back in angry surprise. The goddessgirls’ eyes all went wide and they looked at one another excitedly, realizing what Apollo had just done. He’d tricked Python into asking an easy question!
Watching Apollo stand up to Python, a newfound respect for her brother blossomed in Artemis. She realized he had every right to choose which battles he would fight, and that she couldn’t—and shouldn’t—try to fight all his battles for him. She’d thought she was being loyal, but maybe she’d just been bossy. And overprotective. No matter what the outcome of this contest, she vowed to try to respect his choices more in the future.
Unfortunately for her brother, however, Python seemed determined not to let him get away with the same trick a second time. “Oh, you’re a clever one!” Python told him, sarcasm dripping from every word. “But no matter. I don’t need to read your mind. Thanks to your sssister, I know your weaknesss. You’re the boy who cannot tell a lie.”
Still keeping his head turned away, Apollo said, “Then maybe you should think about this before you ask your next question: What I am saying now is a lie.”
Distracted by this strange statement, Python’s eyes narrowed and its tongue flicked in and out as the serpent thought hard. “That does not make senssse!” it hissed, shaking its head as if to clear it. “If what you just sssaid is true, and I know you to be the Godboy of Truth, then you were lying, even though your ssstatement wasss true.” Releasing its tail from around Apollo’s knees, Python thrashed to and fro in a show of confusion. “But if your wordsss were a lie, then you were not actually lying, even though your ssstatement wasss a lie.”
Thoroughly agitated now, the serpent began to twist its tail over and under its coils, tying itself into one knot and then another. Soon its head was swaying dizzily, and its coils resembled a very complicated yellow-green pretzel. “Thusss,” it said at last, “if you were lying, you were telling the truth, and if you were telling the truth, you were lying!”
