by Rick Riordan
“Yeah,” Prickly Pear agreed. “Nobody would bother us ever again. We could grow in peace!”
Aloe Vera studied the Meliai doubtfully. I imagined she didn’t trust life-forms that required so little healing. “How far is your range? How much territory can you protect?”
A third Melia laughed. “We marched today to Los Angeles! That was no hardship. If we are rooted here, we can protect everything within a hundred leagues!”
Reba stroked her dark hair. “Is that far enough to cover Argentina?”
“No,” Grover said. “But it would cover pretty much all of Southern California.” He turned to Meg. “What do you think?”
Meg was so tired she was swaying like a sapling. I half expected her to mutter some Megish answer like dunno and pass out. Instead, she gestured to the Meliai. “Come over here.”
We all followed her to the edge of the Cistern. Meg pointed down at the shady well with its deep blue pond in the center.
“What about around the pool?” she asked. “Shade. Water. I think…I think my dad would have liked that.”
“The creator’s daughter has spoken!” cried a Melia.
“Daughter of two creators!” said another.
“Twice blessed!”
“Wise solver of puzzles!”
“The Meg!”
This left the last two with little to add, so they muttered, “Yep. The Meg. Yep.”
The other dryads murmured and nodded. Despite the fact that the ash trees would be taking over their enchilada-eating hangout, no one complained.
“A sacred grove of ashes,” I said. “I used to have one like that in ancient times. Meg, it’s perfect.”
I faced the Sibyl, who had been standing silently in back, no doubt stunned to be around so many people after her long captivity.
“Herophile,” I said, “this grove will be well protected. No one, not even Caligula, could ever threaten you here. I won’t tell you what to do. The choice is yours. But would you consider making this your new home?”
Herophile wrapped her arms around herself. Her auburn hair was the same color as the desert hills in the afternoon light. I wondered if she was thinking about how different this hillside was from the one where she was born, where she’d had her cave in Erythraea.
“I could be happy here,” she decided. “My initial thought—and this was just an idea—is that I heard they produce many game shows in Pasadena. I have several ideas for new ones.”
Prickly Pear quivered. “How about you put a pin in that, darling? Join us!”
Putting a pin in something was good advice coming from a cactus.
Aloe Vera nodded. “We would be honored to have an Oracle! You could warn me whenever anyone is about to get a cold!”
“We would welcome you with open arms,” Joshua agreed. “Except for those of us with prickly arms. They would probably just wave at you.”
Herophile smiled. “Very well. I would be…” Her voice seized up, as if she were about to start a new prophecy and send us all scrambling.
“Okay!” I said. “No need to thank us! It’s decided!”
And so, Palm Springs gained an Oracle, while the rest of the world was saved from several new daytime TV game shows like Sibyl of Fortune or The Oracle Is Right! It was a win-win.
The rest of the evening was spent making a new camp down the hillside, eating take-out dinner (I chose the enchiladas verdes, thanks for asking), and assuring Aloe Vera that our layers of medicinal goop were thick enough. The Meliai dug up their own saplings and replanted them in the Cistern, which I guessed was the dryad version of pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps.
At sunset, their leader came to Meg and bowed low. “We will slumber now. But whenever you call, if we are within range, we shall answer! We shall protect this land in the name of the Meg!”
“Thanks,” said the Meg, poetic as always.
The Meliai faded into their seven ash trees, which now made a beautiful ring around the pond. Their branches glowed with a soft, buttery light. The other dryads moved across the hillside, enjoying the cool air and the stars in the smoke-free night sky as they gave the Sibyl a tour of her new home.
“And here are some rocks,” they told her. “And over here, these are more rocks.”
Grover sat down next to Meg and me with a contented sigh.
The satyr had changed his clothes: a green cap, a fresh tie-dyed shirt, clean jeans, and a new pair of hoof-appropriate New Balance shoes. A backpack was slung on his shoulder. My heart sank to see him dressed for travel, though I was not surprised.
“Going somewhere?” I asked.
He grinned. “Back to Camp Half-Blood.”
“Now?” Meg demanded.
He spread his hands. “I’ve been here for years. Thanks to you guys, my work is finally actually done! I mean, I know you still have a long way to go, freeing the Oracles and all, but…”
He was too polite to finish the thought: but please do not ask me to go any farther with you.
“You deserve to go home,” I said wistfully, wishing I could do the same. “But you won’t even rest the night?”
Grover got a faraway look in his eyes. “I need to get back. Satyrs aren’t dryads, but we have roots, too. Camp Half-Blood is mine. I’ve been gone too long. I hope Juniper hasn’t gotten herself a new goat….”
I recalled the way the dryad Juniper had fretted and worried about her absent boyfriend when I was at camp.
“I doubt she could ever replace such an excellent satyr,” I said. “Thank you, Grover Underwood. We couldn’t have succeeded without you and Walt Whitman.”
He laughed, but his expression immediately darkened. “I’m just sorry about Jason and…” His gaze fell on the ukulele in my lap. I hadn’t let it out of my sight since we returned, though I hadn’t had the heart to tune the strings, much less play it.
“Yes,” I agreed. “And Money Maker. And all the others who perished trying to find the Burning Maze. Or in the fires, the drought…”
Wow. For a second there, I’d been feeling okay. Grover really knew how to kill a vibe.
His goatee quivered. “I’m sure you guys will make it to Camp Jupiter,” he said. “I’ve never been there, or met Reyna, but I hear she’s good people. My buddy Tyson the Cyclops is there too. Tell him I said hi.”
I thought about what awaited us in the north. Aside from what we’d gleaned aboard Caligula’s yacht—that his attack during the new moon had not gone well—we didn’t know what was going on at Camp Jupiter, or whether Leo Valdez was still there or flying back to Indianapolis. All we knew was that Caligula, now without his stallion and his sorceress, was sailing to the Bay Area to deal with Camp Jupiter personally. We had to get there first.
“We will be fine,” I said, trying to convince myself. “We’ve wrested three Oracles from the Triumvirate. Now, aside from Delphi itself, only one source of prophecy remains: the Sibylline Books…or rather, what Ella the harpy is trying to reconstruct of them from memory.”
Grover frowned. “Yeah. Ella. Tyson’s girlfriend.”
He sounded confused, as if it made no sense that a Cyclops would have a harpy girlfriend, much less one with a photographic memory who had somehow become our only link to books of prophecy that had burned up centuries before.
Very little of our situation made sense, but I was a former Olympian. I was used to incoherency.
“Thanks, Grover.” Meg gave the satyr a hug and kissed him on the cheek, which was certainly more gratitude than she’d ever shown me.
“You bet,” Grover said. “Thank you, Meg. You…” He gulped. “You’ve been a great friend. I liked talking plants with you.”
“I was also there,” I said.
Grover smiled sheepishly. He got to his feet and clicked together the chest straps of his backpack. “Sleep well, you guys. And good luck. I have a feeling I’ll see you again before…Yeah.”
Before I ascend into the heavens and regain my immortal throne?
Before we a
ll die in some miserable fashion at the hands of the Triumvirate?
I wasn’t sure. But after Grover left, I felt an empty place in my chest, as if the hole I’d poked with the Arrow of Dodona were growing deeper and wider. I unlaced the sandals of Caligula and tossed them away.
I slept miserably and had a miserable dream.
I lay at the bottom of a cold, dark river. Above me floated a woman in black silky robes—the goddess Styx, the living incarnation of the infernal waters.
“More broken promises,” she hissed.
A sob built in my throat. I did not need the reminder.
“Jason Grace is dead,” she continued. “And the young pandos.”
Crest! I wanted to scream. He had a name!
“Do you begin to feel the folly of your rash vow upon my waters?” asked Styx. “There will be more deaths. My wrath will spare no one close to you until amends are made. Enjoy your time as a mortal, Apollo!”
Water began filling my lungs, as if my body had just now remembered it needed oxygen.
I woke up gasping.
Dawn was breaking over the desert. I was hugging my ukulele so tightly it had left gouge marks on my forearms and bruised my chest. Meg’s sleeping bag was empty, but before I could look for her, she scrambled down the hill toward me—a strange, excited light in her eyes.
“Apollo, get up,” she said. “You need to see this!”
THE McCaffrey mansion had been reborn.
Or rather, regrown.
Overnight, desert hardwoods had sprouted and grown at incredible speed, forming the beams and floors of a multilevel stilt house much like the old one. Heavy vines had emerged from the stone ruins, weaving together the walls and ceilings, leaving room for windows and skylights shaded by awnings made of wisteria.
The biggest difference in the new house: the great room had been built in a horseshoe shape around the Cistern, leaving the ash grove open to the sky.
“We hope you like it,” said Aloe Vera, taking us on a tour. “We all got together and decided it was the least we could do.”
The interior was cool and comfortable, with fountains and running water in every room provided by living root pipes from subterranean springs. Blooming cacti and Joshua trees decorated the spaces. Massive branches had shaped themselves into furniture. Even Dr. McCaffrey’s old work desk had been lovingly re-created.
Meg sniffled, blinking furiously.
“Oh, dear,” said Aloe Vera. “I hope you’re not allergic to the house!”
“No, this place is amazing.” Meg threw herself into Aloe’s arms, ignoring the dryad’s many pointy bits.
“Wow,” I said. (Meg’s poetry must have been rubbing off on me.) “How many nature spirits did it take to accomplish this?”
Aloe shrugged modestly. “Every dryad in the Mojave Desert wanted to help. You saved us all! And you restored the Meliai.” She gave Meg a gooey kiss on the cheek. “Your father would be so proud. You have completed his work.”
Meg blinked back tears. “I just wish…”
She didn’t need to finish. We all knew how many lives had not been saved.
“Will you stay?” Aloe asked. “Aeithales is your home.”
Meg gazed across the desert vista. I was terrified she would say yes. Her final command to me would be to continue my quests by myself, and this time she would mean it. Why shouldn’t she? She had found her home. She had friends here, including seven very powerful dryads who would hail her and bring her enchiladas every morning. She could become the protector of Southern California, far from Nero’s grasp. She might find peace.
The idea of being free from Meg would have delighted me just a few weeks ago, but now I found the idea insupportable. Yes, I wanted her to be happy. But I knew she had many things yet to do—first among them was facing Nero once again, closing that horrible chapter of her life by confronting and conquering the Beast.
Oh, and also I needed Meg’s help. Call me selfish, but I couldn’t imagine going on without her.
Meg squeezed Aloe’s hand. “Maybe someday. I hope so. But right now…we got places to be.”
Grover had generously left us the Mercedes he’d borrowed from…wherever.
After saying our good-byes to Herophile and the dryads, who were discussing plans to create a giant Scrabble-board floor in one of the back bedrooms at Aeithales, we drove to Santa Monica to find the address Piper had given me. I kept looking in the rearview mirror, wondering if the highway patrol would pull us over for car theft. That would’ve been the perfect end to my week.
It took us a while to find the right address: a small private airfield near the Santa Monica waterfront.
A security guard let us through the gates with no questions, as if he’d been expecting two teenagers in a possibly stolen red Mercedes. We drove straight onto the tarmac.
A gleaming white Cessna was parked near the terminal, right next to Coach Hedge’s yellow Pinto. I shuddered, wondering if we were trapped in an episode of The Oracle Is Right! First prize: the Cessna. Second prize…No, I couldn’t face the idea.
Coach Hedge was changing Baby Chuck’s diaper on the hood of the Pinto, keeping Chuck distracted by letting him gnaw on a grenade. (Which was probably just an empty casing. Probably.) Mellie stood next to him, supervising.
When she saw us, she waved and gave us a sad smile, but she pointed toward the plane, where Piper stood at the base of the steps, talking with the pilot.
In her hands, Piper held something large and flat—a display board. She had a couple of books under her arm, too. To her right, near the tail of the aircraft, the luggage compartment stood open. Ground-crew members were carefully strapping down a large wooden box with brass fixtures. A coffin.
As Meg and I walked up, the captain shook Piper’s hand. His face was tight with sympathy. “Everything is in order, Ms. McLean. I’ll be on board doing preflight checks until our passengers are ready.”
He gave us a quick nod, then climbed into the Cessna.
Piper was dressed in faded denim jeans and a green camo tank top. She’d cut her hair in a shorter, choppier style—probably because so much had been singed off anyway—which gave her an eerie resemblance to Thalia Grace. Her multicolored eyes picked up the gray of the tarmac, so she might have been mistaken for a child of Athena.
The display board she held was, of course, Jason’s diorama of Temple Hill at Camp Jupiter. Tucked under her arm were Jason’s two sketchbooks.
A ball bearing lodged itself in my throat. “Ah.”
“Yeah,” she said. “The school let me clear out his stuff.”
I took the map as one might take the folded flag of a fallen soldier. Meg slid the sketchbooks into her knapsack.
“You’re off to Oklahoma?” I asked, pointing my chin toward the plane.
Piper laughed. “Well, yes. But we’re driving. My dad rented an SUV. He’s waiting for the Hedges and me at DK’s Donuts.” She smiled sadly. “First place he ever took me to breakfast when we moved out here.”
“Driving?” Meg asked. “But—”
“The plane is for you two,” Piper said. “And…Jason. Like I said, my dad had enough flight time and fuel credit for one last trip. I talked to him about sending Jason home; I mean…the home he had the longest, in the Bay Area, and how you guys could escort him up there….Dad agreed this was a much better use of the plane. We’re happy to drive.”
I looked at the diorama of Temple Hill—all the little Monopoly tokens carefully labeled in Jason’s hand. I read the label: APOLLO. I could hear Jason’s voice in my mind, saying my name, asking me for one favor: Whatever happens, when you get back to Olympus, when you’re a god again, remember. Remember what it’s like to be human.
This, I thought, was being human. Standing on the tarmac, watching mortals load the body of a friend and hero into the cargo hold, knowing that he would never be coming back. Saying good-bye to a grieving young woman who had done everything to help us, and knowing you could never repay her, never compensate her f
or all that she’d lost.
“Piper, I…” My voice seized up like the Sibyl’s.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Just get to Camp Jupiter safely. Let them give Jason the Roman burial he deserves. Stop Caligula.”
Her words weren’t bitter, as I might have expected. They were simply arid, like Palm Springs air—no judgment, just natural heat.
Meg glanced at the coffin in the cargo hold. She looked uneasy about flying with a dead companion. I couldn’t blame her. I’d never invited Hades to go sun cruising with me for good reason. Mixing the Underworld and the Overworld was bad luck.
Regardless, Meg muttered, “Thank you.”
Piper pulled the younger girl into a hug and kissed her forehead. “Don’t mention it. And if you’re ever in Tahlequah, come visit me, okay?”
I thought about the millions of young people who prayed to me every year, hoping to leave their small hometowns across the world and come here to Los Angeles, to make their huge dreams come true. Now Piper McLean was going the other way—leaving the glamour and the movie glitz of her father’s former life, going back to small-town Tahlequah, Oklahoma. And she sounded at peace with it, as if she knew her own Aeithales would be waiting there.
Mellie and Coach Hedge strolled over, Baby Chuck still happily chewing his grenade in the coach’s arms.
“Hey,” Coach said. “You about ready, Piper? Long road ahead.”
The satyr’s expression was grim and determined. He looked at the coffin in the cargo bay, then quickly fixed his eyes on the tarmac.
“Just about,” Piper agreed. “You sure the Pinto is up for such a long trip?”
“Of course!” Hedge said. “Just, uh, you know, keep in sight, in case the SUV breaks down and you need my help.”
Mellie rolled her eyes. “Chuck and I are riding in the SUV.”
The coach harrumphed. “That’s fine. It’ll give me time to play my tunes. I’ve got Bon Jovi’s entire collection on cassette!”
I tried to smile encouragingly, though I decided to give Hades a new suggestion for the Fields of Punishment if I ever saw him again: Pinto. Road trip. Bon Jovi on cassette.
