The Twelve Labors of Nick

by Amy Wolf

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE TWELVE LABORS OF NICK

  First edition. October 15, 2020

  Copyright © 2020 Amy Wolf

  Written by Amy Wolf

  Table of Contents

  Saved by a Song

  Chironopolous

  Mom’s Story

  The Rock’s Twin

  The Middle World

  A Fallen God

  Riddle Me This

  The Big Guy

  Blame the Victim

  The Gods Meddle

  The Lion King

  Helen’s Secret

  A Snake Walks into a Swamp

  Not Aquaman

  In Hindsight . . .

  A Triangle Squared

  The Merry Herd

  Son of Chiron

  A Tusk for A Tooth

  Hot-Blooded Mares

  A Reluctant Hero

  Back

  Back to What?

  King for a Day

  Fun in the Caucasus

  Down Is Better Than Up

  Mýthos on the Black Sea

  Centaurs of the Sea

  Them Apples

  A Ride and A Song

  Just One Personality

  Nice Doggy

  In Hades

  A Place Worse Than Hades

  The Father of Monsters

  Look to the Stars

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  Man is a centaur, a tangle of flesh and mind, divine inspiration and dust.

  Primo Levi

  Special Acknowledgments

  Leila Roe – Teenager

  Alex Benis – Greek Teenager

  Ami Agner & Jenny T. – Proofers Extraordinaire

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Vonda N. McIntyre

  Forever loved and remembered by those who knew her

  Saved by a Song

  “Freak,” snarled Bob, his bulging arms, made hard from football, just inches from Nick’s face.

  “Beaner,” said Bill, punching Nick so hard he slammed into a locker. “We build walls to keep you Spics out.”

  “I am not Latino,” Nick groaned, rubbing his now-bruised shoulder. “I told you before—I’m Greek.”

  “Then move to the Valley,” said Josh, spitting out that word. “Plenty of your kind there.”

  “I’ll live where I want,” said Nick, defiant despite his pain. “And so will Latinos. Free country, right?”

  “Not for you,” said Bob, and the beatdown began for real. A quick left to Nick’s throbbing shoulder, a right jab to his gut, and down he went . . . for the third time this year.

  Nick tried to cover his face but his arms were pulled down.

  What could he do? he wondered. Three against one was no fair: and these guys were all massive jocks. Just sit there and take it, he guessed, as a trickle of blood bounced down to his chin. He could feel his eye swell, which meant questions from mom about why he was so “clumsy.”

  But what, Nick thought, if he just told her the truth?

  That he, Nikólaos Chironopolous, was being bullied by white boys in their beach town of Palos Rojas. That he wasn’t rich or cool enough to hang with a guy named Josh and should move to the Valley where his skin color wouldn’t matter.

  Whatevs, Nick said to himself as Bob prepared to strike. Just let it be over soon . . .

  It was then that he could have sworn he saw something with his good eye. Through a visible blast of air midway down the hall, a young woman emerged. Of course, she couldn’t be real; since she was naked, a hottie, with wings instead of arms. She walked, rather than flew, the short distance to Nick, and, once at close range, gave him a little wink.

  “You don’t have to plug your ears,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  She opened her mouth and began to sing. To Nick, it was like the L.A. Phil mixed with a chorus of angels, a melody so sweet that, despite his pain, he exhaled in bliss.

  But his classmates must have heard the song differently. They held their hands to their ears, screaming like teens in a horror flick. Then, they ran, tripping over one another’s Vans to get away. The woman, as beautiful as a goddess, gave Nick a smile as her hair blew into his face.

  “I must go back,” she said. Spreading her wings wide, she flew back down the hall—and through that curtain of air.

  “What?” Nick asked, getting up like his uncle Theo, who was ninety-eight. He even groaned like an old man.

  Had what he’d seen been real? Or had he passed out, only to come to when the jocks had had their “fun”? It must be that, he thought, limping to get some water from a fountain that actually worked. Thrusting in a hand, he washed the blood from his face.

  Man, he thought, I wish I could graduate now, but he was still a junior. That meant two more years of torture: of watching his back all the time and studying for three AP’s. Also, training for track, with a big meet every weekend. Like all the kids he knew, Nick felt super-stressed. In a world of seven billion, you had to stand out, and that meant going to Harvard—or, at the least, Yale. Then you’d get to pay off debt for like the rest of your life. Why? Nick wondered. For a three-story house in the suburbs, two-point-four kids and a dog?

  “I don’t know,” he sighed to the now-empty hall. He scraped up his backpack and headed out to a place he liked: The Lil’ Pardner Stables.

  It wasn’t far, so Nick biked. Since he didn’t own a car and no buses came up this hill, that was how he rolled. He pedaled past some wild peacocks, hoping they wouldn’t see him, since, if they did, they’d scream like ambulance sirens.

  Nick leaned his bike against a three-rail corral. There was Doug, a regular at Lil’ Pardner, proudly sitting his pony.

  “What’s up?” Nick asked, giving him a big smile though it hurt his bruised mouth.

  “Nicky!” Doug yelled, giving him a salute.

  Nick waved back. Doug was a Downs kid who came to the barn for therapy. It really seemed to be helping, since Doug loved to tell everyone of his latest feat, like haltering the pony himself!

  Nick headed toward the red barn, his trainers crunching on rocks. When he opened the door, all the horses nickered.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, digging into his pockets for some Mrs. Pasture’s Cookies.

  He fended off eager muzzles as he passed them around.

  “Hey, Blackie,” Nick said, patting the Thoroughbred’s nose. “How’s it goin’, Sophie?” he asked a white-maned mare. “You being good, Johnny?” The black gelding, now thirty, vacuumed up two cookies. “You guys like these, huh?”

  Nick stared at his palm which held a last treat. Well, he’d always been curious. Glancing around to make sure he was still alone, he took a tentative nibble. Not bad, he thought, just a little crunchy. He gave the remainder to Johnny.

  “Guys,” he announced to heads hanging out of stalls. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

  Sophie shook her thick mane as if to disagree. Blackie and Johnny just stood there.

  “Right,” said Nick, picking up a small shovel. “I saw a Bird Babe today—no biggie.” Blackie gave a horse laugh. “She saved me from the ER. And-and then she spoke.” He shook his head with regret. “I shoulda taken a selfie.”

  Johnny showed his large teeth in what could have been a horse smile. As Nick cleaned out his stall, he felt a pain in his gut. It wasn’t about the work: Nick loved being here as much as Doug. What attracted him was the musty smell of horses; their sweet, hay-s
cented breath; the way they put their head on his shoulder like a comforting friend. Though each weighed more than a ton, Nick wasn’t scared, even when squeezed, as he was, into a stall with two of them. To him, they seemed more humane than people, without the power of speech to insult and hurt him.

  Of course, Nick thought, he’d even been bullied over his love of horses: since this was “for girls,” he’d been called “fag” and “gay” more times than he could remember. Whatev, Nick shrugged. He couldn’t help his fondness for equines any more than he could being Greek, and though he sometimes cursed his dark skin, hair, and eyes; his Mom was so proud of their heritage that she made him proud too. Why let a tribe of white guys diss one of the world’s coolest cultures?

  “Screw ‘em,” said Nick as Johnny nuzzled his face. Maybe after college, he’d have horses of his own, if he could rake in the Benjamins.

  Nick picked up his phone: texted Mom that he wouldn’t be home for dinner. He knew she didn’t like that, but, after today, he needed some alone time. Besides, he wanted to postpone the dreaded talk about his eye.

  Nick lay down on a hay bale, ignoring its knotted twines. His whole body ached, and he should probably see a doctor. Not now, he thought, closing his eyes and dozing. When he woke up, it was five—time to feed the horses. He distributed flakes of alfalfa and handfuls of oats. As the horses neighed their thanks, Nick realized that he was hungry. He tried a stalk from the bale, then another. Not bad, he thought. Does this make me some type of vegan?

  The sun set around eight, and, though P.R. was part of L.A., it was the coastal part and could get cold at night. Nick pulled on his hoodie and started to wipe down some tack. Even his right hand hurt.

  Nothing is forever, he thought, not knowing just where that had come from. Then he felt, rather than saw, a whisper of wind which announced something new in the barn.

  “Bird Babe?” Nick asked hopefully.

  It wasn’t.

  Nick wheeled from his task. Standing outside the stalls was a new, majestic horse—but only in the back. His front half was just as human as . . . as Nick himself. Frozen with cloth in hand, Nick shook his head to clear it. Nope: that thing was still there.

  “Greetings, Nikólaos,” said the creature. “I don’t want to go all D. Vader on you, but I am your father.”

  Chironopolous

  “Freak,” said Nick without thinking.

  “Did you enjoy being called that?”

  “Uh . . . no,” said Nick. “But you have to admit, you are kind of a—”

  “Not in my world,” said the half-horse, throwing back his chest-length black hair. “By its standards, I am rather ordinary.”

  Nick tried to will the blood back into his limbs. He put down his cloth, staring at this . . . thing which the horses welcomed with neighs.

  “You’re a centaur,” Nick blurted.

  “And you’re a boy,” said the centaur, rolling his human eyes.

  “You say you’re my dad?” Nick asked. “You must be as wack as me.” He started mumbling. “First the bird chick, now you—and how do you know about Star Wars?”

  “Who doesn’t?” the centaur asked.

  “How-how did you get here?”

  “Through the curtain, of course.” The centaur must have noticed that Nick could no longer speak. “My name is Chiron,” he said. “I taught Achilles and am half-brother to Zeus.”

  Nick stared in silence.

  “Dude,” he finally whispered. “Do you know Brad Pitt?”

  Chiron shook his head. His black coat of hair, along with his black tail, made him hard to see in dim barn light.

  “But,” he went on, “be assured, my son, that that is who you are. Seventeen years ago, your mother came through the curtain. That’s how you were conceived.”

  “Noo,” Nick yelled, plugging his ears with his fingers. To think of his mom . . . hooking up . . . with . . .

  “Calm yourself,” said Chiron. “Your mother did no wrong, for, if I wish, I can become a man.”

  “That better be true.”

  “Of course,” the centaur answered. “Your dear mother had no choice, for she was named by Delphi.”

  “Huh?”

  “All will be clear in time.”

  This reminded Nick of something: strangely, Harry Potter.

  “Are you,” he asked, “the kind of centaur who speaks in riddles and is all mystical and stuff?”

  “Bah!” huffed Chiron. “Did you learn nothing in school?”

  “Well . . .” Nick thought. In AP English this year, they’d read a graphic novel; and, in social studies, they’d spent exactly a day on Greece. He sighed. “Not really.”

  “My own son, thick as a Cyclops.”

  “Hey,” Nick protested, “you’re the one who came here.”

  “True,” said Chiron. “I only hope you can accept our judgment.”

  “I don’t think so!” Nick shouted, and, as he faced the looming creature, he felt, as he often did, an unstoppable urge—to run.

  Nick did: out of the barn, through the streets of P.R., and into his modest house.

  “Mom!” he panted, flying into the kitchen.

  That’s where he found her, with Chiron, in human form, cuddled by her side.

  Mom’s Story

  “Ech!” Nick spat at the sight of the couple. He turned to Chiron. “How’d you get here so fast?”

  “Curtain,” said Chiron.

  “Mooooom.”

  Nick turned to face her. She was just a normal mom, home after her boring job. How could this sweet lady—just four-feet-five inches tall, her hair in a Sixties updo—have possibly . . . mated . . . with that-that . . . thing?

  Mom cleared her throat.

  “I wanted to tell you, Sweetie,” she said. “There never seemed to be a good time. And with all the stress you’re under—”

  “You didn’t bother to tell me that my dad is half horse?” Nick yelled. “You just said he lived abroad.”

  “Yeah,” Mom conceded, slicing up some Greek olives. Nick had to admit that their smell was practically driving him wild. After all, he’d only had hay for dinner . . .

  “Oh, God!” Nick yelled, putting his head on the kitchen counter.

  “It’s gods,” said Chiron. “And you mustn’t blame your mother.”

  Nick gave her a look of horror.

  “Sweetie, it’s not what you think. Your father just swept me off my feet. Then, when he became a man—well, he was dreamy. Just look at him.”

  Nick did. Beneath his toga, that guy had some serious muscles. Even so . . .

  “Ew,” said Nick, spitting into the sink. “Is this-this ‘relationship’ even legal?”

  “Not here,” said Chiron, “but in Mýthos, it’s quite common.”

  “Especially when there’s wine,” said Mom.

  Nick felt disgust roll through him—which quickly turned to anger.

  “So,” he spat at Chiron, “if you are my dad, thanks for showing up. It’s only been seventeen years.”

  Despite his resolve, Nick found himself fighting tears.

  “I apologize, Nikólaos, but, if I don’t have a purpose, I am forbidden to come.”

  “Hmm. What’s your big purpose now? Taking credit for Bird Babe?”

  Chiron chuckled.

  “In fact, it was I who sent the Siren.”

  Mom started.

  “Chiron!”

  “It’s all right, Penelope. I made sure our son was immune.”

  “Huh?” Nick asked. “Does she spread some kind of virus?”

  “Let us,” said his self-proclaimed dad, “return to why I’m here.” Nick grabbed a handful of olives. “Nikólaos, you’ve at least heard of the Greek heroes: Theseus, Perseus, Heracles?”

  “Hercules?”

  “Heracles.” Chiron crossed his arms over his massive chest. “They were born to do great things. As were you.”

  “LOL,” said Nick. “All I do is study and run—track, and away from bullies.”


  “Now, Nicky,” said Mom.

  “Enough!” Chiron thundered, causing hummus to shake in its bowl. “Nothing so mundane; so utterly . . . mortal.” He spat out the last word. “I myself am the son of a Titan; hence, immortal. But you are to be a great hero. That is why your mother crossed over.”

  Mom looked as confused as he felt.

  “Beyond the curtain, to Mýthos! Zeus has created a world with the best Greece has to offer. The Oracle of Delphi foretold that in this year, the Father of Monsters will rise. He grows tired of whippings in Tartarus and lets us know from his prison.”

  “‘Father of Monsters’?” asked Nick. “Is that from Game of Thrones?”

  “This is no game!” roared Chiron. “No Olympic events with prizes.”

  Not knowing what else to do, Nick popped the olives in his mouth.

  “Once,” said Chiron, “Zeus defeated the Father of Monsters and put him below the earth—deeper, even, than Hades. This Titan, called Typhon, is the most horrible creature to ever curse our world.”

  “And they have Medusa,” said Mom.

  “But how,” Nick asked, “do you know he’s back? Did he send an owl to Zeus?”

  “We have Hermes for that,” Chiron growled. “No, Mount Etna in Sicily rumbles. The smoke and vapor are signs of Typhon’s rage.”

  “No way,” said Nick. “Mom, you don’t believe that stuff?”

  Biting her lip, she nodded.

  “Sweetie, I’ve seen it. And so have you, with the Siren. Plus—” She pointed to Chiron “—he showed you his real self?”

  Nick crossed his own comparatively puny arms. Though he’d had proof twice that day, he still refused to believe.

  “Let’s say,” he said to Chiron, “I pretend your story is true. What do you want me to do?”

  “Kill the children of Typhon.”

  “But . . . you said . . . he’s the ‘Father of Monsters.’ Who are his kids? Godzilla and King Kong?”

  “No,” said Chiron, “but his offspring are indeed terrible. They must be killed again so as not to come to his aid.”

  “Again?” Nick asked. “You’re saying they’re immortal?”

  “Yes,” said Chiron, “and extremely nasty. They will do all they can to prevent the Twelfth Labor.”