The Twelve Labors of Nick Page 2

  “Wait,” said Nick. “I know this. Didn’t Hercules have twelve labors? I once saw a cartoon—"

  “He did,” said Chiron sadly, “and suffered a painful death.”

  “Bro, what?”

  “He was poisoned, then burned alive.”

  “Ouch.”

  But,” said Chiron, “Zeus made him a god. He might do the same for you.”

  “I’m not having it!” Nick cried, his appetite gone. “I’m not doing any labors, I’m not some kind of a hero, and you are not my father!”

  “Very well,” Chiron sighed, removing something from his toga and handing it to Nick. “This is my gift to you: the Pelian spear of ash once wielded by Achilles. It means death to foes in battle.”

  “What battle?”

  “And here is my second gift.”

  Nick watched as Chiron faced him and spread his hands apart. It was then that Nick felt a swelling which started in his gut, then travelled upward, ballooning his arms and shoulders!

  Nick stared beneath his ripped T-shirt. What he saw were muscles: huge, inflated, and looking pretty darned silly on his thin runner’s legs!

  “What have you done?” Nick yelled. “I demand you change me back!”

  His Aladdin and the Genie bit fell on deaf centaur ears.

  “Since you refuse to come with me,” said Chiron, “you must decide on your own.” He turned to Nick’s mom with tenderness. “Penelope. I hope we meet again soon.”

  “Me too,” she smiled.

  How can this be? Nick wondered, his mind in a daze. Here he was, Hulked out, and his mom was making eyes at a guy who ate oats for breakfast!

  “Wait!” Nick yelled, but Chiron didn’t listen: after giving his mom a kiss, he must have gone back to Mythland, since the floor tiles shook and the toaster fell over. Plus, he was gone.

  “Mom,” cried Nick. “Look at me. I’m-I’m a specimen!”

  “It’s not all bad, Sweetie. Maybe now, you can fight those bullies who keep giving you these.”

  She pointed to his black eye.

  Nick laughed, and he thought he sounded unhinged.

  “You think I can go back to school looking like Jason Momoa?”

  “Girls love muscles,” said Mom.

  “But how do I explain them? Say I’ve found a new drug?”

  “Maybe . . .?”

  Mom shrugged helplessly.

  “This isn’t fair!” Nick yelled. “You go and hook up with the winner at Santa Anita, and I turn into a freak!”

  “Sweetie—”

  Nick couldn’t stay there—not with the image of Chiron so fresh. He reached for his default mode, running back to the barn. Man, it was tough. He was now so top-heavy he felt like Dolly Parton!

  “Johnny,” Nick gasped, greeting his old friend. He knew the horse wouldn’t judge him or laugh like those dweebs at school. In fact, all the horses were glad to see him, bobbing their heads and neighing.

  Nick sunk onto a hay bale, vowing never to leave. In his situation, he’d be forced to stay there forever.

  The Rock’s Twin

  Forever, Nick decided after an hour, was a really long time . . . especially with no hummus. He glanced at his phone, debating if he should call Mom. But he was supposed to be hiding . . .

  Nick dreaded the morning. He knew that Sue would be in to feed, and what would she see but a once-thin Nick blown up to the size of The Rock? She’d probably scream and call the cops, and that would be the end: no school, no college, no job, just a record as some kind of felon. He’d be even more of an outcast, forced to find work on the docks.

  C’mon, Nick told himself, you’re going over the edge. But who wouldn’t, when you’d heard a Bird Babe talk and your mom confirm that your dad was really a centaur? Mom might be a little out there when it came to things Greek, but he knew she wasn’t a liar.

  Nick pored over his options: he couldn’t go back to school without being laughed out; couldn’t run away, since his only “job” was feeding oats to equines. What else was there? That Delph, or Mythland, or whatever Chiron had said. In a world of monsters and weirdos, maybe he wouldn’t stand out. And maybe his dad, who’d been gone all this time, would be there to help and guide him and just maybe he and Nick could get to know each other . . .

  “Okay,” Nick told Sophie, picking up that crazy spear he’d placed beside a shovel. “Think I got what it takes to be some kind of hero?” The old mare tried to eat Nick’s hair, which he took as an answer. “Yeah, me neither. But I can’t keep hiding out here.”

  Nick went out the barn’s back door which opened onto a pasture. Here, high on a cliff, there were no L.A. lights, and the stars were clear and bright. The moon, waxing or waning (he could never remember which) showed only half its face, but this was unclouded and sliced with knifelike precision. As Nick looked around, he saw that all the horses had joined him, standing in a half-circle on the smooth wet grass. Johnny and Sophie came forward, prodding him with their soft noses. Blackie emerged from the darkness and stomped his front feet.

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “Guess I got the message. I’ll be a hero. Yay.”

  His words—not too stirring—must have been enough, since a slab of grass rippled under him. It rose to form a sort of hedge, and, through it, he could see stars and the moon, both bent like a wave.

  “Hey!” he yelled, as he was lifted and slammed through, but felt no pain: it was like swimming through light.

  “Oof,” Nick grunted, landing on solid ground in a perfect push-up position. Good thing his arms were jacked! At first, his vision was blurred, like when the eye doctor switches lenses. But then, his pupils focused, and he managed to roll to his feet.

  Whoa. For sure, this wasn’t P.R.: not California, or even America. What he saw made him gasp with wonder—and, in the same breath, dread.

  The Middle World

  He saw that wherever-he-was was lit with a flaming sun falling on colors so vibrant he didn’t think they were real.

  “OMG,” Nick whispered.

  He’d landed on a big stone mount with some stairs slanting down like one of those Mayan temples. When he turned, he saw craggy mountains behind, and, just to his left, one of those tents they put up at swap meets. But this one didn’t cover dollar socks or radios: instead, it shaded . . . pots? Nick saw people—mainly guys—dressed in super-bright togas, haggling over those pots like their lives depended on it. He had no idea what they said, since they sounded like Ya-Ya when she talked to Mom and didn’t want him to understand. Greek, Nick thought. These guys are speaking Greek and I am in ancient Greece—or that funky place his dad was from.

  Nick saw a guy in a green toga slog his way up the steps. Feeling lame in his torn shirt and jeans, Nick tried to say “hi” in Greek. The man looked at him strangely, then spread his hands and shrugged. Great. Not knowing what else to do, Nick followed him to a long, rectangular building.

  Nick took out his phone and snapped a series of pics. How he wished he could send them to mom! In the meantime, he stared at this building, which was truly epic. Held up by gold-banded columns, it was made out of marble and from it hung two huge banners, both showing a strange-looking owl. Carved lions guarded the roof’s four corners, and there were way more carvings up high. On one, Nick saw some naked guys battling a group of centaurs. He wondered why. Then, he walked around to where there were more figures, showing some big dude (Hercules?) fighting a ton of creatures.

  We Greeks, Nick thought, have hella imagination.

  But what should he do now? Enter this vast, unknown building? It made a certain sense, since that was the place he’d landed. Sucking in his breath, he entered between the two owls, then stopped cold by the door.

  Man, this place was vast! As big as L.A.’s Coliseum. Nick’s trainers squeaked over tiles as he felt dwarfed by huge columns divided by a low roof. There was something spooky in here, and, as Nick walked to the front, he saw just what it was. He looked up at two statues so big he barely came up to their feet. They were o
f a woman and man, each posed with one arm raised, and what was even freakier: Green Toga Guy was there talking to them in his language!

  After what seemed like hours, Toga Guy finally bailed, leaving Nick alone . . . with two ginormous bronzes.

  Okay, Nick thought, here goes.

  In what he hoped was a friendly tone, he spoke to the unmoving couple.

  “What’s up?” he asked, feeling dorky. “I like your hats.”

  Nothing.

  “Um, you must be gods, right? And this is your temple?” That was the best he could do. “My name’s Nick. Nikólaos Chironopolous. You can probably tell I’m Greek. My dad sent me here. I mean, not here here, but to your make-believe land.”

  It was then that the woman stirred, dropping her arm in disgust.

  “Is your land made up?” she asked.

  “N-no, not to me.”

  “You probably guessed,” she said, “that I am Pallas Athena.” Though her mouth didn’t move, Nick could hear her speak directly into his brain. “I am the Goddess of Wisdom, War, and Skill. I was born, fully formed, from out of my father’s head.”

  “Ouch?” Nick said.

  “You are here for my brother,” she said, pointing to the bronze beside her. “Make sure not to anger him, for his temper is like a volcano.”

  “O-okay,” said Nick. The guy looked calm enough, though his thighs were pretty hefty. “So—”

  That was as far as he got. Soundlessly, the male statue moved his arm, and, for the second time that day, Nick felt himself being lifted. Now, he was being whisked up, through blasts of white-cold mist, to be plopped like a box from Amazon before two towering gates. Only thing was . . . Nick blinked to clear his mind . . . the gates were made of clouds and blocked by a lovely young woman.

  “It’s all right, Seasons,” said a disembodied voice. “The visitor is with me.”

  She bowed her graceful head, and, the next thing Nick knew, he was standing in a vast workshop heated by open flames. The space seemed higher than Heaven, which proved to be a plus, since it housed a Cyclops. This giant stepped before Nick.

  “Measurements?” he asked, his one huge eye staring down. “Collar size? Waist? Inseam?”

  Was this fierce-looking dude actually a tailor?

  Nick didn’t have time to ask before he sank to the floor.

  A Fallen God

  “By Zeus, what a wimp,” one Cyclops was telling another.

  Nick groaned as he lifted his face from some stones. He had never passed out in his life—not after any 800! Blushing, he got up. That still left him thirty feet shorter than his newfound buds. Oh well, he thought, they’re not really bad—if you’re into fur loincloths.

  “Where am I?” Nick asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “In Hephaestus’ workshop,” said the first Cyclops.

  “On Mt. Olympus, duh,” added his friend.

  “I see,” said Nick, then wished he could take back his words. Sure, he could see just fine, but they . . .

  “They see just fine!” a harsh voice cried. “Enough to pulverize you.”

  “Sorry,” Nick said, turning to see a very tall, very red man. His body was twisted, and, when he walked on mismatched feet, one leg dragged behind him. His bearded face clearly spoke of hard times.

  “Are you, um, Vulcan?” Nick asked, trying to remember his gods.

  “Are you stupid?” the man roared. “Clearly, I am Hephaestus! Did not the Cyclops say so? When in Greece, speak Greek!”

  “Right,” said Nick, hoping this guy—uh, god—would not lose his temper and throw him into a furnace.

  “Why would I?” asked Hephaestus. So, he also read minds. “Since you are not bright,” he went on, “I will be sure to speak plain. I am the God of Volcanos but mostly, Metal-work. It was I who forged Hermes’ helmet; the sun chariot of Helios; and Eros’ bow and arrows.”

  “You must keep busy,” said Nick, noting that bellows around him were working all by themselves.

  “That’s not the half of it,” said the god. “Wait, I made a joke! ‘Half,’ get it, son of Chiron?”

  “You should have a Netflix special,” said Nick. What he was thinking: so I really am his son . . .

  “Of course you are,” said Hephaestus. “I should mention that I made Achilles’ armor, which could never be pierced.”

  “Cool,” said Nick, meaning it. “Too bad it didn’t cover his heel.”

  The god gave him a look, then placed himself in a chair made of finest gold. It seemed to Nick that once seated, Hephaestus gushed with energy like the lava he ruled.

  “Back to work, you sons of Poseidon!” the god yelled to his Cyclopes. Nick saw that there were now three who stomped to their anvils and tongs, then worked the bellows and flame like artists.

  “Tough job, you know,” said Hephaestus. “I’m glad that Zeus freed them. Nice to have giants around.”

  “I’m sure,” said Nick, marveling at their cut arms, which put his own to shame. “So . . . what are they making now?”

  “YOUR ARMOR!” Hephaestus roared. “Why do you think you were dropped in front of my temple?”

  “Oh.”

  “You’ll need weapons, boy,” said the god. “A shield that can’t be broken, and a sword as good as Achilles’.”

  “Awesome,” Nick nodded. He’d always loved weapons in Fortnite. Then, he remembered something. “Um, I don’t know how to use them. I mean, not IRL.”

  “Do not speak in riddles!” yelled Hephaestus, gripping the wheels of his chair. “Leave that to the Sphinx.”

  “Yes, sir . . . god,” Nick said, backing away. Don’t make him mad, he thought, or you’ll end up like the 300 . . . “So,” he began, “pretty hot in here, huh?”

  Obviously bored by small talk, the Metal God sped off.

  “Nice talkin’ to ya,” said Nick, seeking escape from the heat by creeping toward two front doors. “Ahh,” he breathed. They were so huge that between them they boasted a three-inch crack. Just enough to let in a breeze—or to take a quick peek.

  “Whoa,” said Nick.

  What he spied made him step back: a bright shining palace—made of what looked like real gold—held up by a throng of columns and crowned by a heavenly dome.

  “Olympus,” Nick breathed.

  He used his new muscles to pry open a door and run up steep stairs which led to this golden realm. If he hadn’t run track, it would have been quite a workout! When he reached those columns at last, he soaked in their reflected light.

  I’d give anything to live here, he thought. To mingle with the gods—become one—take my place beside Hercules . . .

  “Hey,” Nick said aloud, stopping his wayward dreams. He reached out to touch a gold pillar: a kind of shock went through him, not jolting but peaceful . . .

  “Hello,” he heard a voice say.

  Nick whirled to see a woman in loose robes, her perfect white shoulders bared.

  “Seasons?” he asked.

  When the woman laughed, it sounded like tinkling bells.

  “Oh no, I am Hebe, daughter of Zeus.”

  “Wow,” Nick said, “he sure has a lot of kids. Excuse me for asking, but . . . what are you holding?”

  In her hands was a gleaming tray on which rested two silver bowls. One was labeled, “Ambrosia,” and the other, “Nectar.”

  “The food and drink of the gods,” she said. “It is my honor to serve them.”

  “Cool. That stuff must be special.”

  Nick tried peering inside the bowls, but Hebe blocked him.

  “They give eternal life,” she said, her voice as soft as a brook. “Also, they are delicious.”

  Nick worked up his courage.

  “Um, Miss Hebe, do you-do you think I could try some?”

  “Oh no,” she frowned. “It is only for gods and demigods. If a mortal has but a taste, he or she would burn up.”

  “Bu-but,” Nick stuttered, “I am the son of Chiron.”

  “A wise and powerful teacher,” s
aid Hebe, “but, alas, no god.”

  “Okay, I get it,” said Nick. “I’m not even a Demi.”

  “But you are not human either,” said Hebe, flying off toward the palace doors. “Nice to meet you, son of Chiron.”

  “Wait—”

  She was gone.

  What the heck did she mean, Nick wondered, that he, Nick, wasn’t human? Of course he was! He had a man’s body—lopsided though it was—knew from third grade that he liked girls, and was first in his class in Trig. He decided to discount Hebe—maybe she’d had too much nectar.

  Nick stared at the huge closed doors she’d just floated through. They were so darned tempting . . . Creeping up in his trainers, he tried to peer between them, but the palace was sealed up tight.

  “Here goes,” Nick whispered, applying his shoulder to the gold. He kind of wished he hadn’t.

  A light so blinding it knocked him back reduced his eyes to pinholes. All those gods in one place—white-robed; seated on clouds—was too much for his mortal gaze. He put his hands to his eyes, and, between fingers, saw Hebe. How nice! Now she offered up her goods freely. But his inner grumbling stopped when he spotted—far above his head—a muscular half-naked dude on a throne of marble.

  Zeus—who else? He was firmly clutching a thunderbolt. And standing by him was a woman both tall and proud: Athena. Nick knew her from her statue but the bronze barely did her justice, since the flashes from her grey eyes made Apollo’s look dull. Sensing his presence, she turned her head in its helmet and . . . gave Nick a wink!

  Overcome, he fell back, right onto those marble-hard steps. Dude, he thought, based on Seasons, Hebe, and Athena, the babes here were smoking hot! But his smile faded when he heard a metallic clicking . . .

  Oh no. Marching up the steps toward him was an army of silver tripods—like those darned brooms in Fantasia. Once they circled Nick, he thought he heard a “Tsk tsk” as their little legs pumped, then rolled him back down to Heph’s!

  The god sat in his chair, looking redder than ever.

  “If you want to live,” he told Nick, “you’ll keep away from us gods. We can be petty and mean, but, unlike you, we never pay a price.”