The Twelve Labors of Nick Read online

  “How do I join?” asked Nick.

  “You must be born into this job.” Heph looked around, satisfied that his Cyclopes and tripods were all doing their thing. “Just a few moments more,” he said. “I must apply the finish.”

  He wheeled over to a forge, where all those in his service stepped back in respect.

  “Watch this,” a Cyclops whispered.

  “I imbue you,” said the god, addressing a breastplate and helmet, “with the power I gave to Achilles.” As he raised a massive arm, pure gold misted down from the roof, sprinkling over the armor and hardening into a solid. “Now, for the shield and sword,” cried Hephaestus, and a Cyclops brought him the weapons which looked like toys in his hands. “Pictures, portents, spells!” the Metal God roared, passing his gnarled hand over the objects he’d wrought.

  Nick saw that the shield was now etched with painted scenes that seemed to tell a big story: of farmers, battles, and . . . dancing. Its small innermost circle displayed the signs of the Zodiac.

  “I’m a Gemini,” said Nick. “You?”

  Hephaestus rolled his eyes in tandem with his chair.

  “Put the armor on!” he commanded.

  “Yes, sir, I mean god,” Nick stammered, witnessing a ritual that should be called The March of the Tripods. On they came with triple legs, jumping on one another’s backs to strip Nick of his street clothes.

  “Hey,” he protested, trying to hide his privates.

  Then the silver army gifted him with a white tunic, over which they placed armor, which to Nick felt nearly weightless. Next, they grabbed his feet.

  “Don’t!” Nick giggled. “That tickles.”

  If the tripods had eyes, they would have rolled them, but instead fitted Nick with black sandals laced high up his calves. Nick felt something on his head and realized it was the helmet, whose cheek guards were so long he could have had them for lunch.

  “Perfection again,” said Hephaestus. “By Zeus, it almost gets boring.”

  “It must,” said Nick with sympathy. He pointed to the new weapons. “Can I pick them up?”

  “Of course.”

  Nick’s fingers started to tingle as he lifted the sword and shield. Joined with the spear from his dad, his arsenal was epic!

  “What do you think?” Hephaestus asked a Cyclops.

  “It’s a good look,” said the giant. “Just hope he can pull it off.”

  “Uh—”

  Nick wanted to say he needed sword-fighting lessons, but the red god waved him away.

  “I’m done with you now,” he asserted. “Time for you to be off.”

  “To where?”

  “Thebes, of course,” said the god. “Just ask for Heracles.”

  “But—?”

  The god cut him off as he nodded to a Cyclops, who plucked Nick from the ground, then fit him into his palm. The three of them proceeded to the front of the palace, which, Nick now saw, was seated atop a steep mountain.

  “Whaaa-t—?” Nick got out, but the Cylops threw his arm back, and, after his windup, pitched his “ball” far and high—which meant right over the cliff!

  Nick felt like he’d just hit the first loop on Space Mountain: his stomach flew to his throat and he could hear himself yelling. But, unlike Disney, this ride had no track and there was no gift shop. Instead, it must be like cordless base jumping and, as Nick fell, tumbling over and over ‘till he didn’t know which way was up, all he could feel was anger. At his dad, who’d urged him to come; and especially at Hephaestus. What the heck had he done to deserve being thrown off a mountain?

  After he’d fallen what seemed like thousands of feet, Nick had to assume he’d landed: at least, he heard a loud smack, though he didn’t feel any pain.

  “TOLDJA!” Hephaestus’ voice echoed down from the summit. “In my armor, you can’t be harmed. Sorry I had you thrown down. My mother did it to me, and, ever since, I’ve been bitter.”

  “No worries,” said Nick, getting up with surprising ease. “I’m—” He checked himself over. “—Fine. Which way to Thebes?”

  “It’s near Athens,” yelled Hephaestus. “Here, I’ll give you a lift.”

  Riddle Me This

  The next thing Nick knew, he was standing between some hills which overlooked a harbor. Travel by god, cool!

  Nick took in the view. He thought by now he should be used to strangeness, what with the Siren, his dad, Heph, a talking statue and three Cyclopes. Yet, that didn’t stop him from flinching when he saw what curled over one hill: some wack creature bearing a woman’s head on a lion’s body. As Nick looked closer, he saw she had eagle’s wings and a serpent’s head on her tail.

  “Excuse me,” said Nick, taking a few steps forward. “Uh, wassup?”

  “You are not afraid?” asked the creature, ruffling her wings to create a fairly strong breeze.

  “Should I be?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, extending a tawny paw. “For you cannot enter Thebes without getting past me.”

  “O . . . kay,” said Nick. Was he going to have to fight her when he didn’t know how?

  “You do not know me?” she asked, looking kind of hurt.

  “Sorry, I—"

  “I am the Sphinx,” she said, “one who asks a riddle. If you answer, you may proceed; if not, I shall have you for lunch.”

  “That’s some choice,” said Nick. “But what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in Egypt?”

  The Sphinx looked disgusted.

  “That is merely a replica. It is not, as I am, alive.”

  “I can see that,” said Nick, wishing he were in Cairo.

  “Are you ready?” she asked. “I should tell you that just this week, I’ve eaten a dozen men.”

  “You must be full.”

  “In fact,” she went on, “Oedipus was the only one who ever answered correctly.”

  Nick started to feel some hope.

  “And you allowed him to go?”

  “I had to. Of course, since he’d killed his father and went on to marry his mother, he ended up blinding himself.”

  “Sweet,” said Nick, though he didn’t feel it.

  “Well, here is,” said the Sphinx. “My riddle.” She crossed her paws over the hill. “What has spawned all manner of monsters—including me, and one you’ll fall in love with—has a hundred heads, two-hundred vipers for legs, and lies between a cone and an island?”

  “Oh boy,” said Nick. Just his luck—this Sphinx could be on Jeopardy. “Could I have a clue?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered, rolling her black-rimmed eyes.

  “How much time do I have?”

  “Forever,” she said, “though I hope you don’t take that long. I hate it when there’s a line.”

  “Hmm,” said Nick, taking off his helmet. Okay, whatever it was must be like Lady Gaga: all those little monsters. And it was a monster too—what with its heads and snakes—but the part that really got him was “lying between a cone and island.” He really had no idea: what kind of cone exactly? All he could think of was ice cream. As far as islands, hadn’t Ya-Ya told him that Greece was made up of them? Somehow, none of this helped.

  “Hmm,” said Nick, desperately trying to stall.

  “Give up?” asked the Sphinx. “I won’t judge, just eat you.”

  “Wait.”

  What had his dad told him when they were all in the kitchen? Something about Mt. Etna—but where was it again? Nick thought of the boot-shaped sign that hung outside Mike’s Pizza. Oh yeah, Sicily. But was that really an island? Nick tried to picture Mike’s map: he could see Italy, with Sicily right below. That was it! Sicily must be an island, since there was only one Italy.

  “Well?” asked the Sphinx, flexing her hard black nails.

  “Okay,” he said. “So, this thing spawned you—it must be your mom or dad. It’s hideous, and part of it . . . uh . . . if it lies between a cone and an island . . . it must be pretty big. Like it’s stretched out beneath those two things?”

 
; “Get to the point,” said the Sphinx. “I’m immortal, but now I wish I wasn’t.”

  “Well, since I can’t phone a friend, I’m going with Typhoon. Yeah, Typhoon.”

  “YOU LOSE!” roared the Sphinx. She tensed her feline muscles in preparation to pounce.

  “Wait! That wasn’t my final answer. It’s not Typhoon, it’s Typhon. TYPHON!” Nick yelled. He held up his shield and even unsheathed his sword.

  “No!” shrieked the Sphinx, the snake’s head on her tail hissing. “Like Oedipus, you have killed me. You men are all alike!”

  Nick watched in amazement as she lifted her paws from the cliff, went flying over the others, and threw herself in the sea!

  “Whoa,” Nick exhaled.

  Why would anyone do that?

  The Big Guy

  After recovering from shock, Nick followed the Sphinx (though not into the water) down to the city of Thebes. What he saw reminded him of that city with Heph’s temple.

  Thebes had another one seated on a low hill, its walls painted brightly and its style very Greek. The rest of the city seemed to be laid out nicely, with tall junipers guarding buildings, and tons of statues all painted in wacky colors. On a second, smaller hill; a gang of toga-clad dudes was having some kind of gathering. Man, they were loud, gesturing and yelling like Ya-Ya.

  One guy in a blue toga broke away in disgust. Nick decided to take a chance and hastily ran after him.

  “How’s it goin’?” Nick asked. “Hey, know where I can find Hercules?” The man looked confused, but still gave a low whistle as he looked over Nick’s armor. “Um, Hercules?” Nick said again. “Labors . . . and stuff?”

  “Ναί, Ναί,” said the man, and Nick thought he was sunk, until the man came out with, “Heracles! Ναί?”

  “Yes! Uh, Ναί,” Nick cried.

  The man spewed something in Greek, and, just as with Ya-Ya, Nick could only shrug. Frowning, Blue Toga spun him around and pointed to a large market.

  “Heracles,” he said.

  “Thanks,” said Nick, heading toward that crowded place. He saw a host of those flat-roofed tents, and boy, were their merchants selling. Clay pots with thin, black figures seemed the hot item, not to mention platters of food. Man, how Nick craved some olives! Even a slice of pita. But, apart from his armor, he didn’t have any gold: heck, he didn’t know if they even used money here.

  Forcing himself past fish stalls, Nick looked for a guy he expected to be, well, big. He wasn’t disappointed as he saw the towering head of a man who wore . . . a lion’s skin. If that wasn’t Hercules, then Nick was one of the Muses!

  “All right, everyone gets a copy, don’t push.”

  The Hero addressed the mob, most of whom held up scrolls. At Hercules’ side and behind him, Nick saw scribes scrawling away with ink-dipped brushes. That’s when he got it. This was an author event, and Herc was signing “books” like he was at Barnes & Noble!

  “One for you, and you—” Herc said, accepting misshapen gold coins.

  “Ack Hydra!” one man shouted.

  “Blah blah Aegean!” said another.

  “Now, now,” said Herc, “it’s right there in the papyrus. For only two drachmas, you can read all about it.”

  “Excuse me,” said Nick, forcing his way between togas.

  “No need to rush,” said Herc, then turned to yell at his scribes. “Faster! I need at least twenty more. Do I have to dip ink myself?”

  The scribes, looking exhausted, tried to pick up the pace.

  “Heracles!” Nick shouted, waving his sword over the throng.

  That got the big guy’s attention.

  “Hey!” Heracles shouted, “fellow Hero!” He gestured for his squad—which, based on the gold they held, seemed to be his agent and publicist—to move Nick to the front of the line. “You must be Nikólaos! Your dad said to expect you.” He nodded toward Nick’s armor. “Nice fit. Of course, I performed all my Labors in nothing but a loincloth, but I am, after all, a Demi.”

  “I know,” said Nick, hoping to get this over with. “If you don’t mind, I have a question.”

  “Speak,” said Herc, gesturing like a king.

  “Well . . .why can I understand you—and the Sphinx, and gods—but not these people here?”

  Herc threw back his head and laughed.

  “I’m not known for my brains,” he said, “but it appears you can speak only to mythical beings.”

  “Oh,” said Nick. That made a kind of warped sense.

  “Say,” said Herc, “for just two coins, you can read about me, and get a signed scroll.”

  “I’m broke,” said Nick.

  “Too bad. These babies are goin’ like gastrin!” He pointed to a stall selling something that looked like baklava.

  “Yeah.” Nick felt he should go and let Herc become a bestseller. “So—”

  “Right. Advice time.”

  Herc dangled an ink-splashed reed over another scroll.

  “All Heroes,” he said, “even me, need some kind of helper.”

  “Are you mine?” Nick asked, his voice rising with hope.

  “‘Fraid not,” said Herc. “One Hero to a quest. And as you can see, I’m busy.”

  “But why—?” Nick asked, pointing to all the scribes.

  “After my painful death, Father Zeus made me a god.”

  “I know, but—?”

  “Gods love to be worshipped, and, the more scrolls I sell, the more sacrifices I get.” Herc stroked his beard. “That counts for a lot on Olympus.”

  Nick sighed.

  “Okay. Then where do I find my helper?”

  “Hmm.” Herc kept signing. “If I were you, I’d start in Athens, at the Temple of Athena. After she and I overindulged in nectar one night, she told me she favors you. To a Hero, that’s gold.”

  “Oh.” Nick felt let down. He’d hoped for more from Hercules. “Well . . . how do I get there?”

  “HEY!” Heracles roared to the crowd. “No pushing! I said there’s enough for all. Don’t make me go out there with my huge spiky club.”

  He turned back to Nick.

  “Take the southern path through Boetia until you get to Attica, then—oh, what the heck.” He smacked Nick on the shoulder. “May you have half the success I did. And no more than a fourth of the glory!”

  Nick had no time to say thanks as he found himself on a ghost ship: or, more precisely, a small boat with a single red sail. The deep blue of the sea, coupled with the soft warm breeze, made him relax slightly. He could have done with a guide—Chiron, anyone?—but after a life of neglect, he wasn’t exactly shocked that his dad wasn’t there.

  “O. . . kay,” he breathed, as he approached a shore. If that’s Athens, Nick thought, it’s totally awesome! Framed by low-lying cliffs, the city had a well-planned look. On one high, raised pedestal were a bunch of flat-roofed buildings.

  Nick found that sailing was peaceful—he’d never done it before. He just wanted to hang on that ship, check out the port. But no, he thought. Like always, there was someplace he had to be; some boring task to complete. Well, this one might not be boring if it involved a monster. . .

  Speaking of non-boring, Nick passed a massive grey statue of a huge guy from the back. His head was crowned with a wreath and in his hand was a trident. The whole lump of stone sat right in the water.

  “Poseidon,” Nick said. At least he knew that much.

  After he passed the Sea God, he told his boat to stop. It did, its prow coming to rest

  Against that neat grassy shore. With reluctance, Nick hopped off.

  He gazed up at that huge pedestal and walked to its white-marbled stairs. Good thing, he thought, that I have runner’s legs, ‘cause it was a long way to the top.

  “No worries,” said Nick, climbing. As his sandals hit stone, he felt a swell of pride. “I’m a Hero,” he said to no one, “and Athena favors me.”

  Blame the Victim

  Nick figured the goddess’s temple (in the city named after he
r) would naturally be the biggest. The only question was: Did she have more than one?

  Nick had no idea when he came to the top of those stairs. Even he had to rest. What if you weren’t in shape? He guessed no worship for you.

  As he rested, he found himself facing a monster that must have been thirty feet: both up and across. Happily, it was a building, and some parts were walled-in. This must be, Nick thought, to stop Athena’s fans from tumbling to their deaths. The temple—if this was it—was fronted by all these bronze warriors, which to Nick was a good sign. After all, her statue had told him she was the Goddess of War . . .

  As Nick paused before the entrance, dazzled by all the white columns—made of marble, duh—he saw like twenty life-size statues on the triangle thing near the roof. Who were they? he wondered. And why were the guys all naked?

  Nick climbed a few steps and peered up at this long carving—what did you call it? a frieze—wrapped around the whole place. At the front, there were twelve seated figures, and, since they were giants, he assumed they were gods. There was Zeus in his comfy chair, presiding over some mortals, who seemed busy with some kind of party. But what made Nick feel better were these flat squares above ‘cause they showed 3-D centaurs kicking some human butt.

  Nick had no clue what this had to do with Athena, or why he cheered against people, but felt he was on the right track when he passed through a lobby and faced two giant doors. These were like twelve-feet tall, red, and painted with lion’s heads. Not exactly inviting.

  Should he go in? Nick wondered. He shrugged. According to Heracles, yes. After he pushed those doors open, he felt very small and alone: as far as he could tell, he was the only one there.

  Whoa. The temple’s insides were amazing! Poor Heph—compared to this, his looked like a shack. Athena’s place of worship was lined with two layers of marble columns, and the ceiling, Nick noted, consisted of little carved squares. But the most incredible thing was a giant gold statue all the way up front. Of course, it was Athena: her head nearly hit the ceiling, and in one hand, she held a figure with wings; in the other, a shield. Nick jogged toward the image with caution, feeling like a shrimp, though he was six-foot-two. What really alarmed him: a sculpted gold snake twice his size which regarded him like a snack. Any chance it could come alive?