Percy Jackson and the Greek Heroes

  I’m not sure what Cyrene thought about all that. I didn’t even know it was possible to turn a mortal into a nature spirit, but the gods are full of surprises.

  As Apollo promised, Cyrene lived a very long time. Eventually she left her Greek colony and lived full-time in the river with the other naiads, though occasionally she would rise to offer advice to her friends and family. Once, when her son Aristaios lost all his bees, she helped him find them again … but that’s a whole other story. Maybe we’ll cover that in Percy Jackson’s Really Minor Gods.

  (Joking, guys. Please don’t give the publisher any more ideas.)

  Nobody knows whether Cyrene eventually faded and died, or whether she’s still hanging out in some stream near the ruins of her old city. I have to admire the lady, though. Anybody who can survive two godly relationships and come out sane is stronger than most heroes. Cyrene was able to reinvent herself several times. She embraced her new country and her new life, and after that one trip to Thrace she never again looked back.

  That takes guts. Looking back can be deadly.

  Just ask Orpheus.

  Oh, wait. You can’t. He got decapitated.

  Want to hear how? Sure you do. Let me tell you about the world’s greatest musician and how he screwed up.

  Orpheus Takes a Solo

  Good old Thrace, my favourite postapocalyptic wasteland, where life was hard, priests made blood sacrifices to Ares, and kings raised horses that ate human flesh! Sounds like just the sort of place where a young boy would become a harp player, right?

  That’s where Orpheus was born. Of course, the Beatles were from Liverpool and Jay-Z is from the projects in Brooklyn, so I guess music can come from unpredictable places.

  The way Orpheus’s parents met … that was even more unpredictable.

  His dad was a Thracian king named Oeagrus. (Good luck pronouncing that. Oh-AH-grus, maybe?) When Oeagrus was young and single, he liked partying and singing as much as he liked fighting. So, when the wine god Dionysus and his drunken army rolled through town on their way to invade India, Oeagrus welcomed them with open arms and a cup that needed refilling.

  ‘You’re invading a foreign country for no particular reason?’ Oeagrus asked. ‘I am totally in!’

  Oeagrus gathered his men and joined the wine god’s expedition.

  At first, everything was rainbows and Chardonnay. Oeagrus got along great with the wine dude’s followers, especially the maenads – crazed nymphs who liked to tear apart their enemies with their bare hands. A Thracian could appreciate that!

  Every night at the campfire, Oeagrus drank with the maenads and sang Thracian ballads. The guy had a rich baritone voice. When he sang a sad tune, he brought his listeners to tears. When he sang an upbeat number, he got everybody dancing. In fact, he sang so well he attracted the attention of a Muse.

  (My brother Tyson is here. He thought I said moose. No, Tyson, the guy in the story did not attract the attention of a moose. Tyson is sad now.)

  The Nine Muses were immortal sisters who oversaw different arts, like singing, drama … um, charades, dubstep, tap-dancing and maybe some other stuff I’ve forgotten. Calliope, the oldest Muse, was in charge of epic poetry. She guided writers who were telling stories about heroes and battles and … you know what? I just realized I should’ve made a sacrifice to her before I started writing this book. It’s totally her territory.

  Oops. Sorry, everybody. This book is not officially endorsed by the proper Muse. If it explodes in your hands, my bad.

  Anyway, like all the Muses, Calliope had a soft spot for music. From her apartments on Mount Olympus, she heard Oeagrus singing as he marched east with the wine god’s army. Calliope was so entranced she flew down invisibly to check out this drunken warrior with the beautiful voice.

  ‘Wow, what a singer!’ Calliope sighed.

  Even without proper training, Oeagrus was a natural talent. He sang with so much emotion and confidence. He wasn’t bad-looking, either. As the army marched, Calliope followed, circling invisibly overhead like a large stealth seagull, just so she could hear Oeagrus sing every night.

  Finally Dionysus reached India. If you’ve read my other book, Greek Gods, you know his invasion didn’t work out too well. The Greeks crossed the Ganges River and got their butts handed to them by a bunch of fire-throwing Indian holy men. In the panic of retreat, Oeagrus ran into the Ganges. But he forgot one tiny detail: he couldn’t swim.

  Hordes of drunken warriors and maenads trampled him as they tried to get away. Oeagrus would’ve drowned if Calliope hadn’t been watching. As soon as he went under, she dived into the river. Somehow, she wrestled him onto her shoulders and carried him to the opposite bank, piggyback style. That must’ve looked pretty odd – a lovely lady in white robes emerging from the Ganges with a big hairy Thracian warrior on her shoulders.

  Dionysus’s army marched back to Greece in a dejected mood, but Calliope and Oeagrus had a wonderful time. During the journey, they fell in love. By the time the Thracians got home, Calliope had given birth to a demigod son named Orpheus.

  The boy grew up in Thrace, which wasn’t an easy place for a sensitive young musician. His dad lost interest in him when he realized Orpheus would never be a warrior. If you gave the kid a bow, he’d pluck a tune on the bowstring. If you gave him a sword, he’d drop it and scream, ‘I hate sharp edges!’ The other kids teased and bullied and shunned Orpheus … until he learned to use his music as a defence. He gradually realized that his singing could bring the most hostile bully to tears. He could escape a beatdown by playing his reed pipes. His attackers would just stand there, enchanted, and let Orpheus walk away.

  Every weekend, his mom, Calliope, took him for music lessons with the other Muses. Orpheus lived for those visits. His immortal aunts taught him everything they knew about music, which was basically everything.

  In no time, the kid outshone his teachers. Orpheus had his mom’s finesse and divine skill. He had his dad’s raw talent and mortal edginess. The Muses had never heard a voice so beautiful.

  They gave Orpheus a bunch of different instruments to try: a drum set, a French horn, a ’67 Telecaster. Orpheus excelled at all of them. Then one day he found the instrument that would make him famous. The only problem: it belonged to a god.

  One weekend, Apollo visited the Nine Muses to get their input on his new musical, Twenty-Five Awesome Things About Me (A Sequel to Twenty Awesome Things About Me).

  Apollo played them a few songs on his lyre while Orpheus sat in the corner of the room, listening in astonishment. He’d never heard a lyre before. No mortal had. Back then Apollo had the only one in existence. Hermes had invented it out of a tortoise shell, two sticks and some sheep-tendon strings, because Hermes was a boss. He’d given it to Apollo to avoid jail time for cattle rustling (long story), and the lyre had become Apollo’s prized possession.

  After a few songs, Apollo set down his instrument and gathered the Nine Muses around a piano at the other side of the room. While they were deep in discussion, trying to figure out the nine-part harmonies for the big finale, Orpheus walked over to the lyre.

  He couldn’t help himself. He picked up the instrument and strummed a chord.

  Apollo shot to his feet. His eyes blazed with anger. The Nine Muses dived for cover, because nobody picks up a god’s toys without permission.

  Only two things kept Apollo from blasting the kid to ashes. First, Orpheus was holding the lyre. Apollo didn’t want to damage it. Second, Orpheus launched into the most incredible song Apollo had ever heard.

  The boy played as if the lyre were part of his own body. His fingers ran across the strings, coaxing out impossibly sweet melodies and countermelodies. The Nine Muses wept with joy. Apollo’s anger evaporated.

  Orpheus’s music was full of mortal pain and sadness. No god could have made music so raw. Apollo appreciated that. Twice before, Zeus had punished him by turning him temporarily human. Apollo remembered how difficult that had been – his divine spirit trapped i
n a fragile body of flesh. Orpheus’s music captured the feeling perfectly.

  Orpheus finished his song. He looked up sheepishly at Apollo. ‘I’m sorry, my lord. I – I couldn’t help myself. You may kill me now. I have played the lyre. My life is complete.’ He knelt and offered the instrument to the god.

  Apollo shook his head. ‘No, my boy. Keep the lyre. I’ll make another one.’

  Orpheus’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’

  ‘You deserve it. Take the lyre. Make music across the earth. Teach others to play. Just do me a favour. Don’t teach them “Stairway to Heaven”, okay? I’m really sick of that song.’

  Orpheus bowed and grovelled and thanked the god. He did exactly what Apollo asked. He travelled the world teaching others to make lyres and play beautifully. He collected songs from every land. He even journeyed to Egypt, where he added the music of that ancient country to his repertoire. He perfected his own playing and singing. And whenever he found someone trying to learn ‘Stairway to Heaven’ he took away their instrument and smashed it against a wall.

  Orpheus became so talented his music could bring entire cities to a standstill. He’d walk through a marketplace playing his lyre, and everyone would freeze. Merchants would stop selling. Pickpockets would stop stealing. Chickens would stop clucking, and babies would stop crying. Mobs of people would follow him out of town just to hear him play. They’d walk behind him for hundreds of miles until finally they’d look around in a daze and think: I live in Egypt. What am I doing in Jerusalem?

  Orpheus just kept getting better. Wild animals were powerless against his music. When he walked through a forest, lions gathered around and rolled over so he could pet their bellies while he sang. Wolves rubbed against his legs and wagged their tails when he did that song they liked, ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’. Birds flocked silently in the trees, listening as Orpheus played, hoping they could pick up some tips to improve their singing.

  Finally Orpheus’s music became so powerful it could even affect the environment. Trees moved through the earth, scuttling on their roots like crabs, so they could get closer to his lyre. Boulders wept condensation when he sang. Rolling stones followed him down the road. (Probably the Rolling Stones, too, because those dudes look old enough to have known Orpheus.) Rivers stopped in their course to hear him. Clouds anchored themselves overhead so they could have nosebleed seats for his concerts.

  Nothing in the entire world could resist Orpheus. His music was like the gravity of a sun, drawing everything towards him.

  When he wasn’t teaching music, he did a bunch of heroic stuff. For instance, he sailed aboard the Argo, but we’ll get to that in the chapter on Jason. Stay tuned.

  (Get it? Music? Stay tuned? Well, Tyson thought it was funny.)

  Orpheus became so famous he couldn’t go anywhere without attracting a mob of fangirls and fanboys. He sang, and hearts melted. He won awards. He got marriage proposals from all over, and so many views on his YouTube channel that the site crashed. He was bigger than Elvis, bigger than Bieber, bigger than *insert name of whatever boy band is popular this week*. (Sorry, I don’t keep track.)

  Just to escape his own fame, Orpheus returned home to Thrace, because people there didn’t care about him. Funny how that works. No matter how important you get out in the world, the people you grew up with are still like, Yeah, whatever.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ Orpheus would say. ‘I had to come home to get away from my millions of fans.’

  ‘Fans?’ his dad grumbled. ‘Why do you have fans?’

  ‘Well, my music can stop rivers and make trees move, and one time an entire city full of people followed me several hundred miles to hear me play.’

  ‘Bah.’ His dad scowled. ‘You still can’t hold a sword properly.’

  While in Thrace, Orpheus spent most of his time with the followers of Dionysus, since at least they appreciated good party music. Orpheus helped organize the Dionysian Mysteries, which were a big spiritual festival with lots of wine, music and drama in honour of the god. Not that Dionysus needed any more drama, but I guess the music was a nice addition.

  But, even in Thrace, Orpheus had crazed fans. During the festivals, the maenads would get drunk and start flirting with him. Since Orpheus only cared about his music, he wouldn’t respond, and the maenads would get angry. A few times they came close to rioting and tearing him apart.

  His mom, Calliope, decided that, for his own safety, Orpheus should get married. Maybe that would make his fans back off. She talked with Apollo, who happened to have an eligible young demigod daughter named Eurydice.

  Calliope arranged a backstage pass for Eurydice at Orpheus’s next concert. The two of them met and it was love at first sight … or at least by the end of the first set. As the daughter of Apollo, Eurydice had music in her blood. She understood Orpheus immediately. They chatted all through intermission back in Orpheus’s dressing room. After his final encore, Orpheus brought Eurydice on stage and announced that they were getting married.

  His fans wailed and ripped their hair out, but Eurydice looked so beautiful and Orpheus looked so happy that the crowd graciously refrained from stampeding the stage. For weeks, social media buzzed about what a cute couple they were, though nobody could decide what their ship name should be. Ordice? Eurypheus?

  Their wedding was attended by all the beautiful people and gods. The Nine Muses provided the music. Apollo officiated. Dionysus was the flower boy. (Okay. I might be making that up.)

  Hymenaios, the god of marriage ceremonies, showed up in person to lead the procession, although, strangely, he cried as he escorted the bride down the aisle. His clothes were funeral black. His sacred torch was supposed to burn cheerfully, but it only sputtered and smoked. The guests wondered about that. It was a pretty bad omen for the marriage to come, but everybody was scared to ask him about it.

  As for Orpheus and Eurydice, they were too in love to notice. At the reception, the groom sang so sweetly to his bride that the whole audience broke down in tears.

  They should have had the most romantic honeymoon ever. Unfortunately, a stalker ruined everything. You probably think I mean a stalker for Orpheus, but nope. Turns out his wife had a crazed fan of her own.

  For years, a minor god named Aristaios had been trying to get Eurydice’s attention. Maybe you remember Aristaios from the last chapter – Cyrene’s kid? If not, don’t worry about it. He was the god of beekeeping and cheesemaking. Not exactly a major player.

  Anyway, he had a huge crush on Eurydice, but she didn’t know he existed. Aristaios went crazy with despair when she married Orpheus. Eurydice was making a terrible mistake! Why would she marry the best musician in the world when she could marry a cheese god? Aristaios had to make her see reason.

  One afternoon during the honeymoon, Eurydice and Orpheus were relaxing in a beautiful meadow in the forest. Orpheus decided to play his lyre for a while, because even musical geniuses need to practise, so Eurydice went for a stroll by herself.

  Big mistake.

  Aristaios followed, lurking in the bushes. He waited until Eurydice was half a mile from the meadow. Then he jumped out in front of her and yelled, ‘Marry me!’

  What was Aristaios thinking? I suppose his only role model for women was his mom, Cyrene, and she wasn’t exactly the romantic type. She’d won the affection of her first husband by killing a lion. She’d won her second husband by trying tocut his head off. Maybe Aristaios figured that if he acted aggressive, Eurydice would finally notice him.

  She noticed him, all right. She screamed and ran away.

  Nine times out of ten, if somebody jumps out at you and yells ‘Marry me!’ it’s an excellent idea to run away, screaming for help. In this case, however, Eurydice would’ve been smarter to punch Aristaios in the face. He was a cheese god, after all. He probably would’ve cried and fled.

  Eurydice panicked. She didn’t look where she was going. She stumbled through some tall grass straight into a nest of poisonous snakes. A viper sank its fangs into her ankle, an
d the young bride instantly collapsed.

  By the time Aristaios caught up with her, she was turning blue. He spotted one of the vipers slithering away – the most lethal kind of snake in all of Greece. Its venom would already be in Eurydice’s heart.

  ‘Oh, bee butts,’ Aristaios muttered.

  He wasn’t a very powerful god. Maybe he could’ve saved her by turning her into a queen bee or a nice wedge of Muenster, but before he could act he heard Orpheus calling her name. The musician must have heard her screams.

  Aristaios didn’t want to take the blame for Eurydice’s death. Nobody would ever buy his honey or cheese at the farmers’ market again! He did the cowardly thing and ran.

  Orpheus stumbled across the body of his beloved. His heart shattered. He cradled her and sobbed. He tried to sing her back to life. When that didn’t work, he begged the vipers, which had gathered at the sound of his voice, to bite him so he could follow his wife to the Underworld. The snakes just looked at him: No, we like you. You sing pretty.

  In a daze, Orpheus buried Eurydice in the meadow where they’d shared their last joyful moments. Then Orpheus took up his lyre and wandered aimlessly, pouring out his sorrow into his music.

  For days he played songs of unbearable heartache. Think about the saddest moment you’ve ever experienced. Now imagine that sadness multiplied times a hundred. That’s how Orpheus’s music felt as it rolled over you.

  Entire cities wept. Trees oozed tears of sap. Clouds unleashed torrents of saltwater rain. On Mount Olympus, Ares cried on Hephaestus’s shoulder. Aphrodite and Athena sat on the sofa together, in their pyjamas, bingeing on chocolate ice cream and bawling. Hestia rushed around the throne room offering everyone boxes of tissues.

  Orpheus played the longest, saddest solo in music history. While it went on, nobody could do anything. The entire world mourned, but even that wasn’t enough for the musician.

  ‘Eurydice’s death was not fair. I will go to the Underworld,’ Orpheus decided.