DON’T MAKE THE GODS ANGRY. I KNOW THIS FROM firsthand experience. Making the gods angry was completely the reason why I was upside down, dangling from the hands of a cyclops with every drop of blood rushing to my brain. Actually, if I had even half a brain, I wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. I’d be back in Ionia, milking cows with Mom. Every twelve-year-old boy’s dream, I know. But it sure beat my current situation.
“You’re not going to be able to start the story there, Homer,” Dory interrupted. “You’re skipping all kinds of stuff.”
I tried to focus on my best friend’s words, but my head still reeled from this secret I’d found out about Dory earlier today. I could never tell anyone. Odysseus would have blown a gasket if he’d found out. But that wasn’t my issue right now. My issue was the cyclops.
Dory dangled next to me. We were totally hosed. From down on the ground, I heard Odysseus and a few of the not-so-smart guys yelling up at us. The smarter ones kept quiet and hid in the dark recesses of the cave.
“Where should I start the story? Back at the horse?” I asked. Not that I was writing any of this down at the moment. I couldn’t reach my scroll or my pen.
“Not back at the horse. That’s not even kind of the beginning.” The look Dory gave me made me sure I was about to get smacked upside my head.
“It is,” I said. “It’s where we met Odysseus.”
Dory’s spikey dark hair shook from side to side, looking a lot like upside-down grass growing from the sky, exposing a neck inked with a tattoo I’d never notice before. Dory covered it quickly with a hand. “Before that. Back in Ionia.”
“Ionia!” I said. “That place was so freaking boring.” Not that I’d mind a little boring right now.
I guess I spoke a little too loudly because the cyclops—Polyphemus was his name—started shaking me. My teeth rattled around in my mouth, and I’m pretty sure my brains were turning to jelly. I watched as my scroll and pen fell from my pockets. I guess I wouldn’t miss them if Polyphemus decided to eat me.
“Boring, maybe,” Dory said. “But it’s where the story starts. And you can’t start a story in the middle.”
“Why not?” I lowered my voice, hoping good old Poly would decide I wasn’t worth any effort and would toss me aside. Maybe he’d nibble on my finger and think I tasted bad.
“Duh,” Dory said. “Because you’ll confuse people. They won’t understand anything about why you’re on the adventure. And if they don’t understand why you’re on the adventure, they won’t care why you’re on the adventure. They’ll stop listening. And that, my friend, is the death of a storyteller.”
“I think I’m already a dead storyteller,” I said as Polyphemus lifted me closer to his gaping mouth. It was so gross. There were pieces of flesh trapped between his brown teeth. And I knew they were fresh, because he’d just eaten a couple of Odysseus’ guys earlier. I don’t know their real names, but one of them we called Spitter since he always used to spit on his food so no one else would touch it.
“Just trust me, Homer,” Dory said. “Start from the beginning.”
The beginning. The end. What did it matter? My death loomed before me.
“Fine,” I said. “From the beginning.”