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“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,” said 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.”
“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.”
