“And if they’re in a bad mood?”
“Then we’ll cheer them up before they can boil us. Follow me!”
Scale of one to ten
How would you rate your demise?
Thanks for your input
WAS I RECKLESS to rush toward such volatile nature gods?
Please. Second-guessing myself is not in my nature. It’s a trait I’ve never needed.
True, my memories about the palikoi were a little hazy. As I recalled, the geyser gods in ancient Sicily used to give refuge to runaway slaves, so they must be kindly spirits. Perhaps they would also give refuge to lost demigods, or at least notice when five of them wandered through their territory, muttering incoherently. Besides, I was Apollo! The palikoi would be honored to meet a major Olympian such as myself! The fact that geysers often blew their tops, spewing columns of scalding hot water hundreds of feet in the air, wasn’t going to stop me from making some new fans…I mean friends.
The clearing opened before us like an oven door. A wall of heat billowed through the trees and washed over my face. I could feel my pores opening to drink in the moisture, which would hopefully help my spotty complexion.
The scene before us had no business being in a Long Island winter. Glistening vines wreathed the tree branches. Tropical flowers bloomed from the forest floor. A red parrot sat on a banana tree heavy with green bunches.
In the midst of the glade stood two geysers—twin holes in the ground, ringed with a figure eight of gray mud pots. The craters bubbled and hissed, but they were not spewing at the moment. I decided to take that as a good omen.
Meg’s boots squished in the mud. “Is it safe?”
“Definitely not,” I said. “We’ll need an offering. Perhaps your packet of seeds?”
Meg punched my arm. “Those are magic. For life-and-death emergencies. What about your ukulele? You’re not going to play it anyway.”
“A man of honor never surrenders his ukulele.” I perked up. “But wait. You’ve given me an idea. I will offer the geyser gods a poem! I can still do that. It doesn’t count as music.”
Meg frowned. “Uh, I don’t know if—”
“Don’t be envious, Meg. I will make up a poem for you later. This will surely please the geyser gods!” I walked forward, spread my arms, and began to improvise:
“Oh, geyser, my geyser,
Let us spew then, you and I,
Upon this midnight dreary, while we ponder
Whose woods are these?
For we have not gone gentle into this good night,
But have wandered lonely as clouds.
We seek to know for whom the bell tolls,
So I hope, springs eternal,
That the time has come to talk of many things!”
I don’t wish to brag, but I thought it was rather good, even if I did recycle a few bits from my earlier works. Unlike my music and archery, my godly skills with poetry seemed to be completely intact.
I glanced at Meg, hoping to see shining admiration on her face. It was high time the girl started to appreciate me. Instead, her mouth hung open, aghast.
“What?” I demanded. “Did you fail poetry appreciation in school? That was first-rate stuff!”
Meg pointed toward the geysers. I realized she was not looking at me at all.
“Well,” said a raspy voice, “you got my attention.”
One of the palikoi hovered over his geyser. His lower half was nothing but steam. From the waist up, he was perhaps twice the size of a human, with muscular arms the color of caldera mud, chalk-white eyes, and hair like cappuccino foam, as if he had shampooed vigorously and left it sudsy. His massive chest was stuffed into a baby-blue polo shirt with a logo of trees embroidered on the chest pocket.
“O, Great Palikos!” I said. “We beseech you—”
“What was that?” the spirit interrupted. “That stuff you were saying?”
“Poetry!” I said. “For you!”
He tapped his mud-gray chin. “No. That wasn’t poetry.”
I couldn’t believe it. Did no one appreciate the beauty of language anymore? “My good spirit,” I said. “Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, you know.”
“I’m not talking about rhyming. I’m talking about getting your message across. We do a lot of market research, and that would not fly for our campaign. Now, the Oscar Meyer Weiner song—that is poetry. The ad is fifty years old and people are still singing it. Do you think you could give us some poetry like that?”
I glanced at Meg to be sure I was not imagining this conversation.
“Listen here,” I told the geyser god, “I’ve been the lord of poetry for four thousand years. I ought to know good poetry—”
The palikos waved his hands. “Let’s start over. I’ll run through our spiel, and maybe you can advise me. Hi, I’m Pete. Welcome to the Woods at Camp Half-Blood! Would you be willing to take a short customer satisfaction survey after this encounter? Your feedback is important.”
“Um—”