The Mark of Athena

“I’m sorry for you,” she said, trying to use charmspeak. “That must have been terrible. But we are not your enemies. If we can help you—”

“Oh, such a sweet voice!” Hagno cried. “Such beautiful features. I was once young like you. My voice was as soothing as a mountain stream. But do you know what happens to a nymph’s mind when she is trapped in the dark, with nothing to feed on but hatred, nothing to drink but thoughts of violence? Yes, my dear. You can help us.”

Percy raised his hand. “Uh…I’m the son of Poseidon. Maybe I can summon a new water source.”

“Ha!” Hagno cried, and the other eight echoed, “Ha! Ha!”

“Indeed, son of Poseidon,” Hagno said. “I know your father well. Ephialtes and Otis promised you would come.”

Piper put her hand on Jason’s arm for balance.

“The giants,” she said. “You’re working for them?”

“They are our neighbors.” Hagno smiled. “Their chambers lie beyond this place, where the aqueduct’s water was diverted for the games. Once we have dealt with you…once you have helped us…the twins have promised we will never suffer again.”

Hagno turned to Jason. “You, child of Jupiter—for the horrible betrayal of your predecessor who brought us here, you shall pay. I know the sky god’s powers. I raised him as a baby! Once, we nymphs controlled the rain above our wells and springs. When I am done with you, we will have that power again. And Percy Jackson, child of the sea god…from you, we will take water, an endless supply of water.”

“Endless?” Percy’s eyes darted from one nymph to the other. “Uh…look, I don’t know about endless. But maybe I could spare a few gallons.”

“And you, Piper McLean.” Hagno’s purple eyes glistened. “So young, so lovely, so gifted with your sweet voice. From you, we will reclaim our beauty. We have saved our last life force for this day. We are very thirsty. From you three, we shall drink!”

All nine niches glowed. The nymphs disappeared, and water poured from their alcoves—sickly dark water, like oil.

PIPER NEEDED A MIRACLE, not a bedtime story. But right then, standing in shock as black water poured in around her legs, she recalled the legend Achelous had mentioned—the story of the flood.

Not the Noah story, but the Cherokee version that her father used to tell her, with the dancing ghosts and the skeleton dog.

When she was little, she would cuddle next to her dad in his big recliner. She’d gaze out the windows at the Malibu coastline, and her dad would tell her the story he’d heard from Grandpa Tom back on the rez in Oklahoma.

“This man had a dog,” her father always began.

“You can’t start a story that way!” Piper protested. “You have to say Once upon a time.”

Dad laughed. “But this is a Cherokee story. They are pretty straightforward. So, anyway, this man had a dog. Every day the man took his dog to the edge of the lake to get water, and the dog would bark furiously at the lake, like he was mad at it.”

“Was he?”

“Be patient, sweetheart. Finally the man got very annoyed with his dog for barking so much, and he scolded it. ‘Bad dog! Stop barking at the water. It’s only water!’ To his surprise, the dog looked right at him and began to talk.”

“Our dog can say Thank you,” Piper volunteered. “And she can bark Out.”

“Sort of,” her dad agreed. “But this dog spoke entire sentences. The dog said, ‘One day soon, the storms will come. The waters will rise, and everyone will drown. You can save yourself and your family by building a raft, but first you will need to sacrifice me. You must throw me into the water.’”

“That’s terrible!” Piper said. “I would never drown my dog!”

“The man probably said the same thing. He thought the dog was lying—I mean, once he got over the shock that his dog could talk. When he protested, the dog said, ‘If you don’t believe me, look at the scruff of my neck. I am already dead.’”

“That’s sad! Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you asked me to,” her dad reminded her. And indeed, something about the story fascinated Piper. She had heard it dozens of times, but she kept thinking about it.

“Anyway,” said her dad, “the man grabbed the dog by the scruff of its neck and saw that its skin and fur were already coming apart. Underneath was nothing but bones. The dog was a skeleton dog.”

“Gross.”

“I agree. So with tears in his eyes, the man said good-bye to his annoying skeleton dog and tossed it into the water, where it promptly sank. The man built a raft, and when the flood came, he and his family survived.”

“Without the dog.”

“Yes. Without the dog. When the rains subsided, and the raft landed, the man and his family were the only ones alive. The man heard sounds from the other side of a hill—like thousands of people laughing and dancing—but when he raced to the top, alas, down below he saw nothing except bones littering the ground—thousands of skeletons of all the people who had died in the flood. He realized the ghosts of the dead had been dancing. That was the sound he heard.”

Piper waited. “And?”