Chapter 5
I GET A NEW
CABIN MATE
E ver come home and found your room messed up? Like some helpful person (hi, Mom) has tried to
"clean" it, and suddenly you can't find anything? And even if nothing is missing, you get that creepy feeling
like somebody's been looking through your private stuff and dusting everything with lemon furniture
polish?
That's kind of the way I felt seeing Camp Half-Blood again.
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On the surface, things didn't look all that different. The Big House was still there with its blue gabled roof
and its wraparound porch. The strawberry fields still baked in the sun. The same white-columned Greek
buildings were scattered around the valley—the amphitheater, the combat arena, the dining pavilion
overlooking Long Island Sound. And nestled between the woods and the creek were the same
cabins—a crazy assortment of twelve buildings, each repre-senting a different Olympian god.
But there was an air of danger now. You could tell something was wrong. Instead of playing volleyball in
the sandpit, counselors and satyrs were stockpiling weapons in the tool shed. Dryads armed with bows
and arrows talked nervously at the edge of the woods. The forest looked sickly, the grass in the meadow
was pale yellow, and the fire marks on Half-Blood Hill stood out like ugly scars.
Somebody had messed with my favorite place in the world, and I was not ... well, a happy camper.
As we made our way to the Big House, I recognized a lot of kids from last summer. Nobody stopped to
talk. Nobody said, "Welcome back." Some did double takes when they saw Tyson, but most just
walked grimly past and carried on with their duties—running messages, toting swords to sharpen on the
grinding wheels. The camp felt like a military school. And believe me, I know. I've been kicked out of a
couple.
None of that mattered to Tyson. He was absolutely fas-cinated by everything he saw. "Whasthat!" he
gasped.
"The stables for pegasi," I said. "The winged horses."
"Whasthat!"
"Um ... those are the toilets."
"Whasthat!"
"The cabins for the campers. If they don't know who your Olympian parent is, they put you in the
Hermes cabin—that brown one over there—until you're deter-mined. Then, once they know, they put
you in your dad or mom's group."
He looked at me in awe. "You ... have a cabin?"
"Number three." I pointed to a low gray building made of sea stone.
"You live with friends in the cabin?"
"No. No, just me." I didn't feel like explaining. The embarrassing truth: I was the only one who stayed in
that cabin because I wasn't supposed to be alive. The "Big Three" gods—Zeus, Poseidon, and
Hades—had made a pact after World War II not to have any more children with mortals. We were
more powerful than regular half-bloods. We were too unpredictable. When we got mad we tended to
cause problems ... like World War II, for instance. The "Big Three" pact had only been broken
twice—once when Zeus sired Thalia, once when Poseidon sired me. Neither of us should've been born.
Thalia had gotten herself turned into a pine tree when she was twelve. Me ... well, I was doing my best
not to fol-low her example. I had nightmares about what Poseidon might turn me into if I were ever on
the verge of death— plankton, maybe. Or a floating patch of kelp.
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When we got to the Big House, we found Chiron in his apartment, listening to his favorite 1960s lounge
music while he packed his saddlebags. I guess I should mention—Chiron is a centaur. From the waist up
he looks like a reg-ular middle-aged guy with curly brown hair and a scraggly beard. From the waist
down, he's a white stallion. He can pass for human by compacting his lower half into a magic wheelchair.
In fact, he'd passed himself off as my Latin teacher during my sixth-grade year. But most of the time, if
the ceilings are high enough, he prefers hanging out in full centaur form.
As soon as we saw him, Tyson froze. "Pony!" he cried in total rapture.
Chiron turned, looking offended. "I beg your pardon?"
Annabeth ran up and hugged him. "Chiron, what's happening? You're not ... leaving?" Her voice was
shaky. Chiron was like a second father to her.
Chiron ruffled her hair and gave her a kindly smile. "Hello, child. And Percy, my goodness. You've
grown over the year!"
I swallowed. "Clarisse said you were ... you were ..."
"Fired." Chiron's eyes glinted with dark humor. "Ah, well, someone had to take the blame. Lord Zeus
was most upset. The tree he'd created from the spirit of his daughter, poisoned! Mr. D had to punish
someone."
"Besides himself, you mean," I growled. Just the thought of the camp director, Mr. D, made me angry.
"But this is crazy!" Annabeth cried. "Chiron, you couldn't have had anything to do with poisoning Thalia's
tree!"
"Nevertheless," Chiron sighed, "some in Olympus do not trust me now, under the circumstances."
"What circumstances?" I asked.
Chiron's face darkened. He stuffed a Latin-English dictionary into his saddlebag while the Frank Sinatra
music oozed from his boom box.
Tyson was still staring at Chiron in amazement. He whimpered like he wanted to pat Chiron's flank but
was afraid to come closer. "Pony?"
Chiron sniffed. "My dear young Cyclops! I am a centaur. "
"Chiron," I said. "What about the tree? What hap-pened?"
He shook his head sadly. "The poison used on Thalia's pine is something from the Underworld, Percy.
Some venom even I have never seen. It must have come from a monster quite deep in the pits of
Tartarus."
"Then we know who's responsible. Kro—"
"Do not invoke the titan lord's name, Percy. Especially not here, not now."
"But last summer he tried to cause a civil war in Olympus! This has to be his idea. He'd get Luke to do it,
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that traitor."
"Perhaps," Chiron said. "But I fear I am being held responsible because I did not prevent it and I cannot
cure it. The tree has only a few weeks of life left unless ..."
"Unless what?" Annabeth asked.
"No," Chiron said. "A foolish thought. The whole valley is feeling the shock of the poison. The magical
borders are deteriorating. The camp itself is dying. Only one source of magic would be strong enough to
reverse the poison, and it was lost centuries ago."
"What is it?" I asked. "We'll go find it!"
Chiron closed his saddlebag. He pressed the stop but-ton on his boom box. Then he turned and rested
his hand on my shoulder, looking me straight in the eyes. "Percy, you must promise me that you willnot
act rashly. I told your mother I did not want you to come here at all this summer. It's much too
dangerous. But now that you are here,stay here. Train hard. Learn to fight. But do not leave."
"Why?" I asked. "I want to do something! I can't just let the borders fail. The whole camp will be—"
"Overrun by monsters," Chiron said. "Yes, I fear so. But you must not let yourself be baited into hasty
action! This could be a trap of the titan lord. Remember last summer! He almost took your life."
It was true, but still, I wanted to help so badly. I also wanted to make Kronos pay. I mean, you'd think
the titan lord would've learned his lesson eons ago when he was over-thrown by the gods. You'd think
getting chopped into a mil-lion pieces and cast into the darkest part of the Underworld would give him a
subtle clue that nobody wanted him around. But no. Because he was immortal, he was still alive down
there in Tartarus—suffering in eternal pain, hunger-ing to return and take revenge on Olympus. He
couldn't act on his own, but he was great at twisting the minds of mor-tals and even gods to do his dirty
work.
The poisoning had to be his doing. Who else would be so low as to attack Thalia's tree, the only thing
left of a hero who'd given her life to save her friends?
Annabeth was trying hard not to cry. Chiron brushed a tear from her cheek. "Stay with Percy, child," he
told her. "Keep him safe. The prophecy—remember it!"
"I—I will."
"Um ..." I said. "Would this be the super-dangerous prophecy that has me in it, but the gods have
forbidden you to tell me about?"
Nobody answered.
"Right," I muttered. "Just checking."
"Chiron ..." Annabeth said. "You told me the gods made you immortal only so long as you were needed
to train heroes. If they dismiss you from camp—"
"Swear you will do your best to keep Percy from danger," he insisted. "Swear upon the River Styx."
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"I—I swear it upon the River Styx," Annabeth said.
Thunder rumbled outside.
"Very well," Chiron said. He seemed to relax just a little. "Perhaps my name will be cleared and I shall
return. Until then, I go to visit my wild kinsmen in the Everglades. It's possible they know of some cure
for the poisoned tree that I have forgotten. In any event, I will stay in exile until this matter is resolved ...
one way or another."
Annabeth stifled a sob. Chiron patted her shoulder awk-wardly. "There, now, child. I must entrust your
safety to Mr. D and the new activities director. We must hope ... well, perhaps they won't destroy the
camp quite as quickly as I fear."
"Who is this Tantalus guy, anyway?" I demanded. "Where does he get off taking your job?"
A conch horn blew across the valley. I hadn't realized how late it was. It was time for the campers to
assemble for dinner.
"Go," Chiron said. "You will meet him at the pavilion. I will contact your mother, Percy, and let her know
you're safe. No doubt she'll be worried by now. Just remember my warning! You are in grave danger.
Do not think for a moment that the titan lord has forgotten you!"
With that, he clopped out of the apartment and down the hall, Tyson calling after him, "Pony! Don't go!"
I realized I'd forgotten to tell Chiron about my dream of Grover. Now it was too late. The best teacher
I'd ever had was gone, maybe for good.
Tyson started bawling almost as bad as Annabeth. I tried to tell them that things would be okay, but I
didn't believe it.
The sun was setting behind the dining pavilion as the campers came up from their cabins. We stood in
the shadow of a marble column and watched them file in. Annabeth was still pretty shaken up, but she
promised she'd talk to us later. Then she went off to join her siblings from the Athena cabin—a dozen
boys and girls with blond hair and gray eyes like hers. Annabeth wasn't the oldest, but she'd been at
camp more summers than just about anybody. You could tell that by looking at her camp necklace—one
bead for every summer, and Annabeth had six. No one ques-tioned her right to lead the line.
Next came Clarisse, leading the Ares cabin. She had one arm in a sling and a nasty-looking gash on her
cheek, but otherwise her encounter with the bronze bulls didn't seem to have fazed her. Someone had
taped a piece of paper to her back that said, YOU MOO, GIRL! But nobody in her cabin was bothering
to tell her about it.
After the Ares kids came the Hephaestus cabin—six guys led by Charles Beckendorf, a big
fifteen-year-old African American kid. He had hands the size of catchers' mitts and a face that was hard
and squinty from looking into a blacksmiths forge all day. He was nice enough once you got to know him,
but no one ever called him Charlie or Chuck or Charles. Most just called him Beckendorf. Rumor was
he could make anything. Give him a chunk of metal and he could create a razor-sharp sword or a robotic
warrior or a singing birdbath for your grandmother's garden. Whatever you wanted.
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The other cabins filed in: Demeter, Apollo, Aphrodite, Dionysus. Naiads came up from the canoe lake.
Dryads melted out of the trees. From the meadow came a dozen satyrs, who reminded me painfully of
Grover.
I'd always had a soft spot for the satyrs. When they were at camp, they had to do all kinds of odd jobs
for Mr. D, the director, but their most important work was out in the real world. They were the camp's
seekers. They went undercover into schools all over the world, looking for potential half-bloods and
escorting them back to camp. That's how I'd met Grover. He had been the first one to recognize I was a
demigod.
After the satyrs filed in to dinner, the Hermes cabin brought up the rear. They were always the biggest
cabin. Last summer, it had been led by Luke, the guy who'd fought with Thalia and Annabeth on top of
Half-Blood Hill. For a while, before Poseidon had claimed me, I'd lodged in the Hermes cabin. Luke had
befriended me ... and then he'd tried to kill me.
Now the Hermes cabin was led by Travis and Connor Stoll. They weren't twins, but they looked so
much alike it didn't matter. I could never remember which one was older. They were both tall and skinny,
with mops of brown hair that hung in their eyes. They wore orange CAMP HALF-BLOOD T-shirts
untucked over baggy shorts, and they had those elfish features all Hermes's kids had: upturned eyebrows,
sarcastic smiles, a gleam in their eyes whenever they looked at you—like they were about to drop a
firecracker down your shirt. I'd always thought it was funny that the god of thieves would have kids with
the last name "Stoll," but the only time I mentioned it to Travis and Connor, they both stared at me
blankly like they didn't get the joke.
As soon as the last campers had filed in, I led Tyson into the middle of the pavilion. Conversations
faltered. Heads turned. "Who invited that?" somebody at the Apollo table murmured.
I glared in their direction, but I couldn't figure out who'd spoken.
From the head table a familiar voice drawled, "Well, well, if it isn't Peter Johnson. My millennium is
complete."
I gritted my teeth. "Percy Jackson ... sir."
Mr. D sipped his Diet Coke. "Yes. Well, as you young people say these days: Whatever."
He was wearing his usual leopard-pattern Hawaiian shirt, walking shorts, and tennis shoes with black
socks. With his pudgy belly and his blotchy red face, he looked like a Las Vegas tourist who'd stayed up
too late in the casi-nos. Behind him, a nervous-looking satyr was peeling the skins off grapes and handing
them to Mr. D one at a time.
Mr. D's real name is Dionysus. The god of wine. Zeus appointed him director of Camp Half-Blood to
dry out for a hundred years—a punishment for chasing some off-limits wood nymph.
Next to him, where Chiron usually sat (or stood, in centaur form), was someone I'd never seen
before—a pale, horribly thin man in a threadbare orange prisoner's jump-suit. The number over his
pocket read 0001. He had blue shadows under his eyes, dirty fingernails, and badly cut gray hair, like his
last haircut had been done with a weed whacker. He stared at me; his eyes made me nervous. He looked
... fractured. Angry and frustrated and hungry all at the same time.
"This boy," Dionysus told him, "you need to watch. Poseidon's child, you know."
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"Ah!" the prisoner said. "That one."
His tone made it obvious that he and Dionysus had already discussed me at length.
"I am Tantalus," the prisoner said, smiling coldly. "On special assignment here until, well, until my Lord
Dionysus decides otherwise. And you, Perseus Jackson, I do expect you to refrain from causing any
more trouble."
"Trouble?" I demanded.
Dionysus snapped his fingers. A newspaper appeared on the table—the front page of today'sNew York
Post, There was my yearbook picture from Meriwether Prep. It was hard for me to make out the
headline, but I had a pretty good guess what it said. Something like:Thirteen-Year-Old Lunatic Torches
Gymnasium.
"Yes, trouble," Tantalus said with satisfaction. "You caused plenty of it last summer, I understand."
I was too mad to speak. Like it was my fault the gods had almost gotten into a civil war?
A satyr inched forward nervously and set a plate of bar-becue in front of Tantalus. The new activities
director licked his lips. He looked at his empty goblet and said, "Root beer. Barq's special stock. 1967."
The glass filled itself with foamy soda. Tantalus stretched out his hand hesitantly, as if he were afraid the
goblet was hot.
"Go on, then, old fellow," Dionysus said, a strange sparkle in his eyes. "Perhaps now it will work."
Tantalus grabbed for the glass, but it scooted away before he could touch it. A few drops of root beer
spilled, and Tantalus tried to dab them up with his fingers, but the drops rolled away like quicksilver
before he could touch them. He growled and turned toward the plate of barbecue. He picked up a fork
and tried to stab a piece of brisket, but the plate skittered down the table and f lew off the end, straight
into the coals of the brazier.
"Blast!" Tantalus muttered.
"Ah, well," Dionysus said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Perhaps a few more days. Believe me,
old chap, working at this camp will be torture enough. I'm sure your old curse will fade eventually."
"Eventually," muttered Tantalus, staring at Dionysus's Diet Coke. "Do you have any idea how dry one's
throat gets after three thousand years?"
"You're that spirit from the Fields of Punishment," I said. "The one who stands in the lake with the fruit
tree hanging over you, but you can't eat or drink."
Tantalus sneered at me. "A real scholar, aren't you, boy?"
"You must've done something really horrible when you were alive," I said, mildly impressed. "What was
it?"
Tantalus's eyes narrowed. Behind him, the satyrs were shaking their heads vigorously, trying to warn me.
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"I'll be watching you, Percy Jackson," Tantalus said. "I don't want any problems at my camp."
" Your camp has problems already ... sir."
"Oh, go sit down, Johnson," Dionysus sighed. "I believe that table over there is yours—the one where no
one else ever wants to sit."
My face was burning, but I knew better than to talk back. Dionysus was an overgrown brat, but he was
an immortal, superpowerful overgrown brat. I said, "Come on, Tyson."
"Oh, no," Tantalus said. "The monster stays here. We must decide what to do with it."
"Him,"I snapped. "His name is Tyson."
The new activities director raised an eyebrow.
"Tyson saved the camp," I insisted. "He pounded those bronze bulls. Otherwise they would've burned
down this whole place."
"Yes," Tantalus sighed, "and what a pity that would've been."
Dionysus snickered.
"Leave us," Tantalus ordered, "while we decide this crea-ture's fate."
Tyson looked at me with fear in his one big eye, but I knew I couldn't disobey a direct order from the
camp direc-tors. Not openly, anyway.
"I'll be right over here, big guy," I promised. "Don't worry. We'll find you a good place to sleep tonight."
Tyson nodded. "I believe you. You are my friend."
Which made me feel a whole lot guiltier.
I trudged over to the Poseidon table and slumped onto the bench. A wood nymph brought me a plate of
Olympian olive-and-pepperoni pizza, but I wasn't hungry. I'd been almost killed twice today. I'd
managed to end my school year with a complete disaster. Camp Half-Blood was in serious trouble and
Chiron had told me not to do anything about it.
I didn't feel very thankful, but I took my dinner, as was customary, up to the bronze brazier and scraped
part of it into the flames.
"Poseidon," I murmured, "accept my offering."
And send me some help while you're at it, I prayed silently.Please.
The smoke from the burning pizza changed into some-thing fragrant—the smell of a clean sea breeze
with wild-flowers mixed in—but I had no idea if that meant my father was really listening.
I went back to my seat. I didn't think things could get much worse. But then Tantalus had one of the
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satyrs blow the conch horn to get our attention for announcements.
"Yes, well," Tantalus said, once the talking had died down. "Another fine meal! Or so I am told." As he
spoke, he inched his hand toward his refilled dinner plate, as if maybe the food wouldn't notice what he
was doing, but it did. It shot away down the table as soon as he got within six inches.
"And here on my first day of authority," he continued, "I'd like to say what a pleasant form of punishment
it is to be here. Over the course of the summer, I hope to torture, er, interact with each and every one of
you children. You all look good enough to eat."
Dionysus clapped politely, leading to some halfhearted applause from the satyrs. Tyson was still standing
at the head table, looking uncomfortable, but every time he tried to scoot out of the limelight, Tantalus
pulled him back.
"And now some changes!" Tantalus gave the campers a crooked smile. "We are reinstituting the chariot
races!"
Murmuring broke out at all the tables—excitement, fear, disbelief.
"Now I know," Tantalus continued, raising his voice, "that these races were discontinued some years ago
due to, ah, technical problems."
"Three deaths and twenty-six mutilations," someone at the Apollo table called.
"Yes, yes!" Tantalus said. "But I know that you will all join me in welcoming the return of this camp
tradition. Golden laurels will go to the winning charioteers each month. Teams may register in the
morning! The first race will be held in three days time. We will release you from most of your regular
activities to prepare your chariots and choose your horses. Oh, and did I mention, the victorious team's
cabin will have no chores for the month in which they win?"
An explosion of excited conversation—no KP for a whole month? No stable cleaning? Was he serious?
Then the last person I expected to object did so.
"But, sir!" Clarisse said. She looked nervous, but she stood up to speak from the Ares table. Some of
the campers snickered when they saw the YOU MOO, GIRL! sign on her back. "What about patrol
duty? I mean, if we drop every-thing to ready our chariots—"
"Ah, the hero of the day," Tantalus exclaimed. "Brave Clarisse, who single-handedly bested the bronze
bulls!"
Clarisse blinked, then blushed. "Um, I didn't—"
"And modest, too." Tantalus grinned. "Not to worry, my dear! This is a summer camp. We are here to
enjoy our-selves, yes?"
"But the tree—"
"And now," Tantalus said, as several of Clarisse's cabin mates pulled her back into her seat, "before we
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proceed to the campfire and sing-along, one slight housekeeping issue. Percy Jackson and Annabeth
Chase have seen fit, for some reason, to bringthis here." Tantalus waved a hand toward Tyson.
Uneasy murmuring spread among the campers. A lot of sideways looks at me. I wanted to kill Tantalus.
"Now, of course," he said, "Cyclopes have a reputation for being bloodthirsty monsters with a very small
brain capacity. Under normal circumstances, I would release this beast into the woods and have you hunt
it down with torches and pointed sticks. But who knows? Perhaps this Cyclops is not as horrible as most
of its brethren. Until it proves worthy of destruction, we need a place to keep it! I've thought about the
stables, but that will make the horses nervous. Hermes's cabin, possibly?"
Silence at the Hermes table. Travis and Connor Stoll developed a sudden interest in the tablecloth. I
couldn't blame them. The Hermes cabin was always full to bursting. There was no way they could take in
a six-foot-three Cyclops.
"Come now," Tantalus chided. "The monster may be able to do some menial chores. Any suggestions as
to where such a beast should be kenneled?"
Suddenly everybody gasped.
Tantalus scooted away from Tyson in surprise. All I could do was stare in disbelief at the brilliant green
light that was about to change my life—a dazzling holographic image that had appeared above Tyson's
head.
With a sickening twist in my stomach, I remembered what Annabeth had said about Cyclopes, They're
the children of nature spirits and gods ... Well, one god in particular, usually …
Swirling over Tyson was a glowing green trident—the same symbol that had appeared above me the
day Poseidon had claimed me as his son.
There was a moment of awed silence.
Being claimed was a rare event. Some campers waited in vain for it their whole lives. When I'd been
claimed by Poseidon last summer, everyone had reverently knelt. But now, they followed Tantalus's lead,
and Tantalus roared with laughter. "Well! I think we know where to put the beast now. By the gods, I
can see the family resemblance!"
Everybody laughed except Annabeth and a few of my other friends.
Tyson didn't seem to notice. He was too mystified, try-ing to swat the glowing trident that was now
fading over his head. He was too innocent to understand how much they were making fun of him, how
cruel people were.
But I got it.
I had a new cabin mate. I had a monster for a half-brother.
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