Now I’m a suitcase
Duct-taped to a satyr’s back. Worst. Morning. Ever.
‘Stop!’ Grover yelped. ‘We come in peace!’
The bird was not impressed. It attacked, only missing the satyr’s face because Meg lashed out with her scimitars. The strix veered, pirouetting between her blades, and landed unscathed a little higher up the spiral ramp.
SCREE! the strix yelled, ruffling its feathers.
‘What do you mean “you need to kill us”?’ Grover asked. Meg scowled. ‘You can talk to it?’
‘Well, yes,’ Grover said. ‘It’s an animal.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us what it was saying before now?’ Meg asked. ‘Because it was just yelling scree!’ Grover said. ‘Now it’s saying scree as
in, it needs to kill us.’
I tried to move my legs. They seemed to have turned into sacks of cement, which I found vaguely amusing. I could still move my arms and had some feeling in my chest, but I wasn’t sure how long that would last.
‘Perhaps ask the strix why it needs to kill us?’ I suggested. ‘Scree!’ Grover said.
I was getting tired of the strix language. The bird replied in a series of squawks and clicks.
Meanwhile, out in the corridor, the other strixes shrieked and bashed against the net of plants. Black talons and gold beaks poked out, snapping tomatoes into pico de gallo. I figured we had a few minutes at most until the birds burst through and killed us all, but their razor-sharp beaks sure were cute!
Grover wrung his hands. ‘The strix says he’s been sent to drink our blood, eat our flesh and disembowel us, not necessarily in that order. He says he’s
sorry, but it’s a direct command from the emperor.’ ‘Stupid emperors,’ Meg grumbled. ‘Which one?’
‘I don’t know,’ Grover said. ‘The strix just calls him Scree.’
‘You can translate disembowel,’ she noted, ‘but you can’t translate the emperor’s name?’
Personally, I was okay with that. Since leaving Indianapolis, I’d spent a lot of time mulling over the Dark Prophecy we had received in the Cave of Trophonius. We had already encountered Nero and Commodus, and I had a dreadful suspicion about the identity of the third emperor, whom we had yet to meet. At the moment, I didn’t want confirmation. The euphoria of the strix venom was starting to dissipate. I was about to be eaten alive by a bloodsucking mega-owl. I didn’t need any more reasons to weep in despair.
The strix dived at Meg. She dodged aside, whacking the flat of her blade against the bird’s tail feathers as it rushed past, sending the unfortunate bird into the opposite wall, where it smacked face-first into the brick, exploding in a cloud of monster dust and feathers.
‘Meg!’ I said. ‘I told you not to kill it! You’ll get cursed!’ ‘I didn’t kill it. It committed suicide against that wall.’
‘I don’t think the Fates will see it that way.’ ‘Then let’s not tell them.’
‘Guys?’ Grover pointed to the tomato plants, which were rapidly thinning under the onslaught of claws and beaks. ‘If we can’t kill the strixes, maybe we should strengthen this barrier?’
He raised his pipes and played. Meg turned her swords back into rings. She stretched her hands towards the tomato plants. The stems thickened and the roots struggled to take hold in the stone floor, but it was a losing battle. Too many strixes were now battering the other side, ripping through the new growth as fast as it emerged.
‘No good.’ Meg stumbled back, her face beaded with sweat. ‘Only so much we can do without soil and sunlight.’
‘You’re right.’ Grover looked above us, his eyes following the spiral ramp up into the gloom. ‘We’re nearly home. If we can just get to the top before the strixes get through –’
‘So we climb,’ Meg announced.
‘Hello?’ I said miserably. ‘Paralysed former god here.’ Grover grimaced at Meg. ‘Duct tape?’
‘Duct tape,’ she agreed.
May the gods defend me from heroes with duct tape. And heroes always seem to have duct tape. Meg produced a roll from a pouch on her gardening belt. She propped me into a sitting position, back-to-back with Grover, then proceeded to loop tape under our armpits, binding me to the satyr as if I were a hiking pack.
With Meg’s help, Grover staggered to his feet, jostling me around so I got random views of the walls, the floor, Meg’s face and my own paralysed legs manspreading beneath me.
‘Uh, Grover?’ I asked. ‘Will you have enough strength to carry me all the way up?’
‘Satyrs are great climbers,’ he wheezed.
He started up the narrow ramp, my paralysed feet dragging behind us. Meg followed, glancing back every so often at the rapidly deteriorating tomato plants.
‘Apollo,’ she said, ‘tell me about strixes.’
I sifted through my brain, panning for useful nuggets among the sludge. ‘They … they are birds of ill omen,’ I said. ‘When they show up, bad
things happen.’
‘Duh,’ said Meg. ‘What else?’
‘Er, they usually feed on the young and weak. Babies, old people, paralysed gods … that sort of thing. They breed in the upper reaches of Tartarus. I’m only speculating here, but I’m pretty sure they don’t make good pets.’
‘How do we drive them off?’ she said. ‘If we can’t kill them, how do we stop them?’
‘I – I don’t know.’
Meg sighed in frustration. ‘Talk to the Arrow of Dodona. See if it knows anything. I’m going to try buying us some time.’
She jogged back down the ramp.
Talking to the arrow was just about the only way my day could get worse, but I was under orders, and when Meg commanded me I could not disobey. I reached over my shoulder, groped through my quiver and pulled forth the magic missile.
‘Hello, Wise and Powerful Arrow,’ I said. (Always best to start with flattery.)
TOOKEST THEE LONG ENOUGH, intoned the arrow. FOR FORTNIGHTS UNTOLD HAVE I TRIED TO SPEAK WITH THEE.
‘It’s been about forty-eight hours,’ I said.
VERILY, TIME DOTH CREEP WHEN ONE IS QUIVERED. THOU SHOULDST TRY IT AND SEEST HOW THOU LIKEST IT.
‘Right.’ I resisted the urge to snap the arrow’s shaft. ‘What can you tell me about strixes?’
I MUST SPEAK TO THEE ABOUT – HOLD THE PHONE. STRIXES?
WHEREFORE TALKEST TO ME OF THOSE?
‘Because they are about to killeth – to kill us.’
FIE! groaned the arrow. THOU SHOULDST AVOID SUCH DANGERS!
‘I would never have thought of that,’ I said. ‘Do you have any strix-pertinent information or not, O Wise Projectile?’
The arrow buzzed, no doubt trying to access Wikipedia. It denies using the Internet. Perhaps, then, it’s just a coincidence the arrow is always more helpful when we are in an area with free Wi-Fi.
Grover valiantly lugged my sorry mortal body up the ramp. He huffed and gasped, staggering dangerously close to the edge. The floor of the room was now fifty feet below us – just far enough for a nice, lethal fall. I could see Meg down there pacing, muttering to herself and shaking out more packets of gardening seeds.
Above, the ramp seemed to spiral forever. Whatever waited for us at the top, assuming there was a top, remained lost in the darkness. I found it very inconsiderate that the Labyrinth did not provide an elevator, or at least a proper handrail. How were heroes with accessibility needs supposed to enjoy this death trap?
At last the Arrow of Dodona delivered its verdict: STRIXES ART DANGEROUS.
‘Once again,’ I said, ‘your wisdom brings light to the darkness.’
SHUT THEE UP, the arrow continued. THE BIRDS CAN BE SLAIN, THOUGH THIS SHALT CURSE THE SLAYER AND CAUSETH MORE STRIXES TO APPEARETH.
‘Yes, yes. What else?’
‘What’s it saying?’ Grover asked between gasps.
Among its many irritating qualities, the arrow spoke solely in my mind, so not only did I look like a crazy person when I conversed with it but I had to constantly report its ramblings to my friends.
‘It’s still searching Google,’ I told Grover. ‘Perhaps, O Arrow, you could do a Boolean search, “strix plus defeat”.’
I USE NOT SUCH CHEATS! the arrow thundered. Then it was silent long enough to type strix + defeat.
THE BIRDS MAY BE REPELLED WITH PIG ENTRAILS, it reported.
HAST THOU ANY?
‘Grover,’ I called over my shoulder, ‘would you happen to have any pig entrails?’
‘What?’ He turned, which was not an effective way of facing me, since I was duct-taped to his back. He almost scraped my nose off on the brick wall. ‘Why would I carry pig entrails? I’m a vegetarian!’
Meg clambered up the ramp to join us.
‘The birds are almost through,’ she reported. ‘I tried different kinds of plants. I tried to summon Peaches …’ Her voice broke with despair.
Since entering the Labyrinth, she had been unable to summon her peach-spirit minion, who was handy in a fight but rather picky about when and where he showed up. I supposed that, much like tomato plants, Peaches didn’t do well underground.
‘Arrow of Dodona, what else?’ I shouted at its point. ‘There has to be
something besides pig intestines that will keep strixes at bay!’
WAIT, the arrow said. HARK! IT APPEARETH THAT ARBUTUS SHALL SERVE.
‘Our-butt-us shall what?’ I demanded. Too late.
Below us, with a peal of bloodthirsty shrieks, the strixes broke through the tomato barricade and swarmed into the room.
