Chapter 61
The next few days settled into a rhythm that was almost comforting, a strange new normal where our teachers had hooves, horns, or leaves for hair. Each morning, Annabeth drilled us in Ancient Greek, speaking of gods and goddesses in the present tense with a casual certainty that made my head spin. The rest of the day was a rotating gauntlet of outdoor activities, a desperate search for something—anything—I was good at.
Archery was the first disaster. Chiron, with infinite patience, guided my hands on the bow. My arrows either thudded into the grass five feet ahead or sailed wildly over the target, earning snickers from the Apollo cabin. James, however, stepped up and made the bow sing. His movements were a fluid, unhurried blur: nock, draw, release. *Thwip. Thud.* Bullseye. Again and again. He wasn't just good; he was unnaturally precise, as if the arrows were drawn to the center by his will alone.
Foot racing was next. A dryad with bark-like skin and laughter like rustling leaves easily left me gasping in her dust. "Do not despair, Percy," she said kindly. "I have had three hundred years of practice fleeing amorous river gods." James, meanwhile, ran with a speed that seemed to bend the air. He didn't just beat the nymphs; he made it look effortless, a lazy sprint that ended with him waiting at the finish line, barely winded. Being slower than a tree, as it turned out, was profoundly humbling.
Then came wrestling. The moment I stepped onto the mat, Clarisse from the Ares cabin was on me, her grin predatory. I was a ragdoll in her hands, slammed into the mat until I saw stars. "There's more where that came from, punk," she'd growl in my ear, her breath smelling of spearmint and malice.
James watched this with a calm that was more terrifying than anger. When it was his turn, he didn't wrestle Clarisse; he dismantled her. In three swift, efficient motions, he had her pinned, her own arm bent behind her back. He leaned down, his voice a low, icy whisper only she could hear. "Stop messing with my little brother," he said, each word measured and clear, "or I will *fuck* you up." The casual venom in his tone made even the surrounding Ares campers fall silent. Clarisse's sneer vanished, replaced by a flicker of genuine fear. James released her and offered a hand up, his expression unreadable. She ignored it, stalking off the mat.
The only thing that felt right, the only thing that was *mine*, was canoeing. On the water, the world made sense. The canoe obeyed my slightest shift in weight, cutting through the waves of the canoe lake with a grace I found nowhere else. For those brief moments, I wasn't a clumsy outsider. I was at peace.
We knew we were being watched. The counselors and senior campers huddled, casting speculative glances our way during meals and campfires. Percy Jackson? Not strong like an Ares kid. A terrible shot, unlike the children of Apollo. No affinity for forge or flame to claim Hephaestus. But James… James was an enigma. He was a prodigy with a bow, faster than the nymphs, strong enough to humble Clarisse. He had a clever mind for strategy during capture the flag and a steady hand that could mend a broken strap as well as any Hephaestus kid.
Luke, our counselor, tried to be encouraging. "You might be a child of Hermes, Percy," he said one evening, clapping me on the shoulder. "A jack-of-all-trades. It can take time to show." But I saw the confusion in his eyes when he looked at James. Hermes' children were versatile, yes, but they weren't masters. James wasn't a jack-of-all-trades; he was a champion in every arena he entered. Luke didn't know what to make of him either.
Despite the mystery and the frustration, camp grew on us. We learned to love the chill of the morning fog over the beach, the dizzying sweetness of the strawberry fields at high noon, and even the distant, eerie cries from the forest after dark. Each night, we sat with the Hermes cabin, scraping part of our dinner into the central fire as an offering. I'd close my eyes and try to feel a connection, a sign, anything. Nothing came. Just that old, familiar warmth in my gut, like the ghost of a smile I could barely remember.
Watching Luke, seeing the quiet resentment that hardened his eyes when talk turned to the gods, I started to understand. So the gods were busy. They had wars and tides and destinies to manage. But Dionysus, our camp director, could conjure a Diet Coke from empty air with a sigh. Was it too much to ask for a celestial voicemail? A thunderous "Hey, kid"? Anything?
The question hung in the air, unanswered, as the flames consumed our offerings, sending our silent pleas up in smoke. Whoever our father was, he was in no hurry to claim us. And while that stung, having James beside me—a brother who was a mystery even to this place of myths—made the waiting a little less lonely.