Chapter 69
"It's time you guys consulted the Oracle," Chiron said.
"Go upstairs, Percy Jackson, James Jackson, to the attic. When you guys come back down, assuming you're both still sane, we will talk more."
Four flights up, the stairs ended under a green trapdoor.
We pulled the cord. The door swung down, and a wooden ladder clattered into place.
The warm air from above smelled like mildew and rotten wood and something else . . . a smell we remembered from biology class. Reptiles. The smell of snakes.
We held our breath and climbed.
The attic was filled with Greek hero junk: armor stands covered in cobwebs; once-bright shields pitted with rust; old leather steamer trunks plastered with stickers saying ITHAKA, CIRCE'S ISLE, and LAND OF THE AMAZONS. One long table was stacked with glass jars filled with pickled things—severed hairy claws, huge yellow eyes, various other parts of monsters. A dusty mounted trophy on the wall looked like a giant snake's head, but with horns and a full set of shark's teeth. The plaque read, HYDRA HEAD #1, WOODSTOCK, N.Y., 1969.
By the window, sitting on a wooden tripod stool, was the most gruesome memento of all: a mummy Not the wrapped-in-cloth kind, but a human female body shriveled to a husk. She wore a tie-dyed sundress, lots of beaded necklaces, and a headband over long black hair. The skin of her face was thin and leathery over her skull, and her eyes were glassy white slits, as if the real eyes had been replaced by marbles; she'd been dead a long, long time.
Looking at her sent chills up our backs. And that was before she sat up on her stool and opened her mouth. A green mist poured from the mummy's mouth, coiling over the floor in thick tendrils, hissing like twenty thousand snakes. We stumbled over ourselves trying to get to the trapdoor, but it slammed shut. Inside our heads, we heard a voice, slithering into our ears and coiling around our brains: I am the spirit of Delphi, speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python. Approach, seekers, and ask.
We wanted to say, No thanks, wrong door, just looking for the bathroom. But we forced ourselves to take a deep breath.
We got up the courage to ask, "What is our destiny?"
The mist swirled more thickly, collecting right in front of us and around the table with the pickled monster-parts jars. Suddenly there were four men sitting around the table, playing cards. Their faces became clearer. It was Smelly Gabe and his buddies.
Our fists clenched, though we knew this poker party couldn't be real. It was an illusion, made out of the mist.
Gabe turned toward us and spoke in the rasping voice of the Oracle: You shall go west, and face the god who has turned.
His buddy on the right looked up and said in the same voice: You shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned.
The guy on the left threw in two poker chips, then said: You shall be betrayed by one who calls you guys a friend.
The figures began to dissolve. At first we were too stunned to say anything, but as the mist retreated, coiling into a huge green serpent and slithering back into the mouth of the mummy, We cried, "Wait! What do you mean? What friend?
The tail of the mist snake disappeared into the mummy's mouth. She reclined back against the wall. Her mouth closed tight, as if it hadn't been open in a hundred years. The attic was silent again, abandoned, nothing but a room full of mementos.
We got the feeling that We could stand here until We had cobwebs, too, and We wouldn't learn anything else.
Our audience with the Oracle was over.