Falling Roses || Apollo [1]

☆꧁Chapter 33꧂☆

APOLLO

Parting is sorrow
Nothing about it is sweet
Don't step on my face

THE TREES WERE using their inside voices.
As I stepped through the gateway, I realized they were still talking in conversational tones,
babbling nonsensically like sleepwalkers at a cocktail party.
I scanned the grove. No sign of Meg. I called her name. The trees responded by raising their
voices, driving me cross-eyed with dizziness.
I steadied myself on the nearest oak.
"Watch it, man," the tree said.
I lurched forward, the trees trading bits of verse as if playing a game of rhymes:
Caves of blue.
Strike the hue.
Westward, burning.
Pages turning.
Indiana.
Ripe banana.
Happiness approaches.
Serpents and roaches.
None of it made sense, but each line carried the weight of prophecy. I felt as if dozens of important
statements, each vital to my survival, were being blended together, loaded in a shotgun, and fired at
my face.
(Oh, that's a rather good image. I'll have to use it in a haiku.)
"Meg!" I called again.
Still no reply. The grove did not seem so large. How could she not hear me? How could I not see
her?
I slogged along, humming a perfect A 440 hertz tone to keep myself focused. When I reached the
second ring of trees, the oaks became more conversational.
"Hey, buddy, got a quarter?" one asked.
Another tried to tell me a joke about a penguin and a nun walking into a Shake Shack.
A third oak was giving its neighbor an infomercial sales pitch about a food processor. "And you
won't believe what it does with pasta!"
"Wow!" said the other tree. "It makes pasta, too?"
"Fresh linguine in minutes!" the sales oak enthused.
I did not understand why an oak tree would want linguine, but I kept moving. I was afraid that if I
listened too long, I would order the food processor for three easy installments of $39.99, and my
sanity would be lost forever.
Finally, I reached the center of the grove. On the far side of the largest oak tree, Meg stood with
her back to the trunk, her eyes closed tight. The wind chimes were still in her hand, but they hung
forgotten at her side. The brass cylinders clanked, muted against her dress.
At her feet, Peaches rocked back and forth, giggling. "Apples? Peaches! Mangoes? Peaches!"
"Meg." I touched her shoulder.
She flinched. She focused on me as if I were a clever optical illusion. Her eyes simmered with
fear. "It's too much," she said. "Too much."
The voices had her in their grip. It was bad enough for me to endure—like a hundred radio
stations playing at once, forcibly splitting my brain into different channels. But I was used to
prophecies. Meg, on the other hand, was a daughter of Demeter. The trees liked her. They were all
trying to share with her, to get her attention at the same time. Soon they would permanently fracture
her mind.
"The wind chimes," I said. "Hang them in the tree!"
I pointed to the lowest branch, well above our heads. Alone, neither of us could reach it, but if I
gave Meg a boost...
Meg backed away, shaking her head. The voices of Dodona were so chaotic I wasn't sure she had
heard me. If she had, she either didn't understand or didn't trust me.
I had to tamp down my feelings of betrayal. Meg was Nero's stepdaughter. She had been sent to
lure me here, and our whole friendship was a lie. She had no right to mistrust me.
But I could not stay bitter. If I blamed her for the way Nero had twisted her emotions, I was no
better than the Beast. Also, just because she had lied about being my friend did not mean I wasn't hers.
She was in danger. I was not going to leave her to the madness of the grove's penguin jokes.
I crouched and laced my fingers to make a foothold. "Please."
To my left, Peaches rolled onto his back and wailed, "Linguine? Peaches!"
Meg grimaced. I could see from her eyes that she was deciding to cooperate with me—not
because she trusted me, but because Peaches was suffering.
Just when I thought my feelings could not be hurt any worse. It was one thing to be betrayed. It was
another thing to be considered less important than a diapered fruit spirit.
Nevertheless, I remained steady as Meg placed her left foot in my hands. With all my remaining
strength, I hoisted her up. She stepped onto my shoulders, then planted one red sneaker on top of my
head. I made a mental note to put a safety label on my scalp: WARNING, TOP STEP IS NOT FOR STANDING.
With my back against the oak, I could feel the voices of the grove coursing up its trunk and
drumming through its bark. The central tree seemed to be one giant antenna for crazy talk.
My knees were about to buckle. Meg's treads were grinding into my forehead. The A 440 I had
been humming rapidly deflated to a G sharp.
Finally, Meg tied the wind chimes to the branch. She jumped down as my legs collapsed, and we
both ended up sprawled in the dirt.
The brass chimes swayed and clanged, picking notes out of the wind and making chords from the
dissonance.
The grove hushed, as if the trees were listening and thinking, Oooh, pretty.
Then the ground trembled. The central oak shook with such energy, it rained acorns.
Meg got to her feet. She approached the tree and touched its trunk.
"Speak," she commanded.
A single voice boomed forth from the wind chimes, like a cheerleader screaming through a
megaphone:
There once was a god named Apollo
Who plunged in a cave blue and hollow
Upon a three-seater
The bronze fire-eater
Was forced death and madness to swallow
The wind chimes stilled. The grove settled into tranquility, as if satisfied with the death sentence it
had given me.
Oh, the horror!
A sonnet I could have handled. A quatrain would have been cause for celebration. But only the
deadliest prophecies are couched in the form of a limerick.
I stared at the wind chimes, hoping they would speak again and correct themselves. Oops, our
mistake! That prophecy was for a different Apollo!
But my luck was not that good. I had been handed an edict worse than a thousand advertisements
for pasta makers.
Peaches rose. He shook his head and hissed at the oak tree, which expressed my own sentiments
perfectly. He hugged Meg's calf as if she were the only thing keeping him from falling off the world.
The scene was almost sweet, except for the karpos's fangs and glowing eyes.
Meg regarded me warily. The lenses of her glasses were spiderwebbed with cracks.
"That prophecy," she said. "Did you understand it?"
I swallowed a mouthful of soot. "Perhaps. Some of it. We'll need to talk to Rachel—"
"There's no more we." Meg's tone was as acrid as the volcanic gas of Delphi. "Do what you need
to do. That's my final order."
This hit me like a spear shaft to the chin, despite the fact that she had lied to me and betrayed me.
"Meg, you can't." I couldn't keep the shakiness out of my voice. "You claimed my service. Until
my trials are over—"
"I release you."
"No!" I could not stand the idea of being abandoned. Not again. Not by this ragamuffin Dumpster
queen whom I'd learned to care about so much. "You can't possibly believe in Nero now. You heard
him explain his plans. He means to level this entire island! You saw what he tried to do to his
hostages."
"He—he wouldn't have let them burn. He promised. He held back. You saw it. That wasn't the
Beast."
My rib cage felt like an over-tightened harp. "Meg...Nero is the Beast. He killed your father."
"No! Nero is my stepfather. My dad...my dad unleashed the Beast. He made it angry."
"Meg—"
"Stop!" She covered her ears. "You don't know him. Nero is good to me. I can talk to him. I can
make it okay."
"Nero killed Rosalie!"
Meg frowned for a moment. "Who?"
"Acacia," I stifled a sob. "She's gone, and because of Nero!"
"He didn't! He wouldn't... Nero's not bad!"
Her denial was so complete, so irrational, I realized there was no way I could argue with her. She
reminded me painfully of myself when I fell to earth—how I had refused to accept my new reality.
Without Meg's help, I would've gotten myself killed. Now our roles were reversed.
I edged toward her, but Peaches's snarl stopped me in my tracks.
Meg backed away. "We're done."
"We can't be," I said. "We're bound, whether you like it or not."
It occurred to me that she'd said the exact same thing to me only a few days before.
She gave me one last look through her cracked lenses. I would have given anything for her to
blow a raspberry. I wanted to walk the streets of Manhattan with her doing cartwheels in the
intersections. I missed hobbling with her through the Labyrinth, our legs tied together. I would've
settled for a good garbage fight in an alley. Instead, she turned and fled, with Peaches at her heels. It
seemed to me that they dissolved into the trees, just the way Daphne had done long ago.
Above my head, a breeze made the wind chimes jingle. This time, no voices came from the trees. I
didn't know how long Dodona would remain silent, but I didn't want to be here if the oaks decided to
start telling jokes again.
I turned and saw something strange at my feet: an arrow with an oak shaft and green fletching.
There shouldn't have been an arrow. I hadn't brought any into the grove. But in my dazed state, I
didn't question this. I did what any archer would do: I retrieved it, and returned it to my quiver,
thinking of the scolding I would have gotten for touching random things from Rosalie. But I knew I
would never, ever, hear her voice again.