Forgotten memories

Grover's Fate

Chiron said we needed to hurry, so I let him scoop Percy and me up onto his back. With a burst of speed, we galloped past the cabins, hooves pounding the dirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the dining hall—an open-air Greek pavilion perched on the hill, sunlight spilling over its marble columns, the sea glittering in the distance.

Chiron didn't slow down. He plunged straight into the woods, weaving between ancient oaks and whispering pines. Nymphs peeked from behind the trunks as we flew past. Every now and then, the undergrowth rustled with the shapes of monsters—creatures stocked in the forest as training challenges for campers who wanted to test their bravery.

I thought I knew the forest pretty well. After countless games of capture the flag and training sessions with Christine, I'd learned most of its paths. But Chiron took us somewhere I'd never been—through a tunnel of old willow trees, past a thin waterfall spilling into a mossy pool, until the trees opened into a glade carpeted with wildflowers.

In the center of the glade, a circle of satyrs sat cross-legged in the grass. Grover stood in the middle, fidgeting under the gaze of three extremely old, extremely round satyrs perched on thrones shaped out of living rose bushes. I'd never seen them before, but the way they were positioned—front and center, with expressions of smug authority—told me they had to be the Council of Cloven Elders.

Grover was in the middle of explaining something, twisting the hem of his faded blue T-shirt as his hooves shifted in the grass. He hadn't changed much since last winter—maybe satyrs aged slower—but his acne was worse, and his horns had grown just enough to peek out from his curly hair.

Off to the side of the circle stood Annabeth, Christine, Clarisse, and another girl I didn't recognize. Chiron dropped us off beside them.

Clarisse's brown hair was tied back in a camouflage bandanna, her arms looking even more like they'd been carved out of granite since the last time I saw her. She gave Percy a glare and muttered, "Punk," which, coming from her, probably meant she was in a good mood. Christine gave me a small wave.

Annabeth had her arm around the unfamiliar girl, who looked like she'd been crying. She was petite, with wispy amber-colored hair and an elfin face. A green chiton hung loosely on her frame, her laced sandals barely moving as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

"It's going terribly," she sniffled.

"No, no," Annabeth reassured her, patting her shoulder. "He'll be fine, Juniper."

Annabeth caught my eye, then Percy's, and mouthed something that looked suspiciously like Grover's girlfriend. That didn't make sense—until I took a closer look. Juniper's ears were faintly pointed, and her eyes, though red from crying, held a green tint like fresh spring leaves. A dryad.

"Master Underwood!" the council member on the right snapped, cutting off Grover mid-sentence. His voice had that deep, self-important tone people use when they're about to insult you and call it "official business."

"B-but Silenus," Grover stammered. "It's the truth!"

The satyr named Silenus muttered to his colleagues. Chiron trotted forward to stand beside them—he was an honorary council member, though I'd never given it much thought before.

The elders didn't exactly radiate "wise leadership." They reminded me more of overfed petting zoo goats—big bellies, sleepy eyes, and attention spans that stopped at the next snack. I had no idea why Grover seemed so nervous.

Silenus tugged at his yellow polo, adjusting himself on his rosebush throne. "Master Underwood, for six months—six months—we have endured your claims that you spoke with the wild god Pan."