Deadly Waters | Percy Jackson

8. A Revelation of Epic Proportions

The next few days Percy settled into a routine that felt almost normal, if he didn't count the fact that he was getting lessons from satyrs, nymphs, and a centaur, and that he was meeting up with Pez to exchange information every night after everyone fell asleep.

Each morning he took Ancient Greek from Annabeth, and they talked about the gods and goddesses in the present tense, which was kind of weird. He discovered Annabeth was right about his dyslexia: Ancient Greek wasn't that hard for him to read. At least, no harder than English. After a couple of mornings, he could stumble through a few lines of Homer without too much headache.

He shared the revelation with Pez.

Naturally, she chose to investigate that for herself.

The rest of the day, Percy'd rotate through outdoor activities, looking for something he was good at. Chiron tried to teach him archery, but they found out pretty quick he wasn't any good with a bow and arrow. He didn't complain, even when he had to de-snag a stray arrow out of his tail.

Pez had laughed long and hard about that – during the day in the shadows and at night on the beach.

Foot racing? No good either. The wood-nymph instructors left him in the dust. They told Percy not to worry about it. They'd had centuries of practice running away from lovesick gods. But still, it was a little humiliating to be slower than a tree.

And wrestling? Forget it. Every time he got on the mat, Clarisse would pulverize him.

"There's more where that came from, punk," she'd mumble in his ear.

He had to stop Pez from razing the Ares cabin to the ground.

The only thing he really excelled at was canoeing, and that wasn't the kind of heroic skill people expected to see from the kid who had beaten the Minotaur.

Percy knew the senior campers and counsellors were watching him, trying to decide who his dad was, but they weren't having an easy time of it – something Pez was taking great pleasure in relaying to Percy, alone with their theories. He wasn't as strong as the Ares kids, or as good at archery as the Apollo kids. He didn't have Hephaestus's skill with metalwork or – gods forbid – Dionysus's way with vine plants. Luke told him he might be a child of Hermes, a kind of jack-of-all-trades, master of none. But Percy got the feeling he was just trying to make him feel better. The older boy really didn't know what to make of him either.

Despite all that, Percy came to like camp. He got used to the morning fog over the beach, the smell of hot strawberry fields in the afternoon, even the weird noises of monsters in the woods at night. He would eat dinner with cabin eleven, scrape part of his meal into the fire, and try to feel some connection to his real dad. Nothing came. Just that warm feeling he'd always had, like the memory of his smile. He tried not to think too much about his mum, but he kept wondering: if gods and monsters were real, if all this magical stuff was possible, surely there was some way to save her, to bring her back . . .

Percy started to understand Luke's bitterness and how he seemed to resent his father, Hermes. So okay, maybe gods had important things to do. But couldn't they call once in a while, or thunder, or something? Dionysus could make Diet Coke appear out of thin air. Why couldn't Percy's dad, who-ever he was, make a phone appear?

Thursday afternoon, three days after he'd arrived at Camp Half-Blood, he had his first sword-fighting lesson. Everybody from cabin eleven gathered in the big circular arena, where Luke would be their instructor.

They started with basic stabbing and slashing, using some straw-stuffed dummies in Greek armour. Percy guessed he did okay. At least, he understood what he was supposed to do and his reflexes were good.