Imagine the largest concert crowd you've ever seen, a foot- ball field packed with a million fans.
N o w imagine a field a million times that big, packed with people, and imagine the electricity has gone out, and there is no noise, no light, no beach ball bouncing around over the crowd. Something tragic has happened backstage. Whispering masses of people are just milling around in the shadows, waiting for a concert that will never start.
If you can picture that, you have a pretty good idea what the Fields of Asphodel looked like. The black grass had been trampled by eons of dead feet. A warm, moist wind blew like the breath of a swamp. Black trees—Grover told me they were poplars—grew in clumps here and there.
The cavern ceiling was so high above us it might've been a bank of storm clouds, except for the stalactites, which glowed faint gray and looked wickedly pointed. I tried not to imagine they'd fall on us at any moment, but dotted around the fields were several that had fallen and impaled themselves in the black grass. I guess the dead didn't have to worry about little hazards like being speared by stalactites the size of booster rockets.
Annabeth, Grover, and I tried to blend into the crowd,
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keeping an eye out for security ghouls. I couldn't help look- ing for familiar faces among the spirits of Asphodel, but the dead are hard to look at. Their faces shimmer. They all look slightly angry or confused. They will come up to you and speak, but their voices sound like chatter, like bats twitter- ing. Once they realize you can't understand them, they frown and move away.
T h e dead aren't scary. They're just sad.
We crept along, following the line of new arrivals that snaked from the main gates toward a black-tented pavilion with a banner that read:
JUDGMENTS FOR ELYSIUM AND ETERNAL DAMNATION Welcome, Newly Deceased!
Out the back of the tent came two much smaller lines.
To the left, spirits flanked by security ghouls were marched down a rocky path toward the Fields of Punish- ment, which glowed and smoked in the distance, a vast, cracked wasteland with rivers of lava and minefields and miles of barbed wire separating the different torture areas. Even from far away, I could see people being chased by hellhounds, burned at the stake, forced to run naked through cactus patches or listen to opera music. I could just make out a tiny hill, with the ant-size figure of Sisyphus struggling to move his boulder to the top. And I saw worse tortures, too—things I don't want to describe.
The line coming from the right side of the judgment pavilion was much better. This one led down toward a small valley surrounded by walls—a gated community, which
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seemed to be the only happy part of the Underworld. Beyond the security gate were neighborhoods of beautiful houses from every time period in history, Roman villas and medieval castles and Victorian mansions. Silver and gold flowers bloomed on the lawns. The grass rippled in rainbow colors. I could hear laughter and smell barbecue cooking.
Elysium.
In the middle of that valley was a glittering blue lake, with three small islands like a vacation resort in the Bahamas. The Isles of the Blest, for people who had chosen to be reborn three times, and three times achieved Elysium. Immediately I knew that's where I wanted to go when I died.
"That's what it's all about," Annabeth said, like she was reading my thoughts. "That's the place for heroes."
But I thought of how few people there were in Elysium, how tiny it was compared to the Fields of Asphodel or even the Fields of Punishment. So few people did good in their lives. It was depressing.
We left the judgment pavilion and moved deeper into the Asphodel Fields. It got darker. T h e colors faded from our clothes. T h e crowds of chattering spirits began to thin.
After a few miles of walking, we began to hear a famil- iar screech in the distance. Looming on the horizon was a palace of glittering black obsidian. Above the parapets swirled three dark batlike creatures: the Furies. I got the feeling they were waiting for us.
"I suppose it's too late to turn back," Grover said wist- fully.
"We'll be okay." I tried to sound confident.
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"Maybe we should search some of the other places first," Grover suggested. "Like, Elysium, for instance . . ."
"Come on, goat boy." Annabeth grabbed his arm.
Grover yelped. His sneakers sprouted wings and his legs shot forward, pulling him away from Annabeth. He landed flat on his back in the grass.
"Grover," Annabeth chided. "Stop messing around." "But I didn't—"
He yelped again. His shoes were flapping like crazy now.
They levitated off the ground and started dragging him away from us.
"Matal" he yelled, but the magic word seemed to have no effect. "Μaia, already! Nine-one-one! Help!"
I got over being stunned and made a grab for Grover's hand, but too late. He was picking up speed, skidding downhill like a bobsled.
We ran after him.
Annabeth shouted, "Untie the shoes!"
It was a smart idea, but I guess it's not so easy
when your shoes are pulling you along feetfirst at full speed. Grover tried to sit up, but he couldn't get close to the laces.
We kept after him, trying to keep him in sight as he zipped between the legs of spirits who chattered at him in annoyance.
I was sure Grover was going to barrel straight through the gates of Hades's palace, but his shoes veered sharply to the right and dragged him in the opposite direction.
T h e slope got steeper. Grover picked up speed. Annabeth [303]
