The Heir of Olympus and the Forest Realm

By Zachary Howe

Gordie Leonhart does not understand how he survived a cataclysmic attack upon his hometown, which resulted in the death of his father. After the eruption, he is met by Hermes, who implies that Gordie shares a relationship with Hercules. Gordie does not realize it, but he possesses Herculean strength one day out of every twelve; like his heroic ancestor, he must complete twelve trials—each associated with a different god—in order to unlock his full potential. Gordie is skeptical when Hermes tells him that Zeus is responsible for the attack, but driven by grief and anger, he vows revenge upon the King of Olympus.

Hermes, meanwhile, promises to hide Gordie’s survival from Zeus, which he can do because he has sealed the borders between the worlds of gods and men upon Gordie’s birth, trapping the immortals in other parallel planes of existence. Zeus, trapped on his seat of Olympus, has become angry with the mortals for forgetting the power of the gods; he plans to reassert his dominance over the humans, but the Olympians are divided, and Hermes believes that Gordie is the one destined to thwart Zeus’s schemes.

Gordie and his mother Ellie travel to her father’s house to escape the pain of their loss. Atalo Anastasios surprises them when he confirms that they are descendants of Hercules, and that his father actually had direct contact with Hephaestus, one of the Olympians, who is holding a family heirloom for them. Ultimately, the boys convince Ellie to travel with them to Greece to find Hephaestus and begin undertaking the trials of the gods.

At the airport, Gordie is dumbfounded when he runs into Bridget Clemens—the most popular girl in his class—waiting at the same gate to travel to Europe. Sparks fly, but of course, sixteen-year-old Gordie puts his foot in his mouth before long, and they part ways on bad terms after landing at Heathrow Airport. On the connecting flight from London to Athens, Gordie receives another shock in the form of Hermes, who sends Gordie to Hades in order to retrieve the centaur, Chiron, Master of Heroes. Gordie meets the Lord of the Underworld and succeeds in his first task, set to him by Hades himself; his reward is Chiron’s mentorship.

Gordie, Ellie, and Atalo take up residence in Chiron’s home on Mount Pelion, and Chiron adopts the difficult task of training the stubborn adolescent. On a training exercise, Gordie finds himself in a strange and magical forest where he meets a hostile satyr. When Gordie returns to Chiron’s cave, he learns that he had crossed over to the Forest Realm of Dasos, another plane of existence ruled by the same angry satyr whom Gordie had met. Unfortunately, Gordie will later have to return to Dasos to complete one of his trials, and he will meet the great satyr again.

It seems that Gordie is one of a select few entities who can traverse the borders between the worlds. But there could be dire consequences if one without that privilege were to sneak their way through. Watch, as Gordie meets members of the Olympic pantheon and completes the first of his twelve trials, all while the worlds teeter on the verge of colliding in The Heir of Olympus and the Forest Realm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zachary Howe
• Release date: Feb 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311050656

Zachary Howe

Though it sounds like a scene pulled from fiction, the idea for The Heir of Olympus came to Zachary in a dream. He awoke at five a.m. that morning, with a name and a story—Gordie Leonhart was brought to life. The Heir of Olympus and the Forest Realm is the first installment of Gordie's journey.Zachary Howe was raised in Madison, WI by his single mother, an amazing woman who made great sacrifices to raise him and his sister. When he was ten, Zachary's mom enrolled him in the Big Brothers/Big Sisters program, where he met Charlie, who remains a Big Brother and mentor to this day. Zachary went on to earn his English degree from the University of Wisconsin and lives in Madison with his wife, Jody, and their boxer, Mick.Zachary is currently working on the second installment of The Heir of Olympus series, The Heir of Olympus and the War for Hades.

Book preview

The Heir of Olympus

And the Forest Realm

By Zachary Elias Howe

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Zachary Howe

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

Acknowledgments

There is a pretty extensive list of people who deserve thanks for making this book a reality, so for those of you who aren’t named, know that I love and appreciate you. First I have to thank my guinea pigs who read the book when it was just completed, wading through all the grammatical errors and garbage-writing to give me honest feedback: Jeff Ingebritsen, Barb Ingebritsen, Calli Ingebritsen, Jeff C. Ingebritsen (notice any themes here?), Jenna Pakes, Gavin Stormont, Jackson Abbeduto, of course my lovely fiancée, Jody Ingebritsen, who had to read the book four times (sorry, dear), and my mama, Jan Howe—your baby boy’s an author! An extra special thanks to Jason Gracia for helping me with my media outreach in addition to reading the book. I have to thank all my friends and loved ones for their outpouring of support, with a special thanks to Chris Beardsley, Tamarine Westrand, Katie Sweeney, Tim Nelson, Laura McClure, Sam Walker, and Justin Rassier.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t take the opportunity to thank my future-wife once more. Jody, you are my rock. This book simply could not have happened without you. When I was overwhelmed, you pulled me through. You are my strength and my whole world. Actually, you and our Mickey Bear are my whole world, and he wouldn’t be in my life without you either. So, with all my heart, thank you, my love.

Table of contents

Chapter 1 – Gordie’s Last Day of School

Chapter 2 – The Messenger

Chapter 3 – The Family Secret

Chapter 4 – An Airport Surprise

Chapter 5 – Fateful Encounters

Chapter 6 – Layover in Hades

Chapter 7 – The Lord of the Underworld

Chapter 8 – The Trials Begin

Chapter 9 – The Realm of Dasos

Chapter 10 – Apollo’s Threat

Chapter 11 – Stars, Stripes, and Stygian Ice

Chapter 12 – Text Messages in Portaria

Chapter 13 – The Temple of Apollo at Delphi

Chapter 14 – Apollo’s Confession

Chapter 15 – The Promise

Chapter 16 – Goddess in the Moonlight

Chapter 17 – The Ascent

Chapter 18 – Gryphon on the Mountain Top

Chapter 19 – Escape from Dasos

Chapter 20 – Flight of the Harpies

Epilogue

About the Author

Connect with Zachary Howe

1

Gordie’s Last Day of School

Gordie! Gordie, get out here!

On the morning of May twelfth, Gordon Leonhart woke with a start. He had slept in and was late for milking the cows. Out of bed in a flash, he began dressing amidst the early morning gloom that filled his bedroom. He pulled on a pair of old jeans and grabbed a tee shirt that may have been white at some point, but had since faded to a shade of yellow uncomfortably close to mustard. He could smell the residue that had dyed the shirt, then shrugged and threw it on anyway. One advantage to his oversleeping was that Gordie had awoken feeling as invigorated as ever; it was one of those days where he felt like he could do anything, but right now he feared the wrath of his father.

Gordie! Get out here! Gordie glimpsed his dad outside the window, his hands on his hips. He sprinted down the stairs and out the back door. The morning sky was starting to lighten, though the sun wasn’t up yet. A few birds tweeted sleepily. His skin prickled from the morning chill.

There was an odd, reddish hue peeking over the horizon, but it only had a moment to register before his dad confronted him. Morning, princess, Robert Leonhart chuckled as his son approached the barn. Gordie was relieved to see that his father’s anger was only a show. What took you so long? You have another one of those action-packed dreams? He winked and smirked.

What? I don’t even . . . Whatever, Dad! Gordie could feel the heat rising in his face like the morning sun over his shoulder.

Alright! Keep your pants on! I was just messin’ with ya. Robert gave his son another infuriating wink. Now come on in. The cows need milking.

Gordie and his father stepped up to the large barn doors, each grabbing one of the great silver rings. The door groaned in protest as Robert started to drag his open. Gordie tugged at his handle—both he and his dad jumped at the sound of exploding wood.

Robert stared at his son who was holding the handle in his hand, which he had ripped clean out of the barn door, shards of wood still dangling from the screws.

Jeez, Gordo! Too many Wheaties this morning? Robert laughed.

I-I’m sorry! I don’t know what happened! Gordie stared at the ring in his hand and at the place where he had pulled it out of the door. The wood wasn’t rotted and the screws were just as shiny as when Gordie had helped his dad install the rings the previous summer. He unfurled his fingers and recoiled at the indentations they had left in the crushed metal.

No problem. You can fix it later. Let’s get a move on.

Gordie shook his head and dropped the door handle before they pulled the doors open and stepped onto the straw-strewn floor of the cowhouse.

Morning, sweetheart. Gordie patted his favorite cow before he plopped down next to her, breathing in the scent of musty hay. He had named her Io after one of his favorite Greek myths, many of which his mother had told him as bedtime stories when he was young. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together to warm them before squeezing the udder more gently than usual.

After Gordie finished with his first client he worked his way through five more cows as his dad fluffed hay around the barn. The patch of sunlight at the entrance had stretched halfway down the floor. Gordie pulled his cell phone out and jumped. Dad, I can’t finish. I’m gonna be late for school.

Wait! Gordon, you still need to help me bale hay!

But it’s almost eight and I haven’t even showered! I gotta go!

Fine, but I was gonna head into Madison with your mother so I could get some supplies, and I won’t be able to do that now ‘cause I gotta finish your chores. Robert fixed his son with a stern gaze.

Feeling slighted, Gordie hurried back to the house to grab a bite before something caught his eye. The sun was up, but it was still redder than usual. For some reason he was able to look at it without hurting his eyes and as he gazed, he saw a blue light streak through it, moving upwards towards the sky. He had never seen anything like that before, and made a note to ask his dad about it when he was in a better mood.

Inside, Ellie Leonhart was busy in the kitchen. Bacon and eggs are on the table, sweetie, she tweeted at him. Eat up and hop in the shower.

The living room TV was tuned to one of the twenty-four-hour news channels, drawing an occasional snort of disbelief at the reports of political incompetency strangling D.C.

Thanks, Mom. Gordie scarfed down his breakfast and scooted off to the bathroom to shower. He scrubbed his body and short black hair all in one fell swoop—having a buzz cut was a serious time saver. He checked his reflection in the mirror to search for imperfections. His dark brown eyes scanned his face, taking in his squaring jaw and plump lips. His straight, unremarkable nose held the dying remnants of a legendary zit which would not be missed. Pleased with the passing of this nuisance, Gordie deemed his appearance acceptable and redressed, not in work clothes, but a pair of cargo shorts and a white tee-shirt (that was actually white). He thudded down the stairs, through the quiet kitchen—his mother having left for the day—and out the door. About to hop into the ’68 Dodge Charger his father and he had restored the previous summer, the old man stopped him.

Hey, Gordo!

What, Dad? I gotta go, Gordie said through a clenched jaw.

I just wanted to say sorry for giving you a hard time. You do a great job with your work every day. I’m just spoiled I guess. How ‘bout we go to a Brewer game on Saturday? They’re playin’ the Cubbies.

Oh. Thanks, Dad, but I don’t know about this weekend. Scott Anderson’s throwing a party. Maybe next week.

All right, then. Next week. You’re not gonna do anything stupid at that party are you?

Wouldn’t dream of it. Gordie smiled before he hopped in the car and turned the key.

"I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain . . . coming down on a sunny day?" With John Fogerty singing over the roaring engine, Gordie tore out of the driveway and began the two-mile drive to school. He lived on the outskirts of a small town in southern Wisconsin. Gordie’s farm was just east of town, but the bus didn’t come out there. He celebrated the fact that he could finally drive himself to school instead of his mom dropping him off on the way into Madison where she taught high school English.

As he rolled into town, the middle school bus pulled right in front of him, matching and impeding his route. Dammit! he said as he slammed his hands on the wheel. Now he was definitely going to be late. A pudgy kid in the back of the bus pressed his rosy face against the glass with his mouth open. Saliva speckled the window. Gordie gestured angrily at the kid, who turned to convey his harrowing experience to his friends, holding up his middle finger like a trophy.

Gordie parked in the school lot two minutes before class started. He rocketed out of his car and sped through the front door, then on to the opposite side of the school where he had tenth grade World History with Mrs. Blatt. He tried, unsuccessfully, to sneak in just after the bell.

You’re late, Gordon. She was a small woman with short, bouncy hair. Contrary to what her floral sundress might suggest, she could be quite intimidating, and this morning was no exception; Gordie figured that came with thirty years of teaching.

By like a minute! he argued, but he gave into her stern look and stammered, Sorry, Mrs. B.

That’s all right. Now take a seat.

Noah Erickson’s shaggy brown mop caught his eye from the back of the room and Gordie weaved his way towards him. Noah was Gordie’s best friend and teammate, and the son of his baseball coach, who happened to be good friends with Mr. Leonhart.

As Gordie made his way to the back Bridget Clemens scoffed and rolled her emerald eyes. She was the most popular girl in school and a fairly unpleasant young lady, but Gordie also thought she was painfully hot. He sneered back at her and grabbed a seat next to Noah.

What’s her deal? he asked Noah, jutting his chin towards Bridget’s mocha-colored hair.

I heard her talking to Jenny before class. Apparently Christy Johnson has the hots for you, but Bridget doesn’t approve ‘cause you’re ‘just a farm boy,’ he ended with air quotes. Gordie brushed off the farm boy jibe because he was more intrigued by the other news. Christy Johnson was part of the popular clique, so Gordie was surprised to hear she had noticed him. Although, now that he thought about it, she had been chatting him up lately.

The previous week in gym they had talked before class started while she twirled her blonde hair around her finger. He didn’t remember what they had talked about, but he did remember what she was wearing: short pink shorts and a white tank top. They played volleyball that day . . . everything was bouncing.

Noah jolted Gordie out of his daydream. So I take it you aren’t too upset to hear about Christy? he taunted with a smirk. Just make sure you give me all the details when you—

Am I going to have to separate you two? Mrs. Blatt asked, glaring at them.

No, Mrs. B., Noah and Gordie chimed in unison. Mrs. Blatt returned to her monologue about World War II, scratching Axis Powers and Manhattan Project on the board—Gordie’s cue to zone out. He found himself gazing eastward through the ground floor windows, thinking of the many ways he’d like to spend time with Christy. He could smell the sweat from gym class lingering beneath a tropical scent that emanated from her imagined hair as it touched his face.

Class was nearing an end while Gordie was still staring out the window in a trance, ignoring the dusty scrapes on the chalkboard. The sun hung low in the sky—a pale white disc, no longer a red inferno. He vaguely noticed that the students nearest the windows were likewise daydreaming, tracking the puffy clouds. He smiled.

A blue laser appeared on the horizon, streaking downward towards the school. Gordie’s smile faltered. For a second he began to panic, thinking the beam was going to travel right into the classroom and through him. He breathed a momentary sigh of relief as it disappeared into the ground a number of miles away.

Then a brilliant light erupted from the contact site, burning his eyes, but he couldn’t look away. He slowly rose, as did some of his classmates, while others just looked around in confusion.

A great column of light stretched to the heavens, enveloping the entire landscape, growing wider every second. It pulsed, a radioactive blue at its edges melting into a blazing hot white towards its center. Great sparks of electricity danced around it, crackling like lightning. The room seemed to go dark as the beam pulsated and flickered, its brilliance consuming all the light from the world. Gordie’s mouth fell open as he stared at a rolling gray cloud eating the landscape as it raced towards him. Trees bent violently in his direction, some ripped clean out of the ground before they were swallowed by the hungry dust cloud. The shrieks of his classmates reached him as if from a great distance before he realized what was about to happen.

Get down! Gordie’s terrified scream came too late. The windows exploded. Glass cut through the air and skin indiscriminately as students were hurled out of their desks, towards the back wall. A small girl next to the window was thrown from her seat and towards Gordie, who caught her out of self-defense. Her neck snapped and her head drooped over his forearm. Judy Pritchett was dead. Before he could process what had happened, her desk followed and pelted towards his head. Unwilling to drop her, he braced himself for the impact.

The seat of the desk hit him square in the face and split down the middle, but it wasn’t nearly as painful as he had anticipated. He heard the wood cracking as if his head were inside the chair. Then the two halves continued their natural paths beyond him where he heard a sickening crunch: the sound of so many bones being broken.

In a matter of seconds, the powerful winds ceased just as quickly as they had sprung into being. Gordie was frozen. He didn’t want to look down at the lifeless body in his arms. He didn’t know her well, but he knew Judy Pritchett enough to say that she was a sweet, quiet girl. Pain and sadness welled inside him.

After what seemed an eternity, he turned, making sure to continue supporting Judy’s head like a father holding his newborn. As he pivoted, he began to take in the aftermath of the disaster. Mrs. Blatt’s desk had been hurled into her body and they both lay slumped against the wall. Students and desks were piled on top of each other in what would be an almost comical manner, if the scene were any less gruesome.

His heart sank and his legs threatened to collapse. In the back corner Noah’s body was splayed next to half of a desk chair. His throat caught again as he noticed the dark brown hair of his best friend resting on an unrecognizable face. The crunching bones he had heard must have been Noah’s. Why didn’t that desk just kill me? He trembled with grief and anger, confusion and shock.

He stared at a hand wriggling out of the pile of bodies, then came to his senses and laid Judy’s body on the floor. He stumbled around overturned furniture and grasped the hand. He pulled and looked away as a head lulled to the side to stare at him through dead eyes. The hand he was tugging belonged to Bridget Clemens. She gasped as she broke free of the pile. She glanced at him, then turned away to brush her clothes and wipe a tear from her cheek.

Thanks, she breathed.

Are you okay? Gordie asked.

Yeah.

The pile began to stir again and Gordie and Bridget helped several more students climb free. Seven students in all had survived, a few in rougher shape than others. The last boy they pulled from the pile groaned, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. Until they had laid him on the floor the students didn’t realize his side had been impaled by a branch.

Danny? Susie Thompson’s voice shook as she held her friend’s head in her hands. Gordie watched, his face a blank mask as he stared at the place where the branch entered the body. A teardrop fell onto Danny’s forehead as Susie wept over him.

It’s gonna be okay, Bridget whispered to Susie as she rubbed her back. Gordie silently disagreed—Danny’s face was quite pale. Gordie pulled his gaze away and looked around the room. A bike, a traffic cone, a soccer ball, a number of branches, and a stroller were scattered amongst the shattered remnants of desks, glass, and students. Through the windows he glimpsed a desolate landscape. What had been green and vibrant just minutes earlier was brown and barren. He looked away.

I’m gonna go see if anyone needs help in the other rooms, Gordie said as he started toward the door.

I’ll go with you, Bridget said, appearing eager to leave. Gordie considered her for a second, then led her out into the hall.

The hallway was eerily intact. Their footsteps echoed off the tile and the lockers as they made their way toward another classroom. Gordie took a deep breath to steady himself as he reached for the next doorknob.

Wait. Bridget grabbed his wrist. I’m sorry.

For what? he asked. She couldn’t possibly think he was worried about their rude exchange that morning.

For your friend.

Noah, Gordie said, stone-faced. His name is Noah.

Right. Noah. I’m sorry. Gordie’s anger softened. He wasn’t mad at her; he just couldn’t deal with the thought of Noah. Plus, he was impressed with her composure after the disaster, which had helped him remain calm.

Thanks, he muttered. Just then he heard footsteps running down the hall behind them.

Gordie! Bridget! Thank God! Are you two all right? It was their English teacher, Ms. Hannigan. She appeared unscathed.

We’re okay, Bridget answered. There are some students in room 106 that are injured, but most of them are . . . her words trailed off. Ms. Hannigan looked at Gordie for confirmation and he nodded. He could see anguish in her eyes, but she masked the grief in her voice.

Okay. You two go to the auditorium. The school is gathering there. The police are on the way. Tell Mr. Anderson that I need help down here.

No, Gordie said. I’ll help you. She must have seen the determination in his eyes because she chose not to argue.

I’ll go, said Bridget. Without another word she ran back the way Ms. Hannigan had come. When Bridget was out of sight the English teacher turned back to Gordie.

Are you sure you’re all right?

I’m fine, he said, which seemed to appease her as she nodded and reached for the door that he and Bridget were about to enter. When she turned the knob and pushed the door open they were overwhelmed. Gordie could feel the presence of death, almost like a current; it was heavy. Of the twenty students that were in this room when the bell rang that morning only three were still alive. The scene here was almost identical to that of the room Gordie had left just minutes earlier, except that the faces of the dead seemed so much smaller and younger—the difference between ninth and tenth graders.

In the middle of the room a young boy was lying on the floor with a girl and another boy at his side. The girl was pressing a blood-soaked sweatshirt on the abdomen of the injured student while the other boy looked on, immobilized by fear. Ms. Hannigan rushed to the girl’s aid and Gordie asked the spectating boy if he was all right. He nodded, and Gordie told him he could go to the auditorium. He joined Ms. Hannigan after he sent the boy off.

It’s okay, Sarah. You’ve done a great job, Ms. Hannigan told the girl. Bobby is going to be fine. Let me stay with him and you go to the auditorium, okay?

No! I need to stay with him, Sarah said.

Okay, okay, Ms. Hannigan said. Just keep applying pressure like you’ve been doing. That’s great, she told Sarah, and then turned to Gordie. How was there so much damage over here?

Over here? Gordie asked, baffled. Was there none on the other side of the school?

There was a little. The earthquake caused some furniture to tip over, but nothing . . . like this. Her face went slack. She swallowed audibly and assessed the room again.

That was no earthquake. Gordie pulled her from her contemplation. It was a giant explosion, or eruption, or something. It came from straight east of here. That’s why we got the brunt of the blast, even though it looked like it came from at least a mile or two aw— Gordie froze. He felt like he had just dived into a frozen lake as he realized, since he first saw the explosion, where it had originated. "No."

Gordie! Are you okay?! He heard Ms. Hannigan yelling, but was already sprinting down the hall, sneakers squeaking on the tile. As he tore through the cafeteria startled shrieks reached his ears.

Gordie!

What happened?

Was there another explosion?!

He didn’t know who asked these questions and didn’t care. His only goal was to get home as fast as possible. Gordie burst out the western doors of the school, dashed between cars and up the second aisle to his Charger. He fumbled for the keys. His hands shook uncontrollably, scratching the paint around the lock repeatedly before finally managing to steady them enough to open the door and turn the ignition.

He squealed out of the parking lot and began the race home. There were no other cars on the small streets, and he made no effort to obey the laws of the road. He raced through street lights and stop signs alike, pushing his Hemi up to 90 mph in town, barely aware of the devastation surrounding him. Houses were becoming less and less recognizable as dwellings the further east he travelled. Structures more closely resembled wood piles the closer he got to home. An eerie silence had descended over the town.

Gordie flew past the Jensen farm a quarter mile away from his house. He felt a twinge of sorrow as he scanned the utter destruction of the Jensen family home, but his concern for his own family outweighed this empathy. There was a small hill ahead concealing his house from view. His anxiety mounted as he approached the slope. His heart was racing faster than it ever had in his life and he was nearing a state of sheer panic. When he mounted the berm he was greeted by a terrible sight.

Nothing was visible but a charred black ground cover. His confusion at the starkness of the landscape was gradually replaced by terror as he came to the realization that his house no longer existed. In his moment of shock, Gordie released the gas and coasted by this scene, watching it through his window as if he were watching a film strip roll by. The thought of his father began to creep into his mind, but he pushed it away. He knew he had been home, finishing the chores that Gordie hadn’t after sleeping in, yet he told himself his father had gone into the city. He could not concede his life. Not without proof.

Gordie was still rolling. His hands were glued to the wheel. He was lost, lost in a struggle inside his own mind. Images of his father disintegrating wrestled with reassuring thoughts that he had been far away at the time of the blast; they were competing for his sanity, his will to live. He had no sense of reality. He was still rolling.

His wits returned enough to register the entrance to his driveway looming thirty yards ahead. The prospect of turning the wheel and entering the bounds of his family’s property seemed impossible, a Herculean task. He took a deep breath to steel his nerves and steered his car onto the lot. At this point his tires were crawling across the pavement, but he didn’t have the strength to step on the brakes. He waited until the car rolled to a stop.

Gordie was numb.

He had seen so much—so much horror. The reality of all this was starting to well up inside him as he stared across the barren land that was once his farm, his home. Again, he pushed those thoughts away after the image of his best friend floated to the surface. Not yet. He couldn’t address that pain yet.

As Gordie surveyed the land, something in the distance finally provided visual relief to the endless nothingness. There was some kind of jagged form lodged into the ground, protruding from the middle of where their pasture had once sat. It looked almost like a sculpted lightning bolt. A tingling sense of foreboding crept into his mind. He stared at it.

What is— His mouth went dry and he couldn’t finish the question that exploded in his mind—along with a thousand others—as he continued to stare at the spire.

In a labored effort, Gordie pushed open the car door and stepped out into the dust and ash. The smell of burnt grass filled his lungs and the residual smoke made his eyes tear up. His gaze was fixed on the stone as his legs pulled him toward it. It appeared to be a few hundred yards away. He stepped towards it, one heavy footfall after another.

When he was within a hundred yards he could make-out some form beneath the bolt. He maintained his pace while the ominous feeling loomed over him. A crow flew overhead, cawing into the void.

He was fifty yards away and he could see a ring of grass around the site of the bolt. The figure beneath the object took on a more recognizable shape, but Gordie would not accept what his eyes were telling him. He began to slow his gait; he did not want to see what he feared awaited him. He focused on the grass so he could continue on.

He was twenty yards away and could not ignore the reality of what lay beneath the bolt, which stood eight feet tall. Gordie knew there was a human being under that alien object that was so unwelcome on this landscape, even in its desecrated state. His brain told him who that person was, but his heart denied that he could be the son of the victim ahead. It could be anyone.

The tears in his eyes were no longer a reaction to the polluted air. Gordie stared at the rim of the grass circle that was now ten yards away. He told himself that he just needed to make it to the grass, though his knees felt too weak to bear him. He trudged forward, fixed on the edge of the inexplicably pristine grass ahead. He would not look at the body again until he reached the next checkpoint. Still, his breaths were becoming short and ragged. The structure of his world was crumbling around him and he struggled to steady the walls.

Gordie looked straight down at the grass upon which he stood. His breathing was no longer subconscious as he forced long, calculated inhalations to ready himself for what he was about to see. He raised his head, and then collapsed to all fours, gasping for breath.

He closed his eyes to regain some sense of the world, but the image of his father was burned on his retinas. Robert Leonhart’s face was twisted in some mixture of agony and terror that Gordie could not recognize. He was too broken to release the scream that had manifested in his brain as it desperately tried to escape from the prison of his skull.

Waves of grief crashed over him. The day’s events threatened to consume him. Gordie was paralyzed, but he felt compelled to reach his father’s side—an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. Shaking, he began to crawl toward his father. He gripped the grass and dragged his body forward almost against his will. His fingers dug into the earth, pulling him onward. A voice in his mind made him question whether he would survive unless he reached his father soon.

Forward. Forward. Gordie was just feet away and another voice in his head asked, What will you do when you reach him? What’s the point? He shook those thoughts away and carried on. That voice told him there was nothing he could do for his father; a realization that was speeding toward him like a bullet, or a bolt of lightning. In reality, he knew there was no helping his father the moment he saw this apocalyptic scene, but he refused to let his body lay unaccompanied.

Gordie reached out his arm to pull himself further, but his hand did not meet grass. His fingers recognized the thick, hairy forearm of his father by touch. When Gordie was a child, he and his father would play a game where Robert would hold out his arm and little Gordie would hang from it for as long as he could. Their record was forty-eight seconds—Robert’s shoulder generally gave out around thirty. This memory sent another jolt of pain coursing through him.

Gordie’s right hand remained clasped around his father’s wrist while he trembled with tears, lying face down in the grass. He stayed like this for a few minutes until he could muster the strength to look up and take in Robert’s entire body.

The bolt was protruding from his stomach angling away from his face. It looked almost like ice as it reflected and refracted light in odd ways. Gordie turned away from it in disgust, pulled himself close to his father, and rested his head on his chest, looking up at his face. Robert’s facial expression was still foreign to his son, so Gordie closed his father’s eyes and jaw, which threw into relief the strong face he once knew.

I love you, Dad. I’m so sorry. Those were the last words that escaped him for some time as he buried his face into his father’s chest and sobbed. Images of lifeless teenagers piled atop one another flowed through his brain. Noah and the cavity that was once his face materialized in his mind’s eye; the demolished houses he had sped past in his rush home. All these images swam in his head, and they were all linked to this frozen lightning bolt.

2

The Messenger

The lightning bolt. For the first time, Gordie began to analyze the enigmatic nature of the attack, and this contemplation had a sobering effect. His breathing slowed and became more controlled. The heavy stream of tears flowing from his eyes began to stem and he was regaining awareness. With this newfound consciousness a sense of confusion swelled. How is this possible? This wasn’t some kind of military attack, but then, he never thought that from the moment of the eruption. He searched his mind and grasped at wild notions of electromagnetic devices, but could not fathom why rural Wisconsin would be a target, or why there would be a resultant frozen lightning bolt.

Is it just a lightning bolt? Gordie had seen lightning strike the giant oak at the north end of his property with little or no effect. This couldn’t be normal lightning. Is this global warming lightning? Is that even a thing? These thoughts raced through his head as he grasped for a logical explanation for what he had witnessed—

Rough day!

Gordie sprang to his feet in alarm at the sound of a man’s voice behind him. If a normal man were to display such callous insensitivity in the midst of this devastation, Gordie may have tried to kill him. But this was no normal man.

In front of Gordie stood a very young man, barely older than himself, wearing a white toga sectioned by a golden belt that matched the fluttering golden wings adorning both his cap and sandals. In his left hand he was carrying a staff ornamented with two carved snakes intertwined around the rod topped, again, with a pair of wings.

Gordie’s shock at this character’s ludicrous appearance began to wear off and was replaced by reason and skepticism. At first glance he thought he was staring into the youthful eyes of Hermes, a member of the Greek pantheon. But he knew better. He was not a child and this was no Olympic god before him, taunting his wounded soul. But then, who was he?

Who the hell are you? Gordie asked.

Who am I? the newcomer asked in a falsely wounded voice. Surely, I am Noah, returned to comfort my bestest friend! Gordie’s eyes widened at this jab, but the jester continued before he could retort. Or maybe I am little Judy Pritchett—you held me so tenderly while I passed. He looked down upon an imaginary baby he was pretending to cradle in his arms, then peeked up at Gordie with a malevolent grin splattered on his face.

Fury was bubbling to Gordie’s surface, as was disbelief at this man’s audacity in mocking the dead.

No, no. He shook his head with feigned disappointment, but his smile widened ominously. "I am indeed your poor father . . . and I am so very angry with you, my son, for failing to save me."

Too far. Gordie had already begun his sprint towards him at the mention of his father with an unyielding thirst for blood. He no longer cared about the identity of this lunatic. His only wish was to inflict as much pain as possible. More than that, he intended to beat this wretched man-child to death. He crossed the gap between them in an instant and buried his fist into his enemy’s cheek just as he finished his taunt.

Blinded by his wrath, Gordie almost toppled to the ground when his ensuing left hook met nothing but air. He turned, searching for his prey, until he saw his limp body hurdling across the landscape like a missile. He pursued.

He closed the gap between them with remarkable speed and was near enough to attack again within seconds. He grabbed his enemy’s ankle and dug his heels into the ground, halting their momentum in an instant. Before the limp body could fall to the ground however, Gordie swung the motionless form above his head with one arm and slammed him face first into the dirt. A plume of dust exploded skyward.

As the dust cloud dispersed, Gordie stared down into a six-foot-deep hole where his opponent now lay quiet. Not yet pacified, he jumped into the grave, his knee aimed for the center of the spine. He reveled in the impending doom of this vile creature he was raining down upon, demonic glee carved into every inch of his face. But he did not get to experience a hunter’s satisfaction upon the kill.

Gordie crashed down onto dirt, and was yanked out of his craze as he tried to relocate his target, who had disappeared before his very eyes. He scratched and clawed in the dirt, wondering if he had somehow burrowed into the earth.

You won’t find me in there!

Gordie looked up to see his enemy floating in midair fifteen feet above his head. His smile had returned, instilling in Gordie a fresh helping of rage. He crouched and sprang upwards. He was buoyed by the sight of the ridiculer’s faltering smile as he ascended towards him. Gordie wrapped him in a vice-like embrace and registered his fear with grotesque satisfaction as he slammed his forehead into the youthful face.

The force of the attack sent them hurtling towards the ground at a forty-five-degree angle, Gordie’s arms still wrapped around his victim. They crashed into the dirt at breakneck speed and their bodies bore into the ground, carving a long ditch.

Time stood still as they lay in the ground, their bodies entangled. After a few seconds of regrouping, Gordie lifted himself up amid a cloud of dust. He looked back on a twenty-foot-long track in the ground that grew progressively deeper until it came to an end beneath his curly haired antagonist, who once again rested in an earthen cradle. Looking down upon him, Gordie began to regain his senses, and a twinge of regret started to creep its way into his heart. He had never been one to harm others—in fact, he’d never even been in a fight before—but his emotions overcame him after so many overwhelming experiences this day.

His remorse was interrupted when the young man’s eyes fluttered and then opened. That was quite a show, he coughed, as he looked up at Gordie with a slight smile reforming on his face. His infernal smirk reawakened the fury within Gordie, whose eyes widened again. The defeated fighter must have recognized the rebirth of his abuser’s anger though, because he raised his hands in defense. Wait! Wait! he said. I concede. I just had to ensure that you are the one whom I seek.

Gordie paused. The one you seek?

Of course . . . What vexes you? Do you not know who I am?

You’re Hermes, Gordie responded without hesitation, and was surprised to hear this from his own mouth. He knew mythology was just that: myth. Why then was he so ready to accept that a god of Olympus stood before him? He had no other explanation for recent events. Or was this even real? Had he been dreaming the whole time? Would he soon wake up in his bed to hear his dad’s beckoning? The thought of his father tore at him again. The pain must have registered on his face because Hermes took a softer tone.

Yes, I am Hermes, Messenger to the Gods. He placed his hand on his chest and fixed Gordie with a sympathetic stare. And I am deeply sorry for the losses you have experienced today. More still, must I apologize for my disrespectful remarks towards your friends and family—my only intent was to draw you out . . . the real you, he added with a soft smile. Gordie was leery of this sudden change in demeanor; nevertheless, his spirits were lifted a little.

What happened here? Gordie’s voice cracked.

That is a very long tale. Suffice it to say that my father happened here, Hermes answered. Gordie racked his brain, recalling his mother’s accounts of Greek mythology that she had shared with him as a boy.

Zeus? he asked.

Hermes nodded.

But that was not enough. This was not real, and anger started to consume Gordie again. Who are you, really? Myths aren’t real! There is no Zeus and there is no Hermes! What happened here?! I want the truth! Without realizing it Gordie had closed the gap between them and grabbed Hermes’s robes, lifting his feet from the ground.

My boy, Hermes said, maintaining his composure. You have seen the truth. This is real. Look at that bolt of lightning. It is just that, hurled by the King of the Gods. Search your heart. You know this to be true. His paternal tone calmed Gordie, who released Hermes from his grip.

I-I’m sorry, Gordie muttered. I just don’t understand.

I know. This has been a trying day for you. But your trials are only just beginning. Tell me, what do you know of Heracles? he asked.

Heracles? Gordie looked puzzled. "You mean Hercules? I know all his stories," he said with pride.

Hercules? asked Hermes. You use his Latin name? Curious. But yes, they are one in the same. Gordie waited for him to expound, but he remained silent.

Why do you ask? Are Hercules and Zeus in cahoots to destroy Wisconsin? Gordie asked with a scoff.

Of course not, chuckled Hermes.