The Sea of Monsters

“Ah!” I dropped the pad.
    Ouch , said George.
    Really, Percy , Martha scolded. Would you want to be dropped on the floor of a horse stable?
    “Oh, uh, sorry.” I didn’t much like touching snakes, but I picked up the pad and the stylus again. Martha and George wriggled under my fingers, forming a kind of pencil grip like the ones my special ed teacher made me use in second grade.
    Did you bring me a rat? George asked.
    “No . . .” I said. “Uh, we didn’t find any.”
    What about a guinea pig?
    George! Martha chided. Don’t tease the boy.
    I signed my name and gave the pad back to Hermes.
    In exchange, he handed me a sea-blue envelope.
    My fingers trembled. Even before I opened it, I could tell it was from my father. I could sense his power in the cool blue paper, as if the envelope itself had been folded out of an ocean wave.
    “Good luck tomorrow,” Hermes said. “Fine team of horses you have there, though you’ll excuse me if I root for the Hermes cabin.”
    And don’t be too discouraged when you read it, dear , Martha told me. He does have your interests at heart.
    “What do you mean?” I asked.
    Don’t mind her , George said. And next time, remember, snakes work for tips.
    “Enough, you two,” Hermes said. “Good-bye, Percy. For now.”
    Small white wings sprouted from his pith helmet. He began to glow, and I knew enough about the gods to avert my eyes before he revealed his true divine form. With a brilliant white flash he was gone, and I was alone with the horses.
    I stared at the blue envelope in my hands. It was addressed in strong but elegant handwriting that I’d seen once before, on a package Poseidon had sent me last summer.
    Percy Jackson
c/o Camp Half-Blood
Farm Road 3.141
Long Island, New York 11954
    An actual letter from my father. Maybe he would tell me I’d done a good job getting the Fleece. He’d explain about Tyson, or apologize for not talking to me sooner. There were so many things that I wanted that letter to say.
    I opened the envelope and unfolded the paper.
    Two simple words were printed in the middle of the page:
    Brace Yourself
    The next morning, everybody was buzzing about the chariot race, though they kept glancing nervously toward the sky like they expected to see Stymphalian birds gathering. None did. It was a beautiful summer day with blue sky and plenty of sunshine. The camp had started to look the way it should look: the meadows were green and lush; the white columns gleamed on the Greek buildings; dryads played happily in the woods.
    And I was miserable. I’d been lying awake all night, thinking about Poseidon’s warning.
    Brace yourself.
    I mean, he goes to the trouble of writing a letter, and he writes two words?
    Martha the snake had told me not to feel disappointed. Maybe Poseidon had a reason for being so vague. Maybe he didn’t know exactly what he was warning me about, but he sensed something big was about to happen—something that could completely knock me off my feet unless I was prepared. It was hard, but I tried to turn my thoughts to the race.
    As Annabeth and I drove onto the track, I couldn’t help admiring the work Tyson had done on the Athena chariot. The carriage gleamed with bronze reinforcements. The wheels were realigned with magical suspension so we glided along with hardly a bump. The rigging for the horses was so perfectly balanced that the team turned at the slightest tug of the reins.
    Tyson had also made us two javelins, each with three buttons on the shaft. The first button primed the javelin to explode on impact, releasing razor wire that would tangle and shred an opponent’s wheels. The second button produced a blunt (but still very painful) bronze spearhead designed to knock a driver out of his carriage. The third button brought up a grappling hook that could be used to lock onto an enemy’s chariot or push it away.
    I figured we were in pretty good shape for the race, but Tyson still warned me to be careful. The other chariot teams had plenty of tricks up their togas.
    “Here,” he said, just before the race began.
    He handed me a wristwatch. There wasn’t anything special about it—just a white-and-silver clock face, a black leather strap—but as soon as I saw it I realized that this is what I’d seen him tinkering on all summer.
    I didn’t usually like to wear watches. Who cared what time it was? But I couldn’t say no to Tyson.
    “Thanks, man.” I put it on and found it was surprisingly light and