The Sea of Monsters

couldn’t believe I’d come this far, lost Tyson, suffered through so much, only to fail—stopped by a big stupid monster in a baby-blue tuxedo kilt. Nobody was going to swat down my friends like that! I mean . . . nobody , not Nobody. Ah, you know what I mean.
    Strength coursed through my body. I raised my sword and attacked, forgetting that I was hopelessly outmatched. I jabbed the Cyclops in the belly. When he doubled over I smacked him in the nose with the hilt of my sword. I slashed and kicked and bashed until the next thing I knew, Polyphemus was sprawled on his back, dazed and groaning, and I was standing above him, the tip of my sword hovering over his eye.
    “Uhhhhhhhh,” Polyphemus moaned.
    “Percy!” Grover gasped. “How did you—”
    “Please, noooo!” the Cyclops moaned, pitifully staring up at me. His nose was bleeding. A tear welled in the corner of his half-blind eye. “M-m-my sheepies need me. Only trying to protect my sheep!”
    He began to sob.
    I had won. All I had to do was stab—one quick strike.
    “Kill him!” Clarisse yelled. “What are you waiting for?”
    The Cyclops sounded so heartbroken, just like . . . like Tyson.
    “He’s a Cyclops!” Grover warned. “Don’t trust him!”
    I knew he was right. I knew Annabeth would’ve said the same thing.
    But Polyphemus sobbed . . . and for the first time it sank in that he was a son of Poseidon, too. Like Tyson. Like me. How could I just kill him in cold blood?
    “We only want the Fleece,” I told the monster. “Will you agree to let us take it?”
    “No!” Clarisse shouted. “Kill him!”
    The monster sniffed. “My beautiful Fleece. Prize of my collection. Take it, cruel human. Take it and go in peace.”
    “I’m going to step back slowly,” I told the monster.
    “One false move . . .”
    Polyphemus nodded like he understood.
    I stepped back . . . and as fast as a cobra, Polyphemus smacked me to the edge of the cliff.
    “Foolish mortal!” he bellowed, rising to his feet. “Take my Fleece? Ha! I eat you first.”
    He opened his enormous mouth, and I knew that his rotten molars were the last things I would ever see.
    Then something went whoosh over my head and thump!
    A rock the size of a basketball sailed into Polyphemus’s throat—a beautiful three-pointer, nothing but net. The Cyclops choked, trying to swallow the unexpected pill. He staggered backward, but there was no place to stagger. His heel slipped, the edge of the cliff crumbled, and the great Polyphemus made chicken wing motions that did nothing to help him fly as he tumbled into the chasm.
    I turned.
    Halfway down the path to the beach, standing completely unharmed in the midst of a flock of killer sheep, was an old friend.
    “Bad Polyphemus,” Tyson said. “Not all Cyclopes as nice as we look.”
    Tyson gave us the short version: Rainbow the hippocampus— who’d apparently been following us ever since the Long Island Sound, waiting for Tyson to play with him—had found Tyson sinking beneath the wreckage of the CSS Birmingham and pulled him to safety. He and Tyson had been searching the Sea of Monsters ever since, trying to find us, until Tyson caught the scent of sheep and found this island.
    I wanted to hug the big oaf, except he was standing in the middle of killer sheep. “Tyson, thank the gods. Annabeth is hurt!”
    “You thank the gods she is hurt?” he asked, puzzled.
    “No!” I knelt beside Annabeth and was worried sick by what I saw. The gash on her forehead was worse than I’d realized. Her hairline was sticky with blood. Her skin was pale and clammy.
    Grover and I exchanged nervous looks. Then an idea came to me. “Tyson, the Fleece. Can you get it for me?”
    “Which one?” Tyson said, looking around at the hundreds of sheep.
    “In the tree!” I said. “The gold one!”
    “Oh. Pretty. Yes.”
    Tyson lumbered over, careful not to step on the sheep. If any of us had tried to approach the Fleece, we would’ve been eaten alive, but I guess Tyson smelled like Polyphemus, because the flock didn’t bother him at all. They just cuddled up to him and bleated affectionately, as though they expected to get sheep treats from the big wicker basket. Tyson reached up and lifted the Fleece off its branch. Immediately the leaves on the oak tree turned yellow. Tyson started wading back toward me, but I yelled, “No time! Throw it!”
    The gold ram skin sailed through the air like a glittering shag Frisbee. I caught it with a grunt. It