The Olympian Games 2: The Isolate

The Olympian Games 2: The Isolate

Arin Priddy

Maine, 9:45pm

"That's all for tonight, folks! Now, remember to visit our buffet for a chance to win a pass for you and three friends to visit us again..."

The lights dimmed in the back of the stage and left the announcer bathed in purple light, bouncing off his impossibly white jacket and neatly combed mustache. The crowd hadn't finished their standing ovation just yet, but I could see the glint of jewels and the flashes of color as people began vacating the performance room.

These shoes were rough against the backs of my feet and my eyes were starting to sting from my contacts, long past their recommended amount of uses. A few men zipped past me with props, and a few of the stage crew patted my shoulder as I passed.

Working in a casino at my age was illegal. But having a Father with influence in the world of theatre, or at least the kind of theatre that resides in said casino, makes it all worthwhile. Aside from the school plays and such, this was my only form of expression since Bradley was born.

I flopped down on my chair and dig my fingers into my eyes, making quick work of the glossy plastic lenses over my eyes. Once they were plucked and dropped into their cases I rubbed my eyes furiously, smudging my make-up, and laid back.

"People are so exhausting." I muttered, pulling the gloves off my fingers. "I hate people."

Without missing a beat or opening my eyes I gripped the white fibers of my wig and tore it off, careful not to rip the webbing on the underside, and tossed it onto my dresser with a flick of the wrist. Then came the wig cap, leaving mewith sweaty, dark clumps of hair.

I could hear movement behind me but I couldn't care less. It was just a bunch of mundane people doing mundane things as part of their mundane lives. A bunch of mortals running about withot a care in the world past how much money they would be making.

My eye popped open suddenly and Ileaned toward my table, shifting through the items I'd discarded shortly ago. Underneath my gloves was a black, leather bound book built like a brick. I clutched it tightly in my hand and brought it up to my face, nearly burying my nose in it.

It was a dusty old thing when I'd found it years ago, a bit torn and pages turning crinkled and brown with age. The writing was smearing a bit to the point where it was barely legible, not that it mattered anyway. Dyslexia made it hard enough to read English, for gods' sake, not even in the same genre as this book.

It was originally printed in Welsh and, according to Father, belonged to my aunt. She was an occultist and attempted to revive the 'old religion' as a Welsh Witch. I'd been skeptical when Father explained it to me but I'd decided some time ago that if a stupid mortal could do magic, then so could I. I was half god after all.

And very, very lucky.

This was a spell I hadn't quite mastered yet. It was a list of instructions and preparations for summoning the goddess Cerridwen, the Welsh proprieter of rebirth and transpiration. As the book told many chapters ago, she had given birth to two children, an ugly son and a beautiful daughter.

More importantly, she was sometimes considered a maternal or marriage goddess, much like Hera or Juno. The only difference was that Cerridwen would probably be more willing to speak with me due to my lineage - both the Welsh blood and the ties with my aunt, one of the few followers of her faith left. I had the utmost confidence that I could do it soon, and maybe she could tell me how I could meet my real mother.

"Excuse me, excuse me, pardon--Hey, watch it!" Someone's voice was significantly louder than the dull hum of the rest of the stage crew, and as it got closer I quickly closed the book and slipped it into the folds of my performance jacket, still resting around my shoulders.

It sounded astonishingly like my Father, who I rarely saw these days. In a final act of cleanliness I pushed a few sweaty strands of hair from my forehead and smoothed the folds of my dress shirt, folding my hands on my lap.

In fact I was disheartened to see it was not my father. This man was a lot kinder looking, creased around the corners of his eyes and mouth, but with a similar mop of black hair, neatly tucked under a UPS cap.

"Arin Priddy." He said once he met my eyes,

"You aren't supposed to back here, performers only. Outside please." I frowned instinctively: people, right? If this guy knew I was a god, he'd just waltz himself right outside the door.

He snorted, an uncharacteristic action for such a fatherly-looking man, and drew a smartphone from his pocket. At first I didn't realize what he was trying to do, but once the overhead lights struck the phone case at an angle, I noticed the faint imprint of a caduceus....

"Hermes!" I clapped a hand over my mouth to muffle my voice. Crap, I sighed, the messenger of the gods and I just told him to shove it outside.

A faint smile crossed the god's face and he nodded.

"Is it my mother?" I balked at him, eyes wide. It had to be something important if Hermes himself was here to relay something to me. Maybe......maybe Mother would try and communicate with me? Just once? Gods knew I needed thedivine input - there was nothing left with these simple people.

"No, I'm sorry." The god nodded his head earnestly but returned to business shortly after. "I'm here to deliver a message."

He extracted a letter seemingly out of thin air, an old-timey looking one with a thick wax stamp depicting some sort of bird - a peacock, maybe? It was hard to tell by the thick wax and my own terrible sight. I took the letter from him and gently peeled the wax off, unfolding the envelope and extracting the letter from inside.

Arin Priddy,

''You understand the basis of pride and perfection in a world where such a person is hard to come upon. I, Hera, Queen of the Gods, lend you my strength in these Olympian Games. With the circumstances involving your own Mother, I have taken it upon myself to guide you through these troubling times. Allow yourself to serve as my sword and shield, and in due time, I too will give back.''

I stared in awe at the paper before me. Hera, queen of the gods, was asking a half-blood to participate in these 'Olympian Games' on her behalf. I blinked a few times and rubbed my eyes, stealing a glance at the godly messenger, idly tapping away on his phone.

"Circumstances involving your own mother..." I breathed, heart hitching in my chest. I noticed Hermes look up briefly from his phone before downcasting again, but I noted worry on his features. Being an actor made you more sensitive to features and emotions, I supposed.

...I accept.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed another paper sitting on my desk - coincidentally, right underneath the small wax seal. I popped the tab off and opened the new letter,obviously written very recently. A faint, flowery smell hung in the air.

My thanks, Arin Priddy.

''When the time comes, you will be summoned for the competition. Until then, put that silly black book of yours on a shelf. You know the one, mister.''

I cringed inwardly and felt inside of my coat, where the black book was pressed against my side, the binding digging into my hip. I deposited it on the table to show Hera I was listening and continued.

''I've asked Hermes to bring you a gift, courtesy of myself, in the event you did accept. Please practice with it as you permit.''

Regards, Hera

I refolded the letter and looked to Hermes, who was already holding a tightly wrapped parcel under his arm that I hadn't noticed before.

"Is that mine?"I cocked my head slightly and he nodded, passing the blocky mass of paper over. It was very simple for a gift from Hera, just brown paper covering something heavy and square, larger than my head.

"Ah, Hermes, let me---" I reached into my pocket for a few drachmas or something to give him as a tip, o matter how small, but he'd already disappeared. I noticed suddenly how empty the make-up area had become - just me and my brown paper package.

I cleared a space on my desk and dropped the package down firmly, gripping it with my fingers and tugging. For such a simple wrap, it was impossibly hard to undo and I nearly dislocated a finger in the process. But what was inside delighted me to no end.

Papyri Graecae Magicae.

It was a famed series of scripts from gods know how many years ago, each holding a certain number of magical spells, incantations, charms and rituals to the gods. It was everything my Aunt's little book strived to be, all and even more.

The first few pages were a direct set of instructions - the kind of clothes I would need to wear in order to chant correctly, the type of mindset, and a small note to myself from Hera once again thanking me for my cooperation. I'd never met Hera, but from what I'd heard she was terrible toward most demigods. But by the way she sounded, she seemed to be taking pity on me.

But if pity came with a famed book of spells, then pity I could deal with.