𝓟𝓻𝓪𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓪 - (𝓟.𝓙𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓼𝓸𝓷)

08.

vol i
➵ chapter eight ➵

Percy Jackson concludes that Cyclops island is nothing like the monster Island he had expected it to be.
There are no craggy rocks and bones scattered on the beach like on the island of the Sirens.

And sure, it has a rope bridge across a chasm, which is, of course, not a good sign. You might as well put up a billboard that says, SOMETHING EVIL LIVES HERE.
But except for that, the place looks like a Caribbean postcard. It has green fields, tropical fruit trees, and white beaches.

As the group sails towards the shore, Helia breathes in the sweet air. "The Fleece," she says.
The daughter of Apollo can feel its power. It almost seems to call to her.

"If we take it away, will the island die?" Percy asks.
Annabeth shakes her head. "It'll fade. Go back to what it would be normally, whatever that is."

Percy feels guilty about ruining the island paradise, but reminds himself that the group has no choice. Camp Half-Blood is in trouble.
And Tyson ... Tyson would still be here if not for this quest.

In the meadow at the base of the ravine, several dozen sheep mill around. They look peaceful enough, but they're huge—the size of hippos. Just past them is a path that leads up into the hills. At the top of the path, near the edge of the canyon, is the massive oak tree, which Percy recognises from his dreams. Something gold glitters in its branches.

"This is too easy," Percy says. "We could just hike up there and take it?"
Helia's eyes narrow. "There's supposed to be a guardian. A dragon or ..."

That's when a deer emerges from the bushes. It trots into the meadow, probably looking for grass to eat, when the sheep all bleat at once and rush the animal. It happens so fast that the deer stumbles and is lost in a sea of wool and trampling hooves.

Helia stares on, horrified, as grass and tufts of fur fly into the air.
A second later, the sheep all move away and go back to their regular peaceful wanderings. All that's left is a pile of clean white bones.

The trio exchanged looks.
"They're like piranhas," Annabeth states.
"Piranhas with wool. How will we—"
She gasps. "Look." The girl points down the beach, just below the sheep meadow, where a small boat has been run aground—the other lifeboat from the CSS Birmingham.
Helia's eyes immediately begin to water, "It can't be. You don't think..."

The group quickly took to devising a plan.
Annabeth suggests sneaking up the path invisibly and grabbing the fleece, but Percy convinces her that something would go wrong. The sheep would smell her. Another guardian would appear. Something.

Besides, their first job was to find Grover and whoever had come ashore in that lifeboat—assuming they'd gotten past the sheep.

They moor the Queen Anne's Revenge on the back side of the island, where the cliffs rise straight up a good two hundred feet.
Percy figures the ship is less likely to be seen there. The cliffs look climbable, but barely—about as difficult as the lava wall back at camp.
At least it was free of sheep. Hopefully, Polyphemus didn't also keep carnivorous mountain goats.

The trio row a lifeboat to the edge of the rocks and make their way up, very slowly. Helia goes first as the best climber, mapping a route for the two to follow.

They only come close to dying six or seven times, which Percy considers to be pretty good.
Once, he loses his grip, finding himself dangling by one hand from a ledge fifty feet above the rocky surf.
Helia grabs onto him immediately, guiding him to another handhold.