My nephew was assigned by his literature/language teacher to read The Labours of Hercules by Agatha Christie during the summer break and as a long-time Agatha Christie fan I'm very excited about him learning about the Queen of Crime and the little Belgian.
To be frank, I didn't think that Christie would be a part of school reading in Poland. I first learned about it from certain YouTuber's review of Death on the Nile, but my nephew told me that his teacher enoucarged him to read The Labours of Hercules during summer (among other things).
And frankly, I can get why the Polish Ministry of Education chose this specific work of Agatha Christie - aside from being a series of short mystery stories, it's also an interesting modern take on Greek mythology. Especially because Hercule Poirot is drastically different than the classic Hercules, and the stories are more of a modern interpretation of classical myths (for example the first chapter - The Nemean Lion - is about a lost Pekingese dog, and the Pekingese dogs resemble lions).
Today I've learned that my nephew is on The Stymphalean Birds which, coincidally, features a Polish women as main suspects. Back when I've read this story for the first time, I was a bit offended by it, but the ending kind of appeased me, because it was part of "playing into Englishmen's prejudices for the red herring" trope Christie often used to throw her readers off. I almost told my nephew about this trope but I decided to wait until he finishes this chapter, to avoid needless spoilers.
But yeah, I wonder if later the thing I tell him about Agatha Christie and other things, will gain him some additional points in school.
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The Sand on your Shores (1)
The first Herakles learnt about his competitor was when he stopped a shepherd in the hills.
“Have you heard of the lion killing travellers and livestock?” he inquired without much hope for an answer.
If a giant lion were hunting animals in the hills of Nemea, why would a man without even a sword hanging from his belt bring his sheep out to graze?
As expected, the shepherd didn’t even pale or look around fearfully, the confidence of one assured of his safety his shield. “Oh, you’re too late,” the man exclaimed cheerfully. “Percy the Riptide already killed the Nemean Lion.”
“Who can tell me where –” Herakles began before the words registered.
What?
“Who is Percy?” Herakles demanded.
He knew of all the greatest heroes of the age, had fought beside or against most of them, and no mortal with the moniker of Riptide had ever crossed his notice.
Cold suspicion crept in. His first quest to wipe the sins of kin slaying off his hands, and the task had already been accomplished by someone else?
“Do you know where I can find him?” Herakles changed tracks.
The shepherd shook his head. “He stayed here for only a day before leaving. Even though we offered to shower him with riches, he refused all but food and water.”
The awe and appreciation in the shepherd’s voice irked Herakles, but he suppressed the rage that refused to depart for longer than a single interval of the sundial.
Herakles offered a curt nod and walked towards the closest village in the distance.
Arriving at Cleonae did nothing for his simmering temper. Everywhere he walked, and even when he stubbornly sat down on the lip of the fountain at the centre of town, people insisted on discussing nothing but Percy Jackson, the Riptide.
Herakles huffed out a frustrated breath, ran a whetstone against his sword, and pretended he wasn’t sweltering inside his bronze armour.
He was Herakles! The greatest of all heroes, the son of Zeus, the hero of Thebes, the son in law of –
Needless to say, Herakles wouldn’t allow dismissal to prevent him from carrying out his tasks. So what if the armour hung heavy on his shoulders? He could partake of the water from the fountain at his back to quench his thirst. If he felt hungry, he had fruits and dried meat in his pack. If he felt sleepy, the verdant hills of Nemea would provide soft grass to cushion his head.
He didn’t require a mortal to offer him shelter.
He sucked in a harsh breath before finally forcing himself to pay attention to the conversation around him. If the baker in his sweet-smelling shop, the carpenter hammering away at a scaffold, the village leader pontificating at the corner, the priestess tending to the flame of Hestia, the children running across the dusty streets, and every person in sight insisted upon discussing Percy, Herakles would listen.
Herakles would learn.
And if he didn’t like what he heard, he’d take care of the threat.
He rapidly ran into the first hurdle (if one disregarded the absence of the other demigod, whose presence would have put a hasty end to the problems indeed).
No one could agree on what Percy, son of Jack looked like.
Some described him as a perfectly ordinary young man, if a little more charming and courageous than the baker’s son, and with an appetite to rival the village’s prized pig.
Others praised him as a son of the sea, with gills around his neck, scales across his shoulders, and webs connecting his digits. A little disorienting, but perfectly cordial once you’d poured ewers full of water over his head in offering.
And then there were the other reports.
A horror from the deepest crevices of the ocean, with ash-blonde hair that swayed in an unseen wind, dark eyes that consumed your thoughts and dreams and life until all you could do was cower in terror and hope they would pass you by, and crimson lips dripping with the blood of his victims. His footsteps cracked the ground, his passage wilted plants, and when the Nemean Lion scored a lucky hit, he bled golden ichor.
But everyone agreed on one thing – this Percy Jackson had arrived at Cleonae, killed the Nemean Lion, and walked out on his merry way, unconcerned about having deprived Herakles of an opportunity to fulfil Eurystheus’s command.
Herakles despised him. Him and his cloak made from the impenetrable fur of the Nemean Lion.
***
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Read on ao3.
This was written for the Temple of Apollo Reverse Big Bang, with the wonderful yagodnyizefir.
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