Tera Childs - Oh. My. Gods.

We slide into the next station and I’m almost dreading what this display will be about. Gladiators getting mauled to death? The horrific slave trade? Thousands being slaughtered at some huge, Troy -like siege? I glance out the window panel, prepared for the worst, and my eyes zero in on one word: “Marathon.” Before I eventhink about it, I’m off the train and running to the exhibit. It’s all about the marathon, as in the ancient one run by Pheidippides in 490 BC. The original cross-country race. There are pictures of Marathon, the site of the battle victory that Pheidippides ran to Athens to announce, and of the spot in Athens where he supposedly dropped dead after making the announcement. There are actual spearheads from that time like the ones that might have been used in the battle. There are ancient sandals like the ones he may have worn for his famous run.

Thank goodness for Nike. I could never run in sandals.

“Here she is,” I hear Damian say.

I turn just as Mom rushes up and throws her arms around me.

“Never run off like that again,” she shouts.

Practically the whole station turns to stare at us.

“Sorry,” I say. But looking back over my shoulder at the marathon display, I’m not at all sorry. I’ve just come within inches of the ancient origins of distance running. What do I have to be sorry about? “The city of Athens installed archaeological displays such as this in many of our metro stations for the 2004 Olympics,” Damian says.

He’s lugging all four suitcases and the ninety-kilo briefcase behind him, but doesn’t even look unhappy.

“Oh wow,” Mom says softly and with a touch of awe in her voice, stepping up to the display for a closer look, analyzing every detail like she always does. “This says the modern Athens marathon follows the same path that Pheidippides ran in 490 BC. Phoebe, this is amazing.”

Like I want to share my visit to the shrine of distance runningwith them? Hardly. “Whatever,” I say as I turn away and head back to wait for the approaching train. “It’s not that great.”

When the next train pulls up we climb back on-Mom has taken her two suitcases from Damian and he is stuck pulling mine, which makes me smile. I’m torn between not wanting them to know how much seeing that exhibit means to me and wanting to see as much of the exhibit as I can before the train chugs away.

In the end, I twist in my seat and watch out the window as the shoes of Pheidippides race out of sight.

Someday I’ll come to this station again and take my time memorizing every little detail of the exhibit. Maybe when I’m breezing through Athens on my way to college back in civilization.

After the fourteen hours in a cramped plane seat and an hour on a packed metro train, I’m actually looking forward to the three-hour ferry ride to Serifos, an island near Serfopoula. Of course there are no direct ferry routes to Serfopoula.

Still, I can imagine myself gazing out over the turquoise Aegeanthe salty sea breeze drowning out Mom and Damian’s repulsive lovey-dovey talk and blowing my stick-straight hair into beachhewn waves. At least we aren’t moving somewhere with no major body of water. Heck, there probably isn’t anywhere on Serfopoula that isn’t within running distance of the beach. Beach runs are my favorite. Salty sea air rushing in and out of my lungs. Sand shifting under my feet, making my calves burn with extra effort. Collapsingin exhaustion and watching the waves crash the shore while restoring my energy. Pure bliss.

The actual ferry ride is nowhere near the peaceful boat trip I’m hoping for. Thank goodness my Dramamine kicks in because we aren’t on a slow boat to Serifos, we are on a hydrofoil-a super high-speed ferry that bounces me off the deck when it hits even the tiniest wave. It’s named Dolphin something-or-other, but it feels more like riding a really angry bull. One that can’t wait to shake every last human off its back.

Riding the bucking bull is bad enough, but one more second of watching goo-goo eyes and I’m going to lose the contents of my stomach over the side of the boat. Mom and Damian don’t seem to notice. They are busy standing close and batting their eyes at each other. Every so often he whispers something in her ear and she laughs like a little girl.

“I have to pee,” I announce, more crudely than normal. I fully intend on actually using the facility until I get in there and am about to unzip my jeans when the bull hits a ripple and sends me sidelong into the door. I can only imagine what will happen if I actually squat in hover position and we hit a real wave. Instead of tempting fate I decide I can hold it until we find land.

We get to Serifos and spend a few glorious steps on an unmoving surface while Damian leads us to the chauffeured- is a private boat driver a chauffeur ? – private yacht- yes, yacht -that will take us the rest of the way to the stupid, ferry-less island.

Does that mean there’s no way off the island unless I have my own boat? Great, I’m going to be stuck on this stupid island until I get paroled. Or until I make friends with someone who has a boat.

Now there’s a plan.

When I step onto the boat I’m smiling at the thought of befriending someone with transport.

Damian leads Mom to a bench seat on one side of the rear deck and I head for the opposite bench. Hopefully this boat ride will be less earthquake-like than the last, and I don’t want my potential calm disturbed by disgusting baby talk or anything.

I think I’m out of hearing distance.

Not that Damian respects my isolation.

I rest my head against the back of the bench and start to close my eyes when he moves into the seat next to me. Prying one eye open to glare at him, I ask, “Yeah?”

Mom is sitting on the other side of him.

“Phoebe, there is something you need to know before we arrive at Serfopoula.” He folds his hands carefully in his lap. “Are you familiar with Plato’s Academy?”

The big philosophy school where a bunch of old Greek guys got together to talk about intense stuff like the origin of life and what kind of poison worked best? “Yeah.”

“Well,” Damian continues, “there is more to the Academy’s history than most textbooks contain. In the sixth century, the Roman emperor Justinian issued an edict demanding the Academy be closed and forbade formal philosophical education. The… ah-hem … benefactors of the school were not prepared to see it closed so they moved it here. To Serfopoula.”

I don’t know Damian real well, but I think it’s not typical for him to ah-hem in the middle of a sentence. He seems like a very formalguy who keeps his speech squeaky clean. Still, I think I should just ignore this observation and instead say, “Justinian must have been pissed when he found out they disobeyed his orders.”

“He never found out.” Damian swallows hard. “The… ah-hem … benefactors kept the knowledge from him.”

There is something strange in the way he says this. Something ominous.

It must have been hard to keep a Roman emperor and every tattletale who would rush to tell him from finding out. Maybe these benefactors murdered anyone who found out and buried them in the school basement. I get shivers at the thought and I have to ask, “How?”

“Well, Phoebe.” Damian looks over his shoulder at Mom, who nods in encouragement. “There is little the Greek gods can not do when they choose to act.”

MY FIRST THOUGHT IS, Damian is insane . Like crazy, nuts, messed-up-in-the-head insane. As if Greek gods really exist.

They are myth. Myth, as in the kind of stuff you read about in sophomore English with guys killing their dads and marrying their moms- ew, and I think my life is gross. As in, the kind of stuff you see Brad and Orlando duking it out over on the big screen-yum.