She jogged back down the ramp.

Talking to the arrow was just about the only way my day could get worse, but I was under orders, and when Meg commanded me, I could not disobey. I reached over my shoulder, groped through my quiver, and pulled forth the magic missile.

“Hello, Wise and Powerful Arrow,” I said. (Always best to start with flattery.)

TOOKEST THEE LONG ENOUGH, intoned the arrow. FOR FORTNIGHTS UNTOLD HAVE I TRIED TO SPEAK WITH THEE.

“It’s been about forty-eight hours,” I said.

VERILY, TIME DOTH CREEP WHEN ONE IS QUIVERED. THOU SHOULDST TRY IT AND SEEST HOW THOU LIKEST IT.

“Right.” I resisted the urge to snap the arrow’s shaft. “What can you tell me about strixes?”

I MUST SPEAK TO THEE ABOUT—HOLD THE PHONE. STRIXES? WHEREFORE TALKEST TO ME OF THOSE?

“Because they are about to killeth—to kill us.”

FIE! groaned the arrow. THOU SHOULDST AVOID SUCH DANGERS!

“I would never have thought of that,” I said. “Do you have any strix-pertinent information or not, O Wise Projectile?”

The arrow buzzed, no doubt trying to access Wikipedia. It denies using the Internet. Perhaps, then, it’s just a coincidence the arrow is always more helpful when we are in an area with free Wi-Fi.

Grover valiantly lugged my sorry mortal body up the ramp. He huffed and gasped, staggering dangerously close to the edge. The floor of the room was now fifty feet below us—just far enough for a nice, lethal fall. I could see Meg down there pacing, muttering to herself and shaking out more packets of gardening seeds.

Above, the ramp seemed to spiral forever. Whatever waited for us at the top, assuming there was a top, remained lost in the darkness. I found it very inconsiderate that the Labyrinth did not provide an elevator, or at least a proper handrail. How were heroes with accessibility needs supposed to enjoy this death trap?

At last the Arrow of Dodona delivered its verdict: STRIXES ART DANGEROUS.

“Once again,” I said, “your wisdom brings light to the darkness.”

SHUT THEE UP, the arrow continued. THE BIRDS CAN BE SLAIN, THOUGH THIS SHALT CURSE THE SLAYER AND CAUSETH MORE STRIXES TO APPEARETH.

“Yes, yes. What else?”

“What’s it saying?” Grover asked between gasps.

Among its many irritating qualities, the arrow spoke solely in my mind, so not only did I look like a crazy person when I conversed with it, but I had to constantly report its ramblings to my friends.

“It’s still searching Google,” I told Grover. “Perhaps, O Arrow, you could do a Boolean search, ‘strix plus defeat.’”

I USE NOT SUCH CHEATS! the arrow thundered. Then it was silent long enough to type strix + defeat.

THE BIRDS MAY BE REPELLED WITH PIG ENTRAILS, it reported. HAST THOU ANY?

“Grover,” I called over my shoulder, “would you happen to have any pig entrails?”

“What?” He turned, which was not an effective way of facing me, since I was duct-taped to his back. He almost scraped my nose off on the brick wall. “Why would I carry pig entrails? I’m a vegetarian!”

Meg clambered up the ramp to join us.

“The birds are almost through,” she reported. “I tried different kinds of plants. I tried to summon Peaches….” Her voice broke with despair.

Since entering the Labyrinth, she had been unable to summon her peach-spirit minion, who was handy in a fight but rather picky about when and where he showed up. I supposed that, much like tomato plants, Peaches didn’t do well underground.

“Arrow of Dodona, what else?” I shouted at its point. “There has to be something besides pig intestines that will keep strixes at bay!”

WAIT, the arrow said. HARK! IT APPEARETH THAT ARBUTUS SHALL SERVE.

“Our-butt-us shall what?” I demanded.

Too late.

Below us, with a peal of bloodthirsty shrieks, the strixes broke through the tomato barricade and swarmed into the room.

“HERE they come!” Meg yelled.

Honestly, whenever I wanted her to talk about something important, she shut up. But when we were facing an obvious danger, she wasted her breath yelling Here they come.

Grover increased his pace, showing heroic strength as he bounded up the ramp, hauling my flabby duct-taped carcass behind him.

Facing backward, I had a perfect view of the strixes as they swirled out of the shadows, their yellow eyes flashing like coins in a murky fountain. A dozen birds? More? Given how much trouble we’d had with a single strix, I didn’t like our chances against an entire flock, especially since we were now lined up like juicy targets on a narrow, slippery ledge. I doubted Meg could help all the birds commit suicide by whacking them face-first into the wall.

“Arbutus!” I yelled. “The arrow said something about arbutus repelling strixes.”

“That’s a plant.” Grover gasped for air. “I think I met an arbutus once.”

“Arrow,” I said, “what is an arbutus?”

I KNOW NOT! BECAUSE I WAS BORN IN A GROVE DOTH NOT MAKETH ME A GARDENER!

Disgusted, I shoved the arrow back into my quiver.

“Apollo, cover me.” Meg thrust one of her swords into my hand, then rifled through her gardening belt, glancing nervously at the strixes as they ascended.

How Meg expected me to cover her, I wasn’t sure. I was garbage at swordplay, even when I wasn’t duct-taped to a satyr’s back and facing targets that would curse anyone who killed them.

“Grover!” Meg yelled. “Can we figure out what type of plant an arbutus is?”

She ripped open a random packet and tossed seeds into the void. They burst like heated popcorn kernels and formed grenade-size yams with leafy green stems. They fell among the flock of strixes, hitting a few and causing startled squawking, but the birds kept coming.

“Those are tubers,” Grover wheezed. “I think an arbutus is a fruit plant.”

Meg ripped open a second seed packet. She showered the strixes with an explosion of bushes dotted with green fruits. The birds simply veered around them.

“Grapes?” Grover asked.

“Gooseberries,” said Meg.

“Are you sure?” Grover asked. “The shape of the leaves—”

“Grover!” I snapped. “Let’s restrict ourselves to military botany. What’s a—? DUCK!”

Now, gentle reader, you be the judge. Was I asking the question What’s a duck? Of course I wasn’t. Despite Meg’s later complaints, I was trying to warn her that the nearest strix was charging straight at her face.

She didn’t understand my warning, which was not my fault.

I swung my borrowed scimitar, attempting to protect my young friend. Only my terrible aim and Meg’s quick reflexes prevented me from decapitating her.

“Stop that!” she yelled, swatting the strix aside with her other blade.

“You said cover me!” I protested.

“I didn’t mean—” She cried out in pain, stumbling as a bloody cut opened along her right thigh.

Then we were engulfed in an angry storm of talons, beaks, and black wings. Meg swung her scimitar wildly. A strix launched itself at my face, its claws about to rip my eyes out, when Grover did the unexpected: he screamed.

Why is that surprising? you may be asking. When you’re swarmed by entrail-devouring birds, it is a perfect time to scream.