This mental slide show scrolled through my mind on four separate occasions. By the fourth rerun, I wanted answers. One, what the heck was this festival? Two, where were the visions coming from? And three, why was I having them?

I got the answer to the first question by doing a little digging in our cabin’s research library. Buried in one book was a description of a festival called the Great Panathenaia that was held every four years in Athens in honor of my mother. I learned that the wooden statue was the Athena Polias, meaning Athena “of the city,” and the cloth was a special peplos (a versatile garment that could be worn as a floor-length skirt, a top-and-skirt ensemble, a shawl, or—Gods, I sound like Valentina! Sorry!) woven with images depicting Athena’s greatest triumphs, like the time she defeated the giant Enceladus.

So I’d been seeing the Great Panathenaia. Now I just had to figure out where the visions were coming from and why I was seeing them.

The “where” proved surprisingly easy to solve. Every time the visions hit me, I was near Half-Blood Hill. Therefore, my logical brain told me, something in that area was causing the visions. Conclusion: the something was the Athena Parthenos.

If you don’t believe that’s possible, just go up to Half-Blood Hill and experience the Athena Parthenos’s power for yourself. The statue radiates magic. Its eyes follow you. It’s so lifelike, you expect it to speak. Trust me, once you feel its power, you’ll understand why I decided the statue was channeling the pictures from the past into my head.

So that left the question of why. I explored several possibilities but kept coming back to one: Mom was giving me a not-so-subtle hint. I deduced she missed having a festival dedicated just to her. I further deduced she wanted me to resurrect that festival here at Camp Half-Blood. She would never come right out and tell me that, of course. Demanding to be honored isn’t her style. That’s why she used the statue as a go-between.

Just to be sure I was right, though, I whispered my conclusions to the Athena Parthenos. Yes, I felt a little silly talking to a statue, and of course, the statue didn’t reply. Neither did Mom. Not directly, anyway. But that night, an amphora of olive oil appeared beside my bunk. This either meant she was giving me a favorable omen or she wanted me to make a whole lot of pizza. I figured it was the former.

The next morning, I told my siblings and Chiron everything. The Athena kids were all over remaking the festival. Chiron himself had attended the original Panathenaia back in the day, so he readily greenlit the project.

Our inaugural Camp Half-Blood Panathenaia is scheduled for next August, to coincide with the dates of the original festival and Mom’s “sprang from Zeus’s head” day. That gives us Athena kids about a year to construct a wooden Athena Polias statue, weave a ginormous peplos, organize the competitions, and plan the procession. (Some of my siblings suggested just making a peplos for the Athena Parthenos, but firstly I don’t think there’s enough cloth on Long Island to make a serape that big, and secondly the ancient Athenians didn’t do it that way. They used a wooden statue made especially for the festival. I want to do it the traditional way because, well, this is all about bringing back a tradition.)

Am I worried we’ll be ready in time? Nah. As children of Athena, planning and organizing runs in our blood. Plus, other campers are already volunteering to help. If you want to lend a hand, the sign-up sheet is on Cabin Six’s door.

And Mom? I think she approves. The last time I was near the Athena Parthenos, I swear it winked.

SCENE: Apollo jogs backward along the beachfront, shooting arrows from his golden bow. He’s followed by campers dressed in combat gear, jogging in military formation.

APOLLO: I don’t know but I’ve been told!

CAMPERS: We don’t know but we’ve been told!

APOLLO: The sun god’s got a bow of gold!

CAMPERS: The sun god’s got a bow of gold!

APOLLO: He’s the best shot in the land!

CAMPERS: He’s the best shot in the land!

APOLLO: Augh! [Apollo trips and lands on his backside] I’ve fallen in the sand!

CAMPERS [jogging circles around him]: Augh! He’s fallen in the sand!

APOLLO: I meant to do that, so don’t laugh!

CAMPERS: He meant to do that, so don’t laugh!

APOLLO [tries to get up but falls back again]: Ow! I hurt my godly calf!

CAMPERS: Ow! He hurt his godly calf!

APOLLO [glowering and starting to glow]: If you want to live another day…

CAMPERS: If we want to live another day…

APOLLO [radiating brighter]: STOP REPEATING WHAT I SAY!

CAMPERS: STOP—um…

—Military cadence written, chanted, and abruptly ended by Apollo

Centrally located and stocked to the rafters with spears, swords, daggers, shields, bows and arrows, and clubs, the armory is a must-see for those in need of deadly weapons. Dig through, and you might even find one imbued with magical abilities. So don’t delay—your stabber, slicer, slasher, or basher awaits!

Where is fun spelled l-a-v-a? The climbing wall, of course! Originally created to fine-tune reflexes and test hand-eye coordination, the climbing wall has become every camper’s top spot for primal-screaming practice. If a fall from halfway up the side doesn’t send you to the Big House infirmary, the slamming walls or molten magma will. So come on up—just don’t look down!

More demigod blood has been shed in this circular fighting zone than anywhere else in camp. So what are you waiting for? Strap on your armor and get ready to sweat, because you ain’t never had a workout like this before! You’ll engage every muscle as you slash with your sword, jab with your spear, smash with your shield, and stab with your dagger. And that’s just the warm-up! Now that your blood is pumping (inside your body, outside your body, whatever), it’s time to test your metal against a straw dummy—or to test your mettle against a live opponent. But remember: the hits are real and so is the blood, so keep your guard up!

Striking from afar more your style? We’ve got you covered! Just a javelin’s throw from the combat arena is the archery range, with its array of boldly colored targets, their bull’s-eyes daring you to hit them with a well-aimed arrow. Just be on the lookout for errant projectiles so you don’t become a target yourself!

To be a great head counselor, you have to be more than just the oldest sibling in a cabin. You have to be a leader—smart, strong, decisive, brave—and also a fearless fighter. Clarisse La Rue, our previous head counselor, was all those things and more. Sherman Yang? Him, I wasn’t so sure about.

Sherman took over when Clarisse left Camp Half-Blood to go to college. He was a typical Ares kid, meaning a ferocious muscle-bound fighting machine with a yen for bloody conflict and a disdain for peace. But as impressive as those qualities were, I wondered if they were enough to lead our cabin. More importantly, were they enough to lead us to victory over the other cabins? If not…well, let’s just say I was secretly studying him to find his Achilles’ heel.

Not long after Sherman took over, Ares cabin scored poorly on the daily camp inspection. One of my sisters had left a plate of sticky, sweet barbecue under her bunk, and ants had swarmed it. Not the gigantic myrmekes—they prefer shiny things to smoked meats. It would have been okay if the myrmekes had invaded, actually. Things had been so calm lately, I wouldn’t have minded going a few rounds with them, sword versus mandible.