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personification once more pierced the clouds.
Arnobius had not seen such creatures before, and their presence disturbed and frightened him. "What
does it mean?"
Apollo, on the other hand, was quietly elated. "It means that the one I'm looking for can't be very far
away. It means that there still exists a dark tunnel allowing such creatures to come all the way up here to
the crest."
Now the very summit was only about fifty yards above where the two men were standing. Even now, in
broad daylight, the air hurled by the howling winds along the crest was grayish, filled with a strange
unnatural mist, when it was not opaque with snow. All this before the last greens of summer had faded
from the sea-level lowlands visible below. Here and there Jeremy could barely distinguish some building,
maybe a barn, that happened to be bigger than the ordinary.
Looking down from up here at the world from which he had ascended, the young man sometimes thought
it was the normal land down there that looked enchanted and this strange place the stronghold of grim
reality.
Rising winds sometimes blasted gusts of snow straight toward the driving clouds above, ascending in
twisting columns that threatened to coalesce in the shape of howling faces, reaching arms.
* * *
The Scholar, his gaze turned upward, let out a little moan, and the expression on his face suggested that
he had now entered into an exotic, exalted mental state.
Jeremy looked at the man sharply and saw that he was going into one of his recurrent fits. A moment later
Arnobius had toppled softly into a bank of flowers, where he lay with eyes closed and arms outstretched,
hands making feeble groping movements.
His companion pondered whether to let him lie where he had fallen or carry him on to the very summit.
But at the moment the Sandals were giving Apollo no impulse to move on, and so he decided to wait
where he was till his companion snapped out of it.
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Fred Saberhagen - The Book of the Gods 1 - The Face of Apollo
Jeremy had never forgotten his sworn promise to Sal. His Sandals had brought him here and were not yet
ready to carry him all the way to the summit. But she was not here. Once more he expressed a thought
that he had already repeated so often that it had become automatic: "Find me Margaret Chalandon."
This time, it seemed, he was granted an almost immediate response.
He had thought himself alone except for the unconscious, entranced Arnobius. In the background, the
song of larks was audible between fierce gusts of wind. On every side, but where the summit of the
Mountain lay, there stretched a view that seemed to encompass all the countries of the earth.
But Apollo/Jeremy was no longer alone. A woman of regal bearing, her dark hair lightly streaked with
gray, came walking toward him through a flowery meadow and Apollo remembered now this was the
Meadow of the Sun dressed in the practical garments, including boots and trousers, that an intelligent
scholar would have worn on a field expedition. She carried no tools, no weapons, no canteen or pack of
any kind.
It was the woman's clothing, as well as the timing of her appearance, that instantly suggested a name for
her. "Scholar Chalandon?"
She stopped, ten paces away. "Yes?" Her attitude was calm, her voice mild. If she found the youth
standing before her particularly impressive in any way, her face did not reveal it.
Jeremy came right to the point. "I swore an oath that may now be impossible to keep."
"Regarding what?"
"I carry with me a great treasure that was entrusted to me by a young woman, a little while before she
died . . ."
Apollo's voice trailed away. He had never seen Circe wearing clothing anything like that of the woman
before him, and also this woman was apparently years older than the sorceress. Therefore, it had taken the
god a space of two or three breaths to recognize her. Now he continued: ". . . but I recall having told you
something of the matter before. Tell me, were you also one of the seven?"
"No, my lord. But you may count me as a worshiper of Apollo your humble servant." The voice of the
enchantress was soft, but her eyes and bearing were anything but humble.
"I want no worship, but I need help. I am still Jeremy Redthorn and I am afraid."
"So is Apollo, sometimes, I am sure. So are we all. I include Hades, too, of course and even the great
enchantress Circe." The last words carried a tone of something like self-mockery. She paused, as if to
collect her thoughts, and as she did so the appearance of age fell away and her clothing changed, all in an
instant, to the kind of filmy stuff that Circe was wont to wear. Now she strolled the meadow on bare feet
that seemed to require no boots, or Sandals either, to carry her around in perfect comfort on the flank of a
mountain. The intermittent fierce blasts of wind had little effect on her, barely stirring her hair and
garments.
Jeremy waited.
Presently Circe ceased her pacing and said to him: "In the old stories the gods are forever disguising
themselves as humans, ordinary mortals, and prowling around the earth in search of adventure. The Lord
Apollo must realize, as soon as he allows himself to think about the matter, that such disguise is, in fact,
no disguise at all."
The larks had fallen silent, but in the pines beyond the sunlit meadow wild birds were screaming
frantically at one another, caught up in some conflict that had naught to do with either gods or humans.
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Fred Saberhagen - The Book of the Gods 1 - The Face of Apollo
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