The Face of Apollo

by Fred Saberhagen

  Already it was becoming obvious that the Mountain had a great deal of the magical about it. The summit, more crested ridge than single peak, always seemed to be only a little farther on, though perpetually out of sight behind the bulge of the nearer slopes. And yet here, even more than on any ordinary mountain, you could climb for hour after hour, maybe day after day, without reaching the top. Jeremy, now clinging to the flank of the first mountain he had ever climbed—in fact, it was the first the eyes of Jeremy Redthorn had ever seen—found it impossible to rid himself of the eerie feeling that he could go on climbing for years, forever, and still never reach a point where there were no more rocks above him.

  Over the last days and weeks, the phenomenon he'd first noticed in the Academy barbershop was becoming more pronounced. According to the wondering description provided by Kate, sin­gle strands and patches of Jeremy's hair were growing in a lus­trous almost-black, matching the traditional look of Apollo. The dark hair was slightly curly, as were his naturally red locks, a de­tail that somehow made the coloring look all the more artificial.

  And Jeremy's face had been ugly, or at least plain, by conven­tional standards—or at least he had come to think of himself that way. But it was easy to accept Katy's wondering assessment that now, over the past few days, he was growing handsome. Of course his cheeks and chin and upper lip were still as smooth and hairless as they'd ever been.

  Fervently he wished for a really good mirror, then decided that if he had one, he'd be afraid to look into it.

  Ferrante had a bad few moments when he realized that Jonathan, who'd been only an inch or two the taller on the day they met, now overtopped him by almost a full head. Of course it was only natural for boys of fifteen to grow.

  "But this's bloody ridiculous!"

  He remembered how Katherine yesterday had noticed and commented on these changes, even before Jeremy himself was fully aware of them. Katherine didn't begin to understand, but she knew there was something strange about this boy, and she liked him and tried to be reassuring.

  When Jeremy came upon, in one of the small mountain streams, a pool still enough to offer a coherent reflection, he stared into it, as he had stared at his reflection in the Honeymakers' well, and knew a sinking feeling.

  Because he was changing. It didn't seem that he was going to come out looking exactly like the Dark Youth, either—more like him, yes, but his bodily proportions were not going to be so per­fect, any more than his hair was going to turn entirely black.

  It wasn't only a matter of hair or of the changes that came to any boy growing into manhood. What frightened him was that his whole face—no, his whole head; no! his whole body!— seemed to be growing now according to a different pattern, try­ing to take on the shape of an entirely different person.

  Other changes in his body were not as immediately apparent but more substantial. His muscles were no longer merely stringy but rounding into strength. His masculinity was more heavily developed—though for the time being, at least, erotic images rarely intruded upon his thoughts, either waking or sleeping. He supposed that might be because the Intruder of late had been concentrating upon other matters. He had his own business to set his mind on. Yes, all roads, all thoughts, led back to the Intruder. Apparently Jeremy Redthorn was not going to spend much time thinking about subjects in which the Lord Apollo was not inter­ested.

  Or worrying about them, either. Thank all the gods—well, thank Apollo, anyway—that Jeremy's body was developing with a great deal more classic symmetry than his face.

  It was hard to remember now, but not that long ago, back around midsummer, he'd had trouble persuading even a moder­ately ugly village girl—what had her name been? Myra, that was it—not to lie with him but just to tolerate his presence! Even that had seemed a mystical, practically unattainable goal.

  And then the Intruder had moved into his head. And the girl called Carlotta, carrying her Sandals hidden somewhere in the boat, had done what she had done, that memorable night on the deck of the catamaran. And now women and girls in general seemed to hunger for him. Even though his body hadn't changed that much—the body that had once belonged entirely to Jeremy Redthorn had.

  And now, according to some ancient, weathered signposts, wood slabs fixed to trees and carved or painted in half a dozen languages, the famed Cave of the Oracle was no more than a mile ahead. Maybe there was also a stone marker or two.

  I'm getting really worried about Katy. I thought perhaps we'd find her waiting here.

  The shrine ahead of them was also known as the Cave of the Python. Believers said that in it, deep down under the surface of the earth, there dwelt a Monster of Darkness. Evidently Apollo in his previous avatar had tried and failed to conquer this crea­ture—another hero was needed to accept the task and succeed in it.

  The entrance of the Python's Cave—more precisely, certain fea­tures that marked the location of the entrance—were visible from a considerable distance downslope. The Cave itself, ac­cording to Jeremy's grafted memory, lay hidden by a large fold of rock until you were almost upon it. But the broad and well-worn paths and the cluster of small buildings nearby left no doubt of where the entrance was.

  Having caught this tantalizing glimpse of the entrance from a distance on the path, you found that it disappeared again until you were almost on it.

  The party advanced.

  Arnobius, too, was perturbed by the fact that their Honeymaker guide had disappeared, but in his role of methodical leader he wasn't about to do anything rash because of that.

  He gave his orders to his remaining people. Oh, if only he had forty of John's lancers with him! Or even twenty young and angry villagers! He'd seize the mouth of the Cave and hold it until John and the rest of his force arrived.

  But Jeremy was becoming more and more grimly concerned with Katy's fate. He was determined to disregard the Scholar's orders and go on to the Cave himself, alone.

  And the Intruder, for his own reasons, concurred with this course of action.

  Jeremy knew, with certainty and yet with frightening igno­rance as to the ultimate source of his knowledge, that this hard whitish rock that stood a mile above the sea had one day been down at the bottom. In the past, the distant past . . . no, the word distant was inadequate. That ocean rolled on the far side of a time gulf so immense that he was afraid of what might happen to his mind if he was ever able to see it clearly.

  The whitish rock on which his hand was resting contained in­numerable small objects that looked like seashells. Here were remnants of what must have been tiny clam-like ocean-dwelling creatures, now encased within the limestone. His new memory confirmed the identification.

  There were half a dozen people, a mixture of priests and sol­diers, some showing Kalakh's blue and white, standing near the mouth of the Cave. But Jeremy could be sure, before he got any closer, that Katy was not among them. And he knew she wouldn't have gone willingly along the trail past this spot.

  Even as he approached the Cave, Jeremy remembered something else that had happened during the Intruder's earlier visit, or vis­its, to this spot. At certain hours of the day and seasons of the year, looking down into the Cave from outside, if the sunlight fell at the right angle, you could still make out the caveman paintings of some animal being hunted and speared. And another scene in the same style, depicting what could hardly be anything but human sacrifice. A small human figure was in the process of being devoured, and the thing that was doing the devouring looked for all the world like an enormous snake.

  Twenty-Five

  Apollo's memory of the Cave entrance showed it as one detail of a whole landscape, seen as it had been a few months ago, engulfed in war. But since the Sun God's last and fatal visit here, human activity in the vicinity of the Cave of Darkness had taken on a different character. Open warfare in the area had ended. Human powers allied to Hades were in charge but making no effort to keep others out. Lord Kalakh's priests and soldiers were endeavoring, with some success, to encourage p
ilgrimages.

  Appearances from as close as a hundred yards were still de­ceptive. At that distance, neither of Jeremy's eyes could see more of the Cave's entrance than a kind of high, shallow grotto, framed by a fringe of tall, thin trees. What Apollo perceived as a grotto was a rough concavity, not deep in comparison with its height and width, that had been formed by natural forces in a towering steep wall. That wall formed one flank of the upper Mountain, which beyond it went on up for an immense distance. From where Jeremy stood now, the summit was still completely out of sight behind intermediate elevations.

  The true mouth of the Cave did not become visible until you got much closer, and as Jeremy drew near he saw an enormous hole, ten yards wide, going down into the earth at the base of the grotto. The opening went down almost vertically, so that you could fall into it if you were careless or jump down into it if you tried.

  These details seemed new to the Intruder's memory; his pre­vious entrance to the Cave must have been accomplished by a different route.

  The pilgrims' road ended here, at the Cave of the Oracle. But as Jeremy approached, he could see that a much smaller path continued climbing past the Cave's mouth and its surrounding clutter of small buildings, people, and animals. For as far as his vision, or Apollo's, could follow that extended way, it appeared to be unobstructed.

  Arnobius had commanded the members of his small group to maintain their disguise as pilgrims but not to closely approach the Cave and to avoid as much as possible any contact with Kalakh's people, or the Gatekeeper's. The Scholar was mildly concerned about the fate of Katherine, but then one had to ex­pect some casualties in war—and he had little doubt that a state of war existed, or would soon exist, between Kalakh and the Harbor Lord.

  But neither Jeremy nor Apollo was minded to wait for Arnobius's permission to look for Katy. Her welfare had now be­come Jeremy's overriding concern. He didn't see how that could possibly be the Intruder's goal as well—but whatever Lord Apollo's plan might be, it, like Jeremy's, evidently called for a prompt approach to the entrance of the Cave. Jeremy kept expecting that he would have to fight some internal duel, at least a skirmish, with the Intruder over control of the body they both inhabited. He more than half-expected something of the kind to develop now. But Apollo did not dispute him in the matter.

  Here, of course, was the site of the world's most famous oracle. That was one point on which the vast memory of the Intruder and the very skimpy one of Jeremy Redthorn were in agreement.

  And here, of course, in one of the Cave's deep rooms, was where the recent but already legendary battle between Hades and Apollo had taken place. Memory assured Jeremy that it had been much more than a legend.

  Traditionally the Cave stood open to anyone who wanted to try his or her luck at gaining power or advantage out of it or ob­taining a free prophecy. And Apollo's vision showed Jeremy something that made him want to make the attempt.

  What kind of questions did most visitors ask the Oracle? Apollo's memory could readily provide an answer based on hearsay. As a rule, rich and poor alike wanted to know basically the same things: whether they were fated to enjoy success in love and in money matters. Generally the poor were able, for a small fee, to take part in a kind of mass prophecy.

  Arnobius had chosen a campsite about a hundred yards from the Cave entrance, and here the Scholar planned to wait for some in­dication that Lord John and his lancers were in the vicinity.

  Winter tended to come early at this altitude, but so far the weather remained mild, and an abandoned hut provided suffi­cient shelter, though one wall had fallen in. There were a number of similar structures standing about, put up and used and aban­doned by successive parties of pilgrims.

  Ferrante was beginning to share Jeremy's worries about Katherine. But to the soldier she was not important enough to disobey a direct order. To Jeremy she had become just that. Soon his need to go and look for her became too strong to resist. With­out a word to anyone, and with no clear plan in mind, he set out alone for the Cave entrance.

  Neither Arnobius nor Ferrante was immediately aware of Je­remy's departure, and none of the people near the entrance to the Cave paid much attention to the boy as he came walking calmly down the path.

  While the little knot of attendants were chatting among them­selves, Jeremy came to a casual merchant's table, suitable for some small bazaar, on which a miscellany of items had been set out for sale.

  Almost at once Jeremy came to a halt, his gaze fixed on one item among this merchandise: he was looking at Katherine's homemade backpack, the one with the bee and the flower em­broidered on it.

  He grabbed up the pack, which was empty now, and held it up to the sunlight and could see his fingers trembling. She'd told him that her father had made the thing from leather and tough canvas and her mother, required to use a special needle for the heavy fabric, had sewn on the design.

  One of the men who dealt in buying and selling came sliding close to him, bringing a scent of cheap perfume. "A pretty and useful object, sir. The price is very reasonable."

  "It may be higher than you think." Out of the boy's throat came a remote voice that seemed to have little to do with Jeremy Redthorn.

  The man drew back a step.

  Some items of women's clothing were on display also, on the same table. Jeremy, knowing himself to be outwardly calm except that his hands were still shaking, opened the empty pack and began to restore to it what he assumed were its proper contents, including some items of spare clothing that he thought he rec­ognized. Then he strapped it shut and hooked it over his shoul­der, next to his own pack.

  "Here, sir, payment is due on that!"

  Jeremy turned and looked at the man. "Do you insist on pay­ment?" the voice of Apollo asked, not loudly, and there were no more protests.

  The boy turned away, with the feeling of one moving in a dream, again facing the Cave entrance, not knowing exactly what would come next but confident that whatever it was would be the necessary thing.

  There came a sound of a single pair of feet behind him, hur­rying, and suddenly Ferrante was at his elbow, dressed as a pil­grim and not a soldier, looking agitated but trying to conceal it. In a low voice he said to Jeremy: "Scholar's looking for you. I got my orders to bring you back."

  Jeremy was still walking toward the Cave. "I've got my orders, too, Andy. I'm going on."

  Ferrante didn't get it. "Orders? From—?"

  "This pack I just picked up is Katy's. I think the worst thing that could have happened to her has happened. I'm going to find out."

  Ferrante looked upset, but he wasn't going to create a distur­bance by taking physical measures to stop Jeremy—not here, in the public eye, with a dozen or more armed enemies in sight.

  Half-consciously Jeremy was still bracing himself for conflict with the Lord Apollo over what their next joint move was going to be. But the precaution proved quite unnecessary. His left eye began to supply him with symbolic guidance, and the direction chosen seemed appropriate for aggressive action.

  The two who walked in one body were going on, into the Cave.

  To locate Katy if they could, to bring her out if she was still alive. On all these points the Intruder was with him all the way.

  The question of what Apollo might want of him, later, in re­turn, came up in Jeremy's mind, but he brushed it aside for now, as of no importance. Steadily he walked forward, with Ferrante, not knowing what to do, following uncertainly a couple of steps behind.

  Almost immediately Jeremy was challenged again, this time with serious intent. The sentry was well armed, equipped with helm and shield, a figure of burly confidence, almost twice Je­remy's bulk.

  "No passage, this way, you!"

  Now there was no need for patience any longer—anyway, he and Apollo had both had enough of patience. But neither, the In­truder assured him wordlessly, was there any need to waste an arrow here.

  How, then?

  Easily. Like this.

  Jeremy watched as
his own right arm swung to the left across his body, then lashed backhanded at the sentry. It was a casual blow but effective. In one direction soared the soldier's shield, painted with the black and red device of Hades, while his spear, now in two pieces, flew another way. The man himself went dancing straight back, feet scarcely touching the ground, until he hit the wall eight feet behind his post. Sliding down that barrier, he lay unmoving on the ground.

  Seeing the way ahead now unimpeded, Jeremy walked on, for­ward and down. His mind was glowing with pleasant surprise, but the sensations in his right arm were less agreeable. It had gone numb, from fingertips to shoulder, and now life was slowly returning in the form of a painful stinging.

  A few people standing in the middle distance had turned their heads at the sound of the sentry's demolition, but no one had ac­tually seen anything happen. The body lying at the foot of the wall was hard to see, and there was nothing alarming in Jeremy's measured pace.

  As the boy moved ahead, he thought: Damn it all, Intruder! Remember, this body we share is only human flesh and bone. A few more shots like that one, and it won't be any use to you! Then briefly he felt aghast at his own impudence—but, damn it, as long as he was allowed his own thoughts he was going to have them. He had never taken a reverential approach toward the god who shared his flesh and blood, and he was in no mood to start now.

  Evidently his impudence was not resented; perhaps it meant no more to his resident divinity than a dog's bark or cameloid's groan.

  Still Jeremy's hands were empty, the bow and quiver on his back, not yet needed. Maybe I should have picked up the sentry's knife, or the sharp end of his broken spear, to use in the next fight. But no, he could feel that Apollo's approval for that course of ac­tion was lacking. He had his chosen bow and arrows. If Jeremy at any point needed to gather additional equipment or detour for any other reason, the god would doubtless let him know.