In the dark depths, as though from an abyss, protruded a desolate heap of rocks. Slopes tore it apart, dirt and snow lay in its crevasses. A harsh wind howled from it. Shadows of kings, sad women, and on a small green patch of grass before a cave, beautiful mist-elves sat in a circle and laughed at a strange lion with baggy fur that roared like a human. I turned around. I felt dreadful that night. I proceeded to the hill of the wise owls. I spun round in a circle three times until I sprayed fire and called out, ‘Wisest owl, Eulenberg, Eulenberg, wisest owl, wisest Eulenberg.’ At first it was totally still, then there was a rustling in the trees. Then I heard a thin, sharp voice calling out from above. ‘Wait!’ A man with a walking stick came down the mountain. The night owls shrieked and fluttered as he advanced. He was wearing a brown frock coat and a beautiful, albeit slightly dented top hat. We did not exchange a single word. He walked ahead. Initially our ascent was quite comfortable. Broad marble steps led us past chasms from which ruined temples jutted forth, echoing with the sad rush of mighty rivers. A portly gentleman sat on a bench by the parapet. Snugly, and with a sour smile, he rubbed his hands. He had a wax tablet and a stylus in front of him. As soon as he saw us, he began to write slowly. ‘Horace – the first man of letters’, noted my guide in a sharp tone of voice. Suddenly I was brought up short. On a ledge I saw a man in a heavily wrinkled toga. One could see that he spoke continuously, his weak body quivering from exhaustion. He appeared to be yelling and yet one could hear no sound. All around him was empty. Terror seized hold of me. ‘Cicero’, whispered my guide. The comfortable steps came to an end. Stony, unruly paths appeared in their stead.