A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, July 1950 — page 18: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

18 A. MERRITT’S FANTASY small and straight, the brows level and black, almost meeting above it! And her hair was cloudy jet, misty and shadewed, and a narrow fillet of gold around the broad, low forehead. In it like a diamond were entwined the sable and silver feathers of the caraquenque, that ~bird whose plumage in lost centuries was sacred to the princesses ef the Incas alone. Above her dimpled elbows golden brace- lets twined, reaching to the slender shoul- ders. The little, high arched feet were shod with high buskins of deerskin. She was light and slender as the Willow Maid who waits on Kwannon when she passes into the World of Trees to pour into them new fire of green life—and like the Willow Maid green fire of tree and jungle and flame of woman gleamed with her. Nothing so exquisite, so beautiful had ever Graydon beheld. Here was no Ay- mara, no daughter of any tribe of the Cordilleras, ne descendant of Incas. Nor was she Spanish. There were bruises on her cheeks—the marks of Sterrett’s cruel fingers. Her long, slim hands touched them. The red lips opened. She spoke— in the Aymara tongue. “Is he dead?” she asked—her voice was low, a faint chime as of little bells ringing through it. “No,” Graydon answered. In the depths of the midnight eyes a small hot flame flared; he could have sworn it was of gladness; it vanished as swiftly as it had come. “That is well,” she said. “I would not have him die—” the voice became medita- tive— “so!” “Who are you?” Graydon asked won- deringly. She looked at him for a long - moment, enigmatically. “Call me—Suarra,” she answered at Jast. Sterrett stirred; groaned. The girl gazed down upon him. The slim hand touched once more the bruises on her, cheek. ; “He is very strong,” she murmured. Graydon thought there was admiration in the voice; wondered whether all that delectable beauty was after all but a mask for primitive woman, worshiping brute strength; looked into the eyes scanning Sterrett’s bulk, noted the curious specula- tion within them, and knew that what- ever the reason for her comment it was not that which his fleeting thought had whispered. She leoked at him, question- ingly. “Are you his enemy?” she asked. “No,” said Graydon, “we travel to- gether.” “Then why,” she pointed to the out- stretched figure, “why did you do this to him? Why did you not let him have his way with me?” Graydon flushed, uncomfortably. The question, with all its subtle implications, cut. What kind of a beast did she think him? His defense of her had been ele- mentary—as well be asked to explain why he did not stand by and watch idly while a child was being murdered! “What do you think I am?” His voice shook with half shamed wrath. “No man stands by and lets a thing like that go on.” She looked at him, curiously; but her eyes had softened. “No?” she asked. Then what is he?” Graydon found no answer. She took a step closer to him, her slim fingers again touching the bruises on her cheek. “Do you not wonder,” she said— “now do you not wonder why I do not call my “No man does? people to deal him the punishment he has ~ earned ?” “I do wonder,” Graydon’s perplexity was frank. “I wonder indeed. Why do you not call them—if they are close enough to hear?” “And what would you do were they to ceme?” she whispered. “I would not let them have him— alive,” he answered. “Nor me!” “Perhaps,” she said, slowly, “perhaps —knowing that—is why—I do not call them !”’ Suddenly she smiled upon him—and it was as though a draft of wild sweet wine had been lifted to his lips. He took a swift step toward her. She drew up to her slim lithe height, thrust out a warning hand. 3 “T am—Suarra,” she said, then, I am—Death!” AN ODD chill passed through Gray- don. Again he realized the unfamil- “and iar, the alien beauty of her). Wns_there. *he 2,