A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, October 1950 — page 87: what you’re looking at

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

86 A. MERRITYT’S FANTASY ness resulted from his accomplishment. “Oh, if it were only morning, now!” he whispered, as he replaced the arrows, points downward, in his quiver, and with it got into bed. All night long he never closed his eyes. Staring up into the dark, he thought, he planned. Day broke at length, calm, golden- bright and fair, a perfect day in that most perfect spot on earth. Toward eleven o'clock, when Maria- nella was busy in the kitchen, Lombard gone down to Cette with Stasia in the dog-cart to see about a consignment of mulberry cuttings just arrived, and Vecchio on the point of finishing his daily outdoor task, Totor appeared in the gar- den. Round his waist was strapped the quiver, very brave with its brass and red leather belt. In his hand the child gripped the ashen bow. Though pale, he was smiling and seemed of good cheer as he st d out into the sunlight. ecchio greeted him. “Well, now, my little man,” he said, setting aside his mattack, ‘‘and what are we about, this morning? Still playing William Tell?” ‘‘No uncle, I’m tired of that, now.” “Tired of it? No wonder. Even the nicest game grows wearisome, after a while.” He wiped his high, bald forehead, and for a moment stood looking down with calculating eyes at this strange little creature there before him. Silence, a few seconds. Then said the child: “Uncle ?” “Well, Totor?” “Ts there anything outside the wall, over there?” He pointed to westward. Vecchio laughed. ‘Of course !’’ said he, marveling the while at Totor’s fast-in- creasing simplicity. “But, Uncle, Jean-Paul said that was the end of the world, over beyond that wall, He—he said if anybody went over there, they’d fall off into—into nothing!” The old man stared. “Come, come!” he answered. “Jean- Paul’s a naughty boy. He was only try- ing to fool my little Totor! He told a wicked lie.”’ Totor looked up shyly. “I'd like to see, Uncle,” he begged. “Please show me?” “Why, lad, there’s only a stretch of forest over beyond there. Woods, that’s all, gradually sloping down to the Etang de Thau. Jean-Paul knows that, quite well.” “Won't you take me there, please, Un- cle? Jean-Paul’s uncle takes him for a walk, sometimes. And you never take me! I'd like to take a walk there with you. Maybe there might be bears or wolves or something to shoot ?” Again Vecchio laughed heartily, his wrinkled old face breaking into a thou- sand parchment creases at the thought of wild game in that country. But Totor would not yield. “Please! Please!” childish trebles. At last the patriarch yielded. Less for the sake of amusing this victim, it was, than for the chance of studying the child- psychology, of observing the workings of this mind—reduced—as he _ believed— from virile strength to the impotence of almost infancy. “All right, Totor,” he agreed. ‘Just let me get my big straw hat and my pipe; then we'll start. But I can’t go very far, you understand. Or for very long. Un- cle’s busy. Half an hour’s all the time Uncle can give to Totor. Will that be enough ?” “Yes, Uncle. Oh, that will be enough. More than enough for me.” “Unless we meet big game!” the old man gibed, starting slowly for the house. “Do you think we shall?” questioned the child wonderingly. ‘“I—I can shoot a lot in half an hour!” Confidingly he slid his little hand in Vecchio’s lean, wasted one. Together, child and patriarch, they walked up the long graveled pathway. he entreated in CHAPTER 25 Nemesi OME fifteen minutes later, having traversed the grounds to westward and made their way through a fong- disused wicket gate that communicated with the woodland on the far flank of the mountain, the strange pair were strolling ECOMICOC|S (C(O)