A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, October 1950 — page 88: what you’re looking at

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

THB BLIXIR OF HATE 87 among the planes and beeches and tall, swaying pines that clothed the slope. The shade was cool, refreshing. Among the wind-swayed branches the clear sun- light fell in a million moving patterns on the leaf-mold and the fine, sparse forest- grass. Far off to the left, over a piny ridge, flashed a bright sparkle from the sea. Thrush and mavis, unseen amid the foliage, gossiped the news of the dim aisles. Peaceful beyond all telling, beau- tiful, and overhung with mystery, the forest stretched away. For a while they walked in silence. From time to time the old man glanced down at Totor, keenly observing him with a sort of grim exultation on his aged face. Totor, looking about with wonder, seemed to perceive nothing of this. He was think- ing of big game. At last the child spoke. “Uncle,” asked he, “who am I? How did I get here? Why haven’t I got any father or mother, the same as Jean-Paul ?” Vecchio frowned. He had hoped all such speculations were already forgotten. But clearly no choice existed save to an- swer these childish seekings after truth. So said he: “Who are you, Totor? Why, you're my little nephew, of course. You know that well. Your father and mother both died in Marseilles when you were only a baby. I adopted you, I, your great-uncle. Don’t bother about such things. Are you not happy here with me?” “Y-yes,” vaguely answered the child. “But I don’t seem to remember—” “Look!” interrupted the old man, pointing. At all hazards he must break this dangerous train of thought. “See that beautiful bird—ah! catch that flicker of red wings through the leaves? See it?” Totor looked. “Yes, Uncle,” said he. like blood, doesn’t it?” For a while no word passed. But Vecchio stroked his beard with a troubled air. Now they had come to a sort of clearing on the western slope of the height. Here the grass grew taller, and among it a crimson blossom or two swayed tn the breeze. “This is far enough, Totor,” remarked the patriarch, stopping at the edge of the “It looks just cleared space. ‘“‘We must go back now. You see, Jean-Paul was telling a naughty story. This isn’t the end of the world, here, not at all. But come, come. Now we must turn around.” “All right, Uncle. But won't you wait just a minute, please? I want to get that flower—see ? The hig red one over there!” Vecchio released his hand, then stood watching him as the little figure advanced toward the middle of the clearing. But to his surprise Totor did not pick the blossom. Instead, he drew an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to the bow-string. Vecchio seemed to catch a glint of metal. A formless wonder filled his mind—the vague adumbration of a nameless some- thing, he knew not what—a premonition of some strange, unreal, incredible hap- pening. “Totor! Come back!” he called sharp- ly. “Come back to me, this instant!” Instead of answering, the child wheeled on him at a distance of some fifteen yards. P CAME the bow. Vecchio, his eyes widening with a pang of sudden fear, saw a steel-tipped arrow leveled at him. “Totor!” he shouted, taking one for- ward step. Menacingly he raised his fist. “Dear Uncle, with my compliments!” cried the boy in a shrill, strange voice. Then, before Vecchio could move from his frozen attitude of terror, back drew the arm. The string grew taut. Zing-g-g-g! Low hummed the cord. Like a flick of light the shaft sped true. Il Vecchio flung up his arms. His wild shout died in a bubbling gasp. Fair in the throat the steel had struck him; and now a gush of blood along his neck, a frothy foam of crimson on his lips—a foam that tinged his patriarchal beard— bespoke the horrible wound. Clutching at the air, he staggered back. He caught a pine-trunk and stood leaning there against it, fighting to speak, strug- gling in vain to voice some word, some futile threat or prayer. Dennison, meanwhile, with calm de- liberation had drawn out another arrow from the quiver, and once again had laid it on the buckskin cord. “I think,” said he, “that you have told nn) (C 6)(0)(©) Ss (C(O)