A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, February 1950 — page 118: what you’re looking at

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

118 A. MERRITT’S FANTASY Crossing himself fearfully, he went into the cabin and prayed that Ste. Anne would send no storm to punish them. When the long twilight was shading into night they weighed anchor and started homeward, and all night Pierre sat like a man in a daze. Next morning the gray sea reflected a gray sky. The vessel was headed straight toward Miquelon, The bleak Newfound- land shore had faded into the fogs. The warm image of Marthe stole into Pierre’s heart. They had been married only twelve days when he went out with the fleet. In twelve hours more he would be home. His cottage, set into the flank of a hill, faced the ocean; in his mind’s eye he saw the nets drying upon the stakes along the sandy beach, and Marthe, seated in the yellow lamp- slight, spinning at her wheel, He would ascend the little hill and she would see him and rush into his arms, and all the winter months they would be to- gether. Peirre went on deck to relieve Jean. Then, not a cable’s length from the boat, he thought he saw—a brown head upon the tossing waves! He shouted to Jean, but Jean could see nothing, and when Pierre looked again the head was gone. It was not until long after- ward that Jean recalled this incident. Now hear Jean’s story to Pere Legouftire. “It was about noon, monsieur, and the gale had been freshening until we thought we would have to run for St. Pierre. All at once we sighted a ship’s boat on the sea and drove toward her into the wind’s jaws, thinking her some derelict. But when we drew alongside we saw a woman within. “A woman! No such woman was ever seen on Grand Miquelon before. Her skin was brown as a bird and her lips redder than boxberries. Her eyes were closed, and when she opened them they fell upon Pierre’s, and they were brown, like a seal’s eyes, monsieur. I crossed myself, and when I looked at Pierre I crossed myself again, for he was staring at her like a man be- witched. ; “T said that the weather was wild, yet now not a breeze stirred and for a cable’s length all around us the ocean was flat and oily, and outside this was a barrier of foam. The sun scorched us out of the sky, and the air was aglow like burnished copper. It was devil’s weather. “We took her into the Marthe Ros. When he spoke it sounded like the singing I “ace heard at Quebec, in the Basilica, and, though her words were neither French nor English, Pierre seemed to understand her.” But afterward the men in the other boats that were scattered upon the sea said that they had seen the Marthe Ros heave to in wildest weather and careen, bow under, from wave to wave. But of the derlict they had seen nothing. O the Marthe Ros drove into harbor, first of the fleet, and on the quay the island women had gathered to greet their men. Marthe ran to her husband, but when she saw the castaway who clung to him she stopped and looked at him in perplexity. Then, since he did not speak to her, she began to weep. She was tender-hearted and timid and easily abashed. She took him by the hand and he made no sign of recognition, but walked at her side, like one in a dream, and the strange woman went with them. The island women, who had been watching her, began to whis- per and point and hoot at her, Half an hour later Pére Legouffre, who had been told of these happenings, en- tered Pierre’s cottage. He found him seated before the fire, staring in front of him. The strange woman crouched beside the blaze and Marthe wept at the door. The curé took Pierre by the arm. “My son,” he said, “who is this woman whom you have brought into your house? I must make inquiries about her, and meanwhile she shall inhabit the cottage of Guillaume Robitaille, who was drowned.” He led the woman away. Next morning Pére Legouffre heard the sound of sobbing outside his door. He left his bed reluctantly, for it was cold weather, and peered through the window. Upon the step crouched Marthe Drouin; she had lain their since dawn. She was soaked with the rain. “Father,” she said, “come to Guillaume Robitaille’s cottage with baptismal water.” Inside the cottage Pére Legouffre found the strange woman lying upon the bed, and by her side a new-born child, a girl. Pierre sat in Guillaume Robitaille’s chair. Though it was so early, half the island women were gathered before the door, reviling her. One, Louise Racabout, flung a stone inside the house. ‘ Next day the last boats of the fleet: came in, but Jules Racabout had been swept into the waves, five sea miles outside the harbor. Some remembered that his father had —