A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, April 1950 — page 112: what you’re looking at

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

__ A. MERRITT’S, FANTASY you that handsome Irishman could take it! HE SET to work on Jenny Louise with a new tack. Fresh wild-flowers in her tent every morning. Little nicknacks of special food. Ignored all talk of her husband. Went back to his taxidermy under the palm tree, always forcing a cheerful grin when. Jenny Lou appeared, always whistling, singing or humming. It was a good show he put on for that widow. A darn good show. It must’ve nearly killed him, for he had all an Irish- man’s superstition and moodiness locked up inside him, as well as a price. He was as patient with that woman as a doctor at a bedside. Thotightful every minute of the time. But that didn’t work, either. When he brought her flowers she’d sigh because she’d once ignored the flowers her husband had brought her. His taxidermy reminded her of the old days when Wilfred was around, “Oh, Terry, if I’d only treated him bet- ter. If Wilfred ever comes back—”’ “Jenny, you’ve got to get that out of your mind right now. Wilfred’s dead.” “But until I’ve seen him have a Chris- tian burial—”’ _ That phrase ran through those dark weeks at Morne Noir like a tune. A tune timed to the drums that beat at night. Tuned to the fact that Charlemagne had promised to turn all dead captivés into zombies; that Peabody’s little body had never been found; that Haiti is a land of hot jungle and moonlit mystery ; that there are things in this world no white man understands. Do you wonder the Marines contracted the «shakes? That McCoy looked gaunt and tired and tight-strung as an overworked Irish fiddle? That all of Morne Noir talked about nothing but the Great White Doctor’s second coming? ' Well, that state of affairs went on for twenty-four weeks. Six months! It had to end, brother, take my hon- orable word. Either the Cacos were go- ing to wipe us out, or we were all going stark nuts, or Morne Noir would blow sky high out of plain spontaneous combustion. From the home of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli, a Marine outpost never saw the equal of that situation ! So I wasn’t surprised when McCoy dis- tone, ‘ appeared. Like Peabody, early one morn- ing without saying goodbye. Over the fence and out. He didn’t leave any tracks. When the top sergeant first noticed his absencé and we set out to look for him, we didn’t know where to start. After forty hours’ search, I summoned in the scouts and gave him up as a goner. The Irishman’s vanishing dealt ‘me an extra sweatbath. His pumpgun and knap- sack had vanished along with him, and it looked as if he’s pulled foot; but there was always a chance he’d been kidriapped. Those Caco devils were experts at that sort of business. They could sneak into a camp and steal the suspenders off a sentry without his knowing it till he dis- covered his pants were down. I didn’t like McCoy disappearing in such a manner. Worst of all, it left the Widow Peabody on my hands. I’m afraid I lost my temper with the lady at this tutn of events. I asked her into headquarters to tell her the word on McCoy, and I felt I knew her well enough by that time to give her a piece of my" mind. “Mrs. Peabody,” I said, “I’m a soldier, not a judge conducting a court of domestic relations. However, I can’t help making some fatherly remarks. With full sym- pathy for your status as a widow, I think you've treated your friend, Terry McCoy, like the devil. Your infernal nonsense about zombies has driven your last friend over the wall. Maybe he’s been kidnapped by Cacos, but I’m inclined to think he couldn’t stand this any more, and he’s pulled out. In either case, he’s liable to be killed.”’ Yes,.and I said that with gestures. I was in the Marine Corps, not the -Diplo- matic Corps. Can you guess how that woman answered me? At news that Mc- Coy had gone, she didn’t bat an eye. She said calmly : “Don’t worry about Terrence. He’s so strong and confident ; he could always take care of himself. Not like poor little Wil- fred who really needs me.’ “Mrs. Peabody,” I began, speaking through my teeth, “your husband’ s been dead six months—” ~ Captain Glennon,” she said in mono- ‘until I’ve seen him have a Christian oO Gomicbooks som weed