The Broken Toy!

Chapter Thirty-Five

For a little time he stood, half in stupor, seeing less the room than swift, fleeting pictures of that last battle. His gaze caught at last the long mirror; held there. With a faint stirring of curiosity he looked at the white, pain-drawn face staring from it, the haggard, sorrow-filled eyes. So that—was he! The arrow in his side? Ah, yes—that at least he had brought with him from the ship! That and the greater wound from which his life was flowing!

There was a chiming. A bell was striking—one, two, three! The clock! Of course—this was a world of time! Not like that world of the ship—

The ship!

He staggered over to where lay that shining craft of mystery that had given him all his heart and mind had craved—and at the last had taken all away.

Sharane!

There she lay—on the platform beside the rowers’ pit not far from the deck of ivory. A gleaming little three inch toy—a gemmed puppet with tiny dagger hilt fast in her white breast! Sharane!

Sharane—who had held for him all joy, all sweetness of life, all desirable delicious things—a witched toy! He shook his head—never would that doubt assail him again!

And that black headless manikin so close? The black priest!

Toys? He set his hand again to the wound in his side, felt of the arrow—and laughed! No toys had made that wound, no toy sped that shaft!

But where were the soldiers from the bireme? He looked upon the ship’s stern. There lay another puppet, one with yellow hair and chipped and gashed armor, sword still clasped in hand—Sigurd!

And the two slim warriors stretched beside him? Why, they were the maids of Sharane who had fought there with him.

And there—there beyond the headless body of the black priest—was Gigi! Gigi with his great arms a-sprawl, his dwarf legs drawn under him! Gigi with his little bald head shining under a ray of the electrics!

Gigi!

Kenton’s hand left Sharane, the toy—caressed the grotesque puppet.

But where were the soldiers? Where that other maid of his lost love?

He bent forward, incredulous. The whole bow of the ship was gone! It had vanished even as he had knelt there! Melted away—and with it the rosy cabin of Sharane’s and his delight!

And as he looked the ship seemed to lurch! As cabin had gone so went ivory deck up to the rowers’ pit and with it—Gigi!

Even the toy going! Was that, too, to be taken from him before he followed Sharane out into that flame lit space of his vision?

If such place there was—

Longing for her, longing for her kisses, the touch of her hands, the sound of her voice shook him; loneliness and the pall of the utterly forlorn.

“Sharane!” he whispered, and gripped the little puppet with trembling hand. “Sharane!” he called and again “Sharane! Beloved! Wait for me!”

The ship crumbled to within an inch of where she lay!

“Sharane!” wailed Kenton—and above him the servants heard that agonized cry and came hurrying to his door.

And now he threw the last of his strength into the gripping fingers, wrenched loose the little figure, held it to his lips!

And now where ship had been was nothing but the oblong base of foam crested turquoise waves! Down had gone the galley of the black priest into the depths of that strange sea, dragging with it, as it went, the Ship of Ishtar. So Kenton knew, and knowing that as ran the fate of living ship so must run the fate of the toy which was its symbol!

The bell chime echoed back into his brain—

Three o’clock!

Nine hours of the time of this world into which he had been born had passed since first he had set foot on the ship’s deck—nine hours only!

Only nine hours—and in those nine hours he had been both slave and master of the ship, had been lashed and loved, had drunk his fill of life, lived as it is given to but few men in tens of centuries—

Had possessed—Sharane!

Sharane!

He pressed the toy to his lips. Weakened, death close, that toy he held to lips and breast was to him—Sharane!

There was a knocking at the door, rappings and cries. He gave them no heed.

“Sharane!” he called again, but now with voice that sang with joy!

He fell, the toy at lips, gripped tight in stiffening hand.

“Break down the door!” shrilled Jevins from the hall. There came the thud of shoulders against the heavy wood.

Where ship had been something stirred; a shadowy great bird with silver wings and breast and feet and bill of scarlet. It arose; it hovered over Kenton.

A dove of Ishtar!

It hovered—and then upon its white breast two flames whiter than it appeared and clung!

The shadowy dove was gone!

In crashed the door.

“Master John!” screamed Jevins, and ran to the body stretched out there on the floor.

“That’s not the master!” a maid whispered. “Look at the scars on him! And the muscles!”

Kenton lay upon his face. Gently they turned him.

His dead face smiled up at them—peace upon it and a great happiness. Fulfillment!

“Master John!” wept old Jevins. “Oh Master John!”

“What’s he holding in his hand?” whispered another servant.

The hand was at Kenton’s lips, clenched viselike. They pried open at last the stubborn fingers.

But Kenton’s hand was—

Empty!

VIRGIL FINLAY

Virgil Finlay, the artist who consistently polls in #1 place when the aficionados of fantasy art vote annually for their favorite, is a 35-year-old son of Rochester, N. Y.

His distinctive work, famous for its intricate beauty, has been featured in Famous Fantastic Mysteries, Thrilling Wonder Stories, Weird Tales, Strange Stories and other American imaginative periodicals, as well as Los Cuentos Fantasticos of Mexico.

He has illustrated an edition of Shakespeare’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream” and Seabury Quinn’s “Roads”.

Three portfolios of his work have been collected.

So popular was he with A. Merritt that, while Merritt was editor of The American Weekly, he invited Finlay to join his art staff.

Connoisseurs of fantasy artwork demanded Finlay for the Memorial Edition of THE SHIP OF ISHTAR.

BORDEN PUBLISHING CO.

3077 Wabash Avenue

Los Angeles 33, Calif.

MEMORIAL EDITION

ABRAHAM
MERRITT

THE LORD OF FANTASY

by Forrest J. Ackerman

Six years have passed since Abraham Merritt, aged 59, died of a heart attack. Or, if you prefer, went “Thru the Dragon Glass” and into the unknown Beyond, for an author of Merritt’s stature does not die. Scarcely a year passes but what one of his masterpieces—“The Moon Pool”, “The Dwellers in the Mirage”, “The Woman of the Wood”—is not reprinted. Next to Edgar Rice Burroughs he is probably the most reprinted fantasy author in America.

A. Merritt was born in Beverly, N. J., 20 January 1884. He completed the first year of high school. While still in his teens he went treasure hunting in Yucatan, and was one of the first white men in 100 years to enter the ancient Mayan city of Tuluum. At 18 he became a reporter on the Philadelphia Inquirer. He rose rapidly as a feature writer, covering murders, suicides, hangings and mysteries. By 24 he was Night Editor. 1937 found Merritt editor of The American Weekly. He still found time for writing, producing the popular “Burn Witch Burn!” (subsequently translated into French, Spanish, Dutch and Russian) and “Creep, Shadow!” The former was filmed as “The Devil Doll”, starring Lionel Barrymore.

His hobby was subtropical horticulture, and he grew many exotic and poisonous plants. He was also an expert apiarist. He was a member of the Lotos club.

Thus, A. Merritt—a legend in his time. Feet firmly planted behind a hard-headed editorial desk, heart ever succumbing to the siren call and the tinkle of invisible elfin bells.

Of his stories he once said, “I weave much of what I have seen, heard and read of strange rites, of superstitions, of science, of religion. They are fantastic, but they are accurate and they are very unusual.”