The Black Flame (Dystopian Novel). Stanley G. Weinbaum
that heaved to the thing's slow breathing. He held his bow ready lest it prove dangerous, and stared, wondering what sort of creature it could be. It was certainly nothing native to the North America of his day. And then, at some sound or movement of his, the beast rolled over and faced him.
Connor felt sick. He glimpsed short, incredibly thick limbs, great splay feet with webbed toes, broad hands with webbed fingers. But what sickened him was the smooth bulbous face with its tiny eyes and little round red–lipped mouth.
The thing was, or had been, human!
Connor let out a choking yell. The creature, with a mumble that might have been speech, flopped awkwardly to the bank and into the water, where it cleaved the element like an otter and disappeared with a long, silent wake.
He heard the crashing of Jan Orm's approach, and his cry of inquiry. But a webbed print in the mud of the bank told Jan Orm the story.
"Wh—what was it?" Connor choked.
"A metamorph," said Jan soberly.
Empty–handed as they were, he turned homeward. Connor, too aghast to press questions, followed him. And then came the second mystery.
Connor saw it first—a face, a child's face, peering at them from a leafy covert. But this was no human child. Speechless, Connor saw the small pointed ears that twitched, the pointed teeth, the black slanting eyes squinting at him beadily. The face was that of a young satyr, a child of Pan. It was the spirit of the wilderness incarnate, not evil exactly, not even savage, but just wild —wild!
The imp vanished instantly. As Connor gasped, "What's that?" it was already far beyond arrow–shot, headed for the forest. Jan viewed it without surprise.
"It's a young metamorph," he said. "A different sort than the one at the lake." He paused and stared steadily into Connor's eyes.
"Promise me something," he muttered.
"What?"
"That you'll not tell Evanie you saw these things."
"If you wish," said Connor slowly. It was all beyond him.
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