Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois

by Pierre V. Comtois

  With the sun down, darkness was rapidly falling and Schulter turned away from the little town and busied himself with building a fire. The mosquitoes were already hovering around and he still had to fix something to eat before crawling into the tent for the night.

  Morning dawned bright but cloudy and Schulter was up when the shadows of the surrounding trees still stretched far out onto the emptied reservoir. After boiling water on the camp stove for coffee and oatmeal, he broke out a Xerox of an old map of the Swift Valley from before it was flooded, and located Greenwich. He circled the spot where his grandfather’s farm was and highlighted the roads leading to it from Greenwich. According to his calculations, the farm ought to lay upslope, away from Greenwich and the bottom of the valley. Off in the distance, surrounded by a plain of grey mud, he could make out what could be isolated buildings, exposed to the sun from the receding waters. Shrugging into a small backpack, he started along the edge of the woods where the water of the reservoir used to lap when it was at full tide.

  A few hours later, he not only had verified that the dried mud of the reservoir bottom was hard enough to walk upon safely, but that there were indeed buildings still standing even after decades of being submerged in the cold waters of the Quabbin. Around him were the suggestion of stumps from the thousands of trees cut down when the land was cleared for the coming waters and even traces of roadway that helped him find his way across the newly exposed wilderness. At last, he arrived in the vicinity where his grandfather’s farmhouse should have been located. Behind him, the slope of what once must have been rolling pastures curved downward to where the remaining portion of the reservoir glistened in the noonday light. Off in the misty distance, Schulter could just make out the outline of the dam at the Belchertown gap.

  Finding the trace of an old path leading from Greenwich, he managed to follow it for a mile or two before coming upon a group of grey buildings, like big lumps of mud a few hundred yards off the road. With growing excitement, he knew he had reached the end of his search as it surely must have been his grandfather’s farmstead. He removed a copy of an old photograph of the farm he’d found at the Firthford historical society and compared it with the structures before him. They seemed to match. Approaching the small group of buildings, he saw that what had once been the barn had partially collapsed and other outbuildings were mostly splinters. But the farmhouse itself was seemingly intact and with some wariness for its structural integrity, he pushed against the kitchen door. It didn’t budge. Carefully looking out for the wall over his head, he threw his shoulder against the dusty panels and had the satisfaction not only of having the old door scrape inward enough to allow him entrance, but not having the rest of the house come crashing down on his head.

  Indoors it was dark, as the waning daylight had difficulty penetrating the layers of mud that oozed in frozen cascades across the gaping openings that had once served as windows. Slowly, Schulter stepped deeper inside. Most items of furniture seemed to have been removed, with what was left merely unrecognizable lumps beneath decades of accumulated mud and dried aquatic vegetable growth. He was standing in the entranceway from the kitchen to the dining room where he could see into the parlor area towards the front of the house when he was startled by a loud creak from the walls around him. His heart in his throat, he decided further exploration was not necessary and hurried back outside. There, looking up at the old building, he wondered that it hadn’t collapsed as soon as the supporting water pressure had left it. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem as if there was anything left of the old homestead that could satisfy any of his vague desires to exonerate his grandfather’s belief that there had been some kind of conspiracy relating to the creation of the Quabbin. Again, there was the dangerous sound of creaking from the house and it being late afternoon by that point, Schulter decided that he had learned all he could from visiting the family homestead.

  Turning from the old house, Schulter retraced his footprints back to the road and began the long way back to his campsite. The sky had by then been filled with banks of dark clouds that now echoed dully with the sound of thunder. Looking up, he noticed for the first time that the day had become darkly overcast and that there was the scent of rain in the air. Quickening his pace, he hoped he could outrun whatever rain was on the way, but an hour later, as a premature darkness descended over the gloomy, naked landscape, he felt the first, heavy drops begin to fall around him. Great, he thought, now the dry spell breaks! As the rainfall picked up and he realized that he wasn’t going to make the shelter of his car before the downpour began, he looked around for some kind of cover and found it in another lonely farm building that squatted atop a low rise. Running now, he passed through the dilapidated remains of a rail fence just as the first streak of lightning flashed across the sky. He reached the house and the remains of its old porch just as the rain really began to come down and, pausing there to look back, he saw another bolt of lightning illume the surrounding area in a pale, intermittent glow. It only lasted for a second or two, but in that time, Schulter was able to take in the eerie landscape around him, the empty waste of the mud-covered countryside, the distant line of pine trees where the forest stopped suddenly at the former shore, the dull, dun colored buildings that dotted the exposed valley and…what was that? Something over the gaping opening of the barn door had caught his eye. Impatiently, he waited for the next flash of lightning and when it came, he saw what it was that had attracted his attention: a plaque fixed beneath the peak of the barn roof, a plaque that sported a circle pierced by the familiar squiggle of a snake that he could still make out beneath the grime.

  The sign of the snake! The one his grandfather had said could be used to identify members of the valley’s snake cult! Was this the home of one of them? Did he accidentally stumble across the evidence he needed to prove his grandfather was right? He didn’t have time to think much more about it as a gust of wind sent sheets of rain onto the porch, forcing him to shrink back against the door leading into the house. Not hesitating, he put his shoulder to it and forced it open. Not trusting the strength of the old structure, he remained within the doorframe, afraid to risk going in too far.

  He had been standing there for some minutes when, during a lull in the downpour, he thought he heard a noise come from inside the house. He listened carefully, past the sounds of dripping rainwater and the more familiar creaks to another sound, one that suggested furtive movement. His first thought was that perhaps some type of aquatic life, fish maybe, had become trapped in the basement after the reservoir’s waters receded, but decided the sounds weren’t those of flopping fish. Moving into the kitchen, listening carefully, he headed to what looked like a basement door, then tripped over a pile of mud-covered rubbish that pitched him to the muddy floor. Cursing, he was pulling himself up when he suddenly froze. Directly before him, low to the floor and framed in the doorway to another darkened room, were what appeared to be a pair of eyes. As he stared, he noticed that they were composed of a deep yellow and devoid of pupils. With mounting fear, he wondered if he had managed to trap himself in the house with a mountain lion. Slowly, he straightened and began to move back toward the door, his hand reaching behind him in search of the rusty knob. His actions, however, were followed by whatever creature skulked before him. The eyes rose from near the floor to become level with his own. Whatever it was that he faced, it couldn’t be a mountain lion…was it a bear rearing onto its hind legs? Then the room was filled with a loud sibilance that struck Schulter as nothing so much as the sound of a giant snake and in that moment, lightning flashed outside and he saw what it was that he faced. He screamed and his mind must have gone blank for a moment because the next thing he knew, he was stumbling on his hands and knees in the wet mud outside. All he could think of was to get away, as far away as he could as quickly as he could but the mud hindered him. He couldn’t seem to find his footing and behind him he heard, or thought he heard, that damnable hissing…made all the more monstrous because it seemed to shape its
elf into words: “I ams your massster, manlings! Sssubmits and worssship me asss your ancessstors did!”

  What came to his mind next was mad, insane, but it was the only thing that made sense to his addled senses: the snake god was real! But why, why, was it still here? They had flooded the valley, built a tunnel so that it could escape to the sea…what was it still doing here, now?

  Something loomed up in the darkness before him and his heart went into his throat before he realized it was only a fence post. He was almost off the old property! Maybe he could outdistance the snake thing…he chanced a look over his shoulder, but the yellow eyes were still there. Feeling panic well up inside him, knowing that he was on the verge of losing any kind of logical thought, he fought down the insane notions that threatened to overwhelm him. He needed to stay calm, to think! But thinking straight was coming harder now. He fell again, and when he looked up the eyes were in front of him. How did the thing get there, he was behind me before, he thought irrelevantly. But looking over his shoulder, the eyes were there as well! Now suddenly, as the rain eased and the clouds parted, a full moon shone its light onto the nightmare scene around him, and surrounded as he was by slathering, slithering, hissing shapes that hungered for flesh more substantial than stray fish caught in dank basements, Schulter realized that the 100 mile tunnel built from the reservoir to the sea had not been intended to let the valley’s snake god out, but to let its surviving fellows in!

  ll.”

  The Old Ones’ Signs

  rom: United States’ Department of Justice Federal Bureau of Investigation

  To: Mr. Pierre Comtois

  Reference: Freedom of Information Act Request #900048

  Subject: Government Document #0534225 Hosea Peters, testimony of.

  My name is Hosiah Peters. It was early Spring as I recall it, in 18-- and I had just come off four months of wintering on the old homestead outside Pepperell in Massachusetts. My parents and two brothers still lived there, yielding a living from the rocky New England soil, but spent the winter cutting wood and bottling preserves in the root cellar. I don’t usually mind such work when the sea grows frigid and grey and the ice cakes on a ship’s hull, but when the sun begins to stay up in the heavens and temperatures to rise, I get the old urge to feel the swell of water beneath me and to smell the brine of the ocean in my nostrils. Such was the case that season when I hefted my sea bag, kissed my mother on the cheek, shook the men-folks’ hands and took the road toward Boston.

  Little was I to know of the strange and heathenish ways I would be exposed to and the even stranger temptations. Mind you, I was not ignorant of the peculiar delights of the world’s more exotic ports of call, but as I am a God-fearing man and a proper Yankee, I like to consider myself made of sterner stuff, my will reinforced by staunch faith. The sea itself and the honest wages due me at the end of a voyage were my delights, and the attractions of the French ports, the crowded cities of Araby, the gentle women-folk of China, or the savage wantonness of the south-sea isles held no interest for me. But none of those experiences would prepare me for what proved the final time I would cross a body of open water.

  There was an early thaw that season and when I arrived in Boston I found that every ship had already hired its complement of seamen. Disappointed, I made my way to Salem and Marblehead where the same situation prevailed. It was in Salem however, that I was advised to try Innsmouth further north where ships were said to still need men. It was growing late in the trading season when I arrived in Innsmouth, at that time, still a bustling seaport whose warehouses and factories along the main wharves would soon be packed with goods. The sun shone hard but gentle and the gulls called enticingly from the housetops as I climbed the stone steps into the custom house. There I inquired about employment and the old pensioner behind the counter looked up surprised. “Kinda late aintcha boy?” I mumbled an excuse and waited as he slowly rose from his swivel chair and made his way to a bulletin board crowded with announcements. He tore one off and returned to his chair. “Here y’are boy,” he said, handing the paper to me. “The Sumatry Queen sets sail with the tide skippered by her owner no less, Cap’n Obed Marsh. Find his Fust Mate, Matt Eliot. He’ll square ya away if’n he hasn’t already hired the full crew.” I thanked him and left the building.

  Outside, I approached the sea at last as I followed the long length of Stone’s Wharf, the stink of low tide tickling my nostrils like perfume. At last, I found the Sumatra Queen. A sleek, three masted barque that at the moment sat motionless, its sails furled. A gang plank extended down to the wharf where men worked feverishly loading her with Nantucket candles, New England butter, mountain ginseng, salted fish, and a dozen other local products for the European market. The dock master indicated a rough-looking character standing on the ship’s deck as the first mate and I heaved myself up the gang plank. I introduced myself and told him of my desire for work. He looked me over well before saying “We do need a few more men and I can tell the way you hold yourself that you are a tried seaman. So I will take you on here and now. Wages are fifty cents a week and a standard percentage of the profits. The Cap’n sails a tight ship and brooks no sloth. He is hard but fair. You will bunk in number 12 with Worthy for’ard.” He shook my hand and went back to his business.

  I was in the stern when our Captain ordered the lines to be cast off and watched as men heaved at the oars of two boats tugging the Queen into open water. With the tide in, the ship was taken by a hidden current and slowly drifted away from the yards. The roofs and gables of Innsmouth gleamed in the sun as they began to shrink on the horizon and I could see a dozen handkerchiefs fluttering their farewells. Finally, it was time for the Captain to order the sails up and for a time I was too busy to appreciate the fine weather as I helped with the hoisting of the spanker. Then, under full sail, the huge sheets filled with wind and billowed outward and I felt the ship beneath me jerk forward as it eagerly sought the deeper water. My heart leaped with the knowledge of truly being at sea.

  I had a chance to size up our Captain later that afternoon when he assembled the crew amidships for the customary welcome. He stood above us on the poop, not a large figure, but impressive in his self confidence. He told us a bit about himself but nothing I did not already gather from the chatter of my fellow crewmen. He said he ran a tight ship and if we all pulled together and obeyed he and his mates, then all would go well and we would return in two years with handsome wages to show for it. It was then he said something which made me uneasy. After mentioning our due wages, he added that it would be much more we would get from hard, honest labor than the same time spent in prayers that never were answered. Now I am the first to say that not all prayers are answered, but there are times in men’s lives when it is all they have. If nothing else, they bring comfort and are meant not simply to receive items we want, but as a tool of communication with the Almighty. This attitude on the Captain’s part set a false note with me that was to last throughout our voyage. And it was this seeming interest in the things of earth over those of heaven that was to drive the Captain and the crew of the Queen into the abominable situation that is the ultimate reason for this narrative.

  It was with some self-consciousness that I would pull the well worn bible from my sea bag at the end of my watch and read its familiar passages. There was no jeering or mocking from the other men of course, it was one of the unwritten laws of the sea that against the vast oppression of the open ocean and its sometimes unpredictable and terrifying nature, a man had a right to his own form of spiritual comfort. It was true that many men found theirs at the bottom of a bottle, but many more shared my sentiments.

  Thus did I pass the time aboard ship as the Queen made its expert way across the chilly Atlantic waters to arrive at last in the port of Liverpool in England. There we off-loaded our American goods and took on a cargo of fine linens and colored cloths. The men were given little time to spend ashore and in any case, had even less money to spend on the sort of women to be found there. Consequently,
a number of us sober crewmen had to be sent around to drag our mates from the dockside grog shops preparatory to our departure.

  With the Queen once more riding low in the water, we drifted down the Mersey into the Irish Sea and began one of the longest legs of our route. We sailed southward, across the old Spanish Main and the Canaries then swung outward along the Guinea Current avoiding Cape Bojador on the West African shore. We continued southward after that, at last rounding the Cape of Good Hope and entering the Indian Ocean. The strange, jungle laden coastline of Madagascar with its dusky denizens giving obeisance to the god of Islam slid past our port side too slowly for my satisfaction. Who knew what unholy activities that green hell hid? When the northern tip of the island at last sank from view I breathed a sigh

  The next several weeks were an unending series of battles with fast moving squalls and deadening calms under a burning sun and it was with great relief for all when the enchanted coast of India loomed on the horizon. The Captain ordered the sails trimmed as the Queen approached the great city of Bombay. The men crowded the starboard rail shouting and pointing as the shore grew nearer and they could see the throngs of people jamming the seashore doing their laundry, bathing or performing certain esoteric rites in the shallows. As we passed beneath the brooding bulk of the Towers of Silence up on the Malabar Hill and entered Mahim Bay where the shipyards lay, the sea turned a muddy brown in color as the accumulated filth of a million people emptied into it from inland rivers and streams. Once even a shrouded body bobbed past the ship. Shuddering, I ruminated on the heathen practices of the people here and mumbled a prayer in thanks that my ancestors had the benefit of the Lord’s enlightenment. In Bombay, we traded our linens and cloth for a load of opium which would be under guard for the length of our next leg to Macao in China.