Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois (11 page)
Read Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois Online
Authors: Pierre V. Comtois,Charlie Krank,Nick Nacario
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Horror, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Supernatural, #Suspense, #Paranormal
“Can I help you?”
Schulter couldn’t help starting a bit at the sudden intrusion on his thoughts. He turned and found himself facing a dowdy, middle aged woman
“Um, yes. I was told that I could find the records from the Swift River Valley towns here…the towns that were evacuated when the valley was flooded…”
“Of course. You’ve come to the right place, Mr…”
“Schulter, Lon Schulter…I’m doing some research on my family’s history and so far I’ve traced it to the valley.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” said the woman. “I’m Mrs. Thomas by the way, I look after the house for the historical society. The records you want are this way.”
She led him to what had once been the dining room but was now used as a reference library housing the Swift Valley records.
“This is where we keep the records,” said Mrs. Thomas as she opened one of the glass leaves of an antique sideboy. Inside, Schulter could see rows of cardboard sleeves, all neatly labeled, containing various records, births, deaths, deeds, voting records and town histories written by residents long since dead. “You can see how they’re arranged, you should find whatever you need here. If you don’t, just call out, I’ll be around here someplace.”
With that, Schulter was left alone and spent the balance of the afternoon going through the mass of information. Although he did confirm that his family did indeed live in the Swift Valley at one time…it was his grandfather who had owned the farmstead at the time residents were forced to move in the 1930s…he soon found other details of life in the valley more interesting.
In particular, was the back story of the central Massachusetts region when it was still populated by Indian tribes with only a scattering of white settlers here and there. It seemed that the original inhabitants of the Swift River Valley were a tribe of local Indians called the Micmuc which logic would indicate must have been related to the local Pocomtuc branch of the Algonquian speaking tribal groups that dominated central Massachusetts. But curiously, that didn’t seem to be the case. In fact, by what Schulter was able to piece together from stories told by old timers and gathered by enterprising ladies interested in local history, the Micmuc were completely shunned by the Algonquins. The reason for that was not entirely clear, but scanty information gleaned from interviews with the descendents of the Pocomtuc was that not only were they unrelated, but they were hated and reviled by other tribes who were repulsed by certain rituals involved with Micmuc religious practices. This repulsion was even stretched to include their appearance, which accounts described as mottled and oily, almost reptilian.
One of the local histories quoted from a letter it said had been dated 1651 and written by an early settler named Israel Hanson to his brother in Chelmsford:
“Brother Jonas, I write to you to tell of this wonderful country which is well watered with soil exceedingly suited for planting. I have paced off and noted the metes and bounds for a good sized farm which I will submit to the local magistrate in short order. As for wild beests, the country seems bereft, but yet blessed with plentiful game of all kinds. Of the local savages, there are some hereabouts but I am assured they are friendly to white men. More doubtful is a particular tribe called by the natives the Mikmuks which they have warned me of in a most friendly, and encouraging fashion. The Mikmuks, they say, are not men as red and white men reckon humanity, but are more akin to lizards and snakes. Brother Jonas, I must admit my surprise when the savages here, called the Pocomtuc, urged me and others hereabouts, to kill the Mikmuk on sight. A most strange request. But I am assured by John Leland, a resident of Chelmsford who preceded me to this place by some months, that the Indians speak truthfully about the Mikmuks, who, he says, practice weird and arcane rights akin to the devil himself. Furthermore, Leland has told me that he was shone the carcass of a Mikmuk by an older settler in the region who shot the creature when he caught him prowling about his cabin one night. I swear, I saw Leland shudder when he confirmed that the dead Indian was more thing than man with its slick, oily skin and yellow eyes. Thank the Lord of Hosts that the Mikmuks are but little seen in these parts since the days before the arrival of white men!”
Schulter didn’t know how much of the weird story to believe but at first he was inclined to dismiss it as wild tales told by superstitious Amerinds that played on the minds of isolated settlers. Reading on, he learned that the Micmuc were almost hunted to extinction by other tribes before they found shelter in the Swift River Valley which only had a single easily negotiated entrance and sides so steep they did not invite ready invasion. In fact, the Aylesbury Pike had once passed through the valley from the entrance at Belchertown before it was rerouted to make room for the new Winsor Dam.
As he continued to pore through the old histories however, he couldn’t help becoming more interested. One thing led to another until he found an account by one Zed Bishop who told the story handed down from the days when his family had first settled in the Swift River Valley:
When my people first came to the valley there were only a few other families there before them and land was available for the taking. My family settled at the far end of the of the valley a good ten miles from the nearest neighbor. Now in those days it was still a bit of a frontier and there were still Indians living about. Most had long since paced off their own farms and adopted the white man’s ways, but there were still a few who just couldn’t take to plowing and continued to hunt and fish the way their people always did but in the winters when game was scarce, they’d come around begging for food. The story my family used to tell was that some of these Indians, the Micmuc, were really sickly. They smelled terrible and were always sweating, even in the coldest weather so that their skin was slick and smooth like a seals’. Well, one day, one of the boys in the family decided to follow one of these Indians after he’d been to the house. He followed him up past the tree line in the upper pasture and into the woods. No one saw him for days after that and there were search parties out looking for him until suddenly, he came wandering out of the woods by himself. He was dazed and shaken and muttering about a stone house in the forest and big snakes. Folks were worried about him for a while, but eventually he pulled through and got over it.
Then he found a newspaper article written on the day residents of the Swift River Valley received notice from the state that they would have to abandon their homes to make way for the new reservoir:
GREENWICH – Residents of the Swift River Valley received notice this week that the long expected state takeover of their homes and towns will become a reality within a few short months.
After two years of searching for the right location followed by debate and numerous public hearings and town meetings, state officials in the form of the Reservoir Search Committee announced three weeks ago of their decision to turn the valley of the Swift River with its towns, manicured farms and thousands of residents, into the future site of water storage for the thirsty eastern seaboard.
As expected, reaction from local residents, who received official notice of the state’s intentions and offer to purchase their land at market rates, has not been wildly positive.
“I don’t like it and never did,” said Joshua Berwitz, a farmer in Greenwich. They can pay me as much as they want for my land, but it’ll never be enough. A farm anywhere else might offer the same life that I’ve had here, but it can never replace the roots my family has set down here for over 200 years.”
Joseph Menjou agreed.
“My family hasn’t been here as long as others,” admitted Menjou, a resident of Enfield. “But I agree with a lot of other folks I’ve talked to that no amount of money can make up for the life we have in this valley.”
“It’s all because of that snake religion the old Micmucs used to believe in and that some people around here have taken to following,” said David Schulter, a farmer in Greenwich.
Over the long months of discussions between state officials and residents, one objection to siting the reservoir in the Swift Valley has been its importance as sacred ground for local Indians. Although members of the old Micmuc tribe were said to visit the area in observance of their ancient beliefs, no one has been able to prove that they even exist. Members of the committee dismissed claims by some non-Indian residents that they had adopted the religion and that the valley was holy ground to them as fabrications intended to keep plans for the reservoir from becoming reality…
The first thing that had leapt out in the news account for Schulter was the quote from his grandfather and only after that the curious accusation that reasons behind locating the reservoir in the Swift Valley were rooted in some kind of Indian cult, a cult apparently, that some white people had taken to following. Well that wasn’t too surprising. There were lots of people today doing the same thing except it was called New Age this or that…an outgrowth of the conservation movement, misguided beliefs in Amerindian lifestyles and political correctness run amok.
Still, Schulter found himself just too interested in the whole thing to let it go, whether it led to more information on his family tree or not.
“You interested in the snake cult?”
For the second time that day, Schulter almost started at the unexpected voice.
“Well, I didn’t come here to find out about that, but now that I’ve read about it some, yes, I guess I’m curious now. Do you know anything about it?”
“Not personally, except talk that’s always been around town; but that’s never added up to much,” said Mrs. Thomas. “But if you’re really interested, I’d suggest you visit the library up at Miskatonic University in Arkham. A fellow was here a few years ago doing research on the subject and he told me they had all kinds of information about the state’s settler days up there.”
“Hm, I’m not sure I’m all that interested to make a special trip to Arkham, but I appreciate the information.”
But despite his protestations of disinterest, Schulter found himself thinking about what his grandfather had said in the newspaper article and wondering about this “snake cult.” So by the time he’d reached the turnoff for Arkham on the way back to Boston, he’d already decided that a visit to the Miskatonic library wouldn’t do any harm.
Known for its collection of exotic texts, scholarly writings, personal diaries and letters, and other literary ephemera from researchers and scholars the academic world generally dismissed as simple cranks, and a faculty preponderant in professors willing to at least consider the most outlandish theories that combined science, folklore and primitive religions, Miskatonic University held a dubious reputation in the world of learning. It was one of the reasons Schulter never really gave any serious thought to attending the school when he decided to go for his masters.
Driving onto the campus, he found it to look no different than any other small town private college: gothic-style older buildings with a few bland modern structures such as the new Wingate Peaslee Auditorium and World Cultures Student Union. The ranked windows of some dormitory buildings could be seen behind the main campus that was generously interspersed with expansive green lawns dotted here and there with ancient oaks and maples.
One of the ornate, older buildings proved to be the library. Schulter followed the signs around to the rear and parked in a graveled lot that was almost devoid of other cars, it being summertime and classes out for the season. Luckily, the library was open but on first entering, Schulter hadn’t seen anyone about. Shrugging, he began nosing around, admiring the polished woodwork, the recently remodeled reception and reference areas, some portraits of alumni, dour looking Puritan types, who over the years, had donated collections to the library.
A few locked glass display cases in the reference section included some really ancient looking books and odd artifacts no doubt dug up at some archeological site in the Gobi Desert or the Peruvian jungles before nationalist movements put an end to private expeditions.
Schulter had just begun scanning the reference shelves when movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. When he looked up, a skinny young man, obviously an undergraduate working at the library to help earn his way through college, was just opening his mouth to speak.
“I’m looking for information about the early settlement of central Massachusetts,” said Schulter, cutting him off. “I was told that the library here had a good collection.”
“It does, sir,” confirmed the young man. “Any particular town you have in mind?”
“Well, I’d say Greenwich, but the whole area around the Quabbin Reservoir would probably work,” replied Schulter.
“Okay, let’s see what we can find; I’ll be right back,” said the librarian and disappeared into a room behind the main desk. A few minutes later, he returned pushing a cart loaded down with old books sporting hand written filing labels on their spines, fat folders filled with yellowing papers and ledgers of the kind births and deaths were recorded in. “This should keep you busy for a while.”
The young man was right. It was almost evening when Schulter finally noticed the clock. Around him was scattered the debris of his reading from which he hadn’t learned much more than he’d already known.
Then, like the plot of a bad movie, he picked up an unmarked folder and discovered that it contained correspondence, minutes and other records relating to the establishment of the Quabbin Reservoir. Most exciting for him however, was a brief period of correspondence between his grandfather, David Schulter, and a professor then teaching at Miskatonic. Of the handful of letters, most concentrated on the same subject, his grandfather’s conviction that the decision to locate the reservoir at the Swift Valley had more to do with a “snake cult” there than the area’s geographical features:
Dear Professor Armitage,
You understand me rightly about the snake cult here. It is not something new or something that I am making up in order to defame the committee. The cult has been present in this valley for many years, since at least the time of the early settlers who reported it practiced by a queer band of Indians they found living here when they first arrived. From stories handed down from those days, it seems that the beliefs and practices of this tribe, the Micmucs, were so repugnant that even other Indians in the area hated and avoided them, even killing them on sight. I don’t know if any of that is true, but I do know that many upstanding and otherwise normal seeming people around these parts have taken up with this old cult. You can tell who they are by what folks around here call “the sign of the snake,” a circle with a snake down the center. Members of the cult use it after their names or place it on their barns or mailboxes. Whether the cult is as old as the stories say or just trumped up recently, I can’t say. What I can say is that worship in this cult by some folks around here is real. I’ve seen the stone house they go to in the woods and it looks old enough to have been built in the days before white men came to the valley. Be that as it may, no matter what we may think of them, the cultists are serious. They really believe that there’s a snake god living in that stone house in the woods. They say he’s older than the human race and has lived there for untold ages. Personally, I think it’s all hogwash, but they believe it, which is the real reason I think this reservoir is going through. I’ve tried to tell the newspaper reporters about it, but they’ve ignored me, cutting what I say out of their articles and making me sound like a lunatic. That’s why I decided to write to you on account of you’re having been involved with that business in Dunwich. Professor Armitage, you must believe me when I tell you that it’s common knowledge around these parts that Jonathan Firth is one of these cultists and that it’s no coincidence that he’s a member of the committee. They want to flood this valley not to supply water for Boston, but to help their snake god! They want to help him escape from the valley and reach the open sea through that 100 mile tunnel they plan on building and they don’t care what happens to the rest of us living here! Whether or not anyone else believes in their snake god, their cult is real and what they have planned for our community is real and something needs to be done about it before we all lose our homes!
Respectfully,
David Schulter