Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois (17 page)

As expected, the Captain demanded an oath of silence from the crew. His explanation, appealing to their greed, was smooth to be sure but Eliot and I refused to participate in the compact. I simply shook my head but Eliot uttered his defiance aloud, barely able to control his voice which shook slightly. Behind him, I could see the ague-like trembling his hands had acquired that night, when we witnessed the thing rise from the sea. For myself, I demonstrated no outward signs of trauma, but I knew they were there nonetheless. Shock perhaps had internalized them to emerge in due time.

Thus the long voyage progressed until, early one morning, just after two bells, the cry most dreaded by seamen echoed below decks: “All hands on deck!” Immediately, Eliot and I joined the rush to the top, spilling outdoors into harsh moonlight and a placid sea. We were far southward by then, in the currents that skirt the Pole. The captain was on deck, smothered in his cold weather gear and pointing out to port.

I moved to the rail with the rest of the men and looked in the direction the captain was pointing. At first I saw nothing in the gloom, then a sound of disturbed water broke the silence and one of the men shouted and pointed too. Instantly, every head turned. There was activity in the water about half a league out, a small whirlpool of swirling water that indicated something of immense bulk had recently submerged. We all leaned just a little bit more forward then, as whatever the thing was breached the surface once more. It slid wetly toward the southward and I could see immense ridges or rings that segmented its length as though it were a gigantic serpent or worm. I stiffened and recoiled at the sight, my hand immediately seeking the comforting shape of the stone in my pocket as I recognized the contours of the monstrous thing worshipped by the damned Kanakys. In the meantime, immediately upon catching sight of the creature, the entire crew reeled back as one, some crying out to the Lord, others cursing, but all deeply frightened.

“It’s just like in the Book o’ Jonah!” someone cried out, echoing my own racing thoughts. I looked about for the kindred soul and imagine my surprise to find that it was none other than Captain Marsh himself! Amazed, I listened as he harangued the crew, controlling their panic, with Biblical allusions and assurances of the Lord’s mercy until his true intentions revealed themselves. “The thing’s only lookin’ fer sustenance,” the captain said. “There cain’t be much food for a creature so big hereabouts. But still, something had to bring it up from the deep. Someone among you must have aroused its wrath through sin and unbelief.” With that, his eyes fell squarely upon mine and in a flash, I saw the captain’s evil plan. He himself had called up the thing using the idolatrous methods of the Kanaky islanders and then making the suggestion of offering the creature a sacrifice when he knew the crew were already resentful of Eliot and I. Perhaps the Lord was yet with me that night however; how else to explain the timeliness of my next words in that situation?

“But Cap’n Marsh,” I said, not unmindful of the irony of trading scriptural quips with old Limb of Satan himself, “don’t forget that Scripture says each seafarer called upon his God, and I will call on Jehovah, even as Jonah did! And thus let it be known who is God!”

Then, something even more amazing and terrifying than the nearby sea beast followed: lightning crackled amid a cloudless sky and the stone in my pocket became almost too hot to hold. I bit my lip and continued to grasp it firmly as the sea off the port side was churned into a gleaming froth in the throes of the maddened beast. At last, the monster seemed to disappear and the sea returned to normal and the crew, their resentment for Eliot and I temporarily forgotten in the relief of the moment, dispersed amid fearful mutterings. Eliot and I remained behind, the comforting feel of the Old Ones’ Sign still warm in my hand. The look he gave me indicated he too had resorted to the protection of the stone and I was on the verge of voicing my guilt at our reliance on such idolatrous and pagan objects over that of the true God when I noticed the form of the captain where he still stood at the rail. His eyes burned hatefully into mine and I knew for certain my life aboard the
Queen
was not worth a penny. Muttering, Captain Marsh turned and retired to his cabin, leaving Eliot and I to ruminate upon the strange protections obviously afforded by the star shaped stones in our possession.

How we endured the interminable agony of the long voyage around Cape Horn is more than I can explain here. Where once the sea had beckoned me with its gentle swell and even violent temper, now it struck me with ineluctable fear and loathing. It’s boundless reaches filled me with terror and, although there were no further attempts by the captain to rid himself of Eliot and I, we took to spending as much time as we could below decks. At last though, the shores of home hove into view and the
Sumatra Queen
arrived at Innsmouth again.

But even back among the civilized haunts of men, I could not find peace. Almost as soon as we arrived, Captain Marsh began his damnable crusade to convert the citizenry of Innsmouth in the ways of the Kanaky religion. Even I had to admire the old seaman’s canny arguments; such casuistry would have impressed even the most wily Jesuit. For some, he promised riches from gods who rewarded their worshippers with items they could use such as gold and silver and, for others, he used the insidious and tempting arguments first promulgated by Thomas Paine and Ethan Allen. Each man had his weakness and Marsh had no compunction in exploiting it. He debated the local clergy, sometimes pointing out their hypocrisy and other times demanding of the congregation why they allowed themselves to be led by these men, why could they not think for themselves? Compelled to witness against such unscrupulous tactics, Eliot and I spoke out at every opportunity. In the public rooms, in the churches, and on the street corners we spoke to whoever would listen, but it was difficult to combat a man who could pass out bits of gold. In increasing numbers and regularity, men began to meet in cellars and basements and then in homes and halls to participate in the new rites of worship. Whom Marsh could not convert, he bought with gold, thus he was able to drive from the town first the clergy and then those citizens and elected officials who refused to follow the new belief. At last, there was no more Eliot and I could do and it was decided that I would journey to Boston and seek help from State or Federal officials who might at least act upon Innsmouth’s official corruption.

It was with great trepidation that I deserted my companion, but it was felt to be necessary by the both of us that I did. In Boston, I met with resistance to my imprecations. It was out of their jurisdiction, it was none of their affair, there was no evidence they said. I spent days wandering the cobbled streets searching for anyone who might listen to my tale, but no one did. Suspecting that Marsh’s gold had arrived there before me, I considered moving on to Washington, but by then I was growing fretful of Eliot’s lack of communication. Finally, some weeks after my arrival in the state capital, I gave up and began my return journey to Innsmouth.

It was on my final night on the road, after I had arranged for a room in Arkham, that I had the dream. In it, I found myself on a vast field of ice and snow. Before me, in the misty distance, rose a range of snow covered mountains and at my back was a great empty ship held fast in the ice. Snowflakes fluttered in the cold air, and suddenly there was the strangest shape I had ever seen standing erect before me. It was cone-shaped and somewhat taller than a man, and its plastic makeup seemed undisturbed by the weather. But the strangeness of the event was not borne out of my encountering it in those frigid climes but rather, the shape of what I presumed to be its head. For that member was shaped much like the Old Ones’ Sign that I clutched in my pocket. Could this creature actually be an Old One? Then I saw it twist about at its mid-section as if it intended to indicate some point to the side. I looked, and beheld the figure of my friend, Eliot, as he lay in the snow, his cold body partially buried in the drifting stuff. Now, at last, a shiver passed along my body as the meaning of the scene bore itself upon me.

Upon awakening, I tried to convince myself of the essential meaninglessness of dreams, but however I tried, I could not shake off the feeling that it had been a kind of premonition or warning. It was not an hour later, as I had breakfast in the tavern below my room, that I learned the sad fate of my friend.

A local resident, enjoying a pint of rum at the inn, overheard me say that I was bound for Innsmouth and asked me what I might know about a lynching that occurred there not two days before. It was from him that I learned Matt Eliot was dead. It seemed that the affair began with a simple theft when Marsh had goaded the town prankster, a boy named Zadok Allen, to steal the strange stone Eliot always kept on his person. I did not say so to my informant, but the theft of the Old Ones’ Sign would have left Eliot unprotected, as Marsh surely knew. It was after that, said the man, that Marsh accused Eliot of all kinds of foul deeds, whipping the town’s residents into a self-righteous frenzy that resulted in his being lynched.

With this crushing news, all the hope and enthusiasm I may have had for combating Marsh and his followers evaporated. I paid for the man’s drink and left the inn. There was no coach scheduled to go southward until the next morning, but I could not bring myself to remain in such close proximity to the scene of such a depressing turn of events. It was a long and lonely walk back to Pepperell.

Although I have not had the opportunity since then to keep abreast of events in the larger world, or even of those closer to home, I have still heard news from time to time from the vicinity of Innsmouth, including its rise in prosperity even as it shuns outsiders. I have heard it said that Captain Marsh made many subsequent voyages to the Kanakys, always returning laden with strange worked gold and sometimes even in the company of certain of its natives.

For myself, I have resided here on my family’s farm in Pepperell since the day I returned after hearing of the fate of poor Eliot. In that time, my loathing of open water has only increased, further circumscribing my movements. From time to time, I seek to test those fears but whenever I approach a body of water I balk and begin to tremble violently, I begin to perspire and an urge to turn and run overcomes me. The nearby Nashua River is a terror to me and the smallest brook takes all my fortitude to cross. Consequently, I mostly stay on the farm. I am safe here, and land-bound. Here, far from the sea, I am well out of the reach, the long reach, of Dagon or the Deep Ones or Clooloo or whatever it was I saw emerge from the waters that damned night in the Kanakys. I also have my charms, the Old Ones’ Signs; my Bible I read less frequently now. Why should I? The Old Ones have proven their power. The sign will ward off Dagon. I have them close at hand, here in my room. But Dagon’s reach is not so long as that, is it? I cannot say, for the one thing I do know for certain is that the thing I saw that night drag the screaming native into the water, and again in the colder southern climes, was not a giant slug or enormous jellyfish nor even a serpent, but merely the tip of an appendage belonging to an infinitely larger creature that had been trapped beneath the sea for uncounted ages and now is not only free, but aware of our larger, more populated world here in America…

t sat there like a crouching gargoyle, all gothic corners and spires made of dark stone and slate. It was called simply the Towers but New Yorkers universally knew it as the Castle. It had the look of having been built in the Middle Ages but could not have been constructed before 1850; no one knew for sure since all records of its having been built had long since vanished…by fire, theft, or neglect, no one seemed to care enough to discover. So the years passed, and the Towers continued to stand serene in its small piece of real estate in the heart of the greatest city on earth. Soon other buildings began to cluster about it, but none too close, and in time Mr. Olmstead’s Central Park joined them in 1876. The Towers found itself brooding amid growing walls of glass and steel, the soothing greens of the Park that faced it across Central Park West doing little to lighten its austere aspect.

What the Towers had been expected to be was also a mystery. It stood a full twenty stories high so it could conceivably have been intended as a hotel, but it also had those ornate spires, curving turrets, and crenellated projections that defied architectural common sense. Was it simply a relic of the gilded age? A monument to some forgotten tycoon’s ego? These were questions most New Yorkers also ignored; they mattered little as the Towers was now indubitably a conglomeration of private residences. Highly exclusive and affordable only to the most well to do, but still a residential building.

Most New Yorkers, like the rest of their countrymen, had no idea of exactly who lived in the Towers and perhaps cared less. Certainly, dark colored limousines were seen infrequently outside and paparazzi even less. However, it was assumed people did live in the Towers whoever they were, and Dr. Evan Scopes was one man who was sure of it because he had sent one of its residents a note and received in reply an invitation to drop by.