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

by Pierre V. Comtois

  He could see no sign of the townspeople either in the road or peeking through frosted windows. Surely not everyone could be gone.

  Cordell saw that the Colonel had one foot on the cracked step of what looked like an old sheriff’s office. He hurried over to the Colonel as he stepped into the dark of the building. Entering the room, Cordell was blinded for a few minutes by the contrast in the intensity of light from the outside snow and the dim firelight in the room. He closed the rickety door behind him, feeling waves of warmth wash over him as he did so. He heard the crackling of the fire from somewhere in front of him, matched by the creaking of the sagging floor beneath. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he heard a strange voice say something in Russian accompanied by the Colonel’s name; then the Colonel’s reply. His eyes had fully recovered by the time the two men faced him and the Colonel said, “Mr. Cordell, this is Major Doskolva, commander of this unit; Major, this is Mr. Cordell, an American reporter,” he finished in Russian. The major extended his hand and Cordell shook it firmly.

  “How do you do, Major,” said Cordell, forgetting that the major did not speak English.

  The major motioned to an old table as he released Cordell’s hand and walked over to a shoulder bag that rested on its surface. In another moment, he had produced an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid.

  “Vodka!” exclaimed the Colonel, as he dragged a chair to the table.

  What followed was an animated two-way conversation in Russian by two men as the vodka was shared liberally among all three.

  Cordell tried in vain to catch even a single familiar word of the conversation until resigning himself to the bliss in the bottle. Then, as the fire in the chimney died down, the major rose and took his coat from a peg behind the door. The Colonel had risen also, and said, “Come, my friend, Major Doskolva will show us some interesting things about the town.”

  As Cordell shrugged into his parka and jammed his hands into his gloves, the Colonel had stepped through the door where, outside, the wind had picked up again.

  Cordell closed the door shut behind him and waded through the snow that had piled up since they entered the building. The wind whistled inside the hood of his parka and stung his face with stray flakes of snow.

  “Major Doskolva had some interesting things to say,” said the Colonel, nodding toward the major’s back.

  “I figured that out by myself. What exactly did he say?”

  “Well, his unit was to capture the town and sweep northward on our right flank. But upon reaching it, his men found no resistance and, after carefully searching the village, they moved on.” Cordell sensed an almost imperceptible pause in the Colonel’s story, who then continued. “Major Doskolva found that everyone in the town had disappeared, perhaps fearing reprisals on our part, leaving even their newly cooked meals on the tables and fires still burning in their grates. But, strangest of all, everywhere about the town his men discovered scattered footprints; not the disordered variety left by fleeing or herded people, but well spaced and well formed ones of calm and deliberate leave-taking.” The Colonel looked sidelong at Cordell for a few seconds then turned away.

  “Anything else?”

  “Later, upon questioning his men, Major Doskolva heard stories that upon entering the town, the men swore that each footprint seemed tinged with a light, red color, almost like blood, and that the farther they got from the village, the farther apart each person’s prints became.”

  “Farther apart?” Visions of the success of the Rupert murder story danced in Cordell’s mind.

  “Yes, as the prints of a bounding deer increase in length.” The Colonel did not turn his head at all this time.

  “But with this snowfall only hours old, the villagers couldn’t have had more than minutes or even seconds to leave the town before advance elements of the major’s units entered the village.”

  The Colonel offered no explanation.

  “No problem,” said Cordell with some triumph. “I see it now. The townspeople themselves, in order to discourage a search, left everything as if they intended to return. Of course, that doesn’t explain the strange tinges on the prints, but the people around these parts still harbor strange beliefs, so who knows?”

  “Yes,” said the Colonel, almost under his breath. “Strange beliefs. And what about the distances between the footprints?”

  Cordell stopped short, his theory shattered. “That’s right. Those spacings. But can we accept the hearsay evidence of some half-educated soldiers?”

  “You are taking the word of one in Major Doskolva.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Colonel, I didn’t mean…” He let the sentence fade and the Colonel nodded, understanding,

  “Then if we didn’t do it and the Cheka didn’t do it, and the villagers themselves couldn’t have done it, then who did? And why?”

  The Colonel looked at Cordell and murmured, “Perhaps you supplied the answer earlier.” With that, he passed into a narrow alley between two buildings where the major had gone seconds before.

  Cordell wondered at the Colonel’s last remarks. What did he mean…he had already answered his question? Cordell resolved to review in his mind their conversation as he followed the two men into the alley.

  Beyond the buildings and the village proper, Cordell saw the two soldiers bending low over something in the deeply driven snow. As he came closer, he noticed that the clear field was dotted by hundreds of footprints radiating in every direction. Coming abreast of the men he squatted beside the Colonel as he indicated the print before them. It was roundish, more like a hoof than a human print. Cordell saw that even a quickly running man could not have left such an oddly deformed impression. Beyond that peculiarity, at the Colonel’s pointing finger, he saw the faint, almost undetectable reddish halo surrounding the print. For minutes, Cordell did not know what to think, but slowly, unbidden, a chill born of something other than the icy wind crept along his spine. He rose abruptly as much to dispel the odd uneasiness he felt as to stretch his tired legs.

  The Colonel rose to face him a moment before pointing downwind, away from the village. “The next print is…there. A full ten yards from this one, and the next doubtless in the forest another fifteen yards farther on.”

  Before Cordell could reply, a young officer ran up to them, black against the moving snow behind him. The major stood and relieved the officer of the note he had been carrying.

  Cordell and the Colonel waited as Major Doskolva read the paper in his hands. In another moment he said something to the Colonel. When he had finished, the Colonel looked at his feet.

  “Well?” asked Cordell, wondering at the Colonel’s hesitation.

  The Colonel looked up slowly and said, “Major Doskolva has just received a report that scores of his Russian regulars have disappeared since last night without a trace. Especially those belonging to the unit that had passed through Gorodov.”

  “Desertions? The pressure lately hasn’t been that great,” mused Cordell.

  “Perhaps, but after searching their positions, commanders report finding strangely shaped footprints leading from the trenches off into the forest.” The Colonel looked down again, then threw back his shoulders and stepped off in the direction of the town.

  Cordell ran after the Colonel, the cold like a physical thing. “Colonel, wait, what’s wrong?”

  The Colonel continued on his way, the major now forgotten in the field. “Nothing, my friend; it is time to return to my units.”

  “Listen, Colonel,” pleaded Cordell. “I know how you must feel about all this. But the Cheka doesn’t discriminate between ordinary people, soldiers, or even nobility. Look at what they did to the Czar and his family up at Ekaterinburg.”

  Cordell was not prepared for the officer’s sudden halt and even less for his next comment. “You do not see at all, do you?”

  Cordell was puzzled. “See what?”

  “You think all this is simply another murder for you to write about. You are not in America any longer. You are i
n the Old Country; and here the old ways, the old things, still cling. Yes, the old beliefs, too, live in the forest, the mountains, and the steppes.” He stopped there, his body visibly relaxing. “Come, let us go back.”

  Cordell was not sure what the Colonel had been talking about, but he was sure that it had something to do with his sullen behavior in the last few hours. All the way back to the Czech lines, Cordell reviewed their conversation, seeking a clue to the Colonel’s new disposition. Earlier he had said that Cordell had already answered his question regarding the perpetration of the disappearances. What had he said? Something about strange beliefs. Yes, that went well with the Colonel’s final comments about the Old Country and old beliefs. Certainly he was not trying to foist superstition on him? Yet the strange circumstances surrounding the whole episode lent themselves to it. Then it hit him: did it all have something to do with Ithaqua? Yes, that was when the Colonel had first begun to behave strangely. Cordell decided to keep his conclusions to himself, though. After all, he could be wrong and he did not want to be made into a laughingstock with these crazy ideas.

  When the two men at last returned to the Czech positions, the wind had almost abated and the soldiers actually began to look comfortable. Countless fires burned warmly in the many hollows of drifted snow and trenches had been chopped from the frozen ground. Cordell and the Colonel settled down near their large tree after the Colonel had deftly relit the fire. Cordell reached in his coat for his pad and pencil and began catching up on his journal as the Colonel received a few reports from his officers.

  Suddenly, the Colonel shot upright and asked an officer a series of sharp questions. Cordell had torn himself away from his entry as the Colonel finished his questioning.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Cordell.

  “This officer reports the discovery of many bodies heaped deeper in the forest.” He looked off beyond the line of men in the trenches, as if trying to pierce the thick woods and see the bodies from where he was sitting.

  “They might be the bodies of the townspeople!” exclaimed Cordell jumping to his feet.

  “Yes, perhaps.” A hint of animation came to the Colonel’s lips as if, Cordell thought, he anticipated the fulfillment of some hope.

  “Come, we will see this atrocity.”

  Cordell kept himself from looking too eager as he gathered his things and followed the Colonel and his officer and a small detachment of soldiers as they marched into the dim forest made dimmer now by the setting sun.

  But now, the lengthening shadows had suddenly raised doubts in Cordell’s mind about the timing of their expedition. “Colonel, do you think it might be getting a little late for an investigation?”

  “It will only take a few minutes. My officer says it is just beyond this stand of trees.” Once again Cordell thought he sensed anticipation in the Colonel’s response. As if it was something he had to do, one way or the other. Cordell thought back to the man’s earlier remarks and suddenly felt himself weighed down by some gigantic force. Something seemed to impede his forward motion, as if trying to keep him back, trying to separate him from the others?

  The forest grew darker toward dusk as the small procession made its way through the needle-strewn snow; the trees marching slowly by in nightmare procession. The Czech soldiers swung their heads nervously from side to side, fingering their cold rifles. Finally the officer halted and pointed to a black and white heap in the center of a small clearing; bunches of dried grasses ringed the mound, poking through the snow that had not been blown away in the earlier wind. It seemed to Cordell that even the elements shunned the forest.

  The party had stopped at the sound of the officer’s voice. Slowly, the Colonel advanced toward the strangely flat pile, his head leaning far forward of his body, his rifle dipped low to the ground. Examining the pile closely, he straightened and Cordell moved into the clearing himself. He had awaited only the unspoken desire of the commanding officer to inspect the site first.

  The soldiers had spread to different points around the clearing, eyes keenly peering in the darkening wood for sign of the enemy, the hems of their greatcoats dusty with snow. A soft sigh of wind moved the trees to song, the opening in the roof of the forest showing brightening stars. The sky and the trees, blue on black. Cordell thought he had better take a quick look so they could leave fast.

  For some time, he had realized that the black in the white was that of bodies heaped together and covered by a thick veil of snow. He stopped at the edge of the pile and saw that it was the shoddy clothes of the villagers lying in a grotesque mound. He tried to observe the faces of the people to cement their reality in his mind, if only to certify their existence. It was then he noted something strange. The clothes were lying in heaps placed together, trousers to shirts, shirts inside of coats, stockings in their boots, all lying about like carelessly thrown bodies, except that the clothes were empty. Cordell looked up as the queerness of it struck him. Even the Cheka would not have bothered to be so meticulous, even if they had had the time, which they had not.

  “No footprints,” said the Colonel.

  Cordell’s head snapped to the side, and he realized that the Colonel had been looking at him all the time. Quickly, Cordell looked around the clearing and saw that indeed, there were no footprints except those leading back to their lines…those they had formed themselves.

  The Colonel stepped forward, within the circle of the disturbing heap. Cordell watched him with morbid curiosity. The Colonel was poking at the upper sets of clothes with the toes of his boot, shaking loose the snow that had lodged in the folds of the cloth. With a high swing of his leg, the Colonel threw over, almost to Cordell’s feet, a shower of the topmost items. Cordell jumped back instinctively, still watching the Colonel. The big Czech stood amid the riot of dark raiment, silhouetted against the snow at his back like some guardian spirit pointing at Cordell’s feet. Cordell dragged his gaze from the soldier and looked down at the scattered pieces of clothing and saw brass buttons peek around folds, markings of rank on some of the shoulders and a Russian rifle lying stark against the snow. Cordell looked up slowly, recognition in his eyes. “The uniforms of the deserters from the Russian units.”

  The Colonel laughed then, not long; half out of amusement, half pity. “My friend, do you not yet see? Those men did not desert, just as the villagers did not run away. They were literally spirited away.” The Colonel picked his way from the heap and moved to the edge of the clearing. He stared hard into the gloom of the surrounding forest, as if searching for something, then said, “You said one time that people in this part of the world still believed in strange things. That is true. There are some things that will never change; so long as one man yet believes in them, they will survive.

  “In my country, some people believe in a thing called Orzuti. Most people, of course, do not, but those that dwell in the wooded mountains do. So they build things to ward it off, things like houses of the dead where sheep are sacrificed. And some say it works.” He continued to stare.

  Everything fell into place now, thought Cordell, but how could he believe any of it?

  The Colonel continued.

  “My village deep in the woods of my homeland built these things for thousands of years, and still did after I had gone. Whether or not the things worked to keep the Orzuti away, I do not know. But I do know that to acknowledge his existence by saying his name aloud would bring him surely to your door. For this reason, no man ever spoke the name of Orzuti aloud.

  “I suspect it is the same here in Siberia. That this Ithaqua is a cousin of the forest spirit in my homeland.”

  Cordell said, not believing he was treating the whole thing seriously, “Yes, I covered a story in Canada many years ago where my guide, a Monsieur Defago, spoke of an Indian deity called the Wendigo. The Indians, he said, sometimes built funeral scaffolds against it. Perhaps these beliefs were carried over from Asia to North America in prehistoric times across the Bering Sea land bridge.” A pause. “So you think t
hat the villagers must have used the thing’s name in vain, so to speak, and it whisked them away?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the soldiers the other night, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, I spoke this creature’s name aloud then. Why didn’t it come after me?” Despite himself, Cordell felt some relief that he had dispelled the legend so easily.

  “One must say its name aloud and in belief to summon him. You did not, and still do not, believe Ithaqua lives.”

  Suddenly, it flashed through Cordell’s mind. “Wait a second, you just used his name. Twice now! And obviously, you believe…”

  “Exactly. For too long I have shied away from it, but I cannot long stand by as the creature destroys my men and those of the Whites.”

  Cordell circled the clearing in the opposite direction from that of the Colonel. The dark trees wheeled in the periphery of his vision as he said, “You’re going to conjure up this thing, this Ithaqua, to kill it?” He never took his eyes away from the Colonel.

  “That is correct, my friend.”

  “With me here?” Cordell fought a tremor in his voice.

  “Certainly; you are a correspondent, are you not?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m a fool.” At that moment, it was an assertion that Cordell desperately wanted to believe. He was a rational man; there was no such thing as an Ithaqua! The alternative was too ridiculous, too terrible even, to contemplate.

  “Are we not all fools at one time or another? I, fighting a war that has nothing to do with my country, so far from anywhere? You, risking your life simply to acquire a story, as if what we do here is merely a game?”

  The Colonel fell silent then, circling the clearing, staring into the woods. Then, from deep in the forest, Cordell heard the familiar sloughing sound of snow slipping from a tree branch. This time, the sound ended with an unusually heavy thump as the snow struck the ground. He glanced at the Colonel quickly, in time to see him step between the trees in the direction of the noise.