Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois by Pierre V. Comtois, Charlie Krank, Nick Nacario Page B

terminals, CDs, videos, and DVDs. A huge painted portrait of a stern looking, middle aged man hung from the wall of a crowded reference area. Schulter could just make out the name “Jonathan Huxley Firth” on a darkened bronze plate affixed to its massive gilt frame.
    The librarian looked at him, lowering her glasses, then up at the portrait.
    “Firth was a very important man for our town,” she explained. “He was very rich and owned a lot of land around the county.” She leaned a little closer to Schulter and continued in almost a whisper. “They said he owned half the land in the Swift Valley before the Quabbin was built. It wasn’t a coincidence that he was the chairman of the committee charged with finding a location for a reservoir. He made a fortune when the Swift Valley was picked as the site and the state reimbursed residents living there for the land they had to give up. Anyway, he spread his wealth around at least, donating the funds to build this library, the town hall, fire station and the school. After that, people were glad to forget how he earned his money and renamed the town after him.”
    “Nice guy,” said Schulter, giving the portrait one last look.
    “But nature has a way of balancing things out,” continued the librarian. “His family suffered from some inherited ailment…no one’s really sure what it was…but he was in a constant sweat over it and if he didn’t bathe frequently, would kind of…you know…sme
    “Hm,” grunted Schulter, having learned a little more than he really wanted to. “I’m here to try and do a little research on my family background. My great-grandfather lived in the Swift Valley.”
    “Oh, then you need to go over to the historical society,” said the librarian. “All the records from the valley towns are kept over there.”
    A brisk walk along the town’s main street, which was lined with spreading maple trees and beautifully restored 18th century homes, led him to the historical society offices. By that time, it didn’t surprise him to discover that the building had once been the home of Jonathan Huxley Firth, donated to the town on the death of his only daughter.
    Inside, Schulter found that what had once been the living room was appointed much as it had when Firth had been alive except for the presence of a number of glass counters displaying important documents in the town’s history. Glancing idly over them, Schulter noticed many had been signed in the strong, forceful signature of Firth himself. Here was his last will and testament, there a donation of 20 acres of land for the elementary school, there a deed handing over the rights to a carriage house to be used for a fire station. It was when his eyes trailed over the fourth or fifth such document that he noticed something about Firth’s signature: he included a little design after his last name. A small circle with a little squiggle in the center. Going back to the other papers, Schulter saw that all of Firth’s signatures sported the same sigil. Did it have any meaning? And now that he thought about it, hadn’t it been on a circular plaque over the entrance to the house? And part of the town’s seal that he saw on the sign welcoming him to Firthford?
    “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