Category: Thomas Blackhall

FP249 – The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-nine.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp249.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Bear Crawling odcast.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds his recent return an unwelcome one.

 

The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6 – The Mute and the Mask

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Thomas BlackhallThomas Blackhall, with his pants still muddied from travel, was leaning against the splinter-bristled door that acted as barrier between his rented room and the remainder of the Bucking Pony.

He was frowning.

Every item of worth which Thomas owned, but was not carrying, had been stolen, and the inconsequentials had been tossed about like decorative streamers.

Sitting upon the edge of the chamber’s disheveled bed was Wesley Shea, a fingerless man who had, some years earlier, suffered greatly under the cold’s abuse. More recently, he’d accompanied Thomas on a less-than-social visit through the tall pines.

He did not smile so often as he had at the expedition’s outset, but he had earned Blackhall’s trust in the undertaking.

The pair were eying a third: The silent lad who had, for the length of their excursion, driven the sleigh.

The youth was now resting on a meager stool, and wiping at his bloodied lip.

“Let me tell you a story,” said Thomas, “that I learned on my father’s knee, though it was old when he was on his Pa’s own.”

As he spoke, Blackhall moved steadily through the motions which would result in the production of a hand-rolled cigarette, stuffed with fine Virginia tobacco.

“There was a time, in the ancient lands, when a queen by the name of Shaina came to rule in place of her man, who had taken to the sea in an effort to drive back their enemies. Even as the winds carried the king away from her, however, a plot was born, by a betrayal-minded cabal of her own people, to slay the lady and have her throne usurped before the navy might return.

“Months later, despite a lack of official proclamation, rumours crept about dining tables and evening fires that Shaina had disappeared. As usual, no comment came from the court, but a journey to the country, to restore her health, was often offered as excuse for the lack of royal tidings.

“It was under these odd circumstances that a lone female rider arrived at the hamlet of Woodend, as the cocks still crowed. Her cloak was finely woven, although those of the village had little experience with which to judge any garments produced within a city’s limits, and, as her pony pranced along the muck lane that made up the town’s central road, the blacksmith – always amongst the first to awaken – moved quickly to stoke his fires and draw attention to his industry. The clang of his anvil, woke the seamstress, who, gazing down from the apartment above her shop, was quick to hobble downstairs to shuffle greater fineries onto display. The commotion was enough to rattle the proprietor of the public house, who, impressed by the early excitement, prodded her prize crooner from his beery doze to sing in the dawn.

“It wasn’t the breed of the stranger’s mount, nor her noble bearing, which had caught their attention – it was the silver mask which concealed her face.

“Soon Woodend was awash in the whispered news.

“The lone source of disinterest lay in the mute who’d come to live a simple life on the local church’s charity. Pleased to see the troubadour awake so unusually early, she was content to sit in the publican’s great room and listen to the full-throated melody.

“The keeper was happy to have the seat filled, as its occupant was known to offer assistance, unasked, throughout the village, and had come to be depended upon for quick support.

“As the day wore on, however, the soundless observer found the ebb and flow of patrons gave her a great vantage point in surveying the passage of the newcomer.

“By lunch there was talk of the trade at the blacksmith’s: That the outsider had avoided all questions as to her origin, and instead wished only to speak of business, in the most hushed of tones. Vague inquiries were made regarding large orders, even if no specifics were given. It became the consensus, amongst those gathered, that the stranger was of noble birth, and wearing the mask to maintain the secrecy of her identity. The blacksmith was all too happy to shoe the pony at no cost, in the hopes of future congress.

“By supper there was chatter from the seamstress’: That the visitor had asked after the outfitter’s stock of material, and how many sewing hands she might have at her disposal. Somehow the creation of a banner was raised, though the interloper was quick to move beyond the topic. Between sips of ale, a suspicion was born that perhaps the queen herself had come to roost in Woodend – and what better place to hide from the political machinations of the court?

“Finally, as night fell, the woman arrived at the inn’s entrance: She no longer travelled alone, but, instead, was surrounded by a retinue made up of the sort prone to throwing in with causes, or to starting violence. Ale flowed, and the company swelled. By midnight no mention of payment had come from either side, but the publican was happy enough to make room for the revellers, so that they might find beds instead of ruining furniture with the weight of their newly kindled patriotic fervor.

“The masked guest said little in the hubbub, but seemed pleased to preside over the scene with minimal intrusion.

“On the following morning, as the mute rose from her pallet in the small chapel, she cast her gaze over a greater count of weapons than Woodend had ever previously held. Word had spread, and the town was awash in men eager to retake the throne for a woman they’d never glimpsed.

“Wandering into the public house, she encountered a hushed reverence.

“The silver-face was speaking to a hedge knight, who had taken to his knee before her.

“”Can your arm be depended upon?” she asked.

“”Yes!” came response.”

“Men and women wept in the corners of the room, moved at the display, and the whispers were no longer avoidable.

““You have guessed well. It is I, your queen,” the disguised woman finally announced, as she pushed back her cloak hood, and pulled off her mask.

“Her locks were tightly curled, and her face carefully made. No person could have hoped for greater regality in their liege.

“The crowd cheered, but the roar was cut short by the approach of the speechless figure.

“Since her arrival, some months earlier, all had cultivated soft feelings towards the mute and her meanderings, but it seemed an odd moment to stand forward; Odder still were the results which poured from her open mouth.

“She said, “I must forgive you for not distinguishing the face of your queen – truly, it is a failing I have depended upon most heavily in recent times – but you must forgive me my deception, for even the farmers of Woodend have heard the rumours of shadowed hands holding poisoned daggers.”

“”I can speak now, as I too have had a strange visit in the night; a pigeon with news. My guard captain rides a day behind, and this impostor – my cousin – comes to stir an army to save her from the gallows, after being routed as the conspiracy’s head.”

“”Do not stand with this false ruler. You have known me, and if my silence was necessary to maintain my secret, you still have surely learned my nature,” she finished.

“The woman’s tongue held many truths. While a monarch’s portrait rarely moves, trade must flow. Neither countenance was recognizable, but her accent was unmistakable, to the merchants of the road, as highborn, and, by contrast, her cousin’s now seemed apparent as hailing from the outer provinces. Better yet, they’d come to discern her benevolence, and the eagerness which she’d displayed in assisting all without asking recompense – and so the story goes that, though she’d been nothing but a case for charity until that morning, when her guard arrived, they met a docile captive, and a town in full celebration.”

Blackhall, having finished his tale, jabbed the last of his burning vice into a small bowl brimming with similarly abandoned remains.

In taking another survey of his chamber, Thomas sighed.

“Fitzhugh was quite clever in leading us to believe we’d picked a random lad of local vintage to act as guide,” he said, “but we were not but halfway through our journey when your habits unmasked you. A soldier, even one so young as yourself, finds it hard to shake the habits of the profession: the grooming, the gait, the footwear.”

“Instead of shirking your company, however, I chose to perhaps make you my ally, by allowing you to hear the realities behind the rumours you’ve no doubt absorbed regarding my occult pursuits. In a sense, I hope that by demonstrating my unvarnished voice, I have shown that there are allegiances greater than even those owed to Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.

“I apologize for Shea’s agitation, he should not have struck you – but, now that you have steadied yourself, you must choose: Will you aid me, or will you side with Fitzhugh, a man agreeable to burgling the rooms of a supposed friend so that he might obtain artifacts he knows could initiate catastrophe?” Blackhall kicked aside a heap of ransacked laundry as he edged toward the target of his interrogation. “Your Captain may have a command of men, but what good shall it be if he mistakenly opens a portal onto a plane of fleshless horrors?“

The quiet boy’s eyes flickered with memory, and, after a moment, his confession came in a flood.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP244 – That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-four.

Flash PulpTonight we present, That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp244.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Gatecast.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself ensnared.

 

That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

BlackhallAt the edge of a copse of spruce, Thomas Blackhall and Wesley Shea were hunkered beneath the weight of a shared bearskin. The watch had left the brown fur covered in a thick layer of snow, so that they seemed little more than a bump in the terrain, but Thomas knew too well that their scent alone was enough for the huntress.

Across the barren sweep of frozen river upon which they faced, a woman stepped from the treeline.

She slid from the branches, unmindful of their pull on her naked flesh, and began to close the distance on exposed feet. It struck Thomas that her body could be that of any hardworking mother in her thirties – neither beautiful, nor unsightly. If it were not for her empty face, and leaden skin, he might be coaxed to come to her aid with a proffered coat.

As it was, he raised his Baker rifle, making the necessary motions in slow turns, in the hope that he might avoid unsettling his frosty blanket.

The far embankment dropped sharply before touching the water, and her calves threw up glittering clouds as she mechanically descended the slope, and stepped onto the ice.

Blackhall could clearly see the madness smoldering behind her eyes then, though it did not seem to touch the rest of her form. His hesitation dissipated even as he shook off his mitt and set his finger against the biting metal of the rifle’s trigger.

As instinct settled his sights, his mind blanked, and his breathing slowed.

Despite his request, however, his hands refused to fire.

* * *

Three nights previous, after their conference with the ailing Ethan Wright, Blackhall and his lone-thumbed acquaintance had held an urgent discussion beneath the stars. They paid little heed to the silent boy who tended their rented sleigh as they probed the questions their recent visit had raised.

“It’s a abhorrent thing,” said Shea, as his palms moved to wick away the tears which appeared on his cheeks.

Thomas had not expected the man’s depth of reaction, but he did not press regarding the change.

Instead, he said, “you heard tales in your youth, no doubt, of the succubus who comes by night to excite and entice. Undeterred by their plundering nature, the tellings are often sensual, and I’ve no doubt that many boys of a certain age secretly hope to summon such a visitation – I know, for one, that I foolishly did.

“The reality of a thing is often much different than the daydream. Worse, I suspect a madness has descended upon that which we might but faintly call “her.” It is a plague of fury endemic to the occult kind in these closing days of mysticism.”

“I can not pretend to understand half of what you say,” replied the gently weeping Shea. “Is there further risk to Ethan? Is there some solution to his sickness?”

Before answering, Blackhall breathed foggily into his collar, and considered his words. “Your friends’ physical escape was luck, and I can not be sure that any action on our part will be of aid to his collapsing mentality, but, yes, there is work we must carry out.”

“We?” asked his companion, his voice hardening, “It is not I who rides with rifle or saber. It is not I who has experience with the hidden world. What use will I be? Shall I wiggle my stumps to distract the fiend? Shall I dance a jig on my toe-less hooves?”

“I apologize if I have been evasive on the subject, thus far,” said Thomas. “It was in an attempt to avoid embarrassment. I have heard rumours, amongst the shop patrons and brew-slingers of Perth, that perhaps your poor penmanship was not the sole result of your extended wander through the cold.”

Shea could only nod.

* * *

Days of hunting, such as the injured man had not undertaken in years, had then begun. Beyond the shack which had been Wright’s base camp, Thomas’ practiced gaze quickly caught the undisguised trail of broken pine-limbs, and disturbed snow, which the succubus had left in her wake.

The real issue was in estimating her course – no easy task when dealing with a madwoman – and finding a proper location at which to head her off.

They’d chosen their site carefully, and laid their plans well.

It was a hard thing for Shea to remember, though, as the uncovered woman made her way through the white gusts and drifting banks. She seemed so disconnected from her surroundings, that, fleetingly, she appeared to him almost as if a ghost, passing over the landscape, but never of it.

The illusion was shattered as she plunged through the treacherous surface of the river.

Despite Blackhall’s reassurances, Shea had been sure the gap they’d worked from the ice would freeze well before the woman appeared – or that, worse, that she would somehow circumnavigate their planning and appear behind them. Thomas would only say that the weight of their prey was not fully demonstrated by her frame, and that he had utmost confidence in the cloth tarp they’d stretched onto a wooden frame, and laid across the open water.

“The madness will blind her,” was the last he’d spoke of it, and he’d been right.

Leaping from his position beneath the bearskin, Shea made a quick approach towards the flailing defiler. As the imp attempted to pull herself clear of the frigid stream, he stepped as near as he might dare, and set a boot upon her fingers.

Hers were the thrashings of a rabid animal, without logic, and yet it was a difficult task, for a man of such gentle nature, to carry out. In those seconds of incertitude, Thomas’ words came to him: That escape would surely mean a suffocating death at her grasping fingers. By focusing on the dragging indentations her nails were marking up on the ice, Shea found the lesson easier to recall.

It helped, as well, to turn in his hammering jig and see his traveling companion staring blankly at the altercation.

“Oh, it’s a nasty bit of business all right,” the dancing man said, only to himself, “but I do know the bitterness of having the briefest event weigh on every moment of the future – of having something stolen from you which you can not recover. Ethan may not feel the rest of a full night for many a year, and, perhaps in stomping you under, I’ll be robbing myself of a few winks, but I suspect, eventually, we’ll both slumber better for it.

“Rest now in the chill and I will make the end quick.”

It was an earnest promise, but the struggle continued for hours, nonetheless.

Without the assistance of the sun, the raper’s increasingly fatigued writhing was not enough to stem the re-encroaching ice from enclosing about her stony belly, so that the fingerless man, with fumbling palms and exhausted posture, was able to work the silver saber through her flesh, and free the shallow-breathing Blackhall.

Days later, the pair rode together, with their silent driver, back into Perth. Even as the team of horses came to a halt upon the slushie street, Thomas spied the loitering private who awaited his return. The lookout had lapsed at his post, and was currently distracted with a young nursemaid, but the frontiersman no longer felt the need to avoid whatever summons the lad might bring.

He was ready to move on.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP243 – That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-three.

Flash PulpTonight we present, That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp243.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Gatecast.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself at the bedside of an ailing man with a vulgar tale to tell.

 

That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Thomas BlackhallThey’d hired a quiet driver from the edge of town, and the lad’s thick-furred mutt paced the sleigh as the trio slid beyond the settlements. As the sun crept through the sky, the trees grew close to the path, so that their their heavy branches sometimes left a snowy residue on the blanket which Wesley Shea was using as a refuge from the cold.

The fingerless man was quick to accept the generous figure Blackhall had suggested as payment for the service of his company, and guidance in locating Ethan Wright, but Shea knew well enough that he would have taken on the work simply for the opportunity to once again travel beyond the town limits.

Since the exchange, Thomas had sat largely mute, unable to break the pathfinder’s habit of contemplating the terrain against the chance of a future navigation.

At noon, however, Blackhall produced a small pot pie from his sack, and, upon determining that the boy with the reigns was uninterested in a share, split it in two. Acting carefully, so as not to lose any of the spiced beef within, he handed a chilled half across Shea, who pinched it in his palms.

“I collected this at dawn, as the baker pulled its steaming form from the Bucking Pony’s oven,” said Thomas, “I suspect we were well away before Fitzhugh’s hound had even risen from his bunk.”

Shea nodded as he chewed, then swallowed, so that he might reply.

“Are we on a lark then, as an excuse to avoid the Captain’s summons?” he asked. “It appears, to me, to be a costly method of shirking labour, but I once knew a fellow who sold his prolific orchard to escape the work of picking it.”

“No, as I have said, it’s a serious enough matter,” said Blackhall, ”you implied yourself that your friend was ailing.”

“Then, I must ask, to what end am I truly here?

“I am no physician, and my directions will be no different than those I presented at our departure. If Ethan should not be at hand at our arrival, I’ve certainly no sway with Mrs. Wright to lend you credence. In truth, my crass humoured company will keep the woman at a respectable orbit, as she has conclusively stated in the past. Finally, I have heard tell of your reputation, and I certainly do not have the fortitude to fend off the spirits of the deceased, nor men who stalk the moonlight as wolves.”

“You are here for protection,” replied Thomas.

Shea’s brow grew tight. “Given the saber at your side, and the Baker rifle amongst your luggage, I can only assume you meant your comment as a jape at myself. Do you mean my own protection? What might befall me back in town? It is my perception, sir, that I am more at risk in this moving crib, or in reach of Mother Wright’s rolling pin, than I was while toasting in the lodgings of my friends and family.”

Blackhall retrieved a small flask from his gear, and, after a quick nip, passed it across.

His companion’s disposition improved dramatically at the smell of whiskey.

For a moment, the sounds of the world were reduced to the snorting of the mares, and the scrape of the sleigh’s runners over the snow, then Thomas made his response.

“Perhaps – but, as an aside, what is your issue with the woman of the house? I understand the loneliness of separation, be it due to illness or geography, but I find it hard to condone the tale, as you told it, of her husband’s tryst among the pines. He may have had many mouths to feed, but it was she who was tending them while he supposedly took his pleasure.”

“It’s not for a gentleman to speak of cleanly buried history,” said Shea, “but mayhaps there was a time, well before the loss of my fingers, when two gents of a certain look could cut quite a swath across this ample frontier of farmers’ lamb-eyed daughters.”

With their appetites for both discussion and lunch sated, they fell into a silence which remained until they halted at the shoulder-wide lane that marked their destination.

Their welcome was a cold one, as had been expected, and Mrs. Wright offered no pleasantries as she led the pair beyond the sheeting which she’d erected to screen her husband’s degrading condition. Blackhall reckoned it a flimsy defense against the gaggle of children who otherwise filled out the cabin with flailing limbs and shouted demands, but it was obvious she was making the best of limited resources.

“You look like you fell from a horse’s ass,” Shea told his friend, once introductions were conveyed, and they’d been left in relative privacy.

Ethan Wright’s pale face was the only flesh visible above the envelope of knitted wool in which he rested. His hair hung in greasy black strings about his face, and it seemed as if he had made little effort to shave since his encounter in the swamp.

“She let you in as a punishment, you know,” he replied, “I was adamant that no visitors be admitted, however much coin they might owe me.”

Shea smiled at the retort, but Blackhall thought he heard a spine of annoyance in the comment. The ill man’s delivery was too hushed to be sure of either interpretation.

Ducking close to the invalid’s ear, Thomas began a whispered conversation.

“Your wife likely thinks you’ve finally dipped your wick in a poisoned pot, but I suspect it’s actually your mind that has taken on a rotting illness. Is it not so?”

From so near a vantage point, the stains of un-dried tears were plainly visible on the unkempt pillow.

Wright nodded.

“I’ve heard a version of the tale,” Blackhall continued, “but I do not put much faith in the chatter of your comrades. If I am to help, I must hear the truth of the thing, but I am sure that neither your friends’ jovial position, nor your wife’s accusatory stance, are the reality of the situation. I have read of cases similar to yours – and of the trauma associated with such a visitation. Though I am but a stranger, I ask that you accept mine as a sympathetic ear, and that you provide me with the genuine details, so that I might assist you in finding some respite.”

Ethan wept as he spoke, but, though he maintained a concerned expression, Shea made no effort to better hear the muffled explanation.

“I’ve a small cabin in the swamp, at which I maintain some stores to ease my toil on the hunt. I’d intended on a short excursion, but the game were in a skittish mood, and I’d managed no result at the close of the first day. It’s a quiet place – I’d never encountered another person amongst the weeping willows and cattails. It’s usually only brother bear whose company I must keep watch for.

“Under such lonely circumstances I can hardly be blamed for supping on a bit of scotch.

“There was a woman in the room when I awoke, and I was still beneath my bed of tanned furs as she approached. It was apparent, from her lack of clothing, that the entirety of her body was gray as stone, but she otherwise held the appearance of humanity.

“There was a time, as you may have heard, when I behaved as a scoundrel. I’ll gladly swear on anything you’d like to stack beneath my hand, however, that there was naught in my mind, at that immodest discovery, but my own beloved wife and the scamps we’ve raised together.

“Despite my considerations, I could feel a great helplessness within myself. While my thoughts increasingly screamed, my jaw remained stiff. While my chest increasingly ached with repulsion, there was nothing I could do but spectate her approach. It was as if I were a mewing babe, pinned in place by a smothering pillow.

“She purred to herself as she pulled away my coverings, and sighed happily when she – once she was done removing my shroud.

“There was no lust in my heart – there was no desire in my body – and yet I could not prevent the reaction I presented.

“Her weight, and warmth, was on me then. Though I struggled with every muscle, I could summon no resistance but whimpering. As I sobbed endlessly, she only giggled; giggled and surged.

“So began my week of hell.”

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP242 – That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-two.

Flash PulpTonight we present, That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp242.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Gatecast.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself listening to a bawdy tale of questionable veracity.

 

That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Thomas BlackhallThomas Blackhall had been working hard to avoid the puffy-faced private dogging his steps around the icicle-laden settlement of Perth. The frontiersman’s first tactic had been to simply leave with no indication as to his destination, and two-days hunting along a river sheltered by drooping pines had provided him with a formidable store of venison, but it was not enough to put off the messenger.

Upon returning to his rented room, he’d discovered the youth still lollygagging about the Bucking Pony’s main room, obviously in anticipation of his reappearance.

There had been a time, not distant, when Thomas would’ve gladly answer the summons, but his former comrade-in-arms, Captain Fitzhugh, had begged a favour too far, while offering little recompense.

In truth, the slanted houses and chattering townsfolk pressed at Blackhall. He ached for the solitude of the trees, and a path to his Mairi.

His foul mood drove him to seek strange pleasures, and, for a pair of afternoons, he’d busied himself with shadowing the lad assigned to locate him.

Winter weather made trailing the watchman a chilly preoccupation, but Thomas was no stranger to cold, and found company, at many odd hours, in the bent form of Wesley Shea.

Shea was an ambling man, who was happy enough to tell his story, and discuss his unconcealed infirmity, as his injuries had left him with conversation as his only trade.

Before his tribulations, he had managed to pay down his land, so that he owned his parcel and furnishings outright, but, some three years previous, he’d become lost, west of Kings Creek, for a bitter week in January. Fresh signs of deer had enticed him into unfamiliar territory, but, as darkness fell, a flurry had blown in, and he’d found himself disoriented. As he’d wandered, he’d survived on melted snow and chewed pine needles.

It was only luck that brought him out of the forest again, but he had not made the journey unscathed. The cold had blackened his fingers, and there was no option but to remove nine of the ten. He’d retained the right thumb.

When receiving a shocked eye regarding his gnarled stubs, it was his joke to suggest that, if the gawker found the view unpleasant, they would do best not to look at his toes.

He now filled his mornings with meandering about the town, and trading greetings with the wash-women. By noon he would have, more often than not, located an invitation to supper, and hopefully even claimed a seat at a visiting farmer’s lunch table.

The variety in his dining companions made Shea a man knowledgeable in local scandal, as well as the tall tales of the moment.

While breaking bread with a fellow known as Punchy Hank, the roving man had heard the news of Ethan Wright, a mutual acquaintance who lived to the north.

“Well,” Shea was telling Blackhall, as the pair stood beneath the snow-laden shop awning across from the Bucking Pony. “Punchy implies it’s about done for Ethan.”

Thomas was tiring of the chase with each sight of the resting private that the inn’s swinging door provided. As he continued to listen, he stomped his feet to dislodge the clinging flakes, and silently envied his foe’s position by the black iron stove.

“Now, I preface my account by saying that, while you’ve mentioned interest in any news of strange events, I can not speak to the truth of the report I provide. It is certainly not the most outrageous story I’ve failed to believe.”

“Given the length of the introduction,” replied Blackhall, “I suppose I should prepare myself for an epic tale of minotaurs and mewing maidens.”

Producing a tin from within the interior of his greatcoat, Thomas retrieved a fine paper from his collection of goods, and placed a pinch of pungent Virginian tobacco upon its creased surface.

“It won’t be so long,” said the fingerless conversationalist, “it is only the braggartly nature of the thing which gives me hesitation. As Punchy tells it, Ethan took to the woods just before the snow arrived. He’s never been one to hold onto coin, and his family depends heavily on the hundred acres of swamp which flanks their homestead. The land is the King’s, but he has yet to find a fool to stick with the purchase, so Wright is left to make use of the game. It’s a hard walk, even when it’s frozen, and Hank says he’d set up something of a shanty amongst the trees. I imagine it was nothing fancy, but those who exist in poverty often learn many talents, and it must be sturdy enough to keep passing bears from the cache of foodstuffs he apparently kept within.

“You see, the eldest is nine, and he stands in a line with six others. The strain of their birth put Mrs. Wright in ill health – which leaves Ethan little assistance, and no leeway regarding the locating of sustenance.

“Now, the leaves were down and crisp, forcing a patient hunt. At the end of his first day he was without meat, so, instead of making his way through the treacherous dark, he opted instead to rest within his meager hut.

“It was unseasonably warm, and he thought he might surprise his dinner at breakfast.

“After saying good night to a bottle of rough scotch – another supply he made sure to keep on hand at his retreat – he slept soundly till dawn when he was awoken by giggling.

“Ethan vows that he pinned the door tightly, but there was a woman in the room with him then, leaning upon the nearby wall. She’d been watching him slumber beneath the skins he used as bedding.

“Though Punchy’s description was largely gestural, my understanding is that she was rounded in all ways a man might ask for. He did mention, however, the oddity that her flesh appeared the colour of shale.

“It’s not for me to say what matter took place next, but you might well guess what happens between a buxom harlot and a half-drunk woodsman. I cannot speak to his heroic assertions that the circumstances lasted, at a fever pitch, for a week.

“Despite the arguably pleasant nature of the visitation, however, a black mood clings to him, and, as I mentioned, Hank seems to think it probable that the once hardy Ethan will soon come to a pitiful end. He guesses love sickness, and if the nymph doesn’t come to reclaim him, the memories will likely put a treacherous blade in his fist, or a condemning load in his pistol.”

At the tale’s summation, Blackhall disposed of the last of his smoldering vice in a nearby tuft of snow, and contemplated the recital.

The street was empty, and frigid – worse, as his considerations deepened, the heat of the Bucking Pony, and the smell of Mairi, seemed all the more distant.

Finally, with his breath hanging in wisps about his face, he cracked the silence.

“You know the way to the Wright’s?”

“As a wolf knows where the sheep gather to drink, aye,” replied Shea, “we spent evening enough dicing. It’s arguable that I owe the western corner of my plot to his gambling habits.”

“What matters do you have pressing?” asked Thomas. “It seems to me a sleigh trip to the north country might do you good. I’ll secure your food and hospitality along the route, and there will be plenty of opportunity to haggle a fair wage for the guide work.

”I warn you, though: I suspect we have yet to realize the depths of this shadow.”

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP229 – The Draw: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty nine.

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Draw: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp229.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites Podcast.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, puts an end to a long run of odd circumstances.

 

The Draw: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 2

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Thomas Blackhall“I need to freshen my cup,” said Thomas Blackhall, “and a stretch of my legs might change my fortune.”

“Don’t dally, replied Anders Flaks, “I’ll have left by morning, and you’ll lose your chance to squander your earnings.”

It wasn’t a large barroom, but the frontiersman made the most of his journey. First he moved to the stonework mantle, and stole warmth from the fire, then he sat for a time with the increasingly inebriated gathering of Anders’ former challengers. After letting the eldest, a man named King, complete a fishing tale regarding a bass that had apparently pulled him along an endless river for several days before allowing itself to be caught and eaten, Thomas exchanged words with William, the barkeep.

Finally, he returned to his opponent, passing across a fresh ale to match his own.

“Perhaps a little drink will dull your skills,” Blackhall said.

He wore a tight smile.

“I’ve been victorious from behind mountains of gin bottles, but I appreciate the gesture,” replied Flaks.

Thomas nodded and raised his beverage to his lips, then took up the cards as Anders pulled heavy from his hops.

As he dealt, Blackhall discussed constraint. “I might suggest moderation, sir, as spirits are often the road to ruin. In fact, my very journey to this place was set off by a priest of the name Collins. Well, I suppose it goes further back then that: The hamlet of Montcliff, had taken a collection, largely encouraged by the Father, to build a vessel to ply the great lake.”

As Thomas spoke, Flaks raised his brow, but kept his peace.

“The moneyed gentleman who’d settled the area, and was landlord to most of its inhabitants, had found the work beyond him. He’d absconded, and the district was left to sour under mismanagement from afar. The people of the small community held several meetings, and the decision was made that what little they could pool would be invested in a ferry, with the proceeds reaped by all. So long as the influx of trade from the south continues, such a venture can pay well in short order. Collins had only the best interest of his parishioners at heart when he championed the cause.”

Anders held high a pair of fingers in a bid to exchange his cards, but, with a quick examination of his hand, Blackhall shook it off.

Before continuing his story, Thomas had taken three of the five tricks.

“The fund was to be transported to the shipwright by the father himself. Collins had argued hard against carrying such an earthly load, for his flock knew nothing of his nature – knew nothing of the lust for dicing which had been the impetus for his entry into the priesthood.”

Flaks’ set down the shuffled deck, and retrieved his stein.

“I thought you said it was drink that lead to self-destruction,” he said.

“All axles need grease,” Thomas replied. ”Father Collins imparted the tale to me through his sobs, several pints after he’d lost his trust. The clergyman had done well upon the road, but temptation is a sleight thing when journeying amongst the pines, and quite another in town. Worse, he’d taken to easing his anxiety with wine, and by the time he’d reached society, he’d convinced himself that it would be best – a boon even – if he were to turn his penchant for risk to obtain a quick profit for his beleaguered assembly.

“It was a lucky scoundrel who met such a proposition lurching into the Bucking Pony.

“The game drew quite a few eyes, and when one rascal took an impossible series of throws and won the full pot out from beneath the crowd, tensions flared.”

“Who could have anticipated the arrival of Doc Schofield, the temperance man, and a cluster of matrons, intent on singing away their sins? In shame, Father Collins was the first to bolt, and he was soon followed by the rest. The miscreant simply slipped away in the chaos.

“Do you mean to take the sum back by force then?” asked Flaks. His left hand moved to his money-pouch, while his right hand dipped beneath the table-top.

Thomas raised high his brow. “I make no claims as to its justice, but I’ll not murder you for the funds, no – nor the deaths of the Fultons, nor the dozens of broken and betrayed behind you.”

“Then quit your babble, and present your points.”

Blackhall paused to consider his cards, then began the process of their play.

When all had been counted, Anders found himself defeated a second time.

“Let us double the odds,” he said, “I always win it back in the end anyhow.”

Thomas nodded his assent.

“Most take your talk of being the seventh son of a seventh son as gambler’s patter,” he said, as he laid out his bet, “but I know better. Despite your inescapable good fortune, however, you only seek to misuse your endowment. Your luck has always come at a price – at the expense of those around you.”

“There are plenty of harlots, both here and at home, who squeal odes to my luck,” replied Flaks.

The man spoke through a stiff jaw, and Blackhall judged it a fair moment to hold his own tongue. Instead they both settled into silence, and moved cards and money about the table for some time.

As Anders’ purse shriveled, so did his mood.

“Blast you and your bloody tricks,” he muttered, “- but I always win it back. Just a moment while I see if these fellows can spare some coin. Just one – two – more hands.”

He rose to approach the pair who’d yet to succumb to the lullaby of drink, but Thomas stopped him short.

“Waste no effort,” he said. “I’m a man who can only afford to make his own fortune. I knew how to void your charms. Your taste for spirits hid the concoction which I’d fostered upon the road. To most it would be a curse, as if the universe had deigned to foil the victim at every turn, but, to one with fortune to spare, such as yourself, it will only act to level your advantage.

“I suspect you’ll find the world cruel in the same manner that a beast raised in captivity finds it difficult to navigate the wild once released from the pampering hands of its human benefactors, just know, as you lay in the gutter cursing me, that I had no interest in killing a man in cold blood.”

With that, Thomas collected his hat, and the shipwright’s fee, and stood. He moved to the sleepy-eyed proprietor and invested a small portion of the funds against the debts owed by the defeated inebriates, then departed.

As he stepped from the establishment’s veranda, an odd howling chased Blackhall through the door – it was a staggering, high-pitched squeal: For the first time in his life, Anders Flaks was crying.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP228 – The Draw: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty eight.

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Draw: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp228.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites Podcast.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself playing a troubling game, while recounting a troubling tale.

 

The Draw: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 2

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Thomas Blackhall“It’s a miserable thing, moving through the snowy woods on foot, with the spruce looming out of the darkness as if the ghosts of giants,” said Blackhall.

He was seated in the front room of an inn, with an untouched ale at his elbow. As Thomas talked, her rearranged the cards in his hand – despite his efforts they held no better value, whatever the configuration.

The partially nude man across the table stroked his pale goatee and nodded. He smiled.

Anders Flaks had made no secret of his confidence at the opening of the game, having declared himself the seventh son of a seventh son, and the offspring of a coupling of his mother and a horseshoe besides.

Blackhall had not questioned how the horseshoe had fathered six others, but the claims were testified to by a string of drunks, leaning ponderously over their cups, who were seated in a distant corner. They had all suffered substantial loses in pursuit of the gambler’s bulging purse, and, as his fortunes had mounted, they’d been responsible for demanding the removal of his jacket and shirt. Although no deceit was thus uncovered, Flaks’ winnings had continued to grow.

Thomas finally relented and exchanged two cards.

“The cabin I came upon was a ragged affair.” he said. “I knew it to be the residence of Susannah and Stanley Fulton, as I’d received ample warning along the road that the Fultons – although shabby due to Stanley’s long absences at the northern lumber camps – were the last friendly fire before a long stretch of swampland. Even at a distance, the lopsided roof’s lack of care was obvious. From within the meager barn, a cow vocalized its extensive complaints, and, as I approached, I discovered a winter sledge which was heavy with wares that had apparently been torn open by the trio of canines which had met me at the treeline.

“It’s well enough, I suppose, that the brutes were well fed, and not looking for a meal.

“The horse-team was nowhere to be seen, though it seemed obvious the process of unloading the goods was cut short. I considered then that a bandit might be lurking, but the snow about the sled revealed only dog tracks.”

His opponent had forgotten his turn at the tale, and Blackhall took the opportunity to wet his tongue before continuing.

“The windows were dark, but, when I tested the door, it gave way easily,” he said. “Within was a woman – beautiful until a musket ball had marred her eye and tooth. She was naked and sitting upon a chair by the cold hearth. As the sun had long abandoned me, I worked up a flame in a scavenged lantern and pushed further into the charnel house.

“Within the chamber which made up the only other room in the house, I found Stanley Fulton, hung with a twisted sheet. He’d left a short note, which read, “My dearest Susannah has betrayed me, but I have gone too far in recompense, and now regret my action. On arriving home on this eve, I discovered her with a stranger upon our bed. As I loaded my weapon, the man made effort to flee, and his distance was such that my first shot went wild. In truth, my transgressor may have been the devil incarnate, as the blast was enough to rile the horses, whose chilled and brittle tack gave way at their sudden start. The naked runner was caught between their leathers, and, as I took my last sight of him, he had somehow pulled himself onto the back of the leftmost mare. If I am to be consigned to hell, allow me at least to greet him at the gates as he arrives, so that I might provide him the same welcome I extended my wife.””

Sitting up, Flaks exchanged a single card.

“A terrible scene indeed,” he said, ”but perhaps she only found what she deserved. It sounds, though, as if the rascal had quite a near escape.”

“Aye,” replied Thomas, “He was lucky to have found such as Mrs. Fulton, and lucky in his departure.”

“You must have been quick to make your own exit?” asked Anders.

“I had few choices. It was too late to make camp elsewhere, and I’ve no fear of the dead.”

“You didn’t put them outside then?”

“It was their house, after all,” replied Blackhall, “and I’d no interest in waking to find them half-eaten.”

“Whatever the case, it was cozy enough once I’d lit a fire and moved Susannah. At dawn I rose and closed the door tightly behind me, as the ground’s too frozen for burials, and a pyre might go against their wishes.”

The pair fell silent then, as another round of bidding was turned away by Flaks, the dealer, and the tricks were played in short order.

Thomas took only one.

When all was counted, the frontiersman had lost a sum larger than the late Stanley might have hoped to earn in a week.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP225 – The Angler: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty five.

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Angler: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp225.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, student of the occult and master frontiersman, awaits the arrival of a meal.

 

The Angler: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner & Opopanax
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Thomas BlackhallAt the edge of White Creek, Miser Jenkins had taken up a hushed watch, with rod in hand. He’d spent the morning ignoring the fat flakes that drifted to the ground about him, as he knew that, despite the cold, the bass were just as in search of a meal as he.

The fisherman had acquired his stingy condition honestly, having had to save coin, and bread crusts, to pay for his passage to York. Thereafter, he’d simply never forgotten the habit, and his half-full wicker creel stood as testament to his persistence.

While allowing the fast moving stream to dance his bait, the old man had lost himself in consideration of the distances he’d come, but a fresh nibble at his line awoke him from his ruminations.

Patience, however, was Jenkins’ particular talent, and he held his position without excitement.

The sound of the flow running over the brook’s rocky protrusions remained steady, and a crow let his spectatorship be known from a nearby branch. Unflustered by the audience, and with only the slightest movement of his practiced hands, the miser gave his dead worm a tempting imitation life.

Finally, as an extravagant mound of snowy fluff touched upon the water’s surface and collapsed, the rod bent strongly, and the trap was sprung.

Seconds later Jenkins was triumphantly removing a wriggling specimen from his hook, and noting how, although no creek-catch is ever a feast in itself, this trophy seemed especially plump.

While still smiling, the victor turned and spotted a naked boy, some hundred feet away, staring downstream from the far bank. The newcomer’s eyes were wide, and his mouth down-turned.

The bald trees did nothing to hide the child’s tears from the crisp noonday sun.

“What ails you?” asked the fisherman.

The youth took a step backwards, setting a birch between himself and his interrogator.

Miser began a slow approach, speaking in reassuring tones, and gathering the opinion that the stripling was likely one of the Ojibwa encamped in the area. He did wonder, though, that he did not recognize the face, as he was on good terms with the locals of the tribe.

Then the weeping boy disappeared behind his thin barricade.

Curious, Jenkins bridged the stream at a point where three broad stones provided a hopping passage, and pressed on.

Upon arriving, he inspected the area, but could see no trace of the naked juvenile. The fallen leaves appeared undisturbed, and the water’s murmur covered any noises of flight.

Turning towards his basket, however, Miser was brought up short.

The boy was there, with both his hands wrapped around the satchel which contained Jenkins’ intended dinner. The angler once again set himself to hailing the stranger, but the lad’s pale bare-feet carried him rapidly into the woods.

“Hey now!” shouted Jenkins, his stride picking up fervency.

As he reached the site of his vigil, Miser caught a glimpse of bare shoulders ducking beyond a distant pine.

He gave chase.

The barren branches provided Jenkins visibility, but the grasping fingers also held back his thick coat, and snatched at his woolen hat. Twice he feared he’d lost the trail – on the first his transgressor’s nerve had broken, and he’d bolted from his hiding place beneath an evergreen, and, on the other, he’d simply caught sight of a leg as it topped a stone-pile.

Even in his indignant anger, as he climbed the second obstacle, Jenkins spared a thought for the pains the boy must be suffering, rag-less and under such duress. Between huffing exhalations, he resolved to share some of his bounty – once he’d beaten an apology out of the miscreant.

“Return my supper, you cheat,” shouted Jenkins, to no response.

Achieving the short summit, Miser was presented with an unexpected scene: The mouth of a cave was gaping some twenty feet away, and, at the midpoint between himself and the maw, a large dead stag lay rotting.

A pair of cedars stood as dying sentinels beside the opening, and, though it was expected that the season would be harsh for the timber, there was a discordance in the strained angles of their limbs which gave him pause.

Yet, though the shadowy cavern provided no better welcome, Jenkins was intent on his prize, and it stood as the likely hiding place upon the small plateau. He moved forward with a reluctant boot, but, before its twin could follow, the decaying deer appeared to burst.

The stranger rising from the gore-laden flap of animal hide was not what caused the majority of Miser’s concern, however – it was the lit dynamite, wrapped with gleaming wire, in the interloper’s grasp.

The rocky hollow gave a booming wail, to which the explosive-wielding man responded with a strong arm.

Even as the payload passed between the skewed cedars, the wide entrance shuttered itself, as if stone-lips slamming shut.

Before Miser could consider retreat, there was a rumble, then silence.

“I apologize for the surprise,” said the bomber, “I am Thomas Blackhall.”

“Jenkins, but you’ll pardon if I don’t shake your hand at the meeting, you seem to have some venison affixed to your forearm.”

“Apologies, as well, for my appearance. I’ve been lying within the foul beast for the last three nights, awaiting my opportunity.”

“Opportunity?”

“Aye,” replied Thomas, as he scraped rancid meat from his sleeve. “The hill fiend was wary, and only allowed itself to yawn wide as you approached. It had forgotten about my presence, I feel sure, but such creatures don’t grind their way across the landscape for millenia without some cunning. Whatever the case, the scattering of the binding about my munition ended its slow hunt – silver is noxious to the things.”

Jenkins found a stone, a good ways apart from the deer carcass, and took a seat.

“It is too much for me, sir,” he said, “and I must confess I do not quite understand.”

Thomas nodded.

“If you’d entered the cave, what you considered the roof would have rapidly descended, leaving you little more than a paste filling the gaps and crevices about the floor. Then, as the soil does, it would consume your remains over time, as your body naturally crumbled. Such is nearly what happened to my place of shelter. Although the stag did manage to escape, the ripping loss of his rear limbs was too much, and it was dead before long.”

“- but what of the boy?” asked Miser, with a rasp in his tone.

Blackhall retrieved a water-tight pouch from within his pockets, and began pinching tobacco into a fine rectangle of paper.

“A phantasm wrought by arcane instinct,” he replied. “For the stag it was a doe, for you, a thief; the right lure for the job. Return to your lost goods, they likely remain where you believe you left them.”

“What fiendish cunning!”

“It is interesting how often the need for sustenance teaches cleverness. I rather suspect it is the case that, in truth, it had no more intelligence than an arachnid spinning a web, and held no more malice than an angler upon a stream.”

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

211 – Cast Off: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eleven.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Cast Off: a Blackhall Tale.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp211.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Pendragon Variety Podcast.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, is summoned to assist with a ghastly countenance.

 

Flash Pulp 211 – Cast Off: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 2

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

BlackhallThomas had taken on two days rustic travel to answer the invitation, and he was somewhat vexed to discover the barefoot woman in ragged clothes muttering about the large house.

The structure was something of an oddity, as was its builder and occupant, a man named J.B. Wilkes. The behemoth sat upon a wide sprawl of grass, but it was a cultivated calm, as all about the trim circular patch raged the workings of a lumberyard. To the east a ribbon of water, locally called the White River, ran thick with incoming wood and the shouts of timber drivers. On the far side of the ring road, which hedged the lawn, were barracks, utility buildings, and the hastily erected tents that indicated an industry on the rise.

The frontiersman’s principal concern, however, was for the dead child laying upon a construct of sawhorses and planks at the center of the the home’s velvet-filled sitting room. Wilkes stood close at his shoulder, which was nuisance enough, but the shriek of sawmill and the pound of hammers were providing an unpleasant dissidence to his considerations.

“She insists,” Wilkes had replied, at his request to seal the windows, so he’d had no option but to ponder the faceless boy on only a half-night’s sleep, and against a gauntlet of distractions.

“Nothing more than a charlatan,” said Thomas, flatly, then he set to readjusting his focus.

The lad, no older than ten, had obviously been slain by the fall of an axe, the head of which still protruded from his chest, though the handle had snapped in the effort. His round face was thoroughly rotted, and the unkempt row of his leftmost teeth clearly visible through his cheek, and yet Blackhall could smell no decay, and neither did the child’s hands, belly, or toes, indicate such decomposition.

“You say he was like this when he was discovered?” asked Thomas, turning on his current employer in an effort to avoid the stink of the burning herb the bush witch was wafting about the room.

Earlier, as he’d approached his destination, he’d noted an encampment of youths running wild not far from the grinding wheels and crushing hooves of the lumber carts and their pulling teams, but it was only once he had entered that he’d realized the source of the ruffians.

Wilkes nodded. “Well, perhaps not quite so dead – apparently he was speaking gibberish, shouting at some of the workmen when they found him. They can’t be blamed for their panic, but I’ve already lost men to the talk of mystic doings, and they need some confirmation that there is no long term curse at hand, or a danger likely to be repeated – not that I have belief in either, but perhaps your presence will bring some closure to their uneasiness.”

Blackhall grunted, wincing again at the perpetual clamour. The smoke’s reek was doing little assist his mood, but at least the charlatan had slipped from the room.

“So,” he said, “am I right in my understanding that, though no one knows how it came to be, this young wash-boy wandered from his post in the kitchen, and, after some time, returned with this countenance?”

“Yes,” replied Wilkes, as he tended his cuff links.

It was then that the supposed impostor returned, planting her feet firmly in the door frame and demanding attention.

“Yes,” said Thomas, “What is it then? Your roaming about the house all morning has accomplished naught but wear on the rugs, so I do certainly hope that some sudden burst of insight has emboldened you to dispose of your sham and return once more to whatever dirt plot you no doubt poorly maintain between deceptions.”

“Do you know who I am? Fausta The Hearer – my services do not come cheap, and I was not called from my home to be insulted.” She turned then. “Do you wish to hear what the spirits have told me, Mr. Wilkes?”

Their mutual employer’s lips were tight with displeasure, but he nodded his interest.

She cleared her throat, and accompanied her speech with swept arms.

“Those beyond tell me that there is an ancient box, said to be cursed. They whisper that the boy found it here – in this very house.”

Blackhall raised his brow sharply, turning to observe the man at his side.

“A trinket,” said Wilkes, “given to me by one of the natives. I believe they thought it might convince me to let them hold onto this choice parcel, but I’d worked hard to talk the price down and its location upon the river is prime – I appreciated the trifle, but it certainly fell short of persuading me not to roust them. Besides, some came back seeking employment, and now carry an axe for half the cost.”

Though he attempted a casual tone, his posture had taken on a notable tension.

The ache at Thomas’ temples had grown loud, and he rubbed briefly at his brow; The Hearer, however, was firm in her insistence.

“You must retrieve the artifact,” she said, “only then can we lift the taint that will forever haunt this house – this entire camp!”

“There’s no bloody curse, and you’ve no idea what you’re dealing with,” said Blackhall. “I do require the box, though.”

Wilkes’ increasing stiffness reached a breaking point.

“Both of you must remove yourselves immediately.” he said, “I would not have summoned you if it weren’t for the surly moans of my lumbermen, but I see now that you wish to muddy the waters further with your lies – in an effort to raise the issue of blackmail, no doubt.”

“Twice now I have been insulted,” replied Fausta, “I shall stand this no more – pay my fee, and I shall be away.”

“Fine,” said Wilkes, moving to gather the sum.

“No,” said Blackhall. In the span of the conversation, he’d retrieved a silver chain, at the end of which was latched a hook whose tip was of an intricate, winding construction. “I’ve no patience today for sorting half-truths and naked lies so you’ve left me with little option.”

Before any response could be mustered, he lay the barb across the deceased’s cold flesh, and gave a jerk.

As if Thomas were pulling a fish from water, the phantom rose from the surface of his body.

“Your name?” asked Blackhall.

“Jerry Mayhew, sir,” said the apparition.

Thomas noted Wilkes attempting a slow retreat, but also observed Fausta’s immobile frame blocking the exit. Her eyes were locked on the boy, as if attempting to determine the crux of the trick – and yet there were no strings, nor mirrors, to account for the cadaver-faced spook.

“Well, Jerry Mayhew,” said Blackhall, “were you murdered?”

It was obvious the phantom was in no small discomfort due to his summoning, but he was eager enough to talk.

“They didn’t know – I couldn’t – my tongue wouldn’t work to tell ‘em it was me,” the specter replied. “I ran up to Old Bill, trying to ask after Pa, but he laid me low before I could cork my weeping. Still, it’s murder enough what Mr. Wilkes did to me – tricking me into puttin’ my face inside his cube.”

His steam spent, the boy’s face withered.

“Might I return now?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Blackhall, dropping the chain onto Mayhew’s chest.

“What? There are still questions to be answered!” said Fausta.

Wilkes was only feet away from departure, but had been rooted by the display.

“The rest,” responded Thomas, “I can theorize well enough. He likely came across your name while searching out an answer to the nature of the relic, but held some evidence that you were a fraud, thus leaving you untapped. My guess is that you were hired as a placebo, to quiet the anger that rose up after the boy’s death. Surely there is some suspicion in the camp. I know, from the man sent to collect me, that I was summoned at the insistence of a vocal minority – likely the same ousted fellows mentioned earlier, with whom I seem to recall having some dealings in the past.”

He turned on Wilkes fully, addressing the man directly.

“Perhaps you thought I too was a counterfeit, or perhaps you were simply unwilling to say no to a rabble of underpaid, whiskey’d, hirelings, but you see now your mistake.”

“Yes!” answered the cowering man, “Yes, of course. What is there to be done? How might I rectify my error?”

There was a pause, during which Blackhall collected his traveling goods, arranged his coat, and pocketed his chain.

“First, the box,” he finally replied.

“Of course,” said Wilkes, sighing. Within moments he returned with a sack, which he handed across.

Thomas provided a quick inspection, and his practiced gaze surmised the authenticity of the piece.

“Now what?” asked his anxious host.

“There is nothing more for the matter beyond a proper burial. Time will do the rest.”

Even as he made his reply, Blackhall passed from the parlour, Fausta was hasty to slip aside and allow him passage, but just as rapidly returned to her former firm stance, and opened with a strong-voiced harangue regarding her remuneration.

With bulky pouch in hand, Thomas retook the veranda, no longer annoyed by the din, but instead simply pleased to be away from the slick meat of Mayhew’s corrupted visage.

Turning, he spotted the hooligan he suspected had conveyed the camp’s whispers to Fausta’s ear, through a yawning window. With a raised hand, he summoned the delinquent.

“Am I wrong to think that you’ve become recently acquainted with the lay of the mill?” asked Blackhall, holding up a palm heavy with coins.

The youth nodded, his eager eyes appearing strikingly like his mother’s.

“Run then,” continued the departing bushman, “find the father of Jerry Mayhew, and tell him plainly that it was Wilkes’ dabbling which left his son so scarred – that the blame for his premature death rests firmly upon this porch.”

The messenger’s heavy pockets jingled as he ran towards the furthest rim of the greenery, and into the muck beyond.

Having dispatched his courier before the boy’s parent could be bought fully into silence, Thomas shouldered his load, and made for the treeline.

Time would do the rest.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

207 – The Settler: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and seven.

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Settler: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp207.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Asunder.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself in conversation with a man of many complaints.

Flash Pulp 207 – The Settler: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Blackhall had spent the evening warming a mug of beer between his hands, and covertly intruding upon the conversation of the braying crowd that filled the Bucking Pony’s ground floor. Some were regulars, some were passers-by who’d entered to escape the rain, but most had found the keeper’s whiskey both cheap and delicious.

Although he’d sought some telling of strange occurrences which might once again put him on the path to his beloved Mairi, mundane stories were all he encountered.

It was the delivery of a particularly boisterous young man to which his ear continuously returned. The lad, seated with three companions, had lamented, loudly, on the topic of his ill fortune, and, to Thomas’ eye, his friends seemed to be growing weary of his keening – as too were many others who shared the room, and wished only a reasonable din.

Thomas BlackhallStanding, Blackhall moved to the last of the seats adjoining their squared table-top, and nodded his introduction to the group of strangers. With a wave to the barman, he indicated a further round of drink, while himself abstaining in light of his still half-full stein.

“I could not help but overhear your concerns,” said Blackhall to the sorrowful man, “and it sounds as if your father drives you sorely. What name do you go by?”

“Amon – Amon Herstad, and you sir?”

“Call me Thomas. Well, Amon, is my understanding correct that you feel your Pa works you too hard, without consideration of compensation?”

“Yes sir, that is correct. Do you propose some solution?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. You are the eldest – and these are your brothers?” asked Blackhall, appraising the cluster of similarly slack-jawed and tangle-haired individuals which tolerated the cacophonous malcontent.

“Yes, sir,” again replied the oldest Herstad.

Thomas lifted his hops, wetting his throat.

“Your situation puts me in mind of a tale I was told as true, not long after my first extended stay in the colony’s closest approximation of civilization. I heard it from a gaily dressed lady of fine taste, who swore to its veracity.”

The silent trio rolled their eyes, and young Amon seemed piqued by the mention of a topic not pertaining directly to his own misery, but the frontiersman found a comfortable posture and pressed on.

“There was a boy of eighteen – some years younger than yourself, I might say – who wished the hand of a tailor’s daughter. While the maiden in question reddened at the mention of the lad, and though her lips could not help but smile at his name, the tailor himself was less than enthused about the bond, and quashed it at every chance. The clothes-maker had also once sewn crops, and while his occupation did nothing to stymy his growing belly, his arms remained thick with childhood exercise. As such, his disposition was quite imposing, and brooked little argument, especially from one so willowy as the country courter.”

“When the youth approached to breach the subject with his intended father-in-law, with scowling face, and bulging physique, the man replied, ‘What do you have to offer? You’re a farmer without land.’

“It was reality that the suitor had been raised on his parent’s stead, and they’d had some success there, in no small part due to the swain’s exertion, although he had no claim to it. Returning from town, he did not mourn his defeat, but instead pulled together what coin and chattel he had secured, and invested wisely in a neighbour’s beef efforts. His days were long, as they were split between responsibilities to his parents, and tending his own cattle speculations, but after much wheat was harvested, and many cows butchered, the boy found himself with enough for a parcel of his own. It was a hoary bit of earth, but he knew he could tame it if only he might have his bride next to him.”

Blackhall could see, by the postures of the gathered, that the hook had been set, and so he removed the Spanish papers he carried at all times, and began to stuff one with Virginian tobacco.

“Again he returned to the tailor, this time with his freshly inked deed in hand. ‘You have bettered your circumstances, perhaps,’ replied the patriarch, with an unsubtle display of his muscled constitution, ‘but you surely can not propose to live in such a wildwood?’

“With the tears of his beloved audible from the adjoining room, the boy nodded and left.”

Thomas paused to light his cigarette from the guttering lamp at the table’s center, then continued.

“From there, the twice-rebutted beau journeyed to his lot, stopping solely to purchase a fresh axe head, and three stout handles. Having completed his seasonal duties, the prospective husband put wedge to timber, and, despite winter’s harsh approach, cleared his acreage before the snows. Though his limbs ached at the effort, spring found a fresh glade, wide enough to sow, where once a forest had prevailed – and, at the midpoint of said meadow, stood a large abode crafted from a portion of the collected lumber.

“Better yet, after keeping back what he would require to fuel his stove, the industrious homesteader made profit on the rest of the wood by way of local trade, and turned his earnings into a plow, oxen, and a yield’s worth of seed.

“Thus supported, he returned to wait a third and final time in the outfitter’s parlour. There was a delay, and the hopeful lad could hear his intended arguing strenuously in his favour. The debate ended in a flat slap. There was a heavy tread in the hall,and the broad tailor entered to say simply, ‘leave.’

“No longer content, however, was the youth who’d endured so much affliction – neither was he the same lanky adolescent who had come pleading so many months previous. The patient bachelor had taken on respectable brawn during his efforts, which, when combined with his outrage at his darling’s maltreatment, was enough that the threat of conflict ceased to be a concern. With a single motion, he sprung from his place of waiting, and laid low the handsy clothier. The daughter was quick to follow him from the house.”

As was the custom of the place, Thomas dropped the remains of his vice amongst the sudsy dregs of his draft.

“It was the farmer’s single life-long act of violence, or so I was told by his wife.”

Blackhall smiled to note that it was not only his small knot of listeners who had taken in the account, as the general clamor of the room seemed to rise again at its completion.

“So, then,” said Amon, his face grimacing, “your advice is that I strain so hard I impress my taskmaster into submission? Or is it that I wallop my father?”

“No, you misunderstand,” said Thomas, “in this tale you are the lout tailor. Provided with the entirety of what you might demand, you move beyond what is rational and require the ridiculous. As the eldest, your familial plot will one day be your own – still, given the totality of what you could need, you will lose everything for not receiving all you could want. Yes, perhaps it is rough work, but your whine is that of the spoiled child, unwilling to straighten his silk-laden bed as those nearby slumber in the mud.”

That got a chuckle out of the quiet triad, which, to Blackhall’s thinking, was reward enough for his recital.

He rose from his chair.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

198 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 6 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and ninety-eight.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 6 of 6.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp198.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Pendragon Variety.

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, master frontiersman and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall, must face an insidious airborne threat, as well as disappointment.

 

Flash Pulp 198 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 6 of 6

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Thomas BlackhallAs the roar of the insects approached, Blackhall hoped his traveling companion, Sour Thistle, was sufficiently sheltered, and lofted high the silver chain which dangled from his moist palm. The denizens of the fen also understood the imminent threat, and their sudden hush only amplified the approaching drone.

Tossing his hat to the muck, Thomas set his boot upon its wide brim, and clenched his teeth.

He was unaccustomed to the extra load Archer’s pound of flesh had added to the hook, but, even as he began to wheel the length of shining links over his head, he could feel the vigour the dead man’s weight brought to the talisman in the air about him.

Inky tendrils crept through the tall trunks of trees too exotic for Blackhall’s identification, and he knew his time was short.

Somewhere beyond the fetid heat of the swamp, the sound of thunder rolled across the forest.

“Tis for you, Mari,” said Thomas, only to himself.

He redoubled the speed with which he twisted his charm.

A new cacophony took hold then, rising from beneath the black cloud – it sounded as if the howl of a dying wolf entwined with the screams of a bairn come too early, all projected from the heavens above. To the north of the marsh, the sky seemed to ripple, then rend, and even the unchanging thunderhead which shaded the jungle mass transformed at the pressure.

It began to rain.

The winged parasites were well within sight of Blackhall by then, but the building gale had temporarily set them astray, and the dark coils moved in unsure billows, which looked, to Thomas’ eye, as if an imitation of the writhing obsidian bodies of the leeches themselves.

While the fetish felt to have taken on impossible heft, the skyward void grew broad at Blackhall’s efforts, and the wind ratcheted from a whisper to a wail.

The corpses The Eremite had anchored in the canopy, began to rock with the gusts, their dangling arms shaking in the rush. The temperature dropped rapidly, the vacuum sucking the heat away with a greedy chill.

Under the whip and pull of the rising storm, the swarm was broken apart as if tossed on a raging sea. While their wings struggled furiously to keep their relative position, the blow became too much for many – some fell to the earth, their flight organs snapped beneath the strain, but most blasted between the trunks, their wet bodies bursting as they slapped against the swaying timber.

Undisturbed by the maelstrom, the spirits of the dead men overhead pulled themselves from their rotting shells, and came tumbling to the mud.

As they gathered, about him, Blackhall maintained his labours, unwilling to cease until he was sure he’d done in the aberrant flock. Finally, however, with his coat slick with impacts, and the trees greasy with death, he allowed his arm rest.

He inspected the troop of phantasms which he’d raised as a byproduct of his exertion.

“It’ll be a hearth and a proper burial you’ll all want, but perhaps I could offer a taste of vengeance as well? I seek the old man.”

Many babbled nonsense driven by fear, and others started upon questions unanswerable in the moment, forcing Thomas to add gravity to his tone.

“I’ve a friend at the bog’s edge which requires immediate attention, a ritual that will take hours in itself, if her fever does not kill her. I’ve no interest, though, in being struck down as a I flee, so I must deal immediately with this hermit. You will indicate his location, or by all you hold holy, I’ll be sure you hang about in this damp hell for time beyond ken.”

A boy of eighteen caught his eye, not with a flapping tongue, instead with flapping hands. The lad, who Thomas suspected to be of one of the parties sent by Fitzhugh, pointed past his right shoulder.

“I’ve not beheld such a display since abandoning my exile to Eboracum,” said The Eremite, standing not ten yards away. “Who has sent you? Are you a minion of the spider god? Or perhaps he who now claims the name of Caesar? No, unlikely after so long – another sage then? Maltrusis? Acanthus?”

“You appear more alert than when at our previous crossing,” replied Blackhall.

The thaumaturge winced.

“I grow old. I fear sometimes I wake in places I have not meant to travel to. It seems less and less that I am myself.”

Blackhall moved his hand away from the silver sabre at his hip, and instead retrieved the small waxed pouch which contained his final letter from Mairi, as well as the implements of his sole vice. A few amongst the specters licked their blue lips at the sight, but none were willing to close the distance to the speakers.

It took focus to keep his fingers steady as he prepared his cigarette, but Thomas’ voice was strong.

“Few survive from your age – there are certainly none in the old world. I have met beings of ancient origin, but no man such as yourself.”

“None still live across the sea?”

“Perhaps you’ve held out secret hope that a companion of old would stumble into your hermitage, but in truth you are likely the last. Surely you must know of the dying? While the arcane runs deeply through these lands, it is not so back home. I believe I’ve encountered much for my age, but I have seen naught as taken by the measure of what I have thus far encountered in this colonial hinterland.”

Realizing he had no flame with which to ignite his construction, Blackhall tucked away the preparation for later use.

The magus nodded, adjusting his robe as he considered. He then straightened as far as his bowed spine would allow.

“I appreciate the news, but now I believe our conversation is at an end,” he said.

“You’ve driven beast and forest spirit from their territory,” Thomas continued, “if you do not submit, you will be done in by those far more powerful than I.”

“I was lucky to have surprised the regent at my doorstep, I do admit,” replied The Eremite, “but even with my lovelies smeared about the grove, I’ve ways of holding back those who overstep their reach.”

“Is that how you turned back the witch?”

“The witch?”

“A woman, old, though not near so as yourself, with a column of the dead behind her, cavorting in mockery of the living?” He was careful to make no mention that the parade of corpses contained his own beloved wife.

Slipping an ornate dagger, shimmering with arcane brilliance, from the interior of his sleeve, The Eremite did not reply. Instead his too-long vestments swept silently over the bog’s muck, sliding as if a snake upon its belly.

With the violent weather dissipating, the spirits at Blackhall’s back rapidly began to lose density, but stood firm enough to cuss their murderer loudly. Their shouts were drawn short, however, by a rapidly descending snarl.

The force of collision was enough to startle Thomas into retreating a pace. The brown assemblage, which had dropped onto the timeworn hermit from the thick matte of vegetation above, became a sphere of thrashing teeth and claws.

Once her opponent seemed thoroughly broken, Sour Thistle stepped aside to admire her handiwork.

“I summoned assistance,” she said, “but I could not hold back given the climate’s turmoil. In truth, I believed you eaten by a fiend.”

She then collapsed.

The heat of her infection was notable as he approached, and it was uncomfortable to lay his hand on her blazing fur.

Wasting no time in contemplation, Blackhall turned on his heel and moved to The Eremite.

The old man was alive, but badly twisted. His robes made it difficult to tell if his left arm had been entirely severed, or only torn far from its stump, but there was no doubt about the gaping condition of his belly.

“I was in a town to the south, and there was a boy there who’d eaten of a poisoned apple. This does not sound as if your design, it must be the hag – have you seen her?” demanded Blackhall.

“Given your hand in my dispatching, why should I reply?” asked The Eremite.

“I will give you an option – tell me, or, in spite of your reclusive desires, I will stand about here making boorish conversation until you’ve died. Then, I shall raise you up, and continue to do the same.” Thomas let slip the silver chain as he spoke. “Should my friend perish before you answer, the consequences will be considerably less polite.”

“Yes, I saw the hag. I repelled her assault easily.”

“Did you now? When do you recall beginning to suspect your senility?”

The Eremite spat blood into the air. “I am not senile.”

“Mayhaps your leeches drift across the land of their own will? Perhaps you wander your hermitage ranting as a matter of normal course? You have outlasted many – accept your end with dignity. Which way did she depart?” asked Thomas.

“I suspect west, but we did not sit about discussing our plans for the future.”

“I need better than suspicions,” replied the frontiersman, but the old man was too dead to hear it.

After a moment’s frustrated consideration, Blackhall returned his occult trinket to its place of keeping.

He knew he had a long job still ahead.

The fierce swelter had done Sour Thistle’s fever little good, and it was only with much strain that Thomas managed to relocate her unconscious form to the cooler airs of the outer forest.

It was then that he received his first surprise. In his absence the boundary had become populated by a broad array of woodland inhabitants, all peering anxiously into the murk of the tainted mire. Unsure of his welcome, given the reposing state of the lady the beasts had come to serve, Blackhall approached a pair of knobby kneed moose, and laid down the wolverine.

He considered it a tricky thing to utilize enough vigour to shake her awake, without raising the ire of his audience, but with a hardy wrist he managed to bring Sour Thistle about.

“I can help,” were his opening words.

“I shiver at the cold,” she replied.

“You’ll need a greater chill if I’m to carry out my ritual.”

He struck upon a plan then.

With a squad of able-fingered raccoons to assist his efforts, he quickly had the rotting men of the trees brought down, and cut free of their bindings. At Sour Thistle’s fading instruction, they made short work of affixing the lines to the entangled cart Thomas had spotted on his arrival at the mucky terrain.

The forest spirit was again in stupor when he lifted her into the wagon, but she’d left clear guidance to her adherents.

As Blackhall knotted the last of the cord, in hopes of greater stability for his standing position in the flat bed of his conveyance, he noted the beasts had already begun to scour the track.

Then commenced one of the strangest rides of Thomas’ long memory.

Some of the lashings had been frayed, so that a single strand might be held in the clenched mouths of a team of half-a-dozen scampering minks. At times a bull moose would lead, with an array of lesser creatures flanking his sides, at others Blackhall marked a pack of wolves managing the load alone.

At the head of the column strode the shimmering visages of the dead men, their ghostly light guiding the way through the whipping branches. A blanket of wild things moved at their feet, tearing clear protruding stones and sealing ragged holes before leaping aside to let the thundering wheels pass.

It was not for their illumination, however, that Blackhall had again taken up the Crook of Ortez. Thomas could feel the intensity of his companion’s malady, and all he could provide as succor was the cold, and rain, drawn on by pulling near the netherworld.

Standing astride the bucking platform, he maintained his sterling hook aloft, and summoned the wrath of the tempest.

An hour into their desperate run, their right fore-wheel splintered at a bad landing, but without upset to his regent, an adolescent black bear stepped to the axle, and took its bulk onto his shoulder. A brother was soon beneath the far side, lifting the orphaned hoop from the ground, and progress continued until the rear also gave way, leaving the raft moving entirely upon the rolling spines of an ever-swapping procession of carriers.

The journey which had taken Blackhall days was managed by the bestial train within hours – but, even then, Thomas was not sure their expedience would be enough.

When they finally arrived at the somber opening of the ice cave, Blackhall’s arm ached with exertion. Still, he was quick to leap from his transport and lift up the blazing weight of Sour Thistle.

Although it felt as if she baked the skin of his head and neck as he toted her, the unnatural conflagration was no match for the eager cold of the frozen grotto, and, his hands thus freed, Blackhall turned his attentions to curing, rather than maintaining.

It was a dusk, and a dawn, and a dusk, before he stumbled from the den, the fool’s smile of success on his lips.

Those who’d assisted in his victory had disappeared to their own grounds, but, as if in their wake, sat the boy, Layton, who’d first shown Thomas the frigid shelter.

“Came up for Ma, and I heard, uh, singing. I thought it was you, so I figured I’d wait in case you required assistance. Didn’t want to bust in on you though,” said the lad, offering up the glow of his lamp against the darkness.

“It’s good to see you again – I thought you’d be off by now?” replied Blackhall, taking a seat on a flat stone cropping.

“Another week, they say. I feel the noose drawing tight.”

Thomas nodded at the response, retrieving the cigarette he’d produced ages earlier.

“I’ve thought further on your problems. I’ve just discovered the bodies of a number of Britishers who’ll require decent burial, and who better to send than the freshly minted lieutenant who woos your girl? I believe I’m certainly owed favours enough, at this point, to have a say in appointing the expedition. Better yet, I’ve also recently recalled a woman of considerable patience, and the heart of a caretaker, who might do well with lodging upon your land so that she might set up house with her fellow, and tend your mother. Her drowsy man would be well suited to learn discipline under your father’s farmyard tutelage as well.”

From the spark of the lantern, he lit his vice, and pondered his Mairi’s place under the burgeoning tract of stars.

From within the cavern, the echos of a racking snore became audible.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.