Category: Thomas Blackhall

197 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 5 of 6

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 5 of 6.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp197.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, comes upon a discomforting bog of unnatural origin.

 

Flash Pulp 197 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 5 of 6

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

 

Thomas BlackhallThe fever blur of the swamp’s heat made the approaching bent figure of the old man seem spectral, but, as he neared the cusp that marked the edge of his bog, Blackhall was able to scrutinize his wizened frame. The newcomer’s face was lined like a spider’s web, his wrinkles having formed a connecting network that continued down his neck and below the maroon robe he wore. The garb had once been of handsome craftsmanship, but his shrunken stature had long left the hem trailing in the muck. About his collar was a string of beads, which held a pendant composed of an array of intricate golden loops. At the center of the coils rested an emerald of unlikely bulk.

To Thomas’ inspection, the elder’s skin appeared as if paper stretched thin over a bamboo frame.

Opening wide his hooded eyes, the intruder began ranting.

“He says, that his name is The Eremite,” translated Blackhall.

“Yes,” replied Sour Thistle, her teeth barred and her claws on full display, ”I speak Latin.”

“I apologize,” said Thomas, clearing his throat.

The Eremite did not let the interruption break his delivery.

After five minutes with barely a pause for breath, Blackhall took up a side dialogue with his traveling companion.

“All this talk of blood from our bowels and tears from our fingernails is certainly passionate, but I’ve the impression that he isn’t entirely aware he’s addressing an audience,” he said.

“Transients rarely make sense to me. You men die too quickly to ever have learned anything,” she replied.

His gusto spent, the orator took on a morose tone, but continued.

“He’s talking madness,” concluded Sour Thistle. “Something about his mother burning the eggs on the fire, and his brother stealing his portion?”

“What? Who’s that?” said The Eremite in muddled English, his eyes suddenly focusing on the murk around him.

Unwilling to wait for an answer, he turned. His form warped, then broke, tumbling into a cascade of woolly spiders, the large furry body of each appearing to convey an aspect of the warlock; Thomas first noted a red splash that seemed once cloth, then a single fat arachnid baring a golden pattern inset with brilliant green.

All skittered out of sight; some ascending towards the canopy, some disappearing within the undergrowth.

“This does not bode well for us,” said Sour Thistle, her hackles raised.

Then she was bitten.

Thomas’ boot found the jade-spined insect only seconds after its venom was laid, but his effort met with unexpected resistance. Instead of dashing the beast to pieces as he’d intended, the blow brought on a heavy crunch, which sent the thing speeding towards the fen.

“Hold still,” Blackhall told his ally, while eying the rapidly swelling infection just above her right fore-paw.

An angry red hive had taken hold at the site, and seemed to grow even under his examination.

“This will be painful, I apologize,” he said, giving no opportunity for complaint as he unsheathed his skinning knife, and dug it into her flesh.

It was a crude operation, and she keened her displeasure at his rough surgery, but it was swiftly completed. Although the ease with which his edge pierced the area of infection – given the occult nature of his subject – unsettled him, he held his tongue. A strong hand was all that was required to remove the core of the wound, but he knew that he had not been in time to entirely excise the contamination.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, as he cleaned his blade.

He examined the red which had splattered about the area, and the wolverine’s drawn snout, then raised an eyebrow. “No, I do not believe you will. This is no simple poison.”

Ignoring his words, she took a tentative step, and staggered.

“Perhaps after I rest a few moments,” she replied.

“No. You’ll wait here,” said Blackhall. “I’ve a conversation to hold with an old acquaintance anyhow.”

As he spoke, he reached deep within the folds of his great coat and retrieved a silver chain, upon the end of which rested a hook of remarkable craftsmanship.

“You possess The Crook of Ortez?” asked the lady of the forest. To Thomas’ ear, her voice had taken on no small wonder.

“It was given to me by the last of the line,” he replied. “Well, given may not be quite the right word. I shall return. Rest.”

With a final examination of his patient’s comfort, Blackhall righted himself. Taking in a deep breath of the cooler air, he stepped across the boundary, and into the marsh.

Shimmying the tall trunk of an unfamiliar breed of tree, to achieve access to the corpse of Archer, was a moist task of some exertion, but Thomas felt no sympathy for the cadaver as he cut its bonds and let it drop to the soggy earth below.

Rosy Red’s face had been largely eaten away by carrion feeders, and his gummy maw exposed by the steady gnawing of insects. Blackhall exhaled, then stooped to begin his discourse.

Dragging the chain’s barb along Archer’s putrid flesh, Thomas felt a tug, as if a hefty catch had taken hold of an angling line, and the frontiersman heaved upon the chain.

Before him stood the spectral shadow of a man he’d once known.

“Bloody Blackhall!? What brings you to this god forsaken witch tit of a hole?” asked the dead solider.

“The same thing that brought you here – Fitzhugh, and his damnable scheming,” Thomas replied.

“Ahh, I’m just having you about, I know well enough why you’re here. I’ve waited since that old bastard slit my throat, and let his flock consume my mules, for someone to come pull my stink from the treetops, although, I must admit, I wasn’t expecting him to send in a witch doctor.”

“He’s still a pushy bugger,” said Blackhall.

The apparition chuckled.

“Listen,” Thomas continued, “I’ve need of your help.”

“How so?” asked Rosy Red.

“This trinket can do more than just temporarily pull loudmouths from their graves, but it requires many hours to achieve a strength suitable to my requirements – and, given the likely approach of the swarm of life-suckers, time is not something I have. There is an alternative, however. Unfortunately, it’s an unpleasant one.”

Archer raised a shimmering hand to tap at his nose, and Blackhall briefly wondered if it seemed a luxury in light of his missing original.

“Remember that long haired Spaniard? The pygmy with the rapiers?” asked the phantom.

Thomas could hardly forget – after parrying a cluster of bayonets, the fellow had done in three of his platoon-mates. Archer had managed to disarm the man by using the butt of his rifle as a club, but at the cost of an opened leg-artery. If the daredevil hadn’t paused to gloat over his fallen opponent, Blackhall would never have had the opportunity to strangle him with his own locks.

“I find it difficult to disremember most of the things I did during our effort to stop the tiny emperor,” he replied.

“Dead or not, I recognize a debt when it’s owed,” said Rosy Red. “What are the terms?”

By way of answer, Thomas once again retrieved his blade. Bending low beside the corpse, he began to saw forcefully at the cadaver’s thigh. Removing a crudely-rounded patty of rotting skin and muscle, he laced it onto the hook’s intricate barb.

As it worked its way on, it became apparent that a force was wearing at the shade.

Blackhall completed his counsel.

“You’ll be bound where you died, and unable to move without great effort, at least until I remove your beef from the fetish – and there will be pain. The more I must use it, the greater the affliction. In fairness, you should know I mean to unfasten the heavens.”

“I’ve given enough, I suppose I can take a little,” replied Archer.

The memory of a doe-eyed senorita, lying wide-mouthed as her toddler uselessly grasped at her uncoupled arm, came suddenly to Thomas’ mind. He could not dismiss the smirk Rosy had delivered to him as the butcher strode from the scene.

“Indeed,” he said. “Now, where might I find -”

His ears had not ceased to strain since his last near-fatal encounter, and even his unpleasant labours had not driven away the warning that had been provided by the faltering stag he’d seen consumed – as such, he was not entirely taken by surprise when the telltale hum again filled the air.

 

(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.

196 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 4 of 6

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 4 of 6.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp196.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, finds himself in the gloom of a fatal cloud.

 

Flash Pulp 196 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 4 of 6

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

 

BlackhallAt first the distance from Blackhall to the inky tendrils which had drifted from the verdant green of the forest made it appear as if thick smoke had come wending from some unseen flame. As it moved closer, however, purpose and cohesion became apparent: a firm lick of darkness first touched, then enveloped, the laggard of Sour Thistle’s bolting honour guard.

The brown furred weasel-cousin squealed in pain, and commenced thrashing.

It did nothing to slow the approach of the black mass.

“Follow,” was all Blackhall had opportunity to shout at the forest queen, then he shattered the still water with pounding legs, and, finding an acceptable depth, dived.

The bushman was quick to retrieve the talisman he’d long ago lashed about his neck with rawhide, and, popping the flat stone beneath his tongue, he breathed heavily of occult air. As the blue sky above his rippling view grew murky, he was relieved to find Sour Thistle close at hand, her hide swollen with the wet, but otherwise unharmed. Unknotting his trinket’s strand, they spent uncountable hours below, trading the stone between them.

The standoff wore at Thomas’ nerves, but, as time passed, he began to feel as if their position, while not permanently tenable, would at least hold against the threatening swarm. Even as such considerations ran through his mind, a fat ebon slug splashed down on the surface, and drifted in his direction. He could see the squirming shape clearly: A soot coloured, three-inch worm, not un-finger-like, which flexed and bloated as it struggled to bring its double set of fluttering dragon-fly appendages into action.

A leech, Blackhall realized, but worse – a winged leech.

His eyes were locked on the beast with fascination, and concern, but, whatever unnatural metamorphosis the thing had experienced to take its new form had also made it unsuitable to a life in the water. As Thomas watched, the parasite’s struggles ceased, and its glistening form became nothing more than floating detritus.

What followed was an afternoon of impatience. Although the pair of survivors made several attempts to simply walk to a point of safety, the swarm seemed intent to follow them, smothering the waves under their shadow.

In the end they were left in positions not so unlike those they’d had on shore – Blackhall standing, his shirt now flapping in the flow instead of the breeze, and the wolverine sitting, her claws playing impatiently with the muddy clay of the lake-bottom.

The thought of supper looming large in his growling stomach, Thomas began to consider a methodology of angling with his available instruments, which were few. He did not relish the idea of raw fish taken in with gulps of silty water, but Sour Thistle, he thought, might appreciate the freshness – and, given a protracted siege, he might have no alternative.

Could they last the night, he wondered? The week?

He looked up, and they were gone.

As his head cleared the surface, the final wisps broke westward – but they appeared dislocated and untidy, not a solid mass, but, instead, a speckled haze.

When once again upon solid ground, they surveyed their surroundings. The buck they’d seen break the wood-line, just prior to their escape, lay where it had fallen. Portions of its flesh had been eaten away, but most of its hide held – still, it’s bone structure was plainly visible beneath, as if the parasitic flock had suctioned its innards clean of blood, meat, and organs.

Sour Thistle’s guardians were there as well – the swiftest of the fishers had nearly made the sand when was overtaken. The collapsed fur recalled to Thomas’ mind a mink he’d purchased for his Mairi, but he was careful to keep the thought close.

“Should we bury them?” he asked.

“No, the carrion birds are our way,” she replied.

It seemed, to Blackhall’s eye, that there was a meager dinner left for the crows, but he again said nothing.

They spent the night at the lake’s edge, the frontiersman snacking on jerky from his reclaimed travel gear, and the lady of the forest cracking oyster shells fished from the mud of the shallows. The darkness invited little talk, as awareness of an impending threat depended heavily on their heeding the babble of the breeze. As dawn broke, however, and the smell of cooking bass lifted Sour Thistle from a sporadic slumber, Thomas continued the discussion he’d begun the day previous.

“It’s the flying plague I’ve come about. As regent of this domain, surely you must know their source?”

He tossed one of the seared fillets to the queen, who let it fall to the beach’s turf to cool. Her razor teeth had no concern for extra sand.

Under the cresting sun’s orange glow, the six cold fishers were barely visible, and yet Thomas noted Sour Thistles contemplation of their resting places.

“Our eyes will be eaten from our skulls before we arrive, but I will lead you none the less,” she replied.

Then their mouths were too busy with food for conversation.

* * *

The opening of their journey was largely spent retracing the route upon which Blackhall had approached, as the queen had chosen a remote location to rule her wild subjects from. The following days were taken at a careful pace, lingering as often by brook or river as possible, and always with ears cocked to the wind.

They did not encounter the swarm again until after they’d arrived.

Their destination became apparent to Thomas as the pair crested a wooded hill. Although it was still a good many miles off, and he could not see their true objective from the dense forest floor, he noted a cloud which remained unchanged, even as the branches about him rattled in gusts. As his view crept closer, he confirmed his suspicion that the thunderhead, gray against a sky filled with white fluff, was perfectly round in composition, no matter what the state of weather in the surrounding environs.

At the realization, Blackhall tutted to himself quietly, and Sour Thistle simply nodded.

Given the hush as she moved over long dried beds of pine needles, Thomas was unwilling to break the calm that had become the hallmark of their tour, but many questions alighted on his tongue in that moment.

Too many of his queries, he felt, were answered when they achieved the edge of the swamp.

The boundary between the spaces was plainly visible, and tight. The march of pines ceased, and heat seemed to bleed from the broad leafed plants, and thick vines, that marked the change in terrain. The damp air at the marsh’s brink set Thomas’ lungs to aching.

“I’d not expect to find such a sight anywhere this far north – if on this continent at all,” he said.

“It is the time to speak of the old man who lives within,” replied Sour Thistle. She’d come to a halt some yards away from the twisted landscape, and squatted now in the deep shadow of a fir tree. “The bloodsuckers are his. I have remained within my principality, and he in his own. There has been little confusion as to the perimeter. We have never spoken.”

With his eyes prying at the shade within, Thomas began to make troubling identifications.

“I believe that’s a cart – and those may be meatless asses, dead in harness.”

“Look harder, you’ve yet to find the worst of it,” the wolverine responded. “Have you examined the strange fruit which the thaumaturge harvests?”

The canopy above the bog was woven thickly between the trunks – another oddity for the frosty lands of the north – and it was only by craning into the swelter that Blackhall was able to uncover her meaning.

Strung by their feet, from the highest reaches, were the shapes of men. Their bodies, as well as their bindings, endured in various states of decay, and Blackhall’s view fell upon a nose-less face which he reckoned to likely belong to his former acquaintance, “Rosy Red” Archer.

“Squirrels have sung to me of the life drainers, though I had not encountered them myself until recently.” said Sour Thistle. “The incidents commenced sporadically, only to grow all too frequent. I know not why the ancient has become vengeful, but it is obvious all the same that his wrath has regularly breached our borders.”

With her tones still fading under the morass of insect song, a bent form stepped from the dim, as if summoned by her words.

 

(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.

195 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 6

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 6.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp195.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by View From Valhalla.

 

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, tells the story of an unlikely race, to a prickly, and improbable, audience.

 

Flash Pulp 195 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 6

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

 

Thomas BlackhallA further two days of slow travel found Blackhall sitting on the shore of a nameless lake, with the sun strong overhead, and his gear resting just above where the gentle slope broke from grass to sand. Tossing a flat stone, he watched it skip once, lose its equilibrium, and disappear below the still surface.

His companion, who he’d encountered at the water’s edge, swatted aside a horsefly as she awaited an answer.

“Yes, Layton was a bit of an odd duck,” said Thomas, “- but you’ve got to understand, we do things differently. My thrust though, isn’t so related to his flamboyant pursual of Ms. Russell, as it is to your point regarding awe in the world. I agree that the dying time is no pleasant business, and it does my heart violence to see your like fading and twisted – but there remains much to find wonder in. The day I departed the Laytons’ farmstead, for instance, the boy asked me to partake of an odd ritual with the intention of soothing his mother, who is ill with the long sickness, and complains bitterly of the heat.”

Trying another cast, Thomas lost count of the hops before his platter exhausted its speed and sank. The wooded approach to the shore had been burnt low some seasons previous, and a meadow had appeared in the timber’s stead. At the treeline, which Blackhall guessed to be a hundred yards off, a row of sentinels, their weasel heads bobbing and weaving, kept careful watch on their queen’s temperament.

He did not relish the idea of irritating the half-dozen sharp-toothed fishers, that constituted her honour guard, and he made firm effort to demonstrate his relaxed posture.

“We tromped over the fields and through the forest,” continued Blackhall. “Layton had grown up amongst those stands, and, as we trekked, he explained that he was but a lad when his father had come across our destination while hunting deer meat against an approaching winter. Two hours work brought us to a hillock, and an increasingly sharp climb. Near the apex stood a black opening, and within, a cave. It was a slippery navigation, largely downward, but, as we came to a point where I thought we’d lose the last of the light filtering in from the mouth, he stopped. We’d come to a branch in the tunnel, and the main body of the shaft became vertical in orientation, so that it was impossible to explore it further without rope, lantern, and courage. Fortunately, our objective lay in the other possibility, a gently sloping portal of perhaps twenty feet in length, which terminated as neatly at its end as if it had been pressed into the rock with a chisel. Even in the dim, the floor glittered.”

Thomas paused to let fly with another projectile, and to attempt to gauge his audience’s level of interest. It was difficult to judge the disposition of such an entity, but, as wolverine or forest spirit, Sour Thistle’s attention seemed to be firmly upon his recounting.

She nodded at him, and he finished the story.

“It was cold below – an extended stay would have lost me my nose – but it was certainly not mystic in nature. It was the simple work of dark and stone and depth. After some time, and clever consideration on how to utilize the frosty cavern, they had taken to carrying out buckets of spring water, to fill the pockmarked divots in the slab floor. At first as a novelty, and then, when Mother Layton fell ill, as a method of easing the woman’s pains.

“Handing me a canvas sack, he located a hammer they’d left for convenience, and started pounding at the icy pools. Soon we were both well weighted, and young Layton gave me a broad grin.

“”Usually,” he said, “I manage to chill a pitcher large only enough for Mother. Perhaps, now that I have your assistance, Father might also find relief from the heat – although, given your aged legs, he may only get enough for a sip or two by the time you arrive.”

“With that, the boy made off running, leaving behind the echo of his laughter.

“Hell, I was grinning too when we broke from the entrance and onto the hill side. I’m a man who, by his nature, must move through the bush with a careful eye. My belly depends upon it. I’d forgotten what it was to stretch my limbs and test my reflexes against the blur of suddenly rearing spruce, and stony outcroppings.

“My boots felt as if they were moving faster than my feet, and while rampaging down the rugged slope I knew I might up-end for a rather brutal descent, but it did little to slow my pace. Layton had youth and familiarity with the route, but I’ve seen my share of turf, and our chase was a good one. He’d taken us in at a leisurely pace, and I realized then he’d been saving our muscle for the challenge of the return. By the end of the marathon, my focus was naught but branches, cramping thighs, and a spreading chill across my back, where the load had rested for the majority of the endeavour.

“Half the haul melted, and went to slake the thirst of the plants along the way, but it is a difficult thing to describe the reward I found in the pleasure which overtook Ma Layton’s voice as she accepted her ice water. The thought of the woman, dying there in her little room, but so overjoyed at a chill on her throat, was a satisfaction – and a wonderment – which moved me, and had naught to do with the unnatural.”

Sour Thistle nodded, her eyes alive with an intelligence which seemed, to Thomas, eerie against the savage form in which she’d manifested.

“I see your point, Mr Blackhall,” said the wolverine, in guttural, dancing, tones. Sour Thistle scratched at her ear. “Who won the race?”

“It was a near thing, but I’d say our contributions were equal.”

“Come, come,” chuckled the beast.

Thomas snorted at his own pride.

“He made first fall on plowed field, but I was but an arm’s length behind.”

Sour Thistle snapped her snout twice, and assumed what appeared, to Blackhall, to be a smile.

“You have been honest with me, sir,” she said, “and I hold your actions in honour – although I somewhat lament the loss of a quality meal. You’ve obviously strayed far to find me here, so ask now what you-”

Her rasping words were cut short by the descent of a broad-winged harrier, which landed on the grasses near to its mistress and commenced trotting on its clawed feet as it squawked its news. It’s message delivered, the bird again took flight, heading rapidly eastward.

Blackhall saw the sentinels on the hill begin running then, moving to be by the side of their queen even if they did not yet have orders. It was all a loss, however – as they decamped, a roaring hum filled the air.

A buck burst from the forest edge, swathed in a layer of damp, writhing, ebony.

As Thomas watched, it seemed to first shrink, then collapse in a skeletal heap.

For a moment, he longed for the dark of the cave to hide in.

 

(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:

rbh Waves Lake Medium 01.wav by RHumphries
rbh crickets birds quietday.wav by RHumphries

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.

194 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp194.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by View From Valhalla.

 

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, finds himself ensnared in a legal predicament.

 

Flash Pulp 194 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6

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

 

Thomas BlackhallOn the second morning following his unplanned departure from civilization, Thomas Blackhall sat alongside a cottage hearth, with Layton, the Private who’d first lead him to his family dwelling. They’d arrived the afternoon previous, with the intention of Blackhall taking lodging for a final night of proper bedding in preparation for delving into the lands beyond the map’s edge.

Layton, a lad of twenty, had extracted his pipe – a fine piece purchased with a sizable portion of his enlistment bonus, and was smoking contentedly after a large breakfast.

“Likely my last furlough for quite some time,” he said, “I’m going to miss this place. Hopefully they won’t ship me far – and, to think, my Betsy will remain behind with that scoundrel, Green. Bah, although I will be surely mashed in our coming bout, I look forward to the meager chance of dispensing his comeuppance. I do fear, however, that I may not feel such when I find myself in the whiskey’d-hands of the old surgeon.”

From somewhere outside the shanty’s walls, Thomas could hear the youth’s father grousing at his cattle and crops, and the familiar sound pulled at his heart, as if the intonation were carried from his own home across the broad waters of the Atlantic.

He nodded.

Blackhall had received an earful of the boy’s situation while they’d marched through the tall trees, and he was now all too intimate with the lad’s concerns regarding one Betsy Russell, especially as they related to a certain enlisted man, a warrant officer named Green. A recent tussle over the maiden’s regard had left the pair of suitors with a scheduled bout of pugilism – a boxing match Layton knew he had no hopes of winning, but persisted in to maintain face.

Before Thomas could cut the forlorn lover short, he’d once again launched into lamenting his predicament.

While feigning interest, the frontiersman retrieved a small satchel from his traveling kit.

* * *

Two days earlier, after being placed under nominal arrest and escorted to an ostentatiously decorated hovel, Thomas had refused the plush winged-back chair he’d been offered, instead continuing to stand while he laid out his complaints at being roughly hauled away like a common drunk.

Captain Gordon Fitzhugh, who suffered the brunt of the berating, found himself smirking well preceding his being allowed an opportunity to reply.

“Ah, old Bowman is a likable enough lot. A bit superstitious, but who can blame him considering the fate of his lad. Well done, that – on your part I mean. The problem was eating at me for quite a while, and, honestly, each time the girl would come about my office begging for some hint of assistance, I’d oft think of you, and how it would be damned good to have your exotic skills at hand.”

As the captain talked, Blackhall had seen fit to use the army officer’s desk as a platform over which to first extract one of the fine Spanish papers he kept in a waxed pouch, and then apply, untidily, a ragged line of Virginian tobacco.

He made no effort to clean his scraps from the muddle of papers layering the well varnished oak.

“It still seems an oddly hard hearted bit of business to have me rousted,” he said, tearing the twisted-end from his finished work, and leaving the waste to fall amongst the mess.

“Perhaps it was not entirely Bowman’s idea,” replied the Fitzhugh. “Perhaps I noted your entry of the establishment, and knew you a man to rarely be in need of a barrel – at least, not unless you’ve come across, or against, something truly interesting. Whatever the case, we had a conversation, here in my office, which left poor Harold inclined to stand for his property.”

“Fine. To cut to it then, I’ve no interest in fetching milk for the Queen, and, if my accounting of our history is correct, it is you who owes me all of the favours anyhow.”

“I may have harangued that barrel maker into signing a complaint, but I’ll push it if you make me.”

“I think we’d both regret that.”

Fitzhugh took a sip of his scotch, then cleared his throat. “I’ve gone about this the wrong way, and I’m sorry. I know how the tally lies, but I ask for a final accommodation – and, before you refuse, hear me out.”

Digging through the ashy heap within the room’s fireplace, Blackhall found a particularly hardy coal, and lit his ragged cigarette. The captain took the action as acquiescence.

Wiping the damp remnants of his drink from his drooping moustache, the military man stated his case.

“At first it was just a few trappers willing to risk the hinterland – which, frankly, didn’t raise many eyebrows, as we lose those lads all the time. You watch them trot away with a canoe, and you can never assume you’ll see them again, unless you happen across them in town at some future date. It did reach a point, however, when the numbers ran strangely high. Then came the stories – in the Chippewa hunting territory it was said there was a breed of locust roaming the land, razing tracts of forest, and gnawing moose to the bone while still on their feet. Rubbage, I thought, but the reports persisted. I’ve dispatched six men now, in two groups, but have no word since their departure. It was “Rosy Red” Archer I sent out in charge of the second lot, and I ought have heard from the codger.”

Thomas had stood alongside “Rosy Red” when he’d earned his name, while breaching the walls of Ciudad Rodrigo. The man had an unpleasant aptitude with a bayonet, but was also known as greatly competent in all aspects of brutality.

“If the bush has done in Archer, I’m not sure what help I might be,” he replied.

“Don’t dunder about with me now,” answered Fitzhugh, “Will you do the job, or should I bottle you till dawn, to allow for further consideration?”

* * *

When Layton, who Blackhall truly felt some warmth for, had finally run his mouth dry, Thomas offered the favour he had pondered since they’d embarked on their journey.

“It may pain you to see your foe, Green, advance, but I hold a few of your Captain’s debts in my pocket, and I’d be pleased to cramp the old man’s hand with the letter writing required to earn your rival a promotion.”

“What? You’d see him a lieutenant?”

“I can not say what impact it may have on Ms. Russell’s affections, but at least a commission, and the risk of court martial, would restrain your competition’s ability to thrash your soft face into gruel.”

Layton nodded in consideration.

The necessary puppeteering, and paperwork, was only a minor revenge on Fitzhugh, but it seemed to add an extra serving of satisfaction to the bacon Blackhall’s stomach was still greedily digesting.

 

(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.

193 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp193.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by View From Valhalla.

 

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, encounters a reclining concern while visiting whisky-soaked civilization.

 

Flash Pulp 193 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6

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

 

Thomas BlackhallBlackhall had been adrift in the western districts for some time, the route to his missing wife, Mairi, having been temporarily hidden from his scrutiny. It was with the hope that he might once again take up the trail that he’d set his ear towards any happening which seemed to be of an occult nature, and this tact is what lead him to the workshop of a cooper named Harold Bowman.

Perth was a bustling settlement, filled beyond capacity by farmers looking to supply, and inbound transplants waiting out various legal necessities before being allowed to claim their muddy plots. The same river that brought settlers, also carried whisky, and Thomas had heard it boasted in the Bucking Pony that they arrived in equal amounts, but it was only the drink that quickly found its way to the dirt.

Chronic unruliness necessitated authority, and, as such, the town was further bolstered by a strong military presence – as often cited as the cause of trouble as its solution – and, while bunking within their purview, Blackhall had walked a straight line, with his hat brim low, in hopes of remaining below notice.

It was at having avoided a well-decorated officer of his former acquaintance that Thomas wore a smile as he entered the saw-dust strewn works, a grin which was at first mistaken by Bowman as the token of a pleasurable encounter.

“In need of barrels, sir?” said the carpenter, “I make the strongest in these parts. Plenty tough to send home a trove of pickled fish, or a gold strike cleverly labeled as a barrel of pickled fish, or even yourself, should your dreams of a gold strike, or pickled fish, have been a bust. Let me know how many you lack, and I’ll let you know how long you can expect to wait.”

Thomas did then smirk in honest enjoyment, but it was short lived.

“While I may yet require such a stingy homecoming, I’ve not come for your labour, but, instead, your lad.”

The barrel-smith flattened his grin.

“What would you want with that layabout?” he asked.

“I believe I might help him.”

Ripping a crescent of nail from his index finger, the father spat the paring onto the floor.

“Fine,” he said, pushing aside a frayed green and white blanket which had been hung as a curtain across a darkened opening at the rear of the room.

To Blackhall’s first glance, the space appeared little more than a large closet, with a knitting woman in the corner to his left, and a ragged honeycomb of floor-to-ceiling shelves running along the wall to his right.

“Ms. Amelia Burton, once the sluggard’s intended,” said the establishment’s proprietor, by way of introduction.

The needles continued to clack as she gave a nod at their approach, but, as she finished her row, she set aside her work to curtsy from her stout furnishing, and Thomas felt compelled to provide a small bow in return.

“Mr. Bowman, I again request that you do not speak as if Christopher has passed. He may perish, surely, but I may also marry him yet, and I’d rather you not pass pronouncements till it’s come to one or the other.”

The target of her admonishment simply harrumphed in response.

“I do apologize at the interruption,” said Blackhall, “I’m no minister, but I believe it within my skills to help see you to the aisle. I’m here on the matter of your betrothed, and his condition.”

“Any solutions you might provide are welcome,” she replied, “but it’s been many a quacksalver and charlatan who’s given my Chris a thorough prodding, and none have yet brought him awake. After several hours of sweating, the last fellow claimed we’d a corpse equipped with a bellows, and declared the whole thing a fraud – which seemed quite the affront, as he had arrived in town with the intention of retailing a dysfunctional ointment claiming to cure baldness and syphilis.”

Her voice softened as she continued. “If only it were artifice – truly, my days are spent on the verge of joy or sorrow, with never a resolution. Despite his lack of nourishment, he does not die, but neither does he stir.”

A silence fell then, and the distant din of the street beyond drifted through the kinks in the building’s rough-hewn planking. Finally, Thomas broke the still with an inquiry.

“If it’s not too impertinent, I might ask as to where the lad is laid up.”

“Why, amongst yonder rack,” replied Amelia, pointing towards the motley array of slabs and brackets that dominated the opposing side of the room.

Following the line of her finger, Blackhall discerned an immobile forearm resting below a rusted saw, and a boot set askew upon a short piling of lumber scraps, salvaged for their fine grain and possible use as trim in future projects.

By squinting, and stooping slightly, Thomas began to see the outline of the enduring sleeper, as buried beneath a stacked grave of carpentry flotsam.

“How did it happen?” he inquired of the woodworker.

The ragged curtain taut in his fingers, Bowman scowled, shook his head, and remained mute.

“I’ve watched the structure rise around him,” said Ms. Burton, turning from the curmudgeon. “The longer it seemed he would slumber, the less concern Mr. Bowman was prone to show – and it was a decrease from an already short supply. Once this room had only a low bench for adornment, and it was upon it that they laid Christopher when they carried him here from the woods. Mr. Bowman constructed the first tier of storage atop it, during a period in which I was away soliciting assistance, and by the time I’d returned – empty handed – there was already a rickety tower overhead. As the months wore on, he continued his construction, and my pleas have changed nothing. I feel as if a life of accusing his son of laziness has driven all sympathy from his heart – as if this were simply another Sunday on which Chris has slept through the pastor’s sermon.”

“- and has he had nothing more than the ministrations of mountebanks then?” asked Thomas

“I’ve done my best, but, unmarried, I am barren of assets with which to obtain the services of a skilled physician. In truth -” she broke off with a glance to her intended in-law, then cupped her slender hand to Blackhall’s battered ear. ”As in the fairy stories of my youth, I have tried on more than one occasion to wake him with a kiss. Despite the sincerity of my efforts, I’ve seen little result. Hopefully you will not think less of me for the silly notion, or the impropriety, but I felt as if it were my responsibility to test all avenues.”

Rubbing at the three-day’s growth at his chin, Thomas squared his shoulders, and shrugged off his ashen great coat. Offering the crook of his arm, he escorted the premature dowager into the main room, and returned to his position, so that he was now speaking past the reticent craftsman.

“Perhaps if his father had not been so rushed to lose his child amongst his business, you would have had the opportunity to properly examine him.” Damning himself for the notion, Blackhall removed a fat sack of coins, and dropped it at Bowman’s feet. “Take what I’ll owe for the damages, and leave me what change you think your boy’s life is worth.”

Giving no further warning, the frontiersman grabbed up a heavy-headed mallet, which had previously rested five askew platforms above Christopher’s sternum, and swept the majority of the contents near to the lad onto the floor.

The work was not so different from wielding an axe, and with a series of deft strikes – each one accompanied by a gasp issued from the bloodless face of the senior Bowman – Thomas was able to free the slumberer from his timber-cocoon, all while avoiding the total collapse of the lofty storage.

Draping his snoring load on the heavy chair’s backing, Blackhall lay a hand forcibly upon his shoulder, and began pounding at him as if the beating alone would be enough to rouse the boy.

“Come now, sleeping beauty,” he muttered.

It was the third blow that brought up the desiccated fruit – after a spit, and a pop, what appeared to have once been a bite of crab-apple arced across the room and landed with little bounce at the threshold to the adjoining workspace.

With a snort, Christopher gave a yawn, then stood, his face contorted as if in a daze.

Blackhall steadied the boy with a firm hold on his shoulders.

“Was it the old woman then, offering you a snack?” he asked.

“Yes,” came the yawned reply, “Do you know her? A strange crone, that one.”

“Which way did she go?”

“I don’t know – I must have fallen asleep?”

Winded from his exertions, and his disappointment, Thomas steered the awoken to the seat that had so recently constituted Amelia’s post, and eyed the elder Bowman.

The man kicked back the sack of coins, and Blackhall stooped to arrange it in his pocket, as well as retrieve his coat, before exiting the establishment.

He was carried out on the sound of Ms. Burton’s joyful tears.

The following evening, as he sipped a cup of ale at the Bucking Pony, and made effort to think little of his woes, or his missing Mairi, Thomas wondered if he’d been too hard on the man, and if he’d possibly taken the girl’s words regarding callousness too close to heart without provocation. He dismissed the concern, however, when a pair of uniformed Corporals arrived, and informed him of his detainment under considerations of property damage, as levied by the town’s respected cooper.

 

(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:

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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.

178 – Nurture: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Nurture: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp178.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Words with Walter.

 

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 amidst a wasteland.

 

Flash Pulp 178 – Nurture: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

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

 

BlackhallThomas wiped his soot-dirtied palm across the hem of his greatcoat, and promised himself time for proper laundry should he ever again encounter the water necessary.

The frontiersman stood on a blackened plain, with a dry mouth and skin cracked from recent heat. He craved the leafy shade that the field of smoking stumps had once represented, but, more over, he longed to return to the journey which would bring him to his Mairi, and away from his current miserable chase – given his thirst, he wasn’t confident he’d live to see its end.

He’d been on the hunt for Silence Babb, and the damnable bairn, for half-a-fortnight, and, while the course was at first relatively simple, the ocean of flame which had risen up amongst the mid-Summer’s timber had, on the fourth evening, and for the full day following, entrapped him in a creek barely wider than his own shoulders.

His escape from the blaze was a near thing.

As he’d readied for his departure from the stream that was his haven, he’d had little idea that it might be his last sight of cool moisture. Almost worse was the fact that, although he could guess the general direction of the traveling-pair, the fire had consumed any marker indicating their actual passage.

Now, as his boots churned up ash and an occasional smouldering ember, he cursed his heart as a fool’s for ever having been sidetracked from the path of his beloved.

The temptation to strip off garments, and leave behind his tools, was strong under the added weight of the noon-sun, but, as he crested yet another cindered hillock, a minuscule buzzing reached his ears.

With a smile, he slapped at the mosquito which alighted upon his cheek.

* * *

Seven days earlier, Thomas had determined that none in Saltflat Township could account for the babe that the woman had carried into the midst of the hardscrabble residents.

Those who’d witnessed her wandering could find no good to say in regards to the lineage of the child, and all were quick to point to the chronic moral degeneracy so often attributed to the family as a whole. Despite their tales of faulty ancestry, however, none cast blame upon the elder Babbs for having turned his wayward offspring out, even if it meant sending his mewling heir with her – especially as the girl refused to divulge the identity of her suitor.

When Blackhall had made inquiries as to how Silence, a farmer’s daughter largely marooned upon her father’s acreage, had managed to secretly bring the pregnancy to term under the eyes of the surrounding prattle-tongues, and her own kin, the usual answer was a change of topic to the impropriety of the infant’s constant posture at her breast.

Most were so concerned with the supposed vulgarity of this public nursing that they gave no notice to the vacant aspect about the new mother’s eyes. If she appeared haggard, it was the opinion of those who did observe her fatigue, that it was true of all recently-minted parents, and doubly so for those who set themselves to raise an innocent without a proper spouse.

Thomas had cursed the priggish nature of the area’s inhabitants as he’d run to retrieve his kit from the horse-shed for which he’d overpaid to shelter in.

The conversation that set him afoot was a short one.

“Sir,” Helen Brooks, Silence’s favoured companion, had said in interruption of his stroll upon a country lane. “I have risked much by making my way to you, so I would beg you hear me out. My brother has spoken of your unnatural gifts, and I ask you to consider the case of the youngest Babbs.”

“Speak on,” was Thomas’ reply.

The girl had collected herself then, slowing her speech so as to prevent the need for a repetition of her plea.

“If she was expectant, I would have known. We were neighbours, and the truest of confidants to each other. She’s barely whispered sweet words to a boy, so I do not see how it would be possible that she’s lain with a man.”

“You said ‘were’? Are you no longer acquainted?”

“That is the crux of why I have sought you out. Gardner – he who recommended you – has just now returned home from a stop at the inn, where, he reports, he witnessed her exodus in a northerly direction. He says that many laid unkind words at her feet, and that she was weeping into her chest as she departed with her charge at her teat. I know better, however, for I have seen them together. Silence’s head was stooped so that she might speak to her bundle, which, by itself, is not so unusual, but it – I have heard it speak back to her. I might say, more accurately, command her, though its mouth was gorging at her bosom.”

As he was familiar with tales of such a torment, Blackhall’s interrogations had been rapid and rough-tongued, but his rudeness made those he’d questioned eager to set him about his route. He’d quickly found the broken grass that marked her wake, but, as he enumerated Silence’s possible symptoms, he was disappointed to find all other inquires answered only with ignorance.

The length of the protracted pursuit had come as a surprise, but, on the fourth day, he’d grown confident that he’d overtake the girl by nightfall. It was then that he’d caught the first whiff of smoke on the wind.

* * *

Crushing the avaricious insect, Thomas felt a warm slick of his own vital fluids spread across his fingertips. His eyes had become keen, and he turned slow circles, hoping to catch sight of whatever puddle the pest originated from. He well knew that no such bloodsucker would be found far from water, and his survey was rewarded by a shimmer below two charred, cross-fallen, pines.

Knocking off his hat, Blackhall ran for the pool – spring or standing water, he cared not.

His headlong rush was brought up short by the withered husk of a corpse, once human, now nothing more than a tightly-drawn graying skin, set roughly over an assemblage of bones. She lay largely in the pool that was his destination, and it took only the briefest investigation to ascertain that it was Silence, as a disordered, three-deep row of puncture marks surrounded her right nipple on all sides.

Waving away the swarm of mosquitoes gathered over their birthing puddle, Thomas lay his hat upon her rigid face, and pledged to return for a proper burial.

Although he’d been delayed by the conflagration, his find gave him confidence that the matter would soon be resolved. Two ruts moved away from the cadaver, and through the ebony dust, illustrating clearly the path of the crawling brute.

It was a hard decision to still drink from the damp sepulcher, but he knew it would be little use if he were to perish of dehydration before he’d made some small vindication of the murder.

Another three hours found him standing over his objective.

“Beast,” he managed, kicking at the tiny form.

In defiance of the imp’s size, Blackhall found his foot rebuked as if by half the heft of a full grown man. The unexpected bulk further encouraged the frontiersman’s fury, however, and in short order Thomas had the fiend pinned beneath his sole, at the neck – as he might a snake.

The skin of camouflage that was the suckling’s greatest strength was rendered ineffective by the flexing rows of reed-like straws that made up the savage hellion’s mouth, and by a clear view of the split eyes that were so often hidden against the tender skin of its victim.

“Shall I be eternally assaulted by such as I have no recourse to end?” asked Thomas, addressing the sky. He faced his captive. “As you’ve none of the allergy to silver which besets so many of your occult brethren, I’ll only put a pause to your wickedness – but, with the honour of dearest love to bind me, I’ll find some way to dispatch you, no matter how long the work takes. To begin, I’ll render you feeble for as many decades as it’ll take you to regenerate your armament.”

With that, he dug into the layer of ash, and retrieved a fist-sized stone. The shattering of the counterfeit child’s hollow teeth took many hours, and the binding, and dual burials, took several more.

 

(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.

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.

171 – The Conjurer: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-one.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Conjurer: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp171.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Bothersome Things 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, encounters a practitioner of dark artifice while awaiting transportation.

 

Flash Pulp 171 – The Conjurer: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

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

 

BlackhallAt the edge of an Eastern District dock sat three men awaiting the craft they’d been assured would arrive to take them further westward, out of the civilized portions of Upper Canada, and past the expanses labeled only as “Great Tract of Wood Land” on even the most recent of the new Queen’s maps.

The traveller who’d introduced himself as Mister Philips, a rough-faced farmer who tended a plot of land deep in the shadows of the black spruce, was winding down a protracted telling, and wiping a rag across the damp slick at the base of his neck.

“Despite that I’d suckled it from the day my musket knocked down its mother, the beast ate up my swine. Energetic from its meal, and free of its leash, it mightily walloped the interior of my barn, then, collapsing the lumber, it made its way into the bush country.

“You can see, sir, that raising a bear is no light business.”

His companion in conversation, a heavyset gadabout, whose groomed sideburns stretched to meet his masterfully crafted moustache above a strong, but barren, chin, harrumphed before responding.

“While your point is certainly well taken, I’ve a long history of probing the improbable and producing anything which was thought impossible. That is not, certainly, to imply I have any intention of cultivating a cub of my own, but I do dare say that the act would be well within the capabilities of Abraham Warwick, conjurer, exorcisor, and archimage.”

He bowed slightly at the completion of his delivery, but not so far as to upset the position of his towering beaver-pelt top hat.

“A man of supernatural knowledge?” replied the homesteader, “Surely, you banter idly.”

“Then what of this?” riposted the claimant, tapping his head-wear with a flourish, then sweeping his arm to display its empty state to his pair of audience members. Replacing it upon his pate, he drummed at its surface a second time, and once again removed it, bowing low.

From the interior brim peered three white mice, whose red eyes dodged about keenly and whose pink noses worked vigorously at the breeze.

Atop the stout barrel he’d been utilizing as a resting place during their shared vigil, Thomas Blackhall found he was no longer willing to maintain his silence.

“It’s been my experience,” he said, “that those who practice magic are oft like politicians – it’s a rare thing to meet an honest one, and most accomplish their goals not through the truth they attempt to present, but instead with nimble fingers and deft lies.”

“Well,” replied Philips, “I thought it was quite extraordinary.”

Thomas waved off a persistent black fly.

“He’s obviously trained the vermin to nest in his hair.” Blackhall paused to bite at his thumbnail, and temper his language. “Think how long the hush lasted, in this swampy heat, before you finally told us of your departed bruin. Consider, too, where those beasts must be, uh, marking their business.”

“Tis no concern if the beauties are conjured from a realm beyond,” huffed Warwick.

The farmer nodded agreement.

“Seems a shoddy mystical dimension to be infected so greatly with rodents,” replied the still seated frontiersman.

The self-proclaimed warlock leaned forward, saying, “- and what of this then?”

With a snap he seemed to pluck a twelve-pence piece from just behind the ear of the ploughman.

“Well, goodness!” exclaimed Philips.

Warwick pocketed the coin.

“Surely -” began Thomas, but the cropper rounded on him.

“You speak quite rudely to a man who’s shown us not one, but two, great works, and only since our approach to this shoddy jetty. Might I trouble you for what credentials you claim in impugning this sage’s proofs? For if you are more than some deserting rabble from the continental army, it is not apparent from your stained appearance or grizzled words.”

The heat had shown no mercy to Blackhall’s public countenance, and he knew it. Still, the reality was that he’d had plenty of opportunity to witness Warwick’s slight of hand, upon the porch of The King’s Inn, and he’d already run short of patience for the showman, who he considered little better than a vagrant sharper.

Swatting at Philips’ ear, as if to shoo a fly, the magician produced another shilling.

“It only seems fair that we split the profits of our encounter, good sir,” he said, placing it in his supporter’s palm.

Thomas stood.

“I will show you something truly fantastic, but first we must make a trade. You are flush with coinage, mayhaps from a local card table? Whatever the case, I ask you to entrust it to me. I promise I will not move beyond your sight.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Philips complied.

Blackhall quickly stripped off his coat and sword, laying all in a great heap aside his travel sack.

“I request, also, that you keep this scoundrel well from my supplies while I am below the surface.”

He knew the simple mention ought to be enough to guard against the potential thief, who would fear suspicion upon himself.

Without waiting for reply, Thomas grasped the sack of currency tightly in his off-hand, and jumped into the cool waters,whose depth covered his own height by some two feet. As he descended, he placed the stone, which he wore upon a rawhide strand about his neck, under his tongue.

The occult charm left him breathing easily, and he was relieved to be away from the conversation and swelter.

He gave an approving hand sign to his spectators, who motioned a reply, and he made ready to wait as he was gently rocked by the languid current.

Finally, when his eyes made contact with the churn of the approaching barge, he surfaced.

“I agree that you too have talents for which I have no explanation,” said the farmer, tucking away his returned bounty as the swimmer dried himself and the boat drew near, “but, in truth, you’ve both shown me things which, until today, I would have thought not possible. Who am I to say that a never-ending stay within the river is somehow better than an unending supply of wealth?”

As the man spoke, Blackhall retrieved a small vial from within his wares.

“Fine,” he said.

Warwick took on a look, as if he were preparing to present yet another trick, but, before he could act, Thomas threw down the glass tube, shattering it upon the wooden planking. As a small pop emanated from within, the hurler uttered three guttural consonants.

The hat of the conjurer, exorcisor, and archimage, was suddenly aflame.

There was a brief panic as the width of the landing was crossed twice, then the blazing apparel was cast into the stream – amongst its former wearer’s singed strands, the mice chittered, scurrying furiously about their limited plateau.

Thomas finished dressing.

As the transport secured its riggings, its passengers waited a time in silence; one puzzling, one frowning, and one suppressing a rare smirk.

“Excuse my curiosity, by why did you require my funds?” asked Philips, as they boarded.

“Partly as collateral to secure my own belongings against theft, but also to keep your limited fortune from subtle pinches. It’s not an inexhaustible income if its source is the pocket of the same baffled admirer from behind whose ear the tender seems to be produced. Worry not, however – you’ll have plenty of opportunity to count your claim and even the tab as we go. I doubt Warwick has much choice about awaiting a later berth, as its likely the townsfolk will soon be considering the state of their own purses.”

The red-cheeked hustler made no interjection.

It would be a slow crawl up the river, but Blackhall found himself quite amused throughout.

 

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.

FP158 – The Lilly Belle: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Lilly Belle: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Walker Journals

One man, one axe, and a multitude of the undead.

Find them all at youtube.com/walkerzombiesurvivor

 

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, finds himself at the site of a lonely tragedy.

 

Flash Pulp 158 – The Lilly Belle: 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 stood at the edge of the Atlantic, the turbulent air snatching the hem of his greatcoat. As the sea smashed itself upon the rocks at his feet, his boots grew slick from the spray.

The clouds from the east were thick and hateful.

His arm was extended against the gale, high above his head, and, at its end, he swung a silver chain on which was affixed a hook of intricate craftsmanship. With each revolution of the fetish came a blast of wind, and, in turn, each gust drove the roiling waters to further frenzy.

The wide brimmed hat, which served Blackhall well as guard both against the sun, and the chill of early Spring, took flight from his close-cropped scalp, ensnaring itself amongst the scrub brush at his back. He did not cease his occult goading of the storm.

Beneath the gloom of the thunderheads, the hulk of The Lily Belle lay plainly visible, some two-hundred yards from the coast. It’s masts and canvas were aflame, and its angle of list spoke plainly of emergency and ruin.

Setting his stance against the increasing howl of the squall, Thomas watched as a pair of launches attempted to make for his position, heaving wildly, and seeming oddly out of sync with the crest and fall of the surf. They’d halved the distance before the disaster: nearly in unison, both were carried high in the air, then spun about sideways, disgorging their occupants into the frigid depths.

It required no imagination on Blackhall’s part to see that the stony outcroppings, laid bare by the rolling troughs, were unnavigable by even the most proficient of the struggling swimmers.

Closing his eyes, he maintained the cadence of his trinket’s rotation, coaxing ever-greater wrath from the tempest.

* * *

BlackhallA month earlier, he himself had been a passenger in The Lily Belle’s hold.

The journey was a long one, and he spent it eager to set foot on the turf of Lower Canada – to begin the search for his stolen love, Mairi. The ship, as befitted the cost of fare, was filled to capacity with the grubby faces of destitute farmers, all living in hope that they would reach a land of promise and wealth, as painted by their politicians’ promises.

Blackhall had found little conversation amongst either the pew-warmers, or the drunks, but the ship’s cook – a squinting fellow, who looked as if he’d seen the arrival and retreat of the Roman occupation – happily shared what knowledge he’d managed to gather regarding the tall pines and teeming streams of the north.

The ancient man, who spoke of his extensive experiences only in the third-person, and always ascribed himself the name Marigold, had provided much comfort when Thomas found his fortitude tried by the stink of the lower berths.

It was on such an evening of alleviation that his new friend had confided his own secret desire.

“Marigold’s been in this ghastly rocking horse for nigh five years, and a good dozen leaky sieves afore this one. He’s no interest in another scuttle over the horizon. It’s his last voyage – once load’s delivered, it’s a plain white house in St. Andrews, and all the fish he can eat till the day he’s buried.”

“Will you not miss home?” Thomas had asked.

“No – it’s not been thus since the death of Abigail,” replied the hash-master.

“Well then, will you not miss the brine?”

“It’ll be close enough, and what has it got Marigold thus far? It’s stolen his leg, and the time he might have otherwise had with his wife.”

Pulling back a ragged length of trouser, the man demonstrated his sole point of pride. Beneath the worn cloth was a handsome length of wood, bound tightly at his misshapen knee. The stout oak had been well varnished, to proof it against the constant moisture that was the nature of his occupation, but before the stain had set, a labyrinthine series of images had been etched across its surface.

“‘Tis the story of my life,” the amputee explained, after Thomas had taken up a long moment of inspection. “It begins at the base, with the twisted face of Marigold’s first skipper – a pig that man was – and here, where lumber turns to flesh, is the loss of Abigail.”

“You’ve left yourself little room for old age,” noted Blackhall, completing his scrutiny.

“Mayhaps a replacement is in order, from amongst the pine, once the new life has begun.”

When they’d finally reached a view of land, however, their intentions had gone awry. The Captain had planned to sail on to Quebec City, but the St. Lawrence, the mighty vein which carried to the heart of the virgin territory, was thick with ice, and deemed impassible for weeks to come.

They’d anchored at the mouth, hoping for a sudden thaw, but the wait was too much for Blackhall, who longed to be onto his chase. He was instead turned loose in the wildwood.

The subsequent weeks were made somewhat easier by the mystical charms he’d collected on the European continent, and about his home isle, but the majority of his survival came to the labour of his arms and the sweat of his brow. It was tough work acclimatizing himself to the fowl and fish of the foreign wilderness, but a month’s effort had given him confidence in the foraging skills instilled by the Jesuits, and hardened in his days of soldiering.

He was considering breaking from his northward direction – to move further west, and away from the ready bounty of the ocean – when he’d made his grisly discovery. As he’d settled into a bed of recently tanned hide, he was surprised to note a gleam in the distance.

Journeying into the shadows, towards the source of the illumination, he was brought up short by the broad expanse of darkened water, and, standing at the ocean’s edge, his nose caught the stench of rot.

The light was the ghostly image of a ship, every plank aglow with spectral radiance, being tossed high upon a memory of rough water. Despite the placid wake, two shuttles detached themselves, and began cresting waves invisible to Thomas’ gaze, dipping below the murky plane as oft as they appeared above. Even as the remnants of the crew and passengers took flight, the wreck’s masts groaned a final time, and disappeared beneath the waterline.

At the mid-point of the escape, the ethereal boats had toppled and gone under. As Blackhall watched, helpless to assist, a scattering of phantasms desperately made for the shore, but each was soon submerged and lost from sight.

For Thomas, a restless night followed.

As dawn broke, the source of the fetid smell became apparent. The rocky bay had collected up the remains of some three dozen men, women, and children, and the elements, as well as the carrion feeders, had worked hard at their anatomies. The sun had reached its zenith by the time Blackhall had closed his grip around a salty pant-leg, and met unexpected resistance. The bloat had made Marigold unrecognizable, but there was no match in the world for that singular prosthesis.

He could not say what had driven the Lily Belle from its original course – perhaps the intended settlers had harried the Captain from his anchor, feeling that any point of firmity was as welcoming as another. Whatever the case, they’d never made their destination.

Although his palms bled, and his fingers wept puss from their blisters, all at the effort he invested to give the release of proper burial, the scene repeated itself again the next eve.

Spray alone could not be blamed for the damp which touched Thomas’ eyes that hour.

Three long days of preparation were necessary,and so it was, on the third dusk, that he summoned the fury of the storm. In truth, the savage weather was but a byproduct of so foricbly drawing back the veil between the sturdy earth and the intangible beyond, but the nearness of the realities gave new strength to the restless dead, so that they might touch that which had called to them from such a separation of sea and sky.

His hat forgotten, and his arm aching from the expenditure necessary to keep his talisman aloft, the lone survivor of the ship’s passage marked each pilgrim’s landing.

As they set hand or foot upon the shore, they seemed to sigh, and dwindled to a mist which, heeding not the flurry, diffused unhurriedly across the stout terrain.

 

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.

FP153 – Looming: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fifty-three.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Looming: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1.

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(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by Mr Blog’s Tepid Ride.

Wanna know the truth about Donald Trump’s birth certificate?

Find out more at http://bmj2k.com!

 

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.

We open tonight on a scene many years before the strange burial of Dr. Rasputin Phantasm, as master frontiersman, and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall, lends an odd sort of assistance to one Declan Callahan.

 

Flash Pulp 153 – Looming: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Thomas BlackhallDeclan Callahan drove the beast as if he’d caught it mounting his mother. The path was a poor one under the best of conditions, and a week’s rain had burrowed trenches large enough to lose a babe in. Still he pushed, demonstrating little concern for the inevitability of his horse shattering a leg. He nearly slid the animal into a pine copse as the pair rounded the corner which marked the final approach to his shanty, and it was only luck that he survived when the mare’s right-foreleg finally gave way with a moist crackle.

“Yeah fackin’ facker!” the former rider shouted, retaking his feet and paying no more heed to his lost boot than he did his writhing steed.

He achieved the askew door just as his pursuer, sweating under his long, ragged, greatcoat, took the bend.

Callahan, setting his bare and bloody sole against the entrance’s natural inclination to close, grabbed up his musket and slammed home a load, paying half attention to the work of his fingers, and half to the approaching figure of Thomas Blackhall.

The frontiersman had made the entire journey on foot, but two month’s trapping in the area had left him knowledgeable regarding the shortest distance through the underbrush, and he’d been able to make decent time against the forester’s sudden flight from town.

Thomas had been on hand when Doc Brenning had delivered the news. Till the next full moon was the longest he could hope to survive, and the period ought be passed under observation. Callahan would have none of it, and had forcibly removed himself from the parlour which had acted as a temporary medical office.

“How could such a tiny scratch bring down a fella like me?” was his singular declaration before rushing for the exit.

The nag was bound in an endless cycle of attempting to raise itself from the muck, only to stumble under the pain of its mangled limb, and each exertion tore wider the wound caused by the protrusion of splintered leg-bone. As he neared, Blackhall raised his Baker rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and ended the creature’s suffering.

While Thomas paused to reload, Declan took the opportunity to unleash a volley from his own weapon. The range was too great for any accuracy, but, as a declaration of intention, it was highly effective.

Blackhall sprinted a further fifty yards, then, seeing his opponent completing preparations for a second attempt on his life, he sheltered behind a low boulder.

It was a two week wait, with little exchange between the armed men. Despite the occasional effort at conversation, on the part of Thomas, the reply was consistent: “Fack off.”

At most times, neither was quite sure if the other was awake, and, after the first evening, the days crept on in a sleepless, half-conscious molasses.

During this period, Blackhall keenly felt Callahan’s advantage. There was no refuge from the rain, nor the wind, and his nourishment was limited to what small volume of jerky he’d been carrying by happenstance – a greedy afternoon’s worth, at best. At least there was easy access to water, in the ever-replenishing puddles that surrounded his rocky shield.

Frequently, the frontiersman thought he heard the approach of assistance, as surely he could expect from the inhabitants of the town’s clapboard homes, and yet none arrived.

The full moon came on, bright and sagging, and but still Declan stood.

It was obvious, however, that his allotment was short. When the gusts died, Thomas could often hear the man retching, or cursing names that he held no recognition for.

The following afternoon, as the sun rode at its apogee, Callahan lost the final scrap of his humanity.

Bursting forth from the hut with a shambling gait, the rabid man, his mind fully gone, raised high his musket and invested his best effort into running Blackhall down.

At ten feet, Thomas made his peace.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but the broken teeth and blackened eyes seemed to hold little forgiveness.

The shot was a clean one.

 

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.

Flash Pulp 137 – Jabber, Part 2 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and thirty-seven.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Jabber, Part 2 of 2
(Part 1 – Part 2)
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(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the free audio-novella, Boiling Point.

Find out more at http://neilcolquhoun.com

 

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, Will Coffin must also face down the terrible maw of the Jabber.

 

Flash Pulp 137 – Jabber, Part 2 of 2

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

 

Will Coffin eyed the geese paddling about the smooth surface of Capital River, and thought hard about ignoring the conversation. The flow of water had once been too fast here for the foul to comfortably lounge, but the new construction project down stream had done much to stymie the rush. He threw some bread crust to the eager beaks.

As he sagged against the black railing that hemmed the city park along the bank, the young man who’d been speaking set his elbow on the iron and leaned in.

“So?” the youth said, his breath smelling of hot-dog-cart mustard.

“I don’t know what you want from me, I’m just here to help the neighbourhood.”

The close-talker drew back from the response and adjusted his tie.

“Please. I understand why you maintain this folksy “just helpin’ folks, hyuck-hyuck” persona, but I am a man of understanding. I know you are the keeper of thirteen of the thirty-three relics known to exist. I also know that you are a man of some power, and influence. We are requesting an alliance.”

“I’ve seen crack dealers run this same scam.” Will replied. “To them, a friend today is a customer tomorrow. Your boss isn’t interested in politics, or corporate power, or whatever aspiration you figure you have with that poorly-tailored suit – he’s interested in your gooey mouth-meat; and mine; and everyone’s. I’ve read Blackhall’s book.”

“As have I – the man was a liar and a scoundrel – but, if you have such a distaste, why did you agree to come?”

“Your telemarketer tactics of calling me every fifteen minutes.”

“Persistence is the first step to success.”

Coffin cringed at the chestnut.

Coffin“I sympathize with your situation,” he said, “but the tongue you’re wagging is eventually going to be its lunch. You may not be able to understand that, given its ability to run off with your gray-matter, but its inevitable.”

“Oh, I’m not his slave – think of me as his, uh, manager. The Jabber is likely thousands of years old, but these aren’t the dark ages, he can’t just go around gorging on peasants. Someone has to keep him from eating everybody.” Will gave the man’s grin a hard look. The would-be broker continued, “- and uh, there are uses for an indestructible killer, uses by important people. Good people.”

He wasn’t sure if he believed it, but even the hint that the agent was acting of his own free will made it easier for Coffin to attempt to break his jaw. The force of his punch wasn’t the greatest portion of the impact, however, as the shaman had wrapped his silver chain about his knuckles, and the occult links – usually reserved for interaction only with disembodied spirits – caused a brief ethereal shadow to jump from the emissary’s shoulders, as if the concussion had nearly dislodged his living ghost from his flesh.

He collapsed to the asphalt that marked the park’s paths.

Turning his back to unconscious man, and the falling dusk, Coffin started up the squat hill towards the sharp-faced figure, which appeared near fifty, who’d watched the exchange intently. As Will neared, it did not rise from its splintered seat.

Dropping its lower jaw, it began to speak through a a gray quiver of barbs.

“Jubrun talbotin dallingar ed barimu.”

It continued on, and, as the shadows grew, so did the Jabber’s volume.

Soon the form stood on his bench, towering a head’s length over Will, and flecks of reddish liquid began to take flight from the thing’s lips, under the strength of its non-sense argument.

Coffin heard nothing of the hypnotic babble; he’d donned industrial level ear protection as he’d climbed the short rise. When he was satisfied that his modern defence was strong enough to stand the ancient problem, he lit a Zippo in signal.

Concern had crept into the Jabber’s raging eyes, and it turned at the flicker of a pair of worn jeans, and a Motley Crue t-shirt, entering into its circle of influence.

“You goat ####ing ###hole! I’ve heard about you ####-o – you eating tiny little babies tongues and ####? That’s god-####ed filthy, man! What kind of ####ing walrus tugger are you? Will told me you might have even ####ing killed my great-grandmother – ####ing bull#### you #### glazing feline ####er!”

Bunny, Coffin’s roommate, raised high the rum bottle she’d spent her wait with, then continued on in her rant.

The horror staggered.

Despite it’s best efforts to respond, the beast could make no arcane purchase against the polyurethane and plastic noise-canceling ear-muffs, and its ways were too deeply ingrained by time to make any other gambit.

By midnight – with hours spent by Coffin in an effort to turn away pedestrians from the apparent drunken, and screaming, couple – the creature had collapsed.

Will threw the crumpled form over his shoulder with a grunt, and they made their way to the river’s edge.

Draining the last of her liqour, Bunny asked, “What now?”

“Eight years ago I did a favour for a guy named Jim Bondo. He was a foreman working on an office building in the downtown core, and he’d come to the conclusion that his site was on an Indian graveyard or something. It wasn’t – he just had a lot of superstitious Germans on his crew, and that had attracted gremlins to the heavy machines – but I corrected the situation anyhow.” As Coffin spoke, his companion retrieved another bottle from the interior of her over-sized purse. “He’s huge in construction now, runs one of the biggest firms in the city – big enough that they got the contract for the new dam going in down stream. I figure waking up in a few hundred tons of concrete should occupy him for quite some time.”

It was a long walk ahead, and Will was happy to wet his throat when Bunny offered.

 

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.