Part 1 of 3
Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself transporting a pair bound for a new life - if they can stay warm long enough to see it.
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Some days, gloomy, my hours are slumberless Dearest, the shadows I live with by nonetheless Little white flowers will never awaken Not where the bright coach of sorrow ends taking you Angels have no fire of evolution in you Or they may angry if I so don't join in you Welcome to Flashpulp episode 312 This evening we present the long haul, a black haul chronicle Part 1 of 3 This week's episodes are brought to you by two chairs, no waiting And Andy Griffith Show Fancast Andy Barney, Opie, Goober, Floyd the Barber That's some of the names from the Andy Griffith Show Drop by two chairs, no waiting, the Andy Griffith Show Fan podcast And we'll visit with some of those folks Along with tribute artists and fans And just all kinds of things related to the Andy Griffith Show I'm your host, Alan Newsom, and you can find the show Two Chairs, No Waiting at twochairsnowaiting.com Or on our teams Flashpulp 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 transporting a pair of bound for a new life If they can stay warm long enough to see it The long haul, a black haul chronicle Part 1 of 3 Written by J.R.D. Skinner Art and narration by Opoponax An audio produced by Jessica May Leading behind many troubles, Thomas had been forced into a long journey With two companions who were unprepared for the wintery undertaking The warm air brought in by a passing blizzard had abandoned them And the temperature had begun at treacherous descent To pause even briefly under the snow-heavy pines would likely mean their end Blackhall was a man of no ordinary means With some effort of coordination, he had been able to seat his charges within the confines of the green ship An arcane relic whose driving engine was a drum Empowered to form the barren branches above into a rolling sea of greenery and a vessel to carry them The long ship's soaring transit offered little shelter from the wind and drifting precipitation however And the bells had just each other and a set of blankets to fight the encroaching chill Thomas knew that if the couple were to avoid the loss of fingers, toes, or worse It would be by spotting a smoky column on the horizon Conversation was their last war against shivering But thanks and amazement only carried the bell's discussion so far Soon, despite the fantastic events that they had left behind, talks sank to the mundane Still, James and Clara, their tongues greased from their narrow escape, seemed to chatter endlessly As Blackhall worried himself with the rhythm He'd been fatigued well before their sudden departure And his shoulders still ached with his inbound voyage But the frontiersmen, understanding all too well the perils of such an under-prepared excursion Considered that the alternative was likely silent fear And as such, did his best to encourage the waste of energy while providing as scant input as possible of his own After ranging over a likely source of assistance once civilization was re-achieved The conference lapsed into a broader debate regarding the status both marital and financial Of various friends and cousins The topic of relations was much unclear as tongue And it was with that hook which she attempted to more fully draw at Thomas And what of you, sir? Have you a wife awaiting your return? Blackhall's mind drifted to his capering merry in her own trek He was forced to remind himself that even this damnably slow passage was yet another aspect of his chase Then he banished the image of his dead wife from his thoughts His drumming slowed And the swell and sway of the limbs that carried the ship grew calm At a speed better suited to a summer afternoon's fishing expedition He said, "My arms tire, but disembarking is a trick I'd rather only attempt once Let me tell you the tale of marriage and fidelity while I briefly savour a slackened pace Not but two years ago, in the fall, I met an old man named Ericsson A scrawny necked plough wrangler, living at the edge of a place barely known as Clifford, some miles east The community consisted of perhaps four dozen souls at maximum And the timing of my appearance found them all in great sadness over the death of Mrs. Ericsson There was not a fireside in the place that was not made dimmer by her passing And though most were quick enough to ladle me a spoon of broth or share an end of bread There was no joy to be had in a leg-hugging village It wasn't an easy thing to behold, those leaning huts and moping children A nature itself, in its autumnal glory, seemed to feel the same The leaves fell from the maples as if fiery tears Now, I'd come not for its hospitality mind you I'd set out on word that a pair of huntsmen fells by the unlikely names of Harugo and Muse Had intention to ply their trade in the area You see, I'd just arrived from the nearest town of Mickelson, which too had had a recent death There they'd seen to the final rest of a boy of eighteen And once paid, they'd quickly struck out for fresh soil's churn So survived vampire hunters and their ilk, even in these enlightened days Clifford's plans to improve their meager cemetery were often on the lips of the locals But death is an inconsistent and unfortunate reminder And I suspect they wanted as little to do with the patch as necessary when they might forget its presence There were no more than twenty plots laid out in that strange garden But all without stone markings, so that the engraved wood that had been used Gave better indication to the age of the burial by its rotten nature Then the hardly legible carvings indicated names and dates With the populace in mourning black, their heads covered in their faces long I've no doubt that Harugo and Muse thought their luck bright Their profession is not one conducted any longer in open air But instead, relegated to secret dealings with grieving family Or concerned community members It was not long before rumor of midnight returns and mysterious illness had shot through every keyhole And passed over every sipping table Harugo and Muse required three days of haggling to convince Ericsson to pay over their fee And had no small tithe to his whiskey The first time I'd met with the old man, his eyes had been dewy and his fingers prone to trembling at the mention of his wife's name By the time negotiations were complete, his gaze was clear and his hands steady Thomas's own fingers had grown numb from the unceasing blast from the north But the lessened pace, and remembered anger, had eased the knots that had gathered about his neck and spine His palms fell with renewed purpose as he continued It's an easy enough trade, if you've the stomach to lie to the recently bereaved and mutilate the dead Beyond that, it requires little more skill than ditch-digging But I can imagine that Mrs. Ericsson, the only surviving image of which portrayed a woman of sharp nose and bony countenance Provided something of the perfect archetype of their profession On the final night of business, when every home's lamps had been extinguished and the burns lay deep in their dreams The entrepreneurs lifted high the shaved spruce that acted as the gay-tarmed, the small cemetery, carried in their tools The moon, unwilling to pay witness to the site, had pulled a swath of cloud across its gaze And the meager lantern's work was made all the more difficult in their licked grasp How many sanctuaries had they crept into under such pretense? I cannot say, but certainly enough that the thought of cutting out the heart of a grandmother did not cap their levity Harga was a blonde man of medium stature I believe he intended his suede coat to provide something of the air of a gentleman But his poor patchwork and mismatched thread colourings did nothing to sell the notion Muse stood taller by a head, a thin-faced man whose lips were far too close to the termination of his chin It was he who spoke loudly of the fair-limbed daughter of the village, a girl who had one day certainly be beautiful But who was, in truth, too young to be mentioned in such a tawdry dialogue Still they quieted when it came just squinting at the poorly chiseled placards And by the time Harga was preparing to raise high his shell and begin the process of disturbing the bed of decaying foliage That lay across Mrs. Ericsson's slumbers, dread had clearly descended The spades plunge was halted by the whispers and moans Again, I cannot say how often the pair had carried out their commissions But I can assure you, it was the first occasion in which the leaves upon each mound began to writhe and leap There was no reason for the men to dig, for it seemed that the dead had saved them the effort by rising from their graves to meet them I doubt either will ever return to their craft, but I had little chance to quiz them on the topic As that was the last eye, or any of the people of Clifford, most of whom were by then wipe them the mud from their pants And the mirth filled tears from their eyes saw the scoundrels It was the widower himself laugh and loudest I had underestimated Mrs. Ericsson's playful nature, but I had sat and listened to the tales When her love of mischief was plainly clear, I drew up the plan and proposed it to her husband Who thought it would be exactly the sort of Tom Foolery that would have left his beloved cackling And exactly the sort of Tom Foolery that had drawn the woman so close to the hearts of the townspeople Though the pair of charlatans had failed to settle any lingering dead, or even collect their supposed reward It was their efforts that inadvertently slew the keening air that had lain so heavily over the hamlet The reminiscence had left Blackhall craving the taste of tobacco in Spanish paper, but he knew he had rested too long in the telling The grins upon his passenger's lips carried him some warmth, but it was the frosty prodding at the collar of his great coat And the unnatural whitening about the edges of his passenger's ears that brought up his cadence The craft began to rock and buck under the renewed beat, leaping ever towards the crisp, empty horizon Flashpulp is presented by Flashpulp.com And is released under the Creative Commons Attribution Non-commercial 3.0 Unported License Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com But be aware that they may appear in a future flashcast We'd also like to thank the FreeSound Project, found at freesound.org For a full listing of effects used during the show, as well as credits for the users who provided them Check this episode's notes at flashpulp.com And thanks to you for listening. 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