Find the full show notes at: http://flashpulp.com/?p=17066
Tonight, we bring you a fantastic tale of travels, beliefs, and works.
The Skinner Co. Network
FPL2 - The Last Pilgrimage
[ Applause ] One day he's glue me in my eye. I wish I'd slumber less. Dear is the shadows I live with our number less. Little white flowers will. Never awaken you. Not while the black coach of sorrow has taken you. Angels have no thought of. Ever returning you, will they be angry? I thought of joining you. Glue me Sunday. Welcome to Flash Pop Live Episode 2. Tonight we present The Last Pilgrimage. This episode is brought to you by Groggy Frog Time Massage. If you plan on surviving the inevitable zombie apocalypse, you're going to need to be pretty limber. Don't think of it as a relaxing hour of me time? Think of it as an investment in keeping your brain out of someone else's mouth. Find Kim on Facebook by searching for Groggy Frog Time Massage or point your browser to Kimberly2ease1ychurch.com. Flash Pop 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 we bring you a fantastic tale of travels, beliefs, and works. The Last Pilgrimage. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Co-produced by Jessica May and Peter Church. With Muggin voiced by Neil Silcox. The Trader, Gone, and Aggie voiced by Peter Church. And narration by me. On his 18th birthday, Muggin went on the pilgrimage. His eldest brother had long fancied the journey, but by the time he'd reached a proper age for it. He found himself wed by way of a squalling barn. In truth, when the boy first set from the smattering of sawed huts that had made up his young life, he was little excited for the path ahead. He'd never thought it would come to his living upon the road, and he'd never dreamed higher than a plot of earth to scratch at, and a wife to help eat the returns. Yet there was no choice. The land had run dry and seemed to devour the rain as it fell. It came to him to make the fool's journey of finding a god to pray to. Standing at the crest of Big Fall Hill, he ran his wrist across his nose and blinked away the results of his final goodbyes. In the distance, he could see his mother alongside his brother's swelling family. Their arms had grown tired from waving his departure, but they once again raised their hands, knowing this was their final opportunity before the hill swallowed him from view. He would miss them, but was glad they could not discern his tears. They were not the only he'd spill in the next year, as each inn and camp reeked of rumor without substance. Most had some word to impart of the gods. They're even those amongst the eldest who claim to have been in the presence of one in their youth, but all provided directions based on a tale overheard by a cousin's acquaintances butcher's nephew, each of forgotten name. Once in the world, it was tempting to drift into a new existence, but Mugen inevitably found that there was only a cold welcome for a wandering man a few means, and his experience came hard one. Two months after the first time he'd lain with a woman, and two months one day after he'd first been forced to kill on self-defense, he met a traitor who'd come from the Northlands of Dund. The man wielded a beard of immense size, as cloak looked as if every meal he'd ever trapped and eaten had been incorporated into its makeup. Yes? The traitor was saying. I've seen the column with my own eyes. Three seasons ago I decided to ride hard self. There's no more demand where there yet to be. And so Mugen asked. Do you know which it is? The traitor's fingers disappeared within his riot of facial hair. Aggie, the sore. Did you see any of his works? Yes, hence why I'm here. The prayers of his pilgrims often leave all in better stead, not just the few. I've found when crops are plentiful and pantries are well-stocked, people of less interest in bargaining against my toothless scowl. To commemorate the event, Mugen purchased a small rattle from the merchant, hopeful that he would soon be home to share the bobble with his nephew. As thanks, he did little haggling. He'd heard of Aggie often about the yearly fire on Big Fall Hill, on dying day when the harvest was done and the spirits were said to roam. It was whispered that the sower was one of the greatest of the gods, that his mighty fingers had once corrected the flow of waters as a child might alter a puddle to enhance the course of a twig raft. From the hushed tones of friends and family, he had learned that the deity could see the future, could alter his size to such a proportion as to crush flat his hamlet of origin without thought. Could even summon storms to shatter the landscape and drown any who did not believe in his supremacy? These stories filled Mugen's mind in the 90 days he spent overtaking his goal, the column. A thousand souls shuffled in packs, pushing wagons and beating meals across the snow-dusted grass. Mugen had chased them from a place called Sur, whose inhabitants were still celebrating the return of a pilgrim of their own. Better still to his ears was the news that the gods' recent passing had been accompanied by the raising of a massive barn. The main beam had been the heart of a thousand-year-old tree, and the colossal girth had been set in place by Aggie's hands alone. Mugen's third life began then. His plea for assistance was heard on the first day, but by those who acted as intermediaries. He was warned vehemently against approaching the gleaming saviour that led the long line of wayfarers, as any obstruction was ill-regarded. Each misstep was a delay not just from the current destination, but from all those beyond. Order came from a council of sorts, comprised of those who'd furthest travelled, and some who'd given up their prayers and sought only to continue the path of hardship punctuated by celebration that was the god's shadow. Each sojourner knew their position as determined by the task necessary to reach their own home. When Mugen first presented his request, he was informed after only a short time that he was 537. Unlearned numbers, he hadn't understood its meaning, but several moons upon the trek, and in the company of gamblers, taught him math and its uses, including the significance of the ever-decreasing number that was his place in the sequence of works. Arithmetic was not all, however. At each stop of the column, it seemed as if he learned some new skill necessary to aiding the pilgrim currently having their concern addressed, so that the journey might be expedited. He learned of tillage, an animal husbandry, and the natural medicines. The god's commands were law, and Aggie instructed his followers to their own best advantage. Uncounted years later, while restoring a tower of ancient provenance, a structure that will allow great advantage for the onset of fires which ravaged the area each fall, Mugen was informed of the news he'd been longing to hear. "Gone, his oldest friend," said. "Three, but the sewer has requested your presence." The news explained why the messenger had not grinned to bear the anticipated dispatch. Mugen ran to respond. In recent months, the god had grown quiet in its march, and this newest summons did not seem to bode well to his disciple. As was customary for private conversation, the column had fallen back some way, allowing the pilgrim to tread alone with his lord. As he spoke, Aggie's voice held crisp surety. "Geez, man, you really came from the middle of nowhere. I figure we'll be two months over the average job completion time, and that's just to get there." "I apologize. It is true that I came some distance, but we are in terrible need, and I could think of no other--" "Relax, relax. Listen, the old atomic ticker's only got about that long anyhow. We're gonna make a run for your place, but I don't know how much use I'm gonna be once we get there." "I-- I don't understand." "What I'm trying to tell you is that I've got only enough juice left for a few more jobs. Then it's off into the sunset with me. Only so much one farm bot can do, even in days like these." "Sure, but a pleasure helping you, folks, so?" "Now, you're the brightest lad I've seen in a while, and I figure the best thing to do at this point is to talk about your problem. See where you're at. Then I might be able to teach you how to fix it yourself." "It took Mug and a moment to dissemble his Savior's dialect, but realizing what was being asked, he was pleased to finally have an opportunity to speak his prayer directly." "The land about my people's homes is barren. Please, have mercy and bring us water." "Got some rivers nearby. Guess a lake is too much to go for. What's the water table like? You know what to watch for? That sort of thing." "What came next was a tutorship as rarely received. In the months that followed, Mug and's mind was filled with every category of practical learning that had been otherwise forgotten. The first matter was the written word. As without it, the man knew his mind could never contain the breadth and depth of the flow that overcame him. He wrote the history of a terrible plague, and the savage madness that arose in its wake. He devised a calendar to agie specifications, and he charted many stars and their seasonal significances. As his skills grew, he recounted the final pair of heroic acts carried out by the sower. The first was the purification of a well by way of removal of poisons from within the turf, a feat which had required the construction of massive earthworks and the transference of an artifact to an enclosed crypt, now posted with a warning to never again breach the seal under dire consequences. The second was establishing a standing orchard of many thousand trees, all with the intention of providing fruit which might curtail a terrible illness of nutrition which would befallen the inhabitants of the surrounding countryside. The time taught Mug and much about the rudimentary of genetics and the splicing intending of timber. In the end, the sower made it as far as Big Fall Hill. He'd been busy imparting minutiae regarding algebraic geometry, and his eager student, with his eyes and quill upon homemade parchment and makeshift tablet, had not recognized the approach as any different than the thousand such he'd seen before. He was only at the peak, with the village spread before him, that he realized he'd arrived. It was agie who broke the silence. Well, pardon. This is my stop. Like I said, you ever happen to run by a Hokkaido Electric TU-13 Power Cell, feel free to bring it on by. It's an easy install, goes right in my mouth, pop it down the chute, and the internals will take it from there. Otherwise, I think I'll just take a rest. You, though, better get cracking on that irrigation system, won't be nothing but kid's play for you. It shall be done. They were the gods' closing words. In the years to come, children would play at agie's feet, and each dying day, the still figure would stand guard at the edge of the fire, as the tails of the sower's undertakings were told. First, though, for the pilgrims, came morning, and then, heating their master's last command, the work. Mugen was happy to finally deliver the rattle he'd bought so many years previous, even if it was to his brother's newborn grandchild. He was pleased, too, to see how the people had fared, even under such circumstances. When the final strut was built, and the flow of nourishment redirected to flood the farmer's thirst, he beamed with the knowledge that they would now prosper. Even with his labor, he'd found time for tail-telling, and to teach his brother some of what he'd learned upon the road. Of numbers, and barn-raising, and tonics. Well, I best be mosey. Then he'd stood to leave. He did not cry this time. He knew he must find the holiest of relics, the battery of resurrection. And that, as he moved across the land, he must spread the wisdom of agie, and the book of the sower. The column followed. Flashpulp is presented by Flashpulp.com, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license.