Part 5 of 6
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, suffers a sudden reunion.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP253 - The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 5 of 6
(upbeat music) - Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode 253. This evening, we present The Tightened Braid, a black cocktail, part five of six. Come help. This week's episodes are brought to you by Groggy Frog Massage. Live in Toronto, busy hacking the Matrix to release innocent human batteries, preparing to counter an imminent Martian invasion, trading hard to survive the zombie apocalypse. That's a lot of stress. You should probably talk to Kim from Groggy Frog about a time massage. Find her on Facebook by searching for a Groggy Frog Time Massage or point your browser towards http called in slash slash bit.ly slash Groggy Frog. Capital G, Capital G. ♪ Here is the shadows I live with our number left ♪ Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories of the modern age. Three to 10 minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, Master Frontiersman and Student of the Occult, suffers a sudden reunion. The Tightened Braid, the black cocktail, part five of six. Come help. Written by JRD Skinner, art and narration by Opoponix, and audio produced by Jessica Mick. (upbeat music) From his forgotten post in the Baron Oak, Thomas Blackhall watched the unnatural mainland fold. Below, the Fitzhugh doppelgangers had fallen onto their training and assembled into a tight firing line, as if facing a continental army. Their square shoulders knocked snow from the surrounding brush, and their boots were steadfastly planted. But the dozen men seemed constitute a meager formation to oppose the uncounted stumbling dead that flowed from the depths of the wildwood. Still, their muskets cracked and reloaded at a tenacious speed. For her part, Thomas could see that the crone who stood well behind her mystically resurrected wall of writhing flesh did not but grin at the soldier's efforts. The approaching cadavers were a motley lot, somewhat clad in funerary finery, and some had had their clothes so badly beaten by the exposure of their endless trek that they were now unrecognizable as anything but rags, yet others wore only their own moldering skin. Blackhall, whose mouth remained brimming with the water he'd gained through patient persistence, lay a hand on the green drum and leaned further from his roost. His focus had caught upon a familiar form drifting through the dim amid a small cluster of flanking corpses. Mary's gaze was unseen, and the cream gown he buried her in, the same she'd worn on the day of their joining, was tattered, but he could not resist the opportunity to be near her. Catching his occult instrument securely in his baker rifle's strap, Blackhall hung both across a stout limb and began his descent. It required great attention to not unwittingly sip at his jaw's payload, but once on the ground, Thomas moved as if in a dream. The stiff carcasses made no effort to step high over the white drifts, but instead left their feet to drag through the resisting powder, slowing their progress. Overtaking the group was a simple enough process, but as Blackhall reached the ambush party, he was unsure what greeting he might expect. With a kick which sent an unwanted trickle of liquid down his throat, Thomas toppled the nearest chambler, a curly-haired man in a mud stain set of suit trousers, whose scalp had been increasingly torn wide by unyielding branches. Never pausing, the empty-faced straggler paid no attention to the affront, but only worked to regain his footing so that he might continue his ponderous assault. Releasing a saber, Blackhall gave in to the temptation of scrambling to his merry side. Beyond his prize, the Fitzhuse had drawn into a close circle and were holding what ground they could with muskets turned to clubs or naked blades. The weapons appeared of scant use in turning back the press of animated bodies, although many fleshy scraps of the deceased lay separated from their owners and motionless on the frost about the defender's feet. Thomas reflected briefly that the authentic fits you, standing at the midpoint of the ring, and anxiously waving the bone-handle silver-bladed dagger, would be without trouble in maintaining the flow of blood necessary to keep his force under the current enchantment of transformation. But after a last closing step, Blackhall's considerations were carried off by the chill blow of the winter wind as it pulled at his wife's knotted hair. Her rights had been said below a weeping sky, both an ocean and a lifetime away. The vigil and liturgy had taken place on his father's estate, where the family preserved a long history of consigning their cherished dead. Too clearly he remembered the cavernous room that had held her exhausted form, reposed in preparation for internment. The painted clutter of some forgotten ancestor climbed the green and gold loops of the wallpaper in a pale limitation of floral gatedy, and the ornate box at the room's center, in which his beloved had been laid, seemed over large for her tiny frame. Under his scrutiny, the soft lines of her wedding dress stood stark against the red velvet of the coffin. Not far down the hall, his daughter had milled occasionally from within her swaddling, but besides those infrequent complaints, the newborn had slept rather than face the day. It was Thomas's decision to negate the pomp and circumstance so often given death, and he had received no few ill-intended stares from the damp eyes of his theatrically-minded cousins at his demands that the room be cleared. As the infuriatingly constant grandfather clock marked the short hours before her burial, he spoke to Mary of the existence they had promised each other, and of the grand life he intended to make for their Elizabeth. He wept and laughed and screamed. Spent, he eventually made his best effort with unpracticed hands to plate her hair, as was her preference. It was a rough result as her lolling neck gave no help, but his vision was greatly clouded by the project's completion, and he knew there was little more he could do. Despite the outrageous abuses her remains had suffered in the interim, Thomas's approach now made clear that the braided held. He offered now attempt to speak to his wife as he swept aside a pine branch to allow for a better view of her ash and grimace. Her lips had withered, revealing gaps between her once pristine teeth, and her left ear had been lost to some unknown trauma. Time and distance had hardened the frontiersmen, and yet the sight was enough to drive his heart to agony. Unable to release his tongue, he silently cursed the hag and fits you, who had robbed him of the equipment necessary to destroy the old woman. Then, with an unexpectedly steady grasp, he held Mary's trailing mane and raised his sword. His arm's motion was firm, but true, and once separated from her dress, his wife continued on and heating towards her grizzly objective. Thomas did not linger as he sheathed his weapon and stuffed the captured hair into a deep pocket of his great coat. It was as he was mid-assent and almost returned to his materials, let the crone noted his presence. Fresh instructions rolled from her hollow scowl, weighted by the snarl of command and the rotting procession wheeled, focusing instead on Blackhall's nest. He no longer cared. Frustration, as Thomas had not felt since first taking the news of his beloved's defilement, and further stoked by his restricted ability to let fly his voice, blazed at his chest as he retook his lofty station. The memory of his graceless fingers on the day of Mary's Requiem came to him then and drove his conduct before reason could halt the useless action. For there were other skills his appendages had since learned as instinct, and a rare marksmanship was amongst them. Nonetheless, while his shot landed as intended, passing through the heritage's right lung and theoretical heart, she only laughed at the insult. Unhesitating, Blackhall slung his empty rifle and let a portion of his precariously transported liquid dribble atop the freshly stretched skin of the green drum. His opening strike upon the surface of the Viking relic cut short the witch's merriment. Too late did she realize that the baroque he'd scaled was not a last resort, but an escape. Each booming impact let fly a spray of water and as the droplets settled over the chilled bark of his temporary sanctuary, the timber commenced to sway with a terrible rhythm. There came bursting from every point of moisture, a new sprout, and from every new sprout, a bow. The growth, however, did not advance without purpose. As if guided by a master's shipwright, the leafy spurs surged and became struts, then broadened and intertwined, weaving a flat-bellied dragon boat about Thomas' cadence. Though his supply of liquid had long run out, as Blackhall maintained a galley's beat, his rough seat fattened to a level bench and the tool of his enchantment became solidly affixed to the floor, which had formed beneath him. Below the clumsy ghouls had gained some purchase in their climb, but they had not yet achieved half their goal when the structure had completed knitting itself into a hole. No longer was Blackhall's tree alone which roiled at the sound of the drum, for the forest now seemed to rise at its tips and bend in an otherwise unfelt gale. His pine and cedar bowed with equal fervor, there came to Thomas' ear a sound like scraped shoals. With a series of creaking snaps, the vessel was separated at the dozen points, which held it to the tree of its origin and a craft lurched forward. Finally, held aloft by the grasping woodland which had been roused conveyor, the green ship sailed. (dramatic music) - Flashpulp is presented by flashpulp.com, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 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 they may appear in a future flashcast. We'd also like to thank the free sound 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, please check this episode's notes at flashpulp.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, please tell your friends. (somber music) ♪ Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled ♪ (dramatic music) (upbeat music)