Part 4 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, is unexpectedly held up by a surprising arrival.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP252 - The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 4 of 6
[music] Welcome to Flashpulp, episode 252. This evening, we present the tightened braid, a black haul tail, part 4 of 6, of partisans and parades. This week's episodes are brought to you by Groggy Frog Massage. Live in Toronto? Feeling as if the oppressive stresses of everyday life are grinding you into a dust of responsibility and tears. Talk to Kim at Groggy Frog about a time massage. Find her on Facebook by searching for Groggy Frog Time Massage or point your browser towards HTTP colon slash slash bit.ly slash Groggy Frog, capital G, capital F. [music] Flashpulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age, 3 to 10 minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings. Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, is unexpectedly held up by a surprising arrival, the tightened braid, a black haul tail, part 4 of 6, of partisans and parades, written by JRD Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax, and audio produced by Jessica May. As Thomas made his way north, his lungs complained at each intake of frosted night air. Farmer's axes had pushed hard at the forest, but in this fresh land, the wilderness still stood ever on the horizon, and it was towards the shelter of those thick-limbed pines which Blackhall drove his legs. His focus had contracted into not but a single line, which projected from the distant trees, passed over himself, and continued on to the panting duo who chased at his heels. He had long given up praying, but as he urged himself on, he gave a small thought to his Mary. Was this not simply a continuation of the mad race he'd been running since receiving word regarding the fate of her haunted corpse? Under the pitiless brilliance of the winter stars, his mind briefly settled on a moment, some years earlier, beneath a soft June sun, in which he'd watched his beloved unfurl her plated braid, as she brazed in a crisp hill spring. The world had seemed clean and full of light, and endlessly filled with affection. The promises he'd made to his dead wife came to Blackhall then, whispered back to him and Mary's voice, and his boots were carried onward. The pair of trailing Fitzhues were unable to match this restored stride, but their mired tempo was quickly corrected by the arrival of a two-horse sleigh, bearing in its bed another half-dozen of the captain. The doppelgangers were swift in extending, helping arms to their brethren, but with no room to be spared. The lagging twins were forced to take up stations standing atop the skids. It was only Thomas's choice to vault a homesteader's ambitiously constructed rock wall, which bought the time necessary to move out of the broad fields and into the close smell of timber. And yet, although his chest cramped and flamed with exertion, he dared not rest. Thick underbrush meant the conveyance's advantage was lost, and its occupants discouraged into the wildwood. No more did they call Blackhall's name, nor curse his heritage, nor offer soothing lies. All that could be heard of their approach was the huff of their effort. Amongst the Evergreens, the gloom was universal. Nonetheless, the frontiersmen scrutinized the blackness, hoping to find expedient escape. The search slowed his progress, and he was soon forced to lay a hand heavily onto the cheek of the nearest Fitzhues. But, even while he laid the man low, Thomas's gaze touched on a fat set of barren branches, ascending in a nearly ladder-like fashion. With the awkward bulk of the drum beneath his arm, and his baker rifle bouncing in a shoulder, he stooped for a mouth full of snow, and took to the tree at a squirrel's pace. As he hoped, rather than make a hurry to salt towards his prodding saber, his attackers began to circle his perch. The air grew thick, with the coppery musk of blood. But before the predators might settle on a modified course of action, a second party arrived. There was no difference immediately visible in these new, yet identical Fitzhues, except for the muskets they bore. At least, until one of the newcomers stepped forward. "Oh, black hole!" said the apparent leader, who stood somehow more firmly than his compatriots. "You lookers have frightened Tomcat, caught wooing in a state's moser. Descending we will discuss this matter. The star sent my twins to Shiki-Dowden!" Thomas did not respond, but instead, worried the increasingly slushy mass he held astride his tongue. Despite the thirst he'd created in his flight, he dared not swallow a drop of the meager water supply. "I understand your distrust. I am sorry for the death of Shay. I find myself excitable these days. That said, really, I shouldn't be blamed, consider the nature of what you were hiding. There have been losses, yes, but in some, your cash has been an enormous boon to the settlement. In truth, I did not mean to hold on to the tools quite so long, but, well, it was an incident in which a Lieutenant Green found his hand quite badly bitten by the blade of the sewer dagger. After calming myself as to the implications of my suddenly transformed twin, I realized the use of such a talent. If a thing is easiest done by one's self, then surely it's even better done with an army of selves." Above his waggling mustache, the true face his eyes smaltered with an arcane light, and black all damned the man as a fool. Toss himself had once been caught up in the same thrill of domination. The energies which flowed in this pristine territory were a flood in comparison to the dying flicker of their homeland, and, not long after his landing, he'd been eager to press the limits of his untested education. He'd learned the nature of his mistake once he'd fallen under the keen noses of the fairytale menagerie, which, hungry for just such a cult potency, stalked the land. "I do admit that those were made," continued the captain. "There's no easy thing to balance my progeny's well-being against the constant bleeding necessary to keep them in their superior state. One day the graves that I have dug were reconmembrated as the western places of heroes, but, regardless, you must weigh the deeds their sacrifices have accomplished against how many die daily without purpose in the muck of the blackwoods." The productivity I have offered our community saved lives many more than it has done under. This is not the equation we live by in the war against the tiny emperor. This is not the logic that pressed our shoulders together in the Spanish streets, which propelled our bayonets into the bellies of the French. You cannot imagine the service I rendered these last weeks. Each new collaborator, each new Confederate, who knows my thoughts and holds my drive for accomplishment, means another dispute are betraded, another bathroom conflict interrupted, another roadway undertaken. Better yet, it means another rescue party successfully led, another supply of medicine reaching the sick, or another morota brought to justice, and I am but a mere captain. Imagine what I might do with the men beneath me where I am made worthy. We must be our lives again, you and I. While I have mastered the dagger, there have been mistakes made with a certain the other artifacts. If that's your guidance, I have no option but to discover their useful trial and unfortunate error. But we will talk, you will teach me, and together we will bring the king's wall to this land of rustics and trunks. Realizing it was only a supposed familiarity with the air might's relics, knowledge he did not have, which had kept him alive thus far, Thomas was content to, again, refuse a reply. He was sure, anyhow, that his considered retort, indicating his reason for taking up arms against Napoleon, had much to do with the excessive influence concentrated in one man, would do him little good. Blackhall's jaws were close to holding plain liquid, and he moved to reposition the green drum. Until now, he'd but read of its purpose, though he depended fully on its legend holding true. Before he might begin the short ritual, however, a ghastly parade appeared. The shuffling column of intruders did not advance with the sharp purpose of the duplicates. The gate was staggering, and their flesh was rotted. At their head stood a hag. Her taut lips pulled into a skull's grin. The great witch, whom Thomas had hounded through the wilderness, had arrived to claim the power she sent it upon the wind. 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. [music] Sunday is gloomy. My hours are stumbled. Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled. [music]