Part 1 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, finds his recent return an unwelcome one.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP249 - The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp, Episode 249. This evening we present The Titaned Braid, a Black Haltail, Part 1 of 6, The Mute and the Mask. This week's episodes are brought to you by the Bear Crawling Podcast. [music] So you know how you're flipping channels at night and you come across that late show with one of your favorite comedians on it. You know you're going to get a couple of things thrown at you, right? You're going to get those jokes that are just kind of off the cuff and fresh and they make you laugh. You're also always going to get that guest on there, but that's not really why you tune in, is it? You tune in for those moments where the hosts and the guests connect and the energy is just so strong. You get pulled in and become a part of that electric experience. That's what I do here on Bear Crawling Live. I focus on those experiences. It's not just about who I'm talking to, it's not just about me either. It's about us and the experience that we have together. And we do it every Thursday night, 9.30 p.m. here on Noah Genestry. BearCrawlingNation.com/nas and knowagendacheck.net With an easy to find replay, Tuesday afternoon, 4 p.m. Come experience the ride along. That is a Bear Crawling Live show. 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 his recent return an unwelcome one. The tightened braid of Blackhall Tale, part one of six. The mute and the mask. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art and narration by Opopenex. An audio produced by Jessica May. Thomas Blackhall, with his pants still muddied from travel, was leaning against the splintered bristle door that acted as barrier between his rented room and the remainder of the bucking pony. He was frowning. Every item of worth which Thomas owned, but was not carrying, had been stolen, and the inconsequentiales had been tossed about like decorative streamers. Sitting upon the edge of the chamber's disheveled bed was Wesley Shea, a fingerless man who had, some years earlier, suffered greatly under the cold's abuse. More recently, he had accompanied Thomas on a less than social visit through the tall pines. He did not smile so often as he had at the expeditions outset, but he had earned Blackhall's trust in the undertaking. The pair were eyeing a third, the silent lad who had, for the length of their excursion, driven the sleigh. The youth was now resting on a meager stool and wiping at his bloodied lip. "Let me tell you a story," said Thomas, that I learned on my father's knee, though it was old when he was on his pa's own. As he spoke, Blackhall moved steadily through the motions, which would result in the production of a hand-rolled cigarette stuffed with fine Virginia tobacco. There was a time in the ancient lads, when a queen by the name of Sheena came to rule in place of her man, who had taken to the sea in an effort to drive back their enemies. Even as the winds carried her king away from her, however, a plot was born by a betrayal-minded cabal of her own people to slay the lady and have her throne usurped before the navy might return. Months later, despite a lack of official proclamation, rumors crept about dining tables and evening fires that Sheena had disappeared. As usual, no comment came from the court, but a journey to the country to restore her health was often offered as excused for the lack of royal tidings. It was under these odd circumstances that a lone female rider arrived at the hamlet of woodend, as the cocks still crowed. Her cloak was finally woven, although those of the village had little experience with which to judge any garments produced within a city's limits, and, as her pony pranced along the muck lane that made up the town's central road, the blacksmith, always amongst the first to awaken, moved quickly to stroke his fires and draw attention to his industry. The clang of his anvil, woke the seamstress, who, gazing down from her apartment above her shop, was quick to hobble downstairs to shuffle greater fineries on to display. The commotion was enough to rattle the proprietor of the public house, who, impressed by the early excitement, prodded her prized crooner from his beary doze to sing in the dawn. It wasn't the breed of the stranger's mount, nor her noble bearing which had caught their attention. It was the silver mask which concealed her face. Soon wooden was a wash in the whispered news. The lone source of disinterest lay in the mute, who'd come to live a simple life on the local church's charity. Pleased to see the troubadour awake so unusually early, she was content to sit in the publishing's great room, and listened to the full-throated melody. The keeper was happy to have the seat filled, as its occupant was known to offer assistance, unasked throughout the village, and had come to be dependent upon for quick support. As the day wore on, however, the soundless observer found the ebb and flow of patrons gave her a great vantage point in surveying the passage of a newcomer. By lunch there was talk of the trade of the blacksmiths, that the outsider had avoided all questions as to her origin, and instead wished only to speak of business in the most hushed of tones. They inquiries were made regarding large orders, even if no specifics were given. It became the consensus amongst those gathered, that the stranger was of noble birth, and wearing a mask to maintain the secrecy of her identity. The blacksmith was all too happy to shoe the pony at no cost, in the hopes of future congress. By supper there was chatter from the seamstresses, that the visitor had asked after the outfitters' stalk of material, and how many sewing hands she might have at her disposal. Somehow the creation of a banner was raised, though the interloper was quick to move beyond the topic. Between sips of ale, a suspicion was born, that perhaps the queen herself had come to roost and wouldn't, and what better place to hide from the political machinations of the court. Finally, as night fell, the woman arrived at the inn's entrance. She no longer travelled alone, but instead was surrounded by a retinue, made up of the sort prone to throwing in with causes, or to starting violence. Ale flowed in the company swelled. By midnight no mention of payment had come from either side, but the publishing was happy enough to make room for the revelers, so that they might find beds instead of ruining furniture with the weight of their newly kindled patriotic fervour. The masked guests said little in the hubbub, but seemed pleased to preside over the scene with minimal intrusion. On the following morning, as the mute rose from her palate in the small chapel, she cast her gaze over a greater count of weapons than would ended ever previously held. Word had spread, and the town was awash in men eager to re-take the throne for a woman they'd never glimpsed. Wandering into the public house, she encountered a hushed reverence. The silver face was speaking to a hedge-night who had taken to his knee before her. "Can your arm be dependent upon?" she asked. "Yes," came the response. Men and women wept in the corners of the room, moved at the display, and the whispers were no longer avoidable. "You have guessed well. It is I, your queen," the disguised woman finally announced, as she pushed back for cloakhood and pulled off her mask. Her locks were tightly curled, and her face carefully made. No person could have hoped for greater regality in their leash. The crowd cheered, but the roar was cut short by the approach of the speechless figure. Since her arrival some months earlier, all had cultivated soft feelings towards the mute and her meanderinges, but it seemed an odd moment to stand forward. Otter still were the results which poured from her open mouth. She said, "I must forgive you for not distinguishing the face of your queen. Truly, it is a failing I have depended upon most heavily in recent times. But you must forgive me my deception, for even the farmers of wood-end have heard the rumors of shadowed hands, holding poison daggers." I can speak now, as I too have had a strange visit in the night, a pigeon with news. My guard captain rides a day behind, and this imposter, my cousin, comes to stir an army to save her from the gallows, after being routed as the conspiracies head. Do not stand with this false ruler. You have known me, and if my silence was necessary to maintain my secret, I still have surely learned my nature, she finished. The woman's tongue held many truths, while a monarch's portrait rarely moves, trade must flow. Neither countenance was recognizable, but her accent was unmistakable, to the merchants of the road as high-born, and by contrast, her cousins now seemed apparent as hailing from the Otter provinces. Better yet, they'd come to discern her benevolence, and the eagerness, which she'd displayed in assisting, all without asking recompense. And so the story goes that, though she'd been nothing but a case for charity until that morning, when her guard arrived, they met a docile captive, and a town in full celebration. Blackhall, having finished his tale, jabbed the last of his burning vice into a small bowl, brimming with similarly abandoned remains. In taking another survey of his chamber, Thomas sighed. "Fits you is quite clever in leading us to believe we'd picked a random lad of local vintage to act as guide," he said. "But we were not but halfway through our journey when your habits unmasked you. A soldier, even one so young as yourself, finds it hard to shake habits of the profession. The grooming, the gate, the footwear." Instead of shirking your company, however, I chose perhaps to make you my ally, by allowing you to hear the realities behind the rumors you no doubt absorbed regarding my occult pursuits. In a sense, I hope that by demonstrating my unvarnished voice, I have shown that there are allegiances greater than even those owed to Her Majesty's armed forces. I apologize for Shay's agitation. He should not have struck you. But, now that you have steadied yourself, you must choose. Will you aid me? Or will you side with Fitzhugh? A man agreeable to burgling the rooms of a supposed friend so that he might obtain artifacts he knows could initiate catastrophe. Blackhall kicked aside a heap of ransacked laundry as he edged towards the target of his interrogation. Your captain may have command of men, but what good shall it be if he mistakenly opens a portal onto a plane of fleshless horrors? The quiet boy's eyes flickered with memory, and, after a moment, his confession came in a flood. ♪♪ 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. ♪♪ ♪ Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbling ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with are stumbling ♪ ♪♪