Part 3 of 3
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 himself ensnared.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP244 - That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 244. This evening, we present That Which Remains, a Black Call Tale, Part 3 of 3. [music] This week's episodes are brought to you by Gatecast. [music] Hi, I'm Alan. And I'm Mike. Do you like Stargate SG-1? Did you think it was all over? We didn't, and so the Gatecast was born. We are two guys with far too much time on our hands, exploring the stories of Stargate Command, episode by episode. [music] Would commentary about our favorite SG teams adventures? You mean the girly Gatecast team from Atlantis? No, we're talking about Jack O'Neill, Sam Carter, Daniel Jackson, and Thiuk, and make up SG-1 along with Dr. Frazier, Walter, and Gerald Hammond, who lead the human race towards new worlds. Who are people who have certainly been before, and some a long, long time ago. Each week, a new episode will be discussed along with news and listener comments. So search for Gatecast on iTunes or use your chosen podcatcher. Or visit us at gatecast.vasecast.com or our Facebook page. And join in the fun. We guarantee our comments will be read out. Gatecast, by fans, for fans. [music] Flash Pope 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 ensnared. That which remains a Black Call Tale, Part 303. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. [music] At the edge of a cop's of spruce, Thomas Blackhall and Wesley Shea were hunkered beneath the weight of a shared bear skin. The watch had left the brown fur covered in a thick layer of snow, so that they seemed a little more than a bump in the terrain. But Thomas knew too well that their scent alone was enough for the huntress. Across the barren sweep of frozen river upon which they faced, a woman stepped from the tree line. She slid from the branches, unmindful of their pole on her naked flesh, and began to close the distance on exposed feet. It struck Thomas that her body could be that of any hard-working mother in her thirties, either beautiful nor unsightly. If it were not for her empty face and leaden skin, he might be coaxed to come to her aid with a proffered coat. As it was, he raised his baker rifle, making the necessary motions and slow turns, in hope that he might avoid unsettling his frosty blanket. The fire embankment dropped sharply before touching the water, and her calves threw up glittering clouds as she mechanically descended the slope and stepped onto the ice. Blackhall could clearly see the madness smoldering behind her eyes then, though it did not seem to touch the rest of her form. His hesitation dissipated, even as he shook off his mitt and set his finger against the biting metal of the rifle's trigger. As instinct settled his sights, his mind blanked, and his breathing slowed. Despite his request, however, his hands refused to fire. Three nights previous, after their conference with the ailing Ethan Wright, Blackhall and his lone-thumbed acquaintance had held an urgent discussion beneath the stars. They paid little heed to the silent boy who tended their rented sleigh as they probed the questions their recent visit had raised. "It's an abhorrent thing," said Shay, as his palms moved to wick away the tears which appeared on his cheeks. Thomas had not expected the man's depth of reaction, but he did not press regarding the change. Instead, he said, "You heard tales in your youth now doubt of the succubus who comes at night to excite and entice. Undeterred by their plundering nature, the tellings are often sensual, and I've no doubt that many boys of a certain age secretly hope to summon such a visitation. I know for one that I foolishly did." "The reality of a thing is often much different than the daydream. Worse, I suspect a madness has descended upon that which we might but faintly call her. It is a plague of fury endemic to the occult kind in these closing days of mysticism." "I cannot pretend to understand how what you say," replied the gently weeping Shay. "Is there further risk to Ethan? Is there some solution to his sickness?" Before answering, Black Hall breathed fogly into his cobbler and considered his words. "Your friend's physical escape was luck, and I cannot be sure that any action on our part will be of aid to his collapsing mentality. But yes, there is work we must carry out." "We!" asked his companion, his voice hardening. "It is not I who rise with rifle or saber. It is not I who has experience with the hidden world. What use will I be? Shall I wiggle my stumps to distract the fiend? Shall I dance a jig on my toeless hooves?" "I apologize if I have been evasive on the subject thus far," said Thomas. It was in an attempt to avoid embarrassment. "I have heard rumors amongst the shop-patrons and bruce-lingers of Perth that perhaps your poor penmanship was not the sole result of your extended wander through the cold." Shay could only nod. Days of hunting, such as the injured man had not undertaken in years, had then begun. Beyond the shack, which had been Wright's base camp, Thomas's practice gaze quickly caught the end-disguised trail of broken pylens and disturbed snow which the succubus had left in her wake. The real issue was in estimating her course, no easy task when dealing with a mad woman and finding a proper location at which to head her off. They'd chosen their sight carefully and laid their plans well. It was a hard thing for Shay to remember, though, as the uncovered woman made her way through the white gusts and drifting banks. She seemed so disconnected from her surroundings that, fleetingly, she appeared to him almost as if a ghost, passing over the landscape, but never of it. The illusion was shattered as she plunged through the treacherous surface of the river. Despite Blackhall's reassurances, Shay had been sure the gap they'd worked from the ice would freeze well before the woman appeared, or that, worse, she would somehow circumnavigate their planning and appear behind them. Thomas would only say that the weight of their prey was not fully demonstrated by her frame and that he had utmost confidence in the cloth tarp they'd stretched onto a wooden frame and laid across the open water. The madness would blind her, was the last he'd spoke of it, and he'd been right. Leaping from his position beneath the bear skin, Shay made a quick approach towards the flailing defiler. As the imp attempted to pull herself clear of the frigid stream, he stepped as near as he might dare and set a boot upon her fingers. Her's were the thrashings of a rabid animal without logic, and yet it was a difficult task for a man of such gentle nature to carry out. In those seconds of insertitude, Thomas's words came to him that escape would surely mean a suffocating death at her grasping fingers. By focusing on the dragging indentations her nails were marking upon the ice, Shay found the lesson easier to recall. It helped as well to turn in his hammering jig and see his traveling companion staring blankly at the altercation. "Oh, it's a nasty bit of business, alright," the dancing man said, only to himself. "But I do know the bitterness of having the briefest event weigh on every moment of the future, of having something stolen from you which you cannot recover. Ethan may not feel rest for a full night for many a year, and perhaps on stomping you under I'll be robbing myself of a few winks, but I suspect eventually we'll both slumber better for it." Rest now in the chill, and I'll make the end quick. It was an earnest promise, but the struggle continued for hours nonetheless. Without the assistance of the sun, the rapist's increasingly fatigued writhing was not enough to stem the re-encroaching ice from enclosing around her stony belly, so that the fingerless man, with fumbling palms and exhausted posture, was able to work the silver saber through her flesh and free the shallow breathing black hole. Days later, the pair rode together, with their silent driver back into Perth. Even as the team of horses came to a halt upon the slushy street, Thomas spied the loitering sergeant who awaited his return. The lookout had lapsed at his post and was currently distracted with a young nursemaid, but the frontiersmen no longer felt the need to avoid whatever summons the lad might bring. He was ready to move on. [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. [music] ♪ Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled ♪ [music]