Part 1 of 2
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 summoned to assist with a ghastly countenance.
The Skinner Co. Network
211 - Cast Off: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 2
[Music] Welcome to Flashpulp, episode 211. Tonight, we present Cast Off, a black haul tale, part one of two. This week's episodes are brought to you by the Pendragon Variety podcast. Consider... this. [Singing] Now consider... this. I vociferously disagreed with him. I'm not feeling too sanguine about, you know, eating up to him. Okay, now picture character Arphy type hanging from every finger. The romantic hero type. The almost villainous protagonist type. Well, I'll be darned. [Laughter] I'm like that. Meek, I think you waxed North Carolina in there for a second. [Singing] Pendragon Variety, usually more intelligible than a baby. 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, is summoned to assist with the ghastly countenance. Cast Off, a black haul tale, part one of two. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, and audio produced by Jessica May. Thomas had taken on two days' rustic travel to answer the invitation. And he was someone "fect" to discover the barefoot woman in ragged clothes muttering about the large house. The structure was something of an oddity, as was its builder and occupant, a man named J.B. Wilkes. The behemoth sat upon a wide sprawl of grass, but it was a cultivated calm. As all about the trims circular patch raged the workings of a lumberyard. To the east, a ribbon of water, locally called the White River, ran thick within coming wood and the shouts of timber drivers. On the far side of the Ring Road, which hedged the lawn, were barracks, utility buildings, and the hastily erected tents that indicated an industry on the rise. The frontiersman's principal concern, however, was for the dead child laying upon a construct of sawhorses and planks at the center of the home's velvet-filled sitting-room. Wilkes stood close at his shoulder, which was nuisance enough, but the shriek of saw-mill and the pound of hammers were providing an unpleasant dissidence to his considerations. "She insists," Wilkes had replied, at his request to seal the windows, so he'd had no option but to ponder the faceless boy not only a half-night sleep and against a gauntlet of distractions. "Nothing more than a charlatan," said Thomas flatly, and then he set to readjusting his focus. The lad, no older than ten, had obviously been slain by the fall of an axe, the head of which still protruded from his chest, though the handle had snapped in the effort. His round face was thoroughly rotted, and the unkempt row of his leftmost teeth clearly visible through his cheek. And yet, black-all could smell no decay, and neither did the child's hands, belly, or toes indicate such decomposition. "You say he was like this when he was discovered?" asked Thomas, turning on his current employer in an effort to avoid the stink of the burning herb, the bush which was wafting about the room. Earlier, as he'd approached his destination, he'd noted an encampment of youths running wild, not far from the grinding wheels and crushing hooves of the lumber carts and their pulling-teams, but it was only once he had entered that he'd realized the source of the ruffians. Wilkes nodded, "Hmm, perhaps not quite so dead. Apparently he was speaking gibberish, shouting at some of the workmen when they found him. They can't be blamed for their panic, but I've already lost men to the talk of mystic doings, and they need some confirmation that there's no long-term curse at hand, or a danger likely to be repeated. Not that I have belief in either, but perhaps your presence will bring some closure to their uneasiness." A clockwalk ranted, wincing again at the perpetual glamour. The smoke's reek was doing little to assist his mood, but at least the charlatan had slipped from the room. "So," he said, "am I right in my understanding that, though no one knows how it came to be, this young wash-boy wandered from his post in the kitchen, and, after some time, returned with this countenance?" Gesh replied Wilkes, as he tended his cufflinks. He was then that the supposed imposter returned, planting her feet firmly in the doorframe, and demanding attention. "Yes," said Thomas, "what is it then? Your roaming about the house all morning has accomplished not but wear on the rugs, so I do certainly hope that some sudden burst of insight has emboldened you to dispose of your sham and return once more to wear a verdirt plot. And no doubt poorly maintained between deceptions." "Do you know who I am?" "Fausta, the Hera. My services do not come cheap, and I was not called from my home to be insulted." She turned then. "Do you wish to hear what the spirits have told me, Mr. Wilkes?" Their mutual employer's lips were tight with displeasure, but he nodded his interest. She cleared her throat, and accompanied her speech with swept arms. "Those beyond tell me that there is an ancient box, said to be cursed. They whispered that the boy found it here, in his very house." Blackhall raised his brow sharply, turning to observe the man at his side. "A trinket," said Wilkes, "given to me by one of the natives. I believe they thought it might convince me to let them hold on to this choice puzzle. I'd worked hard to talk the price down, and its location upon the river's prime. I appreciated the trifle, but certainly fell short of persuadingly not to roast them. Besides, some came back seeking employment, and now carry an axe for half the cost." Though he attempted a casual tone, his posture had taken on a notable attention. The ache at Thomas's temples had grown loud, and he rubbed briefly at his brow. Here, however, was firm in her insistence. "You must retrieve the artifact," she said. "Only then can we leave the tent that will forever haunt this house, this entire camp." "There's no bloody curse, and you've no idea what you're dealing with," said Blackhall. "I do require the box, though." Wilkes' increasing stiffness reached a breaking point. "Both of you must remove yourselves immediately," he said. "I would not have summoned you if it weren't for the sturly moans of my lumbermen. But I see now that you wish to muddy the waters further with your lies, in an effort to raise the issue of blackmail, no doubt." Twice now I've been insulted, replied Fausta. "I shall stand this no more, pay my fee, and I shall be away." "Fine," said Wilkes, moving to gather the sum. "No," said Blackhall. In the span of the conversation he'd retrieved a silver chain, at the end of which was latched a hook, whose tip was of an intricate winding construction. "I've no patience today for sorting half-truths and naked lies, so you've left me with little option." Before any response could be mustered, he lay the barb across the deceased's cold flesh and gave a jerk. As if Thomas were pulling a fish from water, the phantom rose from the surface of his body. "Your name?" asked Blackhall. "Jerry Mayhew, sir," said the apparition. Thomas noted Wilkes attempting a slow retreat, but also observed Fausta's immobile frame, blocking the exit. Her eyes were locked on the boy, as if attempting to determine the crux of the trick. And yet there were no strings nor mirrors to account for the cadaver-faced spook. "Well, Jerry Mayhew," said Blackhall, "were you murdered?" It was obvious the phantom was in no small discomfort due to his summoning, but he was eager enough to talk. "They didn't know. I couldn't. My tongue wouldn't work to tell him it was me," the specter replied. I ran up to old Bill, trying to ask after Pa, but he laid me low before I could cork my weeping. "Still, it's murder enough what Mr. Wilkes did to me, tricking me into putting my face inside his cube." His steam spent, the boy's face withered. "Might I return now?" he asked. "Yes," said Blackhall, dropping the chain onto Mayhew's chest. "What? There are still questions to be answered," said Fausta. Wilkes was only feed away from departure, but had been rooted by the display. "The rest," responded Thomas, "I can theorize well enough." He likely came across your name while searching out an answer to the nature of the relic, but held some evidence that you were a fraud, thus leaving you untamped. My guess is that you were hired as a placebo to quiet the anger that rose up after the boy's death. Surely there is some suspicion in the camp. I know, from the man sent to collect me, that I was summoned at the insistence of a vocal minority, likely the same ousted fellows mentioned earlier, with whom I seemed to recall having some dealings in the past. He turned on Wilkes fully, addressing the man directly. Perhaps you thought I too was a counterfeit, or perhaps you were simply unwilling to say no to a rabble of underpaid, whiskey'd hirelings, but you see now your mistake. "Yes," answered the cowering man, "Yes, of course! What is there to be done? How might I rectify my ever?" There was a pause, during which Blackhall collected his traveling goods, arranged his coat, and pocketed his chain. "First, the box," he finally replied. "Of course," said Wilkes, sighing, within moments he returned with a sack which he handed across. Thomas provided a quick inspection, and his practice gaze surmised the authenticity of the piece. "Now what?" asked his anxious host. "There's nothing more for the matter beyond a proper burial. Time will do the rest." Even as he made his reply, Blackhall passed from the parlor. Fausta was hasty to slip-side and allow him passage, but just as rapidly returned to reform her firm stance, and opened with a strong voice harangue regarding her renumeration. With bulky pouch in hand, Thomas retook the veranda, no longer annoyed by the din, but instead simply pleased to be away from the slick meat of Mayhew's corrupted visage. Turning, he spotted the hooligan he suspected had conveyed the camp's whispers to Fausta's ear through a yawning window. With a raised hand, he summoned the delinquent. "Am I wrong to think that you've become recently acquainted with the lay of the mill?" asked Blackhall, holding up a palm heavy with coins. The youth nodded, his eager eyes appearing strikingly like his mother's. "Run then," continued the departing bushman. "Find the father of Jerry Mayhew, and tell him plainly that it was Wilkes's dabbling which left his son so scarred. That the blame for his premature death rests firmly upon this porch." The messenger's heavy pockets jingled as he ran towards the furthest rim of the greenery and into the muck beyond. Having dispatched his career before the boy's parent could be bought fully into silence, Thomas shouldered his load and made for the treeline. Time would do the rest. 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 skier@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]