Part 1 of 1
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Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself in conversation with a man of many complaints.
The Skinner Co. Network
207 - The Settler: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp, Episode 207. Tonight, we present The Settler, a Black Haltail, Part 1 of 1. This week's episodes are brought to you by Asunder. Twenty years after the American Civil War, former slave Marcus Riggs found himself trapped in a British harbor after the invaders came to enslave all mankind. They came, they conquered, they die. Out of the ashes, new orders struggle to rule the former empires of earth, but the invaders aren't completely beaten, only biting their time. Asunder, written and performed by John Meera, learn more at ServingWorld.com. 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 himself in conversation with a man of many complaints. The Settler, a Black Haltail, Part 1 of 1, written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Poponex, and audio produced by Jessica May. Blackhall had spent the evening warming a mug of beer between his hands and covertly intruding upon the conversation of the braying crowd that filled the bucking pony's ground floor. Some were regulars, some were passers-by who'd entered to escape the rain, but most had found the keeper's whiskey both cheap and delicious. Although he'd sought some telling of strange occurrences, which might once again put him on the path to his beloved Mary, mundane stories were all he encountered. It was the delivery of a particularly boisterous young man to which his ear continuously returned. The lads, seated with three companions, had lamented, loudly, on the topic of his ill fortune, and to Thomas's eye, his friends seemed to be growing weary of his keening. As two were many others who shared the room and wished only a reasonable din. Standing, Blackhall moved to the last of the seats adjoining their squared tabletop and nodded his introduction to the group of strangers. With a wave to the barman, he indicated a further round of drink, while himself abstaining in light of his still half-full stein. "I could not help but overhear your concerns," said Blackhall to the sorrowful man. "And it sounds as if your father drives you sorely." "What name do you go by?" "Amen." "Amen, herstad." "And you, sir?" "Call me Thomas." "Well, Amen, is my understanding correct that you feel your paw works you too hard?" "Without consideration of compensation?" "Yes, sir, that is correct. Do you propose some solution?" "Perhaps. Perhaps not." "You are the eldest, and these are your brothers?" asked Blackhall, appraising the cluster of similarly slack-jawed and tangled hair individuals, which tolerated the cacophonous malcontent. "Yes, sir," again replied the oldest herstad. Thomas lifted his hops, wetting his throat. "In truth, your situation puts me in mind of a tale I was told is true, not long after my first extended stay in the colony's closest approximation of civilization. I heard it from a gayly-dressed lady of fine taste, who swore to its veracity." The silent trio ruled their eyes, and young Amen seemed peaked by the mention of a topic, not pertaining directly to his own misery, but the frontiersmen found a comfortable posture and pressed on. There was a boy of eighteen, some years younger than yourself, I might say, who wished the hand of a tailor's daughter. While the maiden in question reddened at the mention of the lad, and though her lips could not help but smile at his name, the tailor himself was less than enthused about the bond, and quashed it at every chance. The clothesmaker had also once sewn crops, and while his occupation did nothing to stiny his growing belly, his arms remained thick with childhood exercise. As such, his disposition was quite imposing, and brooked little argument, especially from one so willowy as the country-quarter. When the youth approached to breach the subject with his intended father-in-law, with scowling face and bulging physique, the man replied, "What do you have to offer? You're a farmer without land." It was the reality that the suitor had been raised on his parents' stead, and they'd had some success there, in no small part due to the Swain's exertion, although he had no claim to it. Returning from town he did not mourn his defeat, but instead pulled together what coin and chattel he had secured, and invested wisely in a neighbour's beef efforts. His days were long, as they were split between responsibilities to his parents, and tending his own cattle speculations; but after much wheat was harvested, and many cows butchered, the boy found himself with enough for a parcel of his own. It was a hoary bit of earth, but he knew he could tame it, if only he might have his bride next to him. A cow could see, by the postures of the gathered, that the hook had been set, and so he removed the Spanish papers he carried at all times, and began to stuff one with Virginian tobacco. Again he returned to the tailor, this time with his freshly-inked deed in hand. "You have bettered your circumstances, perhaps," replied the patriarch, with an unsettled display of his muscled constitution. "But surely you cannot propose to live in such a wild wood." With the tears of his beloved audible from the adjoining room, the boy nodded and left. Thomas paused to light his cigarette from the guttering lamp at the table-centre, then continued. From there the twice-rebutted bow journeyed to his lot, stopping solely to purchase a fresh axe-head and three stout handles. When completed his seasonal duties, the prospective husband put wedge to timber, and, despite winter's harsh approach, cleared his acreage before the snows. Though his limbs ached at the effort, spring found a fresh glade, wide enough to sow, where once a force had prevailed, and, at the midpoint of said meadow, stood a large bode crafted from a portion of the collected lumber. There yet, after keeping back what he would require to fuel his stove, the industrious homesteader made profit on the rest of the wood by way of local trade, and turned his earnings into a plow, oxen, and a yields' worth of seed. Thus supported, he returned to wait a third and final time in the outfitter's parlor. There was a delay, and the hopeful lad could hear his intended arguing strenuously in his favour. The debate ended in a flat slap. There was a heavy tread in the hall, and the broad tailor entered to say simply, "Leave." No longer content, however, was the youth who'd endured so much affliction. Neither was he the same lanky adolescent who had completed so many months previous. The patient bachelor had taken on respectable brawn during his efforts, which, when combined with his outrage at his darling's maltreatment, it was enough that the threat of conflict ceased to be a concern. With a single motion, he sprung from his place of waiting and laid low the hands he clothier. The daughter was quick to follow him from the house. As was the custom of the place, Thomas dropped the remains of his vice amongst the sudsy drags of his draft. It was the farmer's single life long act of violence, or so I was told by his wife. Blackhall smiled to note that it was not only his small nod of listeners who had taken in the account, as the general clamor of the room seemed to rise again at its completion. "So then," said Ayman, his face grimacing, "your advice is that I strain so hard I impress my taskmaster into submission, or is it that I wallop my father?" "No, you misunderstand," said Thomas. "In this tale, you are the lout tailor. Provided with the entirety of which you might demand, you move beyond what is rational and require the ridiculous. As the eldest, your familial plot will one day be your own. Still, given the totality of what you could need, you will lose everything for no longer not receiving all you could want. Yes, perhaps it is rough work, but your wine is that of the spoiled child unwilling to straighten his silk-laden bed as those nearby slumber in the mud. That got a chuckle out of the quiet triad, which, to Blackhall's thinking, was reward enough for his recital. He rose from his chair. 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. (upbeat music) (upbeat music)