Part 3 of 6
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, master frontiersman and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall, tells the story of an unlikely race, to a prickly, and improbable, audience.
The Skinner Co. Network
195 - Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 6
[ Music ] Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 195. Tonight, we present Support of Black Haltail, Part 3 of 6. This week's episodes are brought to you by View from Valhalla. Hey, Mary. Mm-hmm. What should I put in my intro? I don't care. Just as long as you don't do the story so far. Yes, I know, but how will my listeners be reminded of what happened so far? Get the episodes out quickly. Yeah, that's the right one talking. Have you fixed your timeline? You know he doesn't like when a story jumps back and forth in time. No, I'm still rewriting the whole thing so that it's not in first-person narrative anymore. And what about your cast? Shut up. View from Valhalla. The website for podcast novel reviews at www.viewfromvalhala.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, Master Frontiersman and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall, tells the story of an unlikely race to a prickly and improbable audience. Support of Black Haltail, Part 3 of 6. Written by Jaredie Skinner, Art and Narration by Popenex, and Audio produced by Jessica May. A further two days of slow travel found Blackhall sitting on the shore of a nameless lake, with the sun strong overhead and his gear resting just above where the gentle slope broke from grass to sand. Tossing a flat stone, he washed its skip once, lose its equilibrium, and disappear below the still surface. His companion, who he'd encountered at the water's edge, swatted aside a horsefly as she awaited an answer. "Yes, Layton was a bit of an odd duck," said Thomas, "but you've got to understand. We do things differently. My thrust, though, isn't so related to his flamboyant perusal of Miss Russell, as it is to your point regarding awe in the world. I agree that the dying time is no pleasant business, and it does my hard violence to see your like fading and twisted. But there remains much to find wonder in. The day I departed the Layton's farmstead, for instance, the boy asked me to partake of an odd ritual with the intention of soothing his mother, who is ill with a long sickness and complains bitterly of the heat. Trying another cast, Thomas lost count of the hops before his platter exhausted its speed and sank. The wooded approach to the shore had been burnt low some seasons previous, and a meadow had appeared in the timber's stead. At the tree-line, which black all guessed to be a hundred yards off, a row of sentinels, their weasel heads bobbing and weaving, kept careful watch on their queen's temperament. He did not relish the idea of irritating the half-dozen sharp tooth-fishers that constituted her honor guard, and he made firm effort to demonstrate his relaxed posture. We trumped over the fields and through the forest, continued black all. Layton had grown up amongst those stands, and, as we trekked, he explained that he was but a lad when his father had come across our destination while hunting deer meat against an approaching winter. Two hours' work brought us to a hillock, and an increasingly sharp climb. Near the apex stood a black opening, and within, a cave. It was a slippery navigation, largely downward, but as we came to a point where I thought we'd lose the last of the light filtering in from the mouth, he stopped. We'd come to a branch in the tunnel, and the main body of the shaft became vertical in orientation, so that it was impossible to explore it further without rope, lantern, and courage. Fortunately, our objective lay in the other possibility, a gentle sloping portal of perhaps twenty feet in length, which terminated as neatly at its end as if it had been pressed into the rock with a chisel. Even in the dim, the floor glittered. Thomas paused to let fly with another projectile, and to attempt to gauge his audience's level of interest. It was difficult to judge the disposition of such an entity, but, as Wolverine or Forest Spirit, sourthistle's attention seemed to be firmly upon his recounting. She nodded at him, and he finished the story. It was cold below. An extended stay would have lost me my nose, but it was certainly not mystic in nature. It was the simple work of dark and stone and depth. After some time and clever consideration on how to utilize the frosty cavern, they had taken into carrying out buckets of spring water to fill the pockmarked divots in the slab floor. At first as a novelty, and then, when Mother Layton fell ill, as a method of easing the woman's pains. Ending me a canvas sack, he located a hammer they'd left for convenience, and started pounding at the icy pools. Soon we were both well-weighted, and young Layton gave me a broad grin. "Usually," he said, "I managed to chill a pitcher large only enough for Mother. Perhaps now that I have your assistance, Father might also find relief from the heat. Although, given your aged legs, you may only get enough for a sip or two by the time you arrive." With that, the boy made off running, leaving behind the echo of his laughter. "Yeah, I was grinning too when we broke from the entrance and onto the hillside. I'm a man who, by his nature, must move through the bush with a careful eye. My belly depends upon it. I'd forgotten what it was to stretch my limbs and test my reflexes against the blur of suddenly rearing spruce and stony outcroppings. My boots felt as if they were moving faster than my feet, and while rampaging down the rugged slope, I knew I might upend for a rather brutal descent. But it did little to slow my pace. Layton had youth and familiarity with the root, but I've seen my share of turf, and our chase was a good one. He'd taken us in at a leisurely pace, and I realized then that he'd been saving our muscle for the challenge of the return. By the end of the marathon, my focus was not to put branches, cramping thighs, and a spreading chill across my back, where the load had rested for the majority of the endeavor. Half the hall melted, and went to slate, the thirst of the plants along the way. But it is a difficult thing to describe the reward I found in the pleasure which overtook Ma Layton's voice as she accepted her ice water. The thought of the woman, dying there in her little room, but so overjoyed at a chill on her throat, was a satisfaction, and a wonderment, which moved me, and had not to do with the unnatural. Sarathistle nodded, her eyes alive with an intelligence which seemed to Thomas, eerie against the savage form in which she'd manifested. "I see your point, Mr. Blackhall," said the Wolverine, in gut-ruled dancing tones. Sarathistle scratched at an ear. "Who won the race?" It was a near thing, but I'd say our contributions were equal. "Come, come," chuckled the beast. Thomas snorted at his own pride. "He made first fall on plowed field, but I was but an arm's length behind." Sarathistle snapped her snout twice, and assumed what appeared to Blackhall to be a smile. "You have been honest with me, sir," she said, "and I hold your actions in honor, although I somewhat lament the loss of a quality meal." "You've obviously strayed far to find me here." "So ask now what you—" Her rasping words were cut short by the descent of a broad-winged harrier, which landed on the grasses near to its mistress, and commenced trotting on its clawed feet as it squawked its news. Its message delivered, the bird again took flight, heading rapidly eastward. Blackhall saw the sentinels on the hill begin running then, moving to be by the side of their queen, even if they did not yet have orders. It was all a loss, however. As they decamped, a roaring hum filled the air. A buck burst from the forest edge, swathed in a layer of damp, writhing ebony. As Thomas watched, it seemed to first shrink, then collapse in a skeletal heap. For a moment, he longed with the dark of the cave to hide in. 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 stumbled ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled ♪ (upbeat music)