Part 1 of 1
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Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, encounters a practitioner of dark artifice while awaiting transportation.
The Skinner Co. Network
171 - The Conjurer: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1
[music] Welcome to FlashPalled, episode 171. Tonight, we present The Conjurer, a black-haul tale, Part 1 of 1. This week's episodes are brought to you by The Barlesson Things podcast. [music] Hi, kids. Think of us as the creepy clowns that stand in the corner at your birthday party, making amazingly lame balloon animals out of extra large condoms. Lubricated, of course. Weird news, strange people, queer thoughts. Available on iTunes and Stitcher Smart Radio, bothersomethings.com. [music] 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, encounters a practitioner of dark artifice while awaiting transportation. The Conjurer, a black-haul tale, Part 1 of 1. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, an audio produced by Jessica Mer. [music] At the edge of an eastern district dock sat three men awaiting the craft they'd been assured would arrive to take them further westward, out of the civilized portions of Upper Canada, and passed the expanses labeled only as "great tract of woodland" on even the most recent of the new Queen's maps. The traveler, who'd introduced himself as Mr. Phillips, a rough-faced farmer who tended a plot of land deep in the shadows of the black spruce, was winding down a protracted telling and wiping a rag across the damp slick at the base of his neck. Despite that I'd suckled it from the day my musket knocked down its mother, the beast ate up my swine. Energetic from its meal and free its leash, it mightily walloped the interior of my barn, then collapsing the lumber made its way into the bush country. You can see, sir, that raising a bear is no light business. His companion in conversation, a heavy-set gatabout, whose groomed sideburns stretched to meet his masterfully crafted mustache above a strong but barren chin, her rumphed before responding. While your point is certainly well taken, I have a long history of probingly improbable and producing anything which was thought impossible. That is not certainly to imply that I have any intention of cultivating a cup of my own, but I do dare say that the act would be well within the capabilities of Abraham Warwick, Condor, Exerciser and Occamage. He bowed slightly at the completion of his delivery, but not so far as to upset the position of his towering beaver-pelt top hat. "A man of supernatural knowledge," replied the homesteader, "surely banter idly." "Then what of this?" reposted the claimant, tapping his headwear with a flourish, then sweeping his arm to display its empty state to his pair of audience members. Replacing it upon his paint, he drummed at its surface a second time and once again removed it, bowing low. From the interior brim peered three white mice, whose red eyes dodged about keenly and his pink noses worked vigorously at the breeze. Atop the stout barrel he'd been utilizing as a resting place during their shared vigil, Thomas Blackhall found he was no longer willing to maintain his silence. "It's been my experience," he said. "Those who practice magic are oft like politicians. There's a rare thing to meet an honest one, and most accomplish their goals not through the truth they attempt to present, but instead with nimble fingers and deft lies." "Well," replied Philip's, "I thought it was quite extraordinary." Thomas waved off a persistent black fly. "It's obviously trained the vermin to nest in his hair," Blackhall paused to bite at his thumbnail and temper his language. "How long the hush lasted in this swampy heat before you finally told us of your departed ruin. Consider, too, where those beasts must be marking their business." "Oh, Tis no concern if the beauties are conjured from around beyond," huffed Warwick. The farmer nodded in agreement. "Seems a shoddy mystical dimension to be infected so greatly with rodents," replied the still-seeded frontiersman. The self-proclaimed warlock leaned forward, saying, "And what of this thing?" With a snap he seemed to pluck a twelve-pence piece from just behind the ear of the plowman. "Well, goodness," exclaimed Philip's. Warwick pocketed the coin. "Surely," began Thomas, but the crop around it on him. "You speak quite rudely to a man who's shown us not one, but two great works, and only since our approach to this shoddy jettie. Might I trouble you for what credentials you claim in impuming the sage's proofs?" For if you are more than some deserting rabble from the continental army, it is not apparent from your stained appearance or briseled words. The heat had shown no mercy to Blackhall's public countenance, and he knew it. Still, the reality was that he'd had plenty of opportunity to witness Warwick's sleight of hand upon the porch of the king's inn, and he'd already run short of patience for the shounen, who he considered little better than a vagrant sharper. Swadding at Philip's ear as if "to shoe a fly," the magician produced another shilling. "To only seems fair that we split the profits over and counter, could serve," he said, placing it in his supporter's hand. Thomas stood. "I will show you something truly fantastic. But first, we must make a trade. You are flush with coinage. Mayhaps from a local card table? Whatever the case, I ask you to entrust it to me." "I promise I will not move beyond your sight." After a moment's hesitation, Philip's complied. Blackhall quickly stripped off his coat and sword, laying all in a great heat beside his travel sack. Our quest also, that you keep this scoundrel well away from my supplies while I'm below the surface. He knew the simple mention ought to be enough to guard against the potential thief, who would fear suspicion upon himself. Without waiting to reply, Thomas grasped the sack of currency tightly in his offhand and jumped into the cool waters, whose depth covered his own height by some two feet. As he descended, he placed the stone, which he wore upon a rawhide strand about his neck, under his tongue. The occult charm left him breathing easily, and he was relieved to be away from the conversation and swelter. He gave an approving hand sign to his spectators, who motioned a reply, and he made ready to wait as he was gently rocked by the languid current. Finally, when his eyes made contact with the churn of the approaching barge, he surfaced. "I agree that you, too, have talents, for which I have no explanation," said the farmer, tucking away his returned bounty as the swimmer dried himself in the boat-journeer. "But, in truth, you've both shown me things which, until today, I would have thought not possible. Who am I to say that a never-ending stay within the river is somehow better than an unending supply of wealth?" As the man spoke, Blackhall retrieved a small vial from within his wares. "Fine," he said. Warwick took on a look, as if he were preparing to present yet another trick, but before he could act, Thomas threw down the glass tube, shattering it upon the wooden planking. As a small pop emanated from within, the hurler uttered three guttural consonants. The hat of the conderer, Exerciser, and Archimage, was suddenly a flame. There was a brief panic, as the width of the landing was crossed twice, and then the blazing apparel was cast into the stream. Amongst its former wares, singed strands, the mice chitter, scurrying furiously about their limited plateau. Thomas finished dressing. As the transport secured its wriggings, its passengers waited a time in silence, one puzzling, one frowning, and one suppressing a rare smirk. "Excuse my curiosity, but why did you require my funds?" asked Phillip, as they boarded. Partly as collateral to secure my own belongings against theft, but also to keep your limited fortune from subtle pinches. It's not an inexhaustible income if its source is the pocket of the same baffled admirer from behind whose ear the tender seems to be produced. Worry not, however, you'll have plenty of opportunity to count your claim and even the tab as we go. I doubt Warwick has much choice about awaiting a later birth, as it is likely the townsfolk will soon be considering the state of their own purses. The red cheek hustler made no interjection. It would be a slow crawl up the river, but Blackhall found himself quite amused throughout. Flashpulp is presented by http colon slash slash Skinner dot FM. The audio and text formats of Flashpulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. [Music]