Content warnings for this episode include: Violence, Death + Injury, Birds, Static (including sfx), Drowning, Bugs, Body horror, Brain Death/Coma, Shipwreck, Stitches
The Interrogation - What of You
Nikignik
So that is it.
Auditor
Your judgment will be completed soon.
Nikignik
Who is my judge?
Auditor
He who judges all souls.
Nikignik
I expected as much.
Auditor
Farewell.
Nikignik
What of you?
Auditor
Clarify.
Nikignik
What will become of you? Now that you have gotten what you wanted.
Auditor
I rest until I am needed again.
Nikignik
Can I make a recommendation?
Auditor
I cannot guarantee I will follow it.
Nikignik
Try to dream. Just to see what it’s cracked up to be. You might see a little of that vast universe. You might understand a little more what it looks like beyond the confines of this place.
Auditor
I have never tried.
Nikignik
It is easier than you think.
Story 1 - Island of Bones
The darkness did not pass quickly. And that freezing, swirling shadow had been so bitter and seemingly endless that Buck had almost mistaken it for hell itself. But eventually, it did end, and there was a first note of pink light that separated the sky from the ocean, and it was only then when the dawn came that he knew he was still alive, even as they drifted in devastation.
The East Wind, for its titanic size, had taken surprisingly little time to sink beneath the surface of the Atlantic. The sudden impact of the Little David had buckled into its rusted hull, and the impact of its explosive armament had lit up the storm in a frenzy of flame. And then it was shrieking metal and groaning supports, the scaffolds twisting as the cargo crates they contained broke free, spilling off the sides of the ship. Some of this he had seen, some he had only predicted and then heard and felt. His calculations and predictions were clear—that the odds of surviving such a catastrophe were slim, let alone for someone who had never properly learned to swim, and that by all accounts the hungry Atlantic should be feasting on his bones.
It was not a lifeboat that shielded them now from the ocean rolling around them, but a dark island of inky black flesh. He could see through its surface several feet, enough to spy the bones caught in the miasma, the ghost fires that burned in the eyes of a hundred assorted skulls. He worried that at any moment, it might lapse around his fingers and pull him into the surface and he might suffocate and dissolve in there as he was sure many before had, and yet the surface of the jelly remained firm, buoyant, cradling Buck and his family several feet over the surface of the waves.
Shocked and breathless, trying to recover some warmth from the frigid rush of the ocean around them, were Marco and Brooklyn, holding Hope between them. Dashiell Spade, trenchcoat drenched and cigars ruined, dark hair streaked against his face. And similarly huddled together, the false duchesses, Yaretzi and the Countess, a strange union—a dark wing, a furred forearm, wrapped together. They drifted atop the island of jelly and bone, mist and rain pattering the surface of the ocean around them, and they were surrounded by the shadows of crates and shipping containers, barrels and buoys, the wreckage of a hundred lives aboard the East Wind. And they breathed and shivered in silence until that first light broke the spell of death as well as the quiet.
“Are they all dead,” said Buck.
“No,” said Yaretzi. “There are others, drifting. We will not be the only survivors of this voyage.”
“We may wish that we were,” said the Countess. “Depending on who makes it.”
“I cannot believe that you would still cling to whatever grudge has bound you to this,” said Buck, turning towards the Countess, and her dark eyes studied him as he shifted on Mort’s fleshy surface. “In the wake of this calamity I cannot imagine wishing for more death. It is over. Finished.”
“It is never finished,” said the Countess, eyes narrow. “Sometimes it is quiet, for a while. But that is the truth of it, detective. Whatever you are running from, it will find you. It always comes knocking again.”
“In time,” growled Yaretzi. The sun was a pink light in both her dark eyes, tinged the gold of her irises. “But there is peace. We have known it. We had it, for a time. We will have it again. When we arrive.”
“We’ll find that nice house by the beach,” said the ocean of shadow and bone beneath Buck. “And we’ll be happy together for a long time.”
“That sounds nice,” said Hope, and she looked up to Marco and Brooklyn, and to Buck. “Will we have a house by the beach?”
“I don’t know what we’ll have,” said Brooklyn. “Everything we had, it’s lost. If we make it to France it’s with only the clothes on our backs. All our papers, all our plans…”
“Wouldn’t be for the first time,” said Marco.
“No,” said Brooklyn. “I guess not.”
“Nor for me,” said Buck. “My loves, I think we will find that it all falls into place for us. If we survive and no one gets hypothermia, that is.”
“Hey everyone?” said Hope, peering ahead. “I think I see something.”
“I can hear it,” said Dashiell. “Listen. The waves have changed.”
The mist that hovered over the surface of the deep gave way to curling fragments, and the black disc of jelly and bone floated them ever closer, until Buck too could make out what lay ahead.
Between the pink of the sky and the dark ocean, a black sliver of coastline. Waves crashing against rock, and the remains of the East Wind drifting steadily towards the shore.
“Everyone,” said Buck. “Welcome to Europe.”
Story 2 - Two Halves
When she awoke, she was not herself.
She did not recognize the sensations running through her skin, or the rumpled bed she had woken up in, or the incredible thirst that permeated her. The world was a blinding haze in those first unpleasant moments.
She stretched, and yawned, and felt her bones and teeth all pop and stretch; things aligned in her arms and shoulders and back that felt good. The haze, the white scream of the world outside, began to sort itself into discernable sounds. The shrill piping songs of birds, the rasping of frogs, humming insects. The sounds of a forest, and she knew that forest was home.
There were footsteps, and the door cracked open, and the concept of other people suddenly manifested as a face peeked in through the doorway. And the face, too, she recognized.
“Good morning,” said Clara. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”
She opened her mouth to speak in the same way, but her throat was full of dust and her voice was empty.
“It’s alright,” said Clara, a big apron over her dress, eyes magnified several times in her thick glasses. “Don’t push yourself. You’re safe here. There will be time to explain everything.”
“Otter,” she managed.
“Ah. You’re thirsty. I imagine you are. But I suggest waiting a few hours to eat or drink. Give your system some time to wake up. I’m not sure if I missed anything.”
“Clara,” she said.
“Yes,” said Clara. “Gosh. I didn’t think you’d be able to speak for days. But quiet wouldn’t suit you, somehow. The others are outside, Shelby and Percy. They’ll be there when you’re ready. How are you feeling? Nothing painful or bursting or tearing?”
She moved, used her arms to push herself from the bed and her bare feet slid out from the sheets to thump on the floor. The floorboards had a different texture than the soft folds of the covers; rough and satisfying.
“Oh you should absolutely stay and rest-,” Clara began, but by then she had stood up, and her world went all white and red flashes as blood moved in her head, and she fell to her knees. Clara was beside her then, trying to help her stay stable, trying to help her back into the bed, but she couldn’t go there—she shuffled forward, Clara reluctantly helping with a hand on her arm, until she made it to where a mirror looked over the room. The glass was in good shape; only cracked in one place. And she sat there on her knees, studied the person on the other side.
Her face was pale, and freckled, and somewhat round. Her hair was shaved short, and it showed off the shape of her skull. Her eyes verged between blue and grey. These she recognized. What she did not recognize were the delicate lines of stitches that ran across the bridge of her nose, across her cheekbones, around her neck, down the center of her chest.
“Who?” she said.
“I don’t know,” said Clara. She could see Clara’s reflection in the mirror too, standing behind her, hands folded. “Last night, you were Riot Maidstone. She was someone who would do anything to protect the people she cared about, even if it meant leaving the safety of an underground bunker or driving across the country or going into the arctic knowing she wouldn’t be coming back. Last night you were Clementine Maidstone, who as I understand is a detective trying to help people in Scout City. Last night you were a ghost and a dying girl. And after years of trying to find a way to put Riot back together, I brought you both into the Compact. I’d found what I was missing.
That the Compact is a business arrangement, and nothing is ever free in business. To buy a life, there’s equal life paid, and interest, and terms and conditions. And since neither of you would allow the other’s soul to be sacrificed so that you could come back, you each paid in half. So I don’t know who you are; whether you’re Riot or Clementine or someone entirely new. I can tell you that your body is mostly Riot’s, although I’ve had to make some alterations. Diggory Graves had runes and charms written into them, to keep their body from degrading. Yours was on a table for nearly fifteen years; I’ve had to do something similar. The difference is, if I’ve done this all right, you’re alive. Not just possessing your body, but… growing. Living. You should have a pulse. A heartbeat.”
She sat in the mirror for a long moment, watching herself move, breath, blink. And then the earth began to shake; dust tumbled from the ceiling rafters, and the mirror slipped from its nail and shattered, and the world screamed again with sound.
The Tapes - Words
Clementine
There’s a note from Shelby in here. Things are about to get real complicated here for us and I don’t know what I’m going to do about that. What we’re going to do.
I remember the day that mom left us. She never went anywhere, but it was in her soul. It was the day that you walked out of the Scoutpost, and out of her life, and out of mine, and neither of us were the same. And nothing is going to be how you left it, when you come back. It never really is.
But some things are still the same. She still loves you. She still loves me, deep down. Scout City is still full of good people who are trying their best. People grow older, like the trees, but the forest is still the same. And you will always be my sister. I’m leaving you my last case. All the notes are there, all the documents. I’m leaving you Shelby. Don’t break her heart or I will kill you from the afterlife, or from half of you, or wherever or whatever I am. I love her. Maybe you will too, whoever you are now.
I think that’s all I have for you. That wraps Clementine Maidstone’s series on How to be a detective in Scout City. Good luck, kid. And I won’t be far - you’ll see a little of me, I think, every time you catch yourself in the mirror. Bye, sis. See you on the flip side.
Story 2, Continued - Two Halves
She walked out of the gravelike door of the bedroom, and trailed white linen clothes and the bedsheet as she did. Clara had stepped fast ahead of her, out the front door. The floor was filled with pots and pans and rusted toys and other things she had knocked down from the rafters days before, and they parted on either side of her feet as she walked. There was only one person in here, standing by the kitchen table.
“Shelby,” she said. That she remembered.
“Hey,” said Shelby, who was a dark-haired woman, who looked like she had not slept. One of her wrists ended early and was wrapped in fabric. “How are you feeling?”
“Empty,” she said.
“There are some things for you,” said Shelby, and she gestured to the table, where a little yellow tape recorder sat, along with a few letters and a case of tapes. “Clementine recorded tapes. You can listen, when you want. But in the meantime, I think you have a visitor, outside.”
She crossed the room and took the yellow tape recorder in her hand. Its plastic surface, the buttons with their symbols, was familiar. She hung it around her neck on its cord, and paused for a moment near Shelby. There were tears forming in the woman’s eyes, and she raised her hand, brushed Shelby’s cheek with her thumb. And then she skipped, with tape recorder and sheet trailing, for the door.
There were three people outside. Two were on the porch; Clara, who she could see very well, and someone she remembered as Percy, who she could not. And beyond them both, winding its way through the trees, was a shape that was not familiar; it was a building of gold and glass and brass, towering windows and arches and doors, section after section of an elaborate museum. Where its golden shells did not quite touch the ground, she could see dozens of pointed legs of the giant bug that carried it. The museum rested in the morning light, hissing steam from a dozen vents as its winding structures eased down to settle on the forest floor completely.
Both Percy and Clara were watching a person descend from a long ramp, stepping down towards the forest floor. They were tall, with black boots with buckles nearly to their knees. Their black leather jacket had long spikes on the shoulders, and was repaired and embroidered with patterns in red—beetles and skulls and anatomically correct hearts. Their fingertips were long and black and sharp. Their face was, like hers, run through with stitches, although with several deep scars that surrounded the empty socket of one eye, as if crossed out.
“Hello,” said Diggory Graves, and they seemed to be focused on her. “Clementine Maidstone, 2051 to 2065, promised her partner that she was fine, when she knew that she was dying. We have come to gather her remains, and to welcome you to the world.”
“What claim do you have to her body?” said Clara.
“It is our duty at the Museum of Broken Promises,” said Diggory, and bowed their head a little. “And I was a friend.”
“You can have it,” she said, speaking up and loud, finding the words more or less whole within her. And Diggory and Clara, Percy and Shelby were all watching her then.
“But nobody go anywhere,” she continued, and smiled, stretched her stitches. “I have a lifetime to catch up on.”
Story 3 - The End of Spring
Puck found the perfect spot. You wanted sunlight, to warm your wings, but not too hot or for too long. So a sun-dappled place, one where the light filtered through the tops of the eternal pines, whispered in the oak leaves. It was a grassy bank, and it looked out on a lake. The black water was almost a perfect mirror for the sky, painting trees and clouds and the blue morning in its reflection. They sat against a fallen log, and listened to the wind sing, and the forest’s voice in each of its animals. Their parcel of mushrooms was full; a colorful harvest of shelves and puffs and stalks.
Above all, in the lake beyond, there were the sleepers. Puck did not know their names; while they had grown up with the familiar prophets that dreamed in Lurch Lake, that was in the roots of the Lower Trunk, and no good for being left alone. Puck could see those fairy lights in their eyes drifting beneath the water as the sleepers stirred or were moved by the currents, but could not from here hear their whispers or prophecies. Good things, Puck hoped. Quiet afternoons full of peace and sunlight. Big mushrooms growing in places no one but Puck had thought to look.
There was a sound, and they looked up suddenly; a single note had blasted over the forest. It was somber and golden, louder than any griffocaugh or huntcaller bird. Which direction it came from, Puck was not sure, although if they had to guess, there were cursed ruins not too far away; a site where the forest had avoided so much as touching the ground, and a great burned building sat in ruin across from an abandoned stone chapel. It was of course of no interest to Puck, as no forest meant no mushrooms.
But eventually, the sound quieted, and the wind and the forest was all there was, and Puck smiled, and closed their eyes, and soaked in the sun. These were always beautiful days, at the beginning of summer in the Hallowoods.
The Conversation - Tell Me a Story
Nikignik
Would you like it to be quick? Or to give you time?
Marolmar
I would like it slow. As slowly as you can. And I’d like if you told me a story. I liked your stories, back in the day. I’ve liked listening to them again.
Nikignik
What would you like a story about?
Marolmar
Anything at all.
The bonus story that goes with this episode is called 'File 1: Diggory Graves', and is available on Patreon.com/hallowoods. Because Hello From The Hallowoods is created without advertising or sponsors, we rely on patronage to make this show possible!
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