Episode 2.11: Light and Fury
Written and Produced by Rae Lundberg
Content Warnings (Click to expand)
Severe injury, screams, distorted voices, food and drink fx
NICHOLAS: (as the intro plays) At the edge of Gilt City, shuddering bone chimes break the stillness, and all await the arrival of the Night Post. [INTERIOR OF A SMALL DINER: CLATTER OF DISHES, PEOPLE TALKING AND EATING.] VAL: Hey. I’m late. [VAL’S JACKET RUSTLES AS SHE TAKES A SEAT IN THE BOOTH.] CLEMENTINE: As in, “sorry I’m late?” VAL: Not really. [VAL GRABS THE COFFEE CARAFE AND POURS HERSELF A CUP.] VAL: This isn’t decaf, is it? CLEMENTINE: No, not today. [A LONG PAUSE AS VAL POURS SUGAR INTO HER COFFEE AND STIRS.] CLEMENTINE: I wasn’t sure you’d come at all. VAL: Yeah, well...I like breakfast. Though I doubt this place can hold a hoof to the Broken Antler. CLEMENTINE: Save the review until you’ve tried it. They have excellent pastries. VAL: (picking up menu) Five dollar pastries. What am I, the Governor’s new wife? CLEMENTINE: This part of town is a bit pricier. I probably wouldn’t have thought to come here if Will hadn’t introduced me. VAL: Ah. That explains it. [ANOTHER PAUSE, AS THOUGH THEY’RE BOTH WARY OF WHAT THE OTHER MIGHT SAY NEXT.] CLEMENTINE: Anyway, I thought we should clear the air. You know, after the other night-- SERVER: Morning, babes. Y’all ready to order? CLEMENTINE: Uh... VAL: Sure. CLEMENTINE: Yes, please. SERVER: If I remember right, you want the fruit bowl with yogurt. CLEMENTINE: Hah, I guess I’m predictable. SERVER: Nothing wrong with that. Where’s your usual friend? CLEMENTINE: Oh, she, um, she-- VAL: (pointed) Just me today. SERVER: Of course, hon. What’ll you have? VAL: Two slices of rye toast, and um...six eggs, over easy. Thanks. [THE SERVER’S FOOTSTEPS TRAIL AWAY.] VAL: (dry) Wow. CLEMENTINE: What? VAL: Nothing, just--I figured we’d be meeting on neutral ground, or whatever. CLEMENTINE: What, like we’re at war? VAL: At least they didn’t mistake me for your usual friend. CLEMENTINE: Come on, Val. You just got here. Let’s not start like this. VAL: You’re right. Sorry. Just tired, I guess. (sips coffee) You were saying? CLEMENTINE: Just, um...well, we both said some things that were out of line… VAL: Agreed. CLEMENTINE: And there was no need for us to argue, because, really...we were both right. The Skelter is full of mysteries, but we have to be wary of the dangers it presents. VAL: (scoffs) You sound like an after-school special: The More You Know About Eldritch Horrors. CLEMENTINE: I’m just saying, everyone who lives here has to decide for themselves how their lives relate to this land. VAL: And I’m just saying that you, Clementine--pigeon and descendant of pigeons--shouldn’t relate to it at all. It’ll kill you, if history is anything to go by. CLEMENTINE: I appreciate that you worry for me-- VAL: (interrupting) Clem-- CLEMENTINE: But I have to do what feels right to me. You understand, don’t you? VAL: And does it...feel right? CLEMENTINE: I-- VAL: I haven’t heard much about your life lately. That’s not a judgment, I just--I always thought we-- (heavy exhale) I’m so tired, Clem. I used to be able to step away from all of it at the end of a shift, but now...it’s this burden I can’t set down. I hear these letters out of nowhere, night and day, and I just want some way to make it stop. I thought, maybe we’re all going through it, maybe this thing’s in all our heads and I’m not just losing my grip. (pause) Does it really feel right to you? Because it doesn’t feel right at all to me. CLEMENTINE: If you want to know whether things have changed for me, whether I’ve changed...the answer is yes. I’m tired too. A lot has happened to me that was scary and painful, that I don’t understand. But I want to understand. I want to keep going, even though I’m tired, because I hope to find answers at the end. If the land is speaking to me, I want to hear it. There must be a reason why I was chosen for this. (long pause) What, no comment? VAL: No, I...that’s pretty much what I thought you’d say. (pause) Can I read something to you? CLEMENTINE: A letter? VAL: Yeah. (unfolding letter) You remember Alma and Maria, the sisters who moved their mother to the city because she was seeing ghosts? We, uh--read one of their letters before. CLEMENTINE: I think so. VAL: Well, Alma posted another letter yesterday--their old house where Maria lives is on my route, you know--and I felt it...calling to me. CLEMENTINE: So you opened it, of course. VAL: I didn’t have to open it, but I thought this would be less weird than--just listen, okay? This is what I came to tell you. CLEMENTINE: This is what--you know what, it...it’s fine. If that’s what’s important to you. VAL: Okay. (clears throat) [THE NOISE OF THE DINER FADES AWAY AS VAL BEGINS TO READ.] VAL: (reading) Dear Maria, I know it’s been a while since my last update. I wish you at least had a landline out there--it’s been hard to find the time to sit down and write all this out. Maybe once the area is incorporated, you’ll get cell coverage and we can talk every day. Mom would like that, and it would be good for her--these days, she doesn’t have much interest in talking to the living. I persuaded her to see a counselor, but he wouldn’t take her seriously, and she refused to go back. I’m too embarrassed to go myself. We thought living in the heart of the city would get Mom away from her old friends, but they’re here too...only everyone shuts their eyes to the things they can’t explain. Not me, though. Not anymore. I’ve been doing my own research, trying to find some answers beyond “spirits aren’t real” and “make a salt barrier if you don’t want them in your house.” The thing haunting our apartment is real enough, though I still don’t know whether it could actually be our father. Mom is convinced it is, but it doesn’t talk to me the way it apparently talks to her. I kind of wish it would. Between the deniers in the city and the faithful in the Skelter who accept without question, it’s been hard going finding any useful information. Then, a week ago, I heard an ad on the radio that felt like it was meant for me. (radio static) You probably haven’t heard it--I know you don’t get many stations where you are--but it’s this strange, lilting voice, kind of soft, kind of smug, talking about their new congregation and the world we can’t see. Honestly, I don’t remember much of what it said, just the mesmeric quality of the voice and the excitement I felt in finding someone who claimed to have the answers I was looking for. I called their number, and a curt voice gave me an address and told me to be there at dusk the next night before abruptly hanging up. I had to track down an old map just to find the place, in a neighborhood at the edge of town that’s mostly been left to the mercy of nature. (birds chirping) There were faded signs dating back to the Governor’s first campaign promising to clean up the area, but they clearly haven’t made much progress. The building I was looking for turned out to be an abandoned Night Post station, split nearly in half by a tree growing up through the center. A green canopy blossomed over the roof like an explosion frozen in time, and a gnarled branch stabbed through the zero in “101.” Maybe there was a back entrance I didn’t see, but it took a minute to get inside through the overgrowth spilling from the ruined doorway. (soft crowd murmur) By the time I’d crossed the sprawling network of roots to reach the center, a group of black-clad people was already gathered there. Their low murmurs and the shuffling of feet mingled with birdsong from the branches above. Someone pressed a black poncho into my hands. When I hesitated to put it on, they lifted the hood of their cloak to meet my eye, and said, “Wouldn’t want them to see you.” I got no answer as to who they meant. A few minutes later, candles were passed around to everyone, and we were directed to line up along the edges of the room. The people who seemed to be in charge were dressed no differently from anyone else, in plain black outfits of varying styles, but they were identifiable by the way the others deferred to them and made room for them to pass. One of them called for letters to be collected, and all around me people began producing envelopes from their bags and cloaks. A woman beside me noticed my confusion, and handed me a pen and a scrap of paper. “It doesn’t have to be long,” she said. “Just a little note to the universe. A wish, perhaps.” She even held my candle as I used the wall to write, “let Mom find peace.” (pen scratching) The letters were placed into a bronze brazier, and the leaders knelt to touch their candles to the paper. (fire crackles) “Spark to flame,” they said in unison, sprinkling a powder over the bowl that turned the fire an intense purple. Three of them spoke in turns, answering each other in a kind of conversational homily. They called on the Messenger, the Deliverer, the Lord of Birds. They asked The One Who Waits for Eventide to wrap its fingers round the world and tear apart the walls. They pledged to go where no one dared, to bring the letters where none had heard the word. The Epistolist, they promised, would not let their cries go unanswered. When the borders fell, the great planners and watchers and elders would engrave their message into eternity. It all sounded like nonsense to me, but many around the circle appeared deeply affected, some clasping their hands and joining the chant in low tones. (low vocal hum) The rites and incantations were too much for me, too reminiscent of the kind of ritualistic spirituality I’ve been trying to get away from, and I decided to make my exit while everyone’s eyes were either closed or locked on the violet flames. I’d begun sidling along the wall toward the door when the fire consumed the last of its fuel and abruptly died. (ambient noises stop) As the last lick of purple went out, the chanters stopped mid-phrase. Silence hung over the room like a shroud. Even the leaves were quiet. (cracking branches) Then, like a giant stirring, the branches trembled and groaned, roots straining to break through the concrete under our feet. Birds shrieked and alighted, and the gathered observers held their breath as something emerged from the trunk of the great tree. It flickered, hazy and uncertain, in the winking light of our candles. One of the leaders stepped forward. They would have been chest-to-chest with the newcomer, if it had had a body. “Welcome, exalted pigeon. When do you come from?” The translucent figure wavered erratically, and the cloaked person whispered to another, who took a vial from their sleeve and drew a line of what I assumed was salt between the visitor and the tree. “What message do you bring your faithful Birdwatchers, O pigeon?” (bulb flash) Light and heat emanated from the figure as it flashed around the room like a stroke of lightning. (multiple flashes) For a split-second, it was right beside me, and I looked into the space where its face should be. (piercing ring) It was gone in the span of a blink, burning my eyes with the image of the nebulous distance between stars, inconstant and incomprehensible. My cheeks tingled as though touched by the sun. (two flashes) The supplicants pressed back against the walls and sheltered behind each other, their whispers growing panicked. (flash) “Contain it!” one of the leaders shouted. Some held aloft scrolls and books, while others brandished metal prongs that sizzled with electricity, as they tightened their circle around the visitor. An inhuman screech gouged the air, like the grinding of metal wheels, but distorted and oddly harmonic. The leaders assured everyone that all was fine, that a bit of disorientation was expected for a fresh manifestation, but the messenger would not hurt us. I thought of the spirit painting on the portrait of Papa, of the endless, crimson-black void of his eyes, and I felt the fear and anguish of this creature’s scream. (drawn-out screech) It did not call to me in words, likely could not, but I understood its cry for help like a flower unfurling in my mind. I dropped my candle so that no one would see me as I crept around the circle to brush away the salt barrier. Angry voices rose around me, but they were too late. The blue-hot streak of light darted toward the tree. Someone tried to block its way, but it passed through their outstretched arm and was gone. (reverberant zoom) A moment later, the person dropped to their knees as a strange effect took hold where the light had touched. (synthetic crackle) Their arm seemed to burn and freeze in the space of an instant, liquifying and petrifying simultaneously. They choked and screamed as the limb flashed through incompatible states of matter, breaking down into its primordial building blocks. After several tortuous seconds, they wept and clutched an empty sleeve. In the tumult that followed, I shed my poncho and escaped through the root-wrecked building into the deepening night. I’m scared, Maria. I never knew spirits had this kind of power. I would get Mom out of this apartment today if I thought it would do any good, but I believe now more than ever that these beings are everywhere, no matter what the Governor and their Strategist say. Does anyone really have the answers, or are we all just cavemen playing with fire? I’m keeping a close eye on Mom, and she visits friends or reads at the library while I’m at work. I’ll keep searching for anyone who might be able to help. I don’t know what else to do. Please, just be safe, okay? Protect yourself any way you know how. Your loving sister, Alma. [AMBIENCE OF THE DINER RETURNS, MORE CROWDED NOW.] CLEMENTINE: I can see why that caught your attention. VAL: No shit. CLEMENTINE: I couldn’t make sense of that stuff about letters and borders and all those titles, but...the Birdwatchers seemed to think that that spirit was a former courier. What did they want from it? VAL: Who knows? They fucked around and found out. CLEMENTINE: Station 101 can’t be far from us. I bet we could find it, even without the address. VAL: Hold your horse, detective. I brought this to you as a cautionary tale, not another horrible lead to investigate. CLEMENTINE: Alma’s instinct was right, though. These cultists seem to know more about the Other and the Post than we do, even if their theatrics are a little ridiculous. VAL: (incredulous) A little ri--Clementine-- CLEMENTINE: Did they summon the spirit, or was it already there? VAL: Who cares? It took someone’s arm off! CLEMENTINE: That was disturbing. It’s hard to say just from a description, but it’s almost like that thing...warped reality where it touched. VAL: Yeah, and those are the things you’ve been palling around with at night! My advice may be suspect, but why can’t you listen to your girlfriend and just leave it alone? CLEMENTINE: We’re already a part of it, Val. I have been since before I was born. Denial won’t make our lives any safer. VAL: (frustrated sigh) You, Tommy Lee...it must run in the family that nobody can tell you nothin’. CLEMENTINE: Why do you keep bringing him up? VAL: Because I don’t want you to wind up like him! CLEMENTINE: You have no right-- VAL: The hell I don’t! I know a lot more than you about what he actually went through on this job. CLEMENTINE: And you think that I’m stupid for trying to find out. VAL: Your words. CLEMENTINE: You’re such an asshole, you know that? Of course you do, you know everything. Why don’t you just-- SERVER: (setting down plates) Sorry for that wait. Here we are, babes. [AN UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE. WE CAN ALMOST HEAR VAL AND CLEM GLARING AT EACH OTHER.] SERVER: Do y’all need anything else, or…? VAL: Actually, can I get this to go? SERVER: Uh, sure. (walks away) CLEMENTINE: You’re going to take six over-easy eggs in a styrofoam container? VAL: Yep. CLEMENTINE: Disgusting. VAL: Yep. SERVER: (returning) One box. VAL: ‘Preciate it. [THE EGGS PLOP WETLY INTO THE BOX AS VAL SCRAPES THEM OFF THE PLATE. SHE STANDS TO LEAVE.] CLEMENTINE: Good talk. VAL: As always. CLEMENTINE: Wait. Can I see the letter? VAL: Even if--Clem, I have to deliver it. CLEMENTINE: Oh. Right. VAL: Though if Maria is anything like you, it’d be better I didn’t. CLEMENTINE: Always thinking of others. VAL: Fuck off. (footsteps leave) SERVER: More coffee, hon? I know poly dating can be tough, but plenty of fish, and all that. CLEMENTINE: No, it...more coffee would be great, thanks. I don’t think I’m going to sleep for a while. NICHOLAS: (as the outro plays) Thank you for joining us on tonight’s route. You can find the couriers of Station 103 at nightpostpod.com or on Twitter @nightpostpod. If you’re satisfied with your postal service, please rate and review us, or consider supporting us on Patreon. Send a letter to a pair of twins, and tell them about The Night Post.