cohost!

I threw my hat in the ring for Secret Samol for the first time this year! For one of their requests, my recipient asked for a story following any three members of the Blackwick Group as they venture out to solve a supernatural problem, specifically giving license to be as serious or silly as I wanted (I tried to do both??), and to explore any themes that interested me. So I did that!

Here is Rekindled Memories of an Unbuilt Metropolis: Lyke, Pickman, and Chine, as they find themselves astray on a cold, brutal mountain, unable to remember how they ended up there in the first place. Luckily, they're discovered by The Merchant - a humanoid whose body is covered in layers of coats, and whose gait is marked by the slow ambling of four tall stilts. It's friendly enough, but unintelligible! And whatever you do, don't go anywhere near the town called Ruins!

Rekindled Memories of an Unbuilt Metropolis

The Merchant trades in tales. It stands on four legs – long wooden poles that poke through swathes of cloth. What appears to be a mostly humanoid body is covered in coats and blankets for warmth, and atop it are stacks of packs, bundled what the Blackwick Group estimates is roughly three people high. It is a mass of deep greens, burgundies, and lavenders, illuminated by a myriad of gently swinging lanterns and candles, hung from clothing, bags, and anything else deemed strong and snug enough.
Under its belly, Chine, Lyke, and Pickman tuck in for the night, sharing in the heat produced by the Merchant’s flames. The wind here is bitter, and the snow deep. The Blackwick Group finds itself astray in the mountains, uncertain of how to return home. In their wandering, they met the Merchant, who gladly agreed to accommodate them.
“Hey, wait, what were we talking about?” Lyke asks, as laughter fades into quiet.
“Your fish,” comes the muffled yell from above, “you said he’s frozen solid.”
“Oh yeah,” Lyke laughs, “he’ll be fine, probably.”
The Merchant says something else, but it’s unintelligible to the adventurers.
“What—did you guys hear what it said?”
Pickman shrugs. “Oi, Merchant! Speak up, will you?”
“Sorry,” comes the reply. It clears its raspy throat, “I said—”
“Is this a joke?” Lyke asks the group, “Is this a joke?” he says again louder, this time, addressing the Merchant.
“Was it always this hard to hear it?” Chine asks, “could be the wind picking up.”
“What?” Lyke yells.
“The wind! It’s getting louder!”
Pickman shrugs. Even under thick furs, the rise and fall of her shoulders is unmistakable.
“Hey it’s pretty raw out here, actually, the wind is really picking up,” Lyke says after a moment.
“Tuck in until the morning, friends,” the Merchant’s bellow is clear this time, “I’ve already told you, I don’t recommend it, but if you’re set on going to The Ruins and finding others, I can take you there tomorrow. I won’t get any closer than I have to, and I can’t make any introductions. It’ll be warm at least. Plenty of fire.” It follows this up with unintelligible chatter.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Why would you say it like that? What else did you say, we can’t hear you all the way down here.”
“I’ve been working hard to forget,” is all the Group can make out.
“That isn’t better,” Pickman adds.
“I’ve helped you this far. I don’t advise going. I will take you if you insist, but in return, I am asking you not to remind me any more about The Ruins than I must. Simply by taking you there, by considering whether or not to make the offer, even, I will have undone my progress. I don’t resent you for this. You didn’t know what power your question had over me. Give me this one concession, friends.”
“We’re sorry, Merchant,” says Chine, “You don’t have to tell us anything more—and we appreciate what you’ve done for us. We just need some way to get off of this mountain, and the only thing that makes sense is to find people who might have a map.”
“Did we talk about this?” Lyke asks conspiratorially.
“About it not having a map?” Chine responds.
“Yeah. Yes, what? Okay, I’m gonna ask,” Lyke turns his head up to the body of The Merchant, “how do you not have a map, or know what direction anything is except The Ruins, which you hate? How are you a merchant if you only hang out out here in the tundra?”
“You are still only lost. I am trapped. I have supplies that I am willing to trade to others like you who find themselves here, in exchange for their stories. You provided an anecdote about Tombo, which distracted me for awhile.”
“And you don’t run out or supplies?”
“I don’t run out.”
“And you don’t go buy more shit to restock?”
A muffled grunt.
Pickman pats Lyke firmly on the back, “what are you standing around for? We need to move into town. Where Lyke saw darkness and starlight moments ago, there is now dawn, a town, a road leading to it that has been cleared of snow, smoke billowing from chimneys on houses sitting around a square, and no Merchant.
“Wait where’d it go?”
By the time the words tumble out of his mouth, Chine and Pickman have already walked off, towards the town called Ruins.
A man dressed in old clothes greets them, and they’ve already started chatting by the time Lyke catches up.
“And this is Lyke. Leonard, we were told by someone called the Merchant that you’d have maps, or you’d be able to point us in the right direction to Blackwick. We’re lost, and we don’t even remember what direction we came from. I think the storm must’ve thrown us off track.”
“Ahh the Merchant, yes, poor soul. It’s a remarkable person, no? We’ve tried for so long to get it to return home to us, out of the cold, but it’s so obstinate. Pity, such a wise mind, one that’s seen so much is out there alone, don’t you think?”
“Its home? It said it’s trying to forget this place,” Chine says inquisitively.
“Oh, that’s not surprising,” their host answers, “it wants to bury our past and move on, but—it’s funny—in burying the past, it’s remembering it. Pointing at a nothing and making it nothing. But us? We remember exactly, to the letter what happened that day that Domenico left and the Merchant was born, thanks to our records. We study the records, and we’ve studied so many records of this town to know, from historical precedent, how we can atone for what happened. To rectify things. We know the past isn’t a nothing. In fact it’s a something that everything is built on.”
“We need to go home,” Pickman says flatly.
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry, I am known to leave my tangents disentangled,” Leonard clasps his hands together apologetically, “of course, we’ll show you to the library and our maps, as long as you’ll offer us one small favor in return.”
Pickman grunts.
“When you leave The Ruins, you’ll find the Merchant again. When you do, tell it what we’ve told you. Tell Domenico we want it to come home. We can make things like they were before. Won’t you?”
“Can’t hurt,” says Lyke.
“Marvelous,” Leonard points towards a two-story building on the opposite side of the square; a perfect square with four windows on each side, and a door in its middle, “that’s the library there. You head over, and I’ll meet you there with some refreshments.”
“Thank—” Chine starts to say, but while the Blackwick Group had its eyes on the building, Leonard had already made off. They only saw one last glimpse of him before his figure was lost in the snow drifts.
Lyke, Chine, and Pickman sit at a large table of dark wood. Scattered across it are scrolls, pieces of parchment, books, and ephemera spanning centuries of knowledge. Pastries, coffees, and teas dot the few spaces in between, and a fire crackles away quietly in the stone hearth behind them. Excluding the chimney, every wall is filled to the brim with texts in all varieties of colors, and shelves jut out in labyrinthine fashion across both floors. Its humble façade seems to underplay the feeling that all the information in the world could be stored here.
Lyke stuffs the last few bites of a jelly-filled pastry into his mouth, then looks around the table, not finding what he’s looking for. “What, nothing to wipe my hands on?”
“Hey be careful!” Chine says, “you have a huge glob of jelly on your face. Just use your sleeve.”
“Leonard’s the one who gave us all these ancient papers to read and nothing to wipe our hands with!” He uses a finger to wipe the smear off his face, then proceeds to lick each of his digits clean. “Who does that?”
“First of all, he told us to call him Leo, second of all, maybe he forgot! Just go find a bathroom or—dammit. Lyke, look what you did!”
Beneath his chin, on a scroll yellowed by time, sits a drop of purple goo.
“Ah, shit. See, why did they even give us these in the first place?”
“He was being nice!”
“I dunno, if he gave us jelly-filled pastries and dark beverages to consume while we go through their ancient scrolls, I kinda feel like they’re trying to get rid of some stuff.”
“Are you serious? Look how old this is!”
“Yeah, it’s old, whatever, who cares! Blackwick isn’t even on here!” he looks at the maps that Pickman and Chine have opened in front of them, “and I already looked at both of those, I told you guys it’s not on either of those!”
“What are you talking about—you’re just trying to distract us, you have to—Pickman, what are you—stop!”
Without a word, the Shape Knight reaches her long arm across the table, picking up the stained scroll and crumpling it in her hand. She stands, and her eyes move towards the fireplace. Lyke cheers her on, laughing, and Chine tries to stop her, but is too late. With a casual toss, the wad of ancient knowledge catches, and turns to smoke and ash.
“It’s what Leonard told us to do,” Pickman says, returning to her seat.
As the Blackwick Group realizes none of them can recall the same exact details of their time in The Ruins, they each relay everything as they can remember. Leonard – or Leo – is, himself, a ghost. He arrived with the food and drink, along with the librarian, Lucille. Lyke asked why they were allowed to eat here, in such a precarious environment, and without anything to wipe their hands with, the pair explained that these particular documents, in fact, were some of their most recent and, of course as they just saw, they have ways of retaining them. Because The Ruins were so close chronologically to these documents, Leo confessed that these were nearly useless in the town’s eyes. His words were, as Pickman recalled, “we have long surpassed the need for any of the history in these scrolls,” and Lucille proceeded to tell the group that, if anything were to happen to these texts, to simply burn them in the hearth, as “it will come back to us in time.” No one remembered what was meant by that, so instead they moved to the topic of town itself.
The Ruins are inhabited by the living as well as the dead. The corporeal live to serve the incorporeal and help them to ritualistically replicate their former lives. The Ruins themselves are believed to be alive in their own way. When someone dies here, The Ruins merely separates the soul from the body, and the person continues on as a ghost. The townspeople refer to this as becoming a ‘Revered Ancestor,’ and with this title comes one corporeal adjutant. Typically, this is someone who was close to the ancestor in life, and therefore equipped to help in reconstructing their past lives.
“What’s the point of that? Like why would you want to do that, if you’re a ghost, wouldn’t you want to go do cool ghost stuff instead?” Lyke asks. The scroll that Pickman had burned just minutes ago sits in front of Lyke, unscathed. Lucille sits at the table, in her laced dress and a feather hat, her frocks billowing out from the armed chair. Behind them, Leo sets out kindling the fire. Steam billows from the pot of tea as if just boiled.
“The Ruins are themselves alive,” she reiterates, “and we call them Ruins for a reason. It’s said that when the First Ancestors arrived here, the town spanned miles and miles of distance. The buildings reached for the clouds, and it appeared as new as only the day before. They even say they could still hear the sound of nails driven into wood, the infant cries of a newborn metropolis. But when they walked through the wide roads of The Ruins, there were no people. It was as if it was built one day and abandoned the next. The First Ancestors and their family, lost in the mountain’s blizzards, took wood from the nearby forests and burned it in the hearth of one of the smaller houses on the outskirts of The Ruins.”
“When they awoke, the next day, they were met with an ethereal, unburning flame, and although it touched them, it didn’t hurt them. Instead, it only changed the city, which was, in fact, consumed by the inferno. In its place, it left edifices of humbler design, and even the footprint of the city had contracted on itself. The First Ancestors knew The Ruins were a sacred place at that moment, and set about founding The Ruins. Like them, more people stumbled into it, welcomed by it, and would themselves, settle into its embrace. They each lived into old age, and are still with us in The Ruins, going about recreating their former lives. As they do, and as we do now, we remember by reenacting the past, and The Ruins reward us with the great unburning fires. We hope that we can return to the former truth of the world; the way we were meant to be.”
With the swish of flint, the fire lights. Leo stands from his crouching position. “We must unbuild to return to the glorious past. The town is built with the same sacred wood used to burn it. The nostalgia wood, here in the hearth. When met with its own flame, and enkindled by the will of The Ruins, the unbuilding is done, and we find ourselves decades, sometimes centuries, closer to the primordial state.”
The Blackwick Group is quiet for a moment. Chine’s eyebrows raise as they take a sip of tea. Pickman sits, arms crossed, her face a blank slate. Lyke’s mouth opens.
“Can I have some of that wood?”
“The nostalgia wood?”
“Yeah, it sounds like it’d be good for magic. And it smells really good, like really familiar, is that part of the thing?”
“The nostalgia wood is sacred.”
Lyke stares at Leo as if he had said nothing.
“So no, you cannot simply have some.”
“Alright, just thought I’d ask. Whatever,” Lyke’s hands raise defensively, “so do you talk to The Ruins or anything? Could I talk to The Ruins?”
“The Ruins speak to us through its actions. I would hesitate to let you converse before we knew we could trust you.”
“So, if I stayed for awhile, you’d let me talk to The Ruins?"
“The Ruins would speak to you,” Leo smiles.
“What do you think? It sounds pretty cool, actually. You wanna stay? Chine? Pickman?”
“It—honestly sounds pretty amazing,” Chine admits.
“We’re leaving,” Pickman stands. “Get your things. The Merchant was right.”
“What?”
“Pickman, relax, what’s your problem?” Chine asks, “you don’t even know where to go, stop!”
Pickman ignores the others. She walks to the hearth again, unlatching the door to her armor as she does. This time, she grabs the tongs. Leo and Lucille yell for help, their cries ear-piercing shrieks, but Pickman’s motions are deliberate and unflinching. She takes the burning coals of the nostalgia wood, deposits it in her armor, and snaps the door shut again.
“Oh, this could be neat. Yeah, can you—” Lyke drops their voice to a whisper, mouthing “can you grab me some, too?”
Meanwhile, Chine stands, a stern look on their face. They move a hand to their polearm. “Pickman, you are interfering with the Shape. With these people, why?”
“I don’t want to be here, Chine. The Shape is interfering with me. I want to go home.” Smoke billows out of her armor, and Leo and Lucille begin coughing.
“Who said we can’t go home? You can go home whenever you want—”
“Which direction? Which way shall I start walking? These maps are useless, don’t you see that? Don’t you see what they’re trying to do to us—trap us here?”
The smoke is up to their knees. Faceless townspeople march in the streets below. The front door clicks open downstairs.
“Yeah I kinda thought so, too, but I figured we could take some of their wood first, or sneak around and try to find The Ruins creature,” Lyke reasons.
“Something incredible is happening here! They’re getting to the original state of the world, doesn’t that sound worth doing? Lyke, you have to be with me.”
“I mean, no, I don’t really want to be stuck here, is the thing. But it does sound cool.”
Pickman shovels more coal into her armor, piling it in with her hands as she realizes it holds no heat. The entire room is filled with fragrant smoke. Boots slam onto the hardwood stairs. Seemingly disparate body parts reach in and out of sight, merging the corporeal with the incorporeal. Leo and Lucille slip out the cracks in the windows, out into the winter air. A voice, muffled, pushes against the walls of Lyke’s backpack. His head snaps in its direction.
“Where’s my backpack?”
“Why are you looking for your backpack, I was talking to you!”
“I think Tombo needs me, hold on.”
“I thought Tombo was frozen. Did he thaw out?”
“Tombo was—oh yeah he was frozen! He’s probably super freaked out, aw man, Tombo I’m so sorry, I totally forgot about you. Shit, how do I always do this?”
Lyke follows the sound of Tombo’s angry yelling, demanding what’s going on. There’s no visibility in the library anymore. The smoke from the nostalgia wood is everywhere. It sinks into their bodies like the drag of a cigarette. And when they exhale, the white ash is cold. Lyke sticks out his tongue, catching one, and it melts. The voices of the townspeople swell into gusts of mountain wind. The light of the hearth, and the candles that lit the library hang above them, swinging gently like fairy lights. A laugh, muffled by coats, and sweaters, and scarves drifts down to the resting members of the Blackwick group like a warm blanket.
“Hey, wait, what were we talking about?” Lyke asks, as laughter fades into quiet.
“Tombo,” comes the muffled yell from above, “he’s frozen solid again! Poor fish.”
“Oh yeah,” Lyke laughs, “he’ll be fine, probably.”
The Merchant says something else, but it’s unintelligible to the Blackwick Group.
“What—did you guys hear what it said?”
Pickman shrugs. “Oi, Merchant! Speak up, will you?”
“Sorry,” comes the reply. It clears its raspy throat, “I was reminding you that, in exchange for any of my wares or hospitality, I will accept any story. You’ve already told me about Tombo before, and while it is darkly comedic, I’d appreciate another.”
“What—what do you mean already told you?”
“Ah,” the Merchant says, “no matter. It’s for the best I keep it to myself.”
Pickman shrugs.
“Um okay, well anyway, Chine’s got a bunch of stories. You got that whole book full of ‘em.” Lyke responds.
“An entire book’s worth?” The Merchant’s voice becomes optimistic. “Let’s hear a few!”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” They rummage around in their coat pockets for a moment until they find what they’re looking for. The cleaver’s book. They flip through its pages and a smirk of remembrance crosses their face. They cross their legs, clear their throat and begin to read. Lyke props his pack under his head as a pillow and begins to nod off. Pickman’s heavy breathing becomes rhythmic and soothing. After a time, a low, contented snore even drifts down from the Merchant, now swaying gently on its stilts. Chine notices the audience is no longer lucid, and their eyelids grow heavy, but they keep reading until the final moment before sleep, eager to reach the ending.
Pickman hears the crackling of fire before she squints hard and opens her eyes. She’s sunken deep into a cozy chair. It’s early morning in Blackwick, and it appears she’s the first of her group to wake. The fire in the hearth is reduced to kindles. Lyke is sprawled out on the floor, and Chine is curled on a couch, both of them asleep. When she looks in her lap, Pickman finds an open book. She reads the first line on the page: when the First Ancestors arrived here, the town spanned miles and miles of distance… She glances over at the fire, there within arm’s reach. Staring into its flame for a moment, she changes her mind. Instead, she unlatches the door to her armor. Then, carefully, grips the front cover of the book in one hand, and the back cover in the other. With a swift motion, she tears it in two, then tosses each piece into the furnace of her armor, shuts the latch, and drifts back to sleep.

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Secret Samol 2022