The Magnus Archives - MAG 164 - The Sick Village

Episode Date: April 23, 2020

Case ########-4Statement of an outbreak.Audio recording by the Archivist, in situ.Thanks to this week's Patrons: caroline yepsen, Salsa, Prince Hess, Anne Schindler, gwain, Rebecca McElfish, Piper Cooke, Estrid Nielsen, lairn, Mari, Lucy Bresgal-Waters, steph Leddington, Honeybee, Abigail Trevor, Jenniferr Fleming, Emily Deutsch, annie wold, Charlotte Shih, Dave Palmer, stephanie santos, Jam-Jamz, Anna Ivanyos, Kellan B, Sarah S, Gabriella Cigarroa, Ashley DesertWillow' Wilson, Ashura Sumeragi, Kenzie JP, Catherine Evans, Jess Riley, Elodie_L, Anna Walker, Eri Martinez, AJNR, isabella bestfriend, Tracy T, Beaujester Real, Jake Cazden, Vinetabris, QuatermooseIf you would like to join them, be sure to visit www.patreon.com/rustyquillEdited this week by Annie Fitch, Elizabeth Moffatt, Brock Winstead & Alexander J Newall.Written by Jonathan Sims and directed by Alexander J Newall.Produced by Lowri Ann Davies.Content warnings:- Plague- Rot / Putrefaction- Pandemic- Quarantine- Xenophobia / Racism- Bigotry / Mob justics- Maggots & flying insects (inc SFX)- Self-harm- Human sacrifice- ImmolationPerformances:- "The Archivist" - Jonathan Sims- "Martin Blackwood" - Alexander J. Newall- "Helen Richardson" - Imogen HarrisSound effects this week by Anthousai, Daniela-Santos, deleted_user_7146007, saturdaysoundguy, johanwestling, yeopot, digifishmusic, szalonegacie, Benboncan, MarekWojtaszek, Keith Selmes, aruncbose1, EpicWizard, dav0r, theshuggie, youandbiscuitme & previously credited artists via freesound.org.Check out our merchandise at https://www.redbubble.com/people/rustyquill/collections/708982-the-magnus-archives-s1You can subscribe to this podcast using your podcast software of choice, or by visiting www.rustyquill.com/subscribePlease rate and review on your software of choice, it really helps us to spread the podcast to new listeners, so share the fear.Join our community:WEBSITE: rustyquill.comFACEBOOK: facebook.com/therustyquillTWITTER: @therustyquillREDDIT: reddit.com/r/RustyQuillEMAIL: [e-mail] Magnus Archives is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill Ltd. and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International Licence Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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Created and produced by Weyland Production, and executive produced by us here at Rusty Quill, We're Alive Descendants premieres April 5th. Search for We're Alive wherever you listen to your podcasts, or visit www.we'realive.com or www.rustyquill.com for more information. The Magnus Archives Episode 164 The Sick Village The End There is a sickness in this village. Perhaps you would not see it from a distance, and the faint sting of rot on the breeze is easy enough to dismiss. But as you get closer, that infectious feeling of wrongness is harder and harder to shake. As you get closer, that infectious feeling of wrongness is harder and harder to shake. The grass is not the green of nature, the buildings are warped by more than age, and

the voices that come from behind the inhabitants' masks are hoarse and wet. They move with exaggerated casualness, a parody of idyllic village life. And when they have a break from weeping, they reassure each other how wonderful it is in their village. Or at least how wonderful it used to be. Each is covered from head to toe in thick black fabric. And they never, ever touch. Take a deep breath. The air feels thick and soupy in your lungs, swarming with a thousand contagions,

digging into you, begging for you to join the village. It's so quiet there, and everyone cares for each other, far from the din and compacted flesh of the city. In the centre, a maypole stands, mildewed strips of coloured cloth hanging limply from it like shreds of ragged skin. The base of the pole is ashen and charred. The disease itself is nothing special. It begins as a small patch of discoloured skin, the tiniest blemish. Scrub it off and it is gone, for a few hours at least. But it returns again and again and begins to spread,

a mould with tendrils that burrow deep. It ranges in colour from rancid yellow and corpse-fat white to the dull, angry purple of a fresh bruise. It itches and burns, and you can feel it growing and spreading inside you, looking for the core of you, at least until it worms its way into your bones. Beneath the coat of each terrified citizen of this sick village lies a lurking possibility.

A nightmarish suspicion of infectious constellations of hungry mildew. A mutating technicolour atlas of rotten and pockmarked flesh. But who can know for sure? Their coats are oh so thick. There was never a time before the disease, no matter what the old bastards tell you. It has always been in the village, always festered in the dark corners where nobody could stomach to check, where good neighbours wouldn't dream to speculate. But those who live here will tell you different. From behind their masks, those friendly voices will tell you how it used to be, clean and hygienic and always bathed in sepia sunshine. and hygienic and always bathed in sepia sunshine. They know in the guts of them this sickness has come from outside,

that it is those from beyond the village that have done this to them. Day brought it here, they whisper to each other in the unnamed pub, hunched and bloated over their pale and stinking beers, lifting their masks to take a mouthful, puce faces and frightened sneers exposed for just a moment. They couldn't leave us well enough alone. They wanted what we have, our perfect peaceful life, and so they dragged their sickness here and damned us all. The patrons speak quietly, as who can say for certain whether the face behind a mask is a good, honest village face, or a sickness-bearing harbinger from beyond? And people do still come to the village, for however thick the paranoia, however terrible the disease, there are worse things beyond.

They are stopped, of course, beaten and stripped and checked head to toe for signs of infection. The village council sees to that. Most are uncontaminated, though that does little to save them, while others are already laced right through with fungus of their own. A few are spared brutality, and treated with such cordial politeness you must have thought their inquisitors old friends. Though there seems on the surface no rhyme to such decisions, were you to look beneath the coats, you might see the patterns of their

mould were matched. It is, alas, those who are unblemished that suffer worst. So incomprehensible is it that any from outside could be clean that there might be another source or vector, the inspectors devise another theory. An invisible infection, a hundred typhoid maries spreading mildew and decay. They keep them in the post office, wrapped in chicken wire, prodded and jeered and watched. Should they begin to show signs of the rot, then maybe, just maybe, they can stay for now. Though nobody will doubt that it was they that brought the illness. But if they stay clean, if they continue to act like they are better, like they are above the sickness that it is certain they must have brought to the village, then that cannot

be endured. So they are taken to the village green, and the scorch marks at the base of the maypole get darker. The villagers stand on the green to watch, ignoring the bending of the grass as it tries to worm its way through their boots. They watch the screaming outsider as the fire purifies them, and inside feel the gnawing panic of their own secrets. For how long ago did they really come to the village? How deep did their roots go? Do any of them truly remember? What if they are an outsider? What if they're found out?

No, such fears aren't to be quashed and swallowed. They must stand strong. They must stand together as one body against the mass of those beyond the village who would see them degraded and destroyed. They cannot allow such secret terrors to break their unity. And the maypole watches over all. There is no house in town that has not found itself marked with the red cross of plague, but paint is fleeting and the villagers are so desperate to hide their state. Night still falls here, if only to give those that wish it a chance to try and hide their frantic denials. As the weak dawn breaks, you may count the doors now painted white, and see who is more conscientious in covering their spongy skin.

The deception is pitiable, and yet deep down every villager knows the mould has marked them deeper than any of the others, and carries it as their most secret shame. it as their most secret shame. Foremost in their denials of the village council, those loud and hardy souls who have taken it upon themselves to police this place, to safeguard their traditions and denounce the infection that is the right and proper punishment of those who would allow the village borders to be breached and their ancient way of life to be compromised. Their masks are blue and red and white, and their coats are the colour of fresh ivory, stained sometimes with streaks of crimson from their dutiful ministrations. None would dare accuse them of infection, and to cross them or draw their eye is to invite the strongest diagnosis.

Head of the council is Gillian Smith. Her father's father's father's father's father built the maypole, carved from a jackalberry tree, and painted in the colours of the village. This place is her home and her right and her duty, and woe to any fungus-riddled outsider who might believe it otherwise. For no one would speak up if Gillian Smith were to mark you infected or declare you foreign. No one would lift a finger as they dragged you to the green. Her gloves are purest white and never sullied, and they hide a

cerulean mould that covers every inch of her, through skin, muscle and organ, though she has no idea it runs so deep. By night she sits in the quiet darkness of her perfect cottage, By night she sits in the quiet darkness of her perfect cottage, peeling herself with a straight razor, layer by layer, desperate to reach the pure flesh she is so sure must still be in there somewhere. Her living room is the same suffocation blue as the rest of her, every surface piled high with her own discarded bloody skin, and she has no terror

deeper than the thought she might be discovered. As she pulls spongy strips free, one agonising fibre at a time, she stares from her window at the house of her neighbour, Mrs Kim. Mrs Kim is not on the village council. Mrs. Kim keeps to herself. And Gillian Smith is certain that Mrs. Kim is not infected. And hates her for it. What Mrs. Kim is, is scared. Scared of her neighbours.

Scared of her friends. Scared of the moment when someone will smell the spreading patch of darkness on her back and decide she is infected or remember she has only been in the village since her grandfather's day and judge her to be an outsider should she accuse someone else? send them to the village green? perhaps she might petition to join the council though that would invite their attention as much as anything might Send them to the village green? Perhaps she might petition to join the council,

though that would invite their attention as much as anything might. Even through the masks, Mrs Kim knows the looks she gets in the pub. But what can she do? When she hears the shouts outside and sees the smoke pouring from the thatched roof, she knows it is too late. They drag her to the maypole, their masks hiding the tears of terror and angry shame, and lash her there with those strips of cloth that never seem to burn.

Mrs. Kim does not fight, though she screams and screams and screams as all her fears are realised. Gillian Smith tries to smile as she watches her neighbour burn, but the fungus is too thick around her lips, and her face no longer moves. As the flames consume the last of Mrs Kim in thick and acrid smoke, the mould reaches the bones of Gillian Smith, and she blooms. In a moment she is swollen, bloated, bursting

into a cloud of violet spores that envelop the green and those who dwell there, embracing them in a rot that long since seeped into the soil of this blighted land. Okay. End recording. We're fine. Are we? I mean, that place is... I don't feel fine, okay? And you were there a long time doing your...

your guidebook, which, you know, I get it. But that place is... It's infectious, and... and you were there a long time doing your guidebook, which, you know, I get it, but that place is... It's infectious and... We're not infected, Martin. That place... It isn't for us. All right, but how do you know that? I just do.

I just know it. You've been knowing a lot lately. Yes. A lot more than you used to. Yeah. And it feels more deliberate. Like I have more control now. Okay.

So, how much can you see? What else do you know? Uh... Maybe everything. What do you mean, everything? I don't... Ask me a question. One I can't possibly know already. Okay. What's my middle name?

Huh. You don't have one. Whoa. You... I actually believed you. Sorry, sorry, I just wanted to try it out. That's ridiculous, I thought. That's not a real name, but he wouldn't lie to me. Okay, okay, okay, let's try something a little bigger, then. All right.

Is Basira alive? Is she in one of these places? She's alive. Out there. Not trapped in a hellscape, but... moving. Hunting. She's looking for Daisy. She's a few steps behind.

And Daisy? Bestial. Brutal. Carving her way through the domains of other powers, following the scent of blood. Daisy, I'm sorry. What's Basira going to do? She thinks she's going to kill Daisy. Like she promised.

But she's conflicted. And will she? I don't know. The future, that's... It's not something I can see. Okay, good to know. How much further do we still need to go? A long way. Through many dark and awful places.

Is this... Are you okay? How are you feeling? I'm okay. It's a little strange, but it doesn't hurt. Keep going. You have questions. Let's hear them. Okay. Okay.

How are the others? I, uh... Huh. I'm not sure. I can't really see Melanie or Georgie. They're dead? No, I don't think so. If they were dead, I think I would know that.

I just... I don't know where they are, what they're doing. London, maybe? What about Elias? He's inside the Panopticon. The tower far above the world. That one? Yes.

How is he? Hard to say. The way this works, this new site, the knowledge is somehow wrapped up in the Panopticon. An eye can't see inside itself, but I can feel him in there. That sounds... gross. It is. Are we safe travelling like this? Yes. Yes, sort of. We're...

I don't know how to phrase it. We're something between a pilgrim and a moth. We can walk through these little worlds of terror, watching them, separate and untouched. That's not as comforting as you might think. I like it better than the alternative. Fair point.

Okay, okay. What else? What else? Oh, and who was... Phone. Who was calling me? I think it was Annabelle Kane. That's weird.

I know the web was wrapped around that phone, but I can't see her. At all. At least with Georgie and Melanie, I have a vague sense they're still alive in London, or, well, what was London. But Annabelle? Nothing. Hmm.

Well, I'll... I'll ask her next time she calls. Well, I know that's a bad idea. Do you? OK, no, that one was a very reasonable guess. Ah! Anything else? I'll be honest, I'm starting to feel a bit self-conscious, being a post-apocalyptic Google. OK, OK, just one more, but it's a big one.

OK. Can we turn the world back? Whoa. If the fears are removed, yes, but they can't be destroyed while there are still people to fear them. Then they can't be banished back to the space where they came from. It's not there anymore. Oh! John, what's wrong? I'm sorry.

Trying to know things about them directly. It's like... God, it's like looking into the sun. Okay, okay. Okay, all right. That's all right. We can leave it. Good. Now...

Hey, it's okay. It's okay. We'll go slow for a while. All right. Yeah. Yeah, it's okay, it's okay. We'll go slow for a while. All right. Yeah. Yeah, there's no rush. Oh, actually, what about Helen? Where's she these days? Uh, she's...

Right. Naturally. What? What's she doing? Martin, turn around. Oh, you're kidding. Wish I was. Shall we? Do you want to do the honours? Not really. Maybe no one's home? Hello, John. How did you find us? Oh, I thought you'd know everything by this point.

Yes, I suppose I do. And I don't so care to enlighten me. Oh, yes, sorry. The distortion can always find anyone who has crossed its threshold. And that includes you, Martin, remember? And please, my name is Helen. Like you said, I can know everything now. Including how much of a lie that really is.

Don't mistake complication for falsehood, dear archivist. And remember, that knowledge is not the same thing as understanding. What do you want? To say hello. And check up on the happy couple. I always knew you crazy kids would make it work. Thanks. Martin, look, I've

no interest in your gloating. What would I have to gloat about? Much as I am delighted by this brave new world in which we find ourselves, I can take no credit for it. This was all you. You could have...

You knew what was happening. I suspected. But all I really did was refuse to help. And that is hardly a unique quality. If that makes it my fault, then surely this is Georgie's fault as well, and Melanie's. Leave them out of this. They didn't know. There it is again. Knowledge.

It's so very important to you, isn't it? These fossilised nuggets of pretend comprehension weighing you down, stopping you thinking or feeling. What about hypotheticals? If they had known, what would they have done? Is that something you can see? What do you want? To be friends again, all three of us. Look at this place, look at this wonderland. This is the world now and we are strong and free. There's really no reason for us not to hang out. Goodness, he is in a mood.

Has he been like this the whole time? Not the whole time, thank goodness. Martin. In fairness, he's had a lot on. Oh, I'm sure. Martin, please. Sorry, it's just, maybe she can help. With what? With our...

with our quest. We've been walking a while and, well, her doors, maybe we could, you know, shortcut. No. No, I don't think that's a good idea. I would happily take him, but I don't think he'd want to leave you.

Okay, one, don't talk about me like I'm not here. It's rude. Two, I know you can take two people at once. Me and Tim were both inside the corridor when you... Martin, it's not that simple. I'm afraid the archivist is too powerful now. If he tried to travel through my corridors, it would not go well for any of us. But mainly for you oh is that a threat no hmm pity so no shortcuts then understood I'm not leaving you on your

own such devotion you really don't deserve it but of course you know that already. This is nice. I am really glad we get to spend some proper quality time together now. Yeah. Anyway, sorry to love you and leave you, but I must dash. It's a very busy time for me. Lots of things to do, people to... Well, you know. I don't doubt it. What? Just taking a moment to look. You two are just such an adorable couple. Enough!

See you soon. Maybe she's right. I am not, nor have i ever been adorable okay not true but i actually meant the whole being friends thing i mean i don't see why and she's a cruel vicious monster yes yes she is but who else is there? non-commercial share alike 4.0 international license. Today's episode was written by Jonathan Sims, produced by Laurie-Anne Davis, and directed by Alexander J. Newell. It featured Jonathan Sims as The Archivist, Alexander J. Newell as Martin Blackwood, and Imogen Harris as Helen Richardson.

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