The Magnus Archives - RQ Network Feed Drop – Remnants Ep. 1  

Episode Date: July 15, 2024

This month we are featuring a feed drop of one of many incredible podcasts on the RQ Network: Remnants.  Remnants is a weekly, thrilling, dark fantasy, audio drama filled with mystery and has just launched on the RQ Network.   When we die, the remnants of us return to the First and Last Place. Our fate is decided by Sir and his new Apprentice, who read our remnants to determine whether they should be re-shelved or discarded. But what are the criteria? What happens to discarded souls? How are new lives for the re-shelved determined? And why, after untold stretches of existence, has Sir decided that he needs help to do it? Remnants explores the boundaries between right and wrong, examining humanity from its brightest and best to its darkest and most frightening, and all the grey in between. The Apprentice soon discovers that when we judge others, we often expose truths about ourselves. Remnants is from Eira Major the same brilliant creator behind the Spirit Box Radio and Not Quite Dead.  Introduction and outro by Anusia Battersby. Listen to Remnants on The Rusty Quill website, on Acast, or listen wherever you get your podcasts, or to learn more about Remnants check out its official website.  Credits: Written and Created by Eira Major   Content warnings:  - Coarse language - Implications of child neglect and endangerment - Descriptions of a fascist regime - Descriptions of violence - References to sex - Implications of murder  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Hey everyone, it's Anusha Battersby here. Today we are bringing you the very first episode of a brand new show launched on the RQ network, Remnants, which is created by Ira Major, the talented creator of multiple amazing shows, including Spirit Box Radio and Not Quite Dead. Remnants is a thrilling dark fantasy audio drama, releasing weekly, and each new episode brings a new mystery and a new terrible choice. When we die, the Rem remnants of us are left behind. Follow the apprentice as he sorts through these remnants to determine if they should

be discarded or reshelved. But he has no criteria to make this choice. You can listen to more episodes of this series by searching for Remnants and Audiodrama wherever you listen to your podcasts, by clicking the link in the show notes below, or for more information visit hangingslothstudios.com forward slash remnants or rustyquill.com. Have fun and enjoy the episode. Look alive, would you? Didn't you hear the bell? Oh, right. Of course. Sorry, sir. Sir?

Make haste. I'd move your head if I were you. What? A box? Your powers of observation astound me. Aren't you going to look at it? Yeah, that would make sense, wouldn't it? I should hope so. Um, no label, no name, nothing. Just returns stamped on the side.

Well? Well, sir? Aren't you going to process it? The box, sir? Yes. Oh, I... I suppose so, sir. Very good. Yeah, how exactly do you...

What do you normally do with boxes, dear apprentice? Open them, sir. Indeed. Oh, right. It's a teacup. A porcelain teacup. Right. Glad it didn't break when it fell. Of course. It's a teacup. A porcelain teacup.

Right, glad it didn't break when it fell. Of course it didn't. Right. Well? Well, sir? Aren't you going to process it? Oh yeah, of course. Just what do I need to do to process it?

You have to read it. Read it? Yes, but it's a cap sir indeed But if you don't read it, how will you know how to process it? I don't know sir, but I can't just oh sir Oh, you've sir Where did he go? Right wonderful Now I just need to figure out how to read a teacup. Okay let's have a look. Just an ordinary teacup. Floral pattern around the side. It's well used. The inside is all stained only I don't think it's stained by tea.

There's I think it's paint. The residue of paint. Yeah, it's sort of chalky on the nose. Interesting. But it's a pretty nice teacup. On the bottom, Royal Dalton. Oh. Well... That's the only writing on it, so, um... I wonder if I'm supposed to find a place on one of the shelves for it to go? Look for a sign. Look for a sign. Look for a sign.

Oh! Big gold arrow on the floor. Processing this way. How helpful. God. This place is huge. Ah, another sign. Processing. Oh, bugger me. Hello? Damn, you're the boss. Oh shit, I've deloaded the box! A little girl watches children playing on the beach. She wants to join them but she won't. She never does.

She's just old enough now to notice that the other children laugh at her and she doesn't like it. Instead she sits with her father. He paints them faceless renderings, barely more than stick figures. He will sell the paintings in town tomorrow for two centimes. Pervayers will haggle down the price. Painted by my daughter Celine, her father will say. Celine can yet barely hold a paintbrush, but her father smears oil colours on her stubby fingers, gums it into strands of her half-matted hair. See how she will dance for you, he says. Celine spins in her warm leather shoes. Patrons clap, they throw a centim or two to the cobbles at her feet.

They throw a centimum or two to the cobbles at her feet. Two summers later, her father leans on his crutch. He tells those who ask him that he lost his leg on the Marne, je lande, veuille dunne. He is scrubby and red-faced from the brandy he drinks from a small flask, which never seems to empty. This is my trade, he tells Celine, as he paints wobbly figures. I was once a great painter, but they broke my hands, you see? He tells her.

She takes his hand. His fingers are twice as big as hers, his skin rough and loose around his bones. In her grip, he trembles. Come, he tells her, and he pats the lap of his still-there leg. Come tell me what you see. Celine looks across the meadow they are sitting in. It is high summer and they have come out to the countryside beyond St. Sears-sur-Mer. Her father says they have come to escape the heat, but it feels just as hot to Celine out in the fields, only there is even less to do here than in town. Last night they slept in a tumble down

cottage and Celine lay awake listening to the trills of crickets and the low crackling of toads. There is a hot sweet stink of cow dung on the breeze wafting from the farmland beyond the meadow's edge. A farmer turns a brown corner of field with a teller made of bright new metal that flashes in the early sunlight of the morning. Celine's father takes a swig from his brandy. Celine lifts a paintbrush from the porcelain teacup

by her father's feet to her tongue to lick off the excess water before she dips it in the paint. She swirls golden yellows into muted browns and swirls of grey. An hour later, when she turns the canvas to her father, it holds a shoddy portrait. His eyes glisten. My sweet, you see me, he tells her. He kisses her hair. Sweet girl, but this will never sell. Selina's grown tall and willowy. She walks with her hands behind her back. She keeps her head down, her red hair hidden under a beige scarf. She left her father sleeping at his pitch, paintings tied to the railings with yarn and string.

She walks half a step behind a woman with a large perambulator. The baby inside is flutting, emitting loud squawks every few seconds. The woman pushing the pram is a governess. Her clothes are neat, black, plain, expensive but worn. Celine can see bending on the hem of the skirt and dotted lines down the jacket's centre back where the seams have been let out a little.

The town is busy. There is activity on the hills outside the main part of town, at the remains of a Roman villa. For months, the wealthier St Syrians have been torn between complaining about the dust and disruption and being excited about the knowledgeable and important men it's been bringing into town. The research has set up long tables on top of the ruins, preserving mosaics and pottery and hundreds of other artifacts. Celine hopes that the crowds will mean more people will buy hers and her father's paintings. No longer a ham-fisted toddler muscaraginers of prodigy, Celine has long overtaken her father's creative piece. She has learned how to perfectly mimic his style, style he once passed off as

Celine's anyway, and has been developing it into something better and more refined, incorporating more figures into the landscapes, thinking more carefully of composition. They are selling more paintings, and though her father is pleased, Celine senses something uneasy in him about it. Where once he complemented her skills he has become increasingly critical. His own hands are becoming unsteady. A week ago he threatened to tear Celine's paintings to shreds and start selling broken crockery from the old villa like everyone else as they seem to be seeing so much better

than they are. It's not true though, and Celine knows it. Crockery paddlers are an oversaturated market. Irs and her father's paintings are selling the best they've ever sold, but still, it is barely enough for them to live. Celine thinks it's a wonder the researchers have any artefacts left to study at all given the amount she's seen being sold on the town streets. Except she knew for a fact that most of the crockery shards being sold there weren't

legitimate. That didn't really matter though in Salim's opinion. The people buying the shards weren't experts or even particularly interested in the Romans at all. They just wanted a little piece of the story to take home with them so it didn't really matter if it was real, so long as they believed it was. In fact, Salim thought, it was probably better to sell these people fakes than the genuine article anyway. What good would a real bit of Roman pottery do sitting in the cabinet

of some lady forgotten behind this week's fresh flowers? The governess stops to soothe the busing baby in its huge, ornate pram. Selim pads forward and with a deft swish of the scalpel she uses to sharpen her pencils, severs the cords holding the governess's pocket in place. Celine slips the pocket into the folds of her dress and crosses the street, heading up towards the hills. Once she's left us sufficiently behind, Celine settles behind a large rock and empties the contents of the governess's pocket onto the floor between her shoes.

A silver rattle, a small sewing kit, an assortment of buttons and a tiny coin purse. A few francs rattle inside. It's not much, but it's enough to buy bread for Selina and her father, and perhaps something sweet too. It's not a sensible use of money, but there will be more pockets to steal, and her father has seemed so tired for weeks. She takes the coins and the rattle, and leaves the rest in the dirt, runs back into town. As Selina is at the bakery, she notices a crowd is gathering near the town hall, something to do with the villa she supposes.

The baker eyes Selina with doubt as she approaches the counter and chooses a large round loaf and a small almond pastry which, to the baker's surprise, she pays for in advance. She walks out with the goods under her arm. The crowd is still there, they have gathered around the edge of the market as though some fancy new stall has set up in the hour or so since Celine was last there. But as Celine passes them, she realises that their tone is all wrong. They're whispering fast, some women are crying, angers she veiled over downturned mouths.

Celine wanders over and as she does, curiously the crowd begins to part, many of the onlookers giving Celine strange and doleful looks. When finally she reaches a fence where her father has tied up her paintings to sell them, she sees him. He's sat on the overturned crate he always sits on when he's selling their wares, but his posture is tumbled down like an old cottage, like the beams have rotten and the stones have fallen in on themselves. His eyes are staring at Celine, but he's looking through her. His eyes are staring at Celine, but he's looking through her. At some scenes, Celine knows only the dead can see. When she takes his lepery hand between her own, the bread and pastry dropped have forgotten several feet behind her.

Her father's skin is beginning to cool. She thinks how strange that is on such a warm day. She realises she's never noticed before just how warm people are, how cold it is possible for them to become. Celine sways her weight from hip to hip making a show a tap in her finger on her bottom lip feigning consideration. A young British military officer examines the painting she has had the hotel's butler display on a small chaise. It's fairly small. A real collector would know that Monet usually worked out a much grander scale than this. The young man in jewels whose hotel room Celine is in, is very pretty and fancies himself an art enthusiast, but he incorrectly identified three paintings at the Louvre, so even if he is a true enthusiast, he's not a particularly knowledgeable one.

Jules plays equal regard to Céline and her painting. And mon chur fauvreur has authenticity it, Jules says in broken French. Céline nods. He looks at her for a long moment, eyes flitting back and forth between each of hers, and then leans in close to the canvas, inspecting the outside's brush marks. Monet has a particular method of getting his paint from his brush, Céline has learned.

In her first few attempts at this haystack, layered under the final image, which Jules has his nose just inches from now, looked evocative of Monet's work, but could not have passed for it, even to a passing admirer. She'd returned to his display a dozen times and stood as close to the works as she was allowed, trying to work out what it was exactly that she was missing. Something to do with the underpainting, she thought, and then the method of application

was wrong. « Mon cher Fauvreau will accept Stirling, yeah? » asked Jules. Sillie's heart clenched. « Ah, no. I prefer him, Franks. » Jules. Celine's heart clenched. Ah, no, I prefer him Frank's. Jules frowned. My uncle told me to use Fovro because he's very reasonable about foreign currencies. Celine fidgeted. She can't take the whole payment in sterling.

It would involve going to a bank and explaining how she came by this money. Nobody knows her in Paris well enough to vouch for her, and though she can pass as a shop's assistant to foolish Englishmen, any Frenchman with an eye would recognise the pattern in his butt for what she was, someone attempting to appear to come from money when she did not. Please, I'm trying to show initiative. I'm only Montreux Faux-Ros assistant shop girl, but I want to be a real art dealer like him. I want to prove to him I'm capable, you see? Jules sighs. With Jute ahead across France, I'd rather keep a hold of my Franks.

Who knows what we need to pick up on the way? Silly nods, hoping that biting her lip makes her look sympathetic. British soldiers have been passing through the capital all summer. In June she overheard old men in cafes complaining about it. "'We'll never go to war with the Germans,' they said. "'Our memory is too long. Too much blood was spilled on French soil in the Great War,' they said. Others disagreed. By July there were heated arguments in every bar and cafe. "'It's our duty to go to war with the Germans,' cried the young. "'You don't remember what we lost,' raved the old."

Now in September there is war, but it still doesn't feel like it. The wealthy British officers, like Jules, seem to treat the start of their journey as an holiday. Celine wonders if perhaps all men treat war like this, even when it's a proper war. Perhaps it's because they are young and they are men and so they've had the world handed to them, so they don't know how to be afraid when it might a proper war. Perhaps it's because they are young and they are men and so they've had the world handed to them so they don't know how to be afraid when it might be taken away. Celine, who grew up with nothing but the clothes on her back, glances at the paintings, then at Jules. Well, I suppose I will take sterling, she says. Pay with what franks you have and I will take sterling for the rest, Celine concludes with a nod. This way maybe she'll be able to spend money

on fancy dress which will get her taken seriously in a bank. She'd been hoping to spend the money from this painting on renting somewhere to sleep instead of lurking around shop fronts and going home with strange men. Ah, says Jules, with an indulgent smile. Well, you see, I only have five francs in my name. Perhaps I can pay some kind of premium for your trouble? I'm sure if I come by his office tomorrow and mention my uncle and your incredible work as an assistant, Mr. Fovret—

No, no," said Celine quickly. I understand. I will take payment however you can manage it. How about a 20% premium? asked Jules, turning to the small writing desk in the corner of the hotel room. Will that impress your employer sufficiently? Most definitely, said Celine. She supposed she could take portions of the money to different banks. Maybe that would allow her to have the cash converted. Jules hands Celine a stack of banknotes. She folds them into her pocket. Thank you, sir, she says, with a little bow.

Aren't you going to count it? Jules asks. A hot thrill runs down Celine's sternum. Of course she should have counted it. She smiles her most broad and beautiful smile. I trust you, she tells him. I'll be back in Paris in the spring, says Jules. Perhaps I might call on you then, at Mr Fovres. That would be lovely, says Celine. She will likely have left Paris by then. What a delight, says Jules. Celine bows and leaves the hotel room. As soon as the door closes behind her, a shudder racks her body. Her hands dropped to her sides, balling into fists.

She breathes shallow and hot, walking fast, her head down. She takes her coat from the cloakrooms, ignoring the maid's sneer at all the poorly executed seams. She pulls up her hood and slips her hand into her pocket to pull the edges of the notes Jules has given her. Celine buttons her dress, staring at the military dresscoat hanging on the back of the chair opposite her. And it is a real Monet? asks the man, smoking naked behind her.

Celine glances at the painting. Oh yes, she says, with a small smile. Almost as nice face as you, he says in his German accented French. Celine tries her best to smile. She finishes buttoning her dress. Thank you for the wine, she says and she begins to head for the door. When she reaches for the handle the man grabs her wrist. Celine's heart thuds in her chest. Fragile as a bird, he says, his fingers closing tighter. Celine tries to smile. She closes her free hand around the keys in her pocket, nestled next to the money the Nazi officer has paid for her painting.

I hope to see you flying about, little birdie, he says. He lets her go. Celine smiles, and a little laugh tumbles out of her. The officer has already turned his attention back to the paper he has propped against his bare thighs. Celine closes the door gently behind herself. She takes a long slow breath and hurries down the stairs. She leaves out the back door in case anyone is awake, though it is just before dawn. They already think so let love her. She leaves out the back door in case anyone is awake, though it is just before dawn.

They already think so, let love her. Celine heads home, head down, ignoring the whistles from the other German soldiers she passes. When she finally reaches her little flat, she closes the door softly, as gently as she can, and slowly sinks to the ground with her back against it. She buries her face against her knees. She has not cried for years, and for a moment she longs to. She aches with a prickle of fresh tears in her eyes, but none come. She gets up, dusts herself off, and sits at her easel. The piece she is working on is meant to be a Renoir, an early version of La Bagenouche. From Monsieur's workshop, rescued after his death, Celine practices saying the words in German under a breath. A priceless masterpiece,

that would be fit to man of status like you. Celine swirls the paint on her palette. From the workshop of Monsieur Renoir himself, it's a real treasure, almost lost her time. Such a thing deserves. Celine swipes a gently muddled shadow, the implication of a draw, onto the face of the woman she painted yesterday. Her cheeks are plump, blood red. The lines of her body

are soft, like a cloud's. She's fallen well fed, and with every careful brushstroke, Céline is filled with more and more envy. It's a treasure. My old master, Monsieur Faureux, was lucky to come across it. It's from Renoir's own workshop. It was not discovered until after his death. It's one of a kind, an early version of his famous piece, La Bajonise. See how the shapes here are a little more refined, a little less organic than there? I see in her a self-consciousness, an insecurity. The love of the final piece here is overtaken by a certain kind of rage. Céline throws her paint aside. She breathes heavily.

She puts her face in her hands. She does not cry. Celine tucks a short strand of hair behind her ear, rearranging a bag of oranges slung over her shoulder. The scarves on her scalp have long healed, but sometimes when she combs her hair, the teeth meet the scars there and make her shudder. The day the Germans were forced out of the city was a day of celebration until it wasn't, until they grabbed at Celine

and cut her hair with shears, tore her dresses and threw her into the mud. Her hair would have grown to her shoulders by now if she had let it, but instead she keeps it cropped short a little higher than her jaw. It makes her look bold and chic, this flash of neat blonde waves. She likes to dress all in one colour. This is a statement too. She has become a go-to seller for the wealthy Italian enthusiast of French paintings. She is known to be able to make almost anything happen for her clients and none of them will talk about how much she costs to make it happen. At home, her son, six years old, is spread out on a large rug,

drawing in a sketchbook. Mama, he cries when she walks in. His grin is filled with half-grown teeth. The older he gets, the more he looks like his father, who was shot against a wall in Paris the night before Ville-Ede by a man from the French Resistance. Benoit was born six months later. Benoit shows Celine his drawing. There's you, he says, pointing at a sausage-shaped figure with a yellow scribble at the top, two dots for eyes and a sideways parenthesis for a smile. Here's me, he says, waiting at a dark-haired circle with stick arms and legs pointing out

at the sides. Where are my arms and legs, you silly cabbage? She says, lifting him up onto her hip. Benoit giggles, and Céline promises herself she will never, ever tell him who his father is. Céline laughs indulgently at a joke she didn't listen to. Across the ballroom, her eyes catch a young man leaning against the back of a chair. Those coat and tails are well tailored. There's something amiss with him. His posture is off, his hips swung casually.

tailored. There's something amiss with him. His posture is off, his hips swung casually. It reminds Celine of her paintings. Ah, I see you've spotted young Perry, says Celine's acquaintance, whose name she cannot be bothered to remember. You know him, says Celine. You don't, says her friend. Goodness, that doesn't happen often. I'm being ghosty calling him Perry. He's the Lord de Perrier. I'm surprised you don't know him. His wife is a Parisian like you.

I see, says Celine, hiding her bristle with a smile. A shame we have not yet been acquainted. Oh, would you like me to introduce you? That would be a delight, says Celine. The boy holds Celine's gaze as she makes her way around the dancers in the center of the room. holds Celine's gaze as she makes her way around the dancers in the centre of the room. He is a boy too, at least 15 years Celine's junior. She prides herself on her looks and is certain nobody in the room would know that, however. Celine's friends make their introductions. I've heard of you, says De Perrier, in French that is accented but smooth. You're the French art dealer that everyone's been raving about.

Guilty, says Celine. She sips her champagne. I love your work, says De Perrier. Celine smiles, frowning. It's nothing. I'm a middleman, really, she says. Ah, says De Perrier, with a smile. He looks at Celine's hands.

Of course, he says, with a wink. Celine laughs. I'm sure I don't know what you mean, she says. De Perrier smiles again. He grabs another flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray. He stands up straight, and it's as though he's assuming a new skin. His boyish grin is softer and more dignified. Céline cannot help but smile back.

Monet and Renoir, the masters, would quake in their boots, De Perrier mutters. Hours later, Céline is pressed up against the wall in her hallway, de Perrier's nose on her throat. His hands on her bare shoulders are not a gentleman's hands, they're rough and scarred, but his touch is gentle. He pulls Céline's dress up around her hips and kisses his way down to meet his fingers. They lie on the rug in Céline's living room afterwards, smoking. De Perrier never took his trousers the whole way off. Céline's dress is scrumpled but likewise still covering her.

Deperrier is staring at Céline's latest piece. Where did you learn to paint like that? My father hated portraits, said Céline. That's not an answer, said Deperrier. How did a beggar become a lord, said Céline. Deperrier grinned. I was never a beggar. a lord? said Celine. Di Perio grinned. I was never a beggar. What then? A thief? Di Perio shakes his head. Are you a thief? he asks.

Celine thinks on this a moment. She shakes her head. Di Perio runs his hand over his face. Do you ever wish they knew it was yours? They love your work Celine. They hang it in their homes, pay thousands for it. But they don't know you made it. Doesn't that hurt? Celine does not know how to answer this. When she wakes in the morning, duperrier is gone, not leaving even a note. For some reason, this, of all things,

makes Celine's eyes sting. She touches her most recent painting. Celine sees duperrier three times over the next years. Once he stays three days meets Benoit. Celine is horrified to think that if Duperrier were just a couple of years younger, he and her son would make fast friends, not that she wanted Benoit to keep such a man for company. Since that first night he has not mentioned her paintings again. She has heard a few rumours about him, about what he may be doing with his time. Each time she feels she may be getting closer to the truth it makes her shudder. He's a nobody boy, that's what she likes about him. They can be real with each other without needing to speak the truth. Fuck the truth, it has offered Celine nothing. Reality is all about

believing. The truth has nothing to do with reality. To Céline's clients, those paintings are real Monets and Renoirs. To Benoit, his father really was René Fouver, even though he had been killed by German soldiers two years before Benoit was conceived. Céline and Diperio meet for the last time in Valencia in the height of summer. The little house where he is staying stinks of oranges. It seems to be all he eats. His hands are often sticky with them.

There is something off about him, something strange and hurried. He seems older now, old the way Celine has begun to feel. When they sleep together it is hurried, frenetic, and it makes her worry. Perrier, she says to him as they lie in his bed afterwards. De Perrier runs his hands over his face. Celine touches his spine and thinks back to that conversation on the rug many years ago, the night they met.

The paintings are not mine, she answers. If they were, nobody would love them. De Perrier turns to Celine, his expression filled with disgust. In silence, he dresses and leaves her in the house. Celine stays there all day, all night, or the next day and night too. She wanders around the little house that stinks of oranges. The holladot husks sit mordering on the counters.

There are no clean linens in the cupboards, no clothes in any of the wardrobes. The drawers and cupboards in the kitchen are all empty, except for a single teacup. It looks almost exactly like the one her father used to use to wet his paintbrushes. She thinks of him sharpening the bristles on his tongue. Celine takes out the teacup and weighs it in her hands. She squeezes several oranges into it, mashing their flesh with a fork, licking the juice that spills down her wrists. As night begins to fall, Celine stands in the small courtyard at the back of the house, listening to the creak of nearby crickets.

She sips the juice. It tastes odd, too sweet. There's something metallic about it. She hears something, a sound, in the house. She strains her ears, but all is quiet again. Celine takes a few steps back towards the door. Perry, she calls, but this is not his name, nor is the Perrier. Do you want to talk, she calls. There is a crack of cold pain on the back of Celine's head. Her vision flashes white.

She hears the teacup shatter on the tile floor and feels her balance failing. She looks out across the ocean of Saint-Cyr-Samaire. She will not play with the other children, but they do not like her. So what do you think? What? Shelve or discard? What? What do you even mean?

Are you asking for a more precise definition or an outline of the task? Yes! That is not an appropriate answer to my question. Well, okay. What's the criteria I'm using to make this decision? You will need criteria to pass judgements. Yes! Ah, I see. Well, I didn't think of that. We shall try again.

What? When? When I have your criteria. For now, go to sleep. Remnants is an audio drama created, written, performed and produced by A-Way Major, published under a Creative Commons non-commercial 4.0 attribution license. To support the show and get early access to new episodes go to patreon.com forward slash hanging sauce studios. You can leave a one-off tip at kofi.com forward slash hanging sauce and find out more at hanging sauce studios dot com forward slash remnance and check out their other content, please search Remnance and Audiodrama wherever you get your podcasts, or click the link in the description of this

episode. And as always, you can visit RustyQuill.com for more information. You can find the creator behind Remnance on Twitter at Hanging Sloths or on their website, HangingSlothsStudios.com. Thanks for listening.