Episode 2
Travelling Light S01E002 Transcript
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Two.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
17th Shadoch, 850.
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
The morning after my friends' departure, I set out to the port authority office to book my fare. I had not yet chosen which ship I would be travelling on when I left the lodging house. I suppose I hoped the decision would come upon me as I walked. And, in a way, it did.
I had no sooner opened the office door than the breath was unceremoniously knocked out of me by a departing stranger. He cannoned into me so hard, I nearly went flying. I had the fleeting impression of a great, scowling profile and the mass of his dark coat as he blew past me.
Then, he was gone, stomping off without sparing me so much as a look, let alone an apology. When I had caught my breath, I came into the office and asked the official behind the desk who in stars that had been.
“Him?” she said, with a wry smile. “That was Captain Scarry of the Guillemot. I should count yourself lucky – that was a fairly pleasant encounter, by Scarry's usual standards.”
The name rang a bell. When I checked my notes, there it was – the Guillemot, none other than the merchant ship I had been considering. Well! I am not one to ignore the revelations of the light when they strike me. I took this as a sign… and promptly booked passage on the Research and Survey Vessel Tola instead.
I had a day to myself before the Tola was due to set sail, and spent it doing a little sightseeing. I've described my trip in the attached entry to the archives. The next day, I woke early, took a hearty breakfast with Ezlaw, and was soon on my way to the docks, stopping in at the port authority office for some final checks.
There are so many people in there at any given time, it is something of a survival strategy to learn to tune other customers out. The place is overwhelming enough, without having to try and follow the line of your own thoughts while half-listening to someone else haggling for passage or arguing about import taxes.
Nevertheless, as I waited for my papers to be processed, I couldn't help becoming aware of the person at the desk beside mine. I did not recognise their species or their mode of dress. They were tall, even sitting down, and wore a kind of draping, many-layered costume, the fabric stiff with embroidery.
I am no expert in the body language of other species, but it wouldn't take a xenobiologist to see they were clearly upset about something. They were speaking in low, urgent tones with the port authority official who was serving them, their face drawn and anxious as they tapped at their translator device.
But despite their efforts, the official seemed unmoved. He kept raising his voice, saying in the flat, frustrated tones of customer service workers the galaxy over, that it was no good, they would have to come back tomorrow – [loudly, enunciating clearly] come back tomorrow.
The customer tapped their device again and again, shaking it with frustration as if they could knock some sense into it. As I watched – I-I trust I will be forgiven my nosiness – well, I realised, their translator wasn't working properly. They could neither understand the official, nor make themselves understood in turn.
Well, I thought. That at least is something I can help with. Indeed, I had just the other day bargained for a reduced fare on the Tola by offering my services in repairs and electronics. I'm no engineering genius, but I can be relied upon to repair a few droids or retool a sensor array – or, as the case may be, tune up a faulty translator device.
It took a little awkward gesturing to convey my intention. It wasn't until I took my pocket toolkit out of my pack that the other customer's face suddenly cleared. They gestured their assent, urgently pushing the device into my hands.
From there it was just a matter of popping open the back and seeing what the matter was. It was a simple enough repair, and I was able to fix it using a spare component I already had to hand.
No sooner was the back of the device on than the stranger almost snatched the device out of my hands. They fumbled to put on the sound interfaces with a look of cautious optimism. “As I was saying,” the port authority official began – but the stranger was not listening.
They had slumped back in their seat, relief obvious in every line of their body. I took a moment to appreciate my own success – and then happened to see the time. I had lingered far too long. The Tola was due to depart in less than half an hour, and I had no illusions they would wait for me if I were late.
I got up to leave, and as I did, the stranger rose too. Standing, they were even taller than I had realised, much taller than me, strong and slender as a sapling. They grasped my forearms, holding them in a firm but gentle grip.
They bent their head towards me and for a moment I thought they might kiss me – not an uncommon gesture in the cultures of the world, though a little intimate for my Emerrainian tastes! Instead, they pressed their forehead against mine.
“Thank you,” they said to me, their device now syncing properly with other devices in the area – including mine. Their voice was low, husky with emotion. “In the name of Tonirsa, I thank you.”
I admit, I was a little flustered! [laughs] But gratified. I told them they were very welcome, I was happy to help. They gave my arms a final squeeze and let me go, folding themselves back into their seat to take up their conversation once more. Then, I rushed off to catch the Tola before it sailed.
[The click of a data stick being inserted into a drive that whirs as it reads]
The Traveller
Entry 850SH16-2. An account of a visit to Tautha Serran which took place on 16th Shadoch, 850.
Key words: galactic history; places and landmarks; Port Taroth; Serran; Tautha Serran; travel and transport
Notes:
I am not, generally speaking, a superstitious person. I've never been one to worry about taking my knitting outside, or singing when it's raining, or spinning twice round on the spot whenever I see a bethan bird. [laughs]
But neither am I one to fly in the face of grand tradition. I have never been off-planet before, and it seemed appropriate to mark the occasion of my first foray into the stars in the traditional manner. So, with an astonishing quantity of food packed for me by the owner of my lodging house, I set off to see Tautha Serran.
For the sake of thoroughness – though I cannot believe there is a single Serranite who does not know this already – Tautha Serran is the historical site of the planet's first interstellar port. The name means exactly that – 'tautha' being 'port', in the old tongue, and Serran being, well, Serran. Thus, Tautha Serran, the port of Serran.
It's, uh, it's rather amusing, really. Taroth itself is derived from the word 'tautha', so the city's name directly translates as, uh, Port Port! [laughs, then catches themselves] Funny if you like that sort of thing, anyway. [clears throat]
Once upon a time, Tautha Serran was the axis around which turned all interplanetary trade on Serran. Today, it is a ruin, a squat, stubborn smudge across the skyline, sulking on a hill high above a sleepy town whose streets offer nothing but small-time merchants selling over-priced pies and gaudy souvenirs.
The path rose out of the town in a winding ribbon, well-worn, not well-maintained. It traced its way up the hill in a series of tight, hairpin turns. And as the path rose, Tautha Serran rose with it.
It seems an obvious thing to say – that it got bigger as I got closer. But it did not stop getting bigger. I kept thinking, surely that's it, that's the size of it now. But it kept going and going, impossibly vast, filling the sky with its own concrete finality.
I stopped at the summit and looked out over the vast grassy plains below. Port Taroth was just visible, a grubby thumbprint on the landscape. And behind me, looming and lonely – the point where this planet first touched the stars.
There were other other pilgrims with me on the hill, but we did not speak to one another. Only the crows were bold enough to break that cathedral quiet, cawing bright in the crisp, autumn air. The doorway hung open, dark and patient as the jaws of a whale.
It was cold inside. Not the brisk cold of fresh air. This was the cold of stillness, of emptiness, of silence where there had once been noise.
I walked down the curving hallway, footsteps echoing around me. And then, quite suddenly, the walls gave way, and I found myself in the central atrium.
Light poured down from the open roof above, and my eyes filled with colour. Every inch of the walls sang with images of Serran daily life as it was those many centuries ago. Some of this life, I recognised – eating, dancing, playing games I knew from my own childhood.
And some, I did not. These people and their contexts have been swallowed by time, so that I could no more interpret them than I could read the ancient letters carved above the chamber doors.
And yet, I knew them. I knew that place. It is a strange thing, to feel the fingers of the past reaching out to you. But I felt it then, as I stood turning on the spot, breathing in the clamorous riot of life that filled that vast, silent hall.
The shadows were long when I finally started back towards town. But before I left, I took the long climb to the top of the Tautha Serran structure. I admit, my legs shook somewhat as I stepped out on the upper level, buffeted by the wind and so very far from the ground.
Railings ring the upper walkway. They are all badly rusted and I-I would not like to trust them with my weight. But they carry something far more important. From each rail hangs hundreds, thousands of fluttering, flickering ribbons, each one left by some passing pilgrim.
Some are so old, they are no more than a cluster of sun-bleached threads, a mere memory of fabric. Others are fresh and bright, tied tightly into place, cracking and dancing as they turn. And, as of today, there is one more among their number, whispering my own quiet prayers into the wind.
[Title music: rhythmic instrumental folk. It plays throughout the closing credits.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light was created by H.R. Owen and Matt McDyre, and is a Monstrous Productions podcast. This episode was written and performed by H.R. Owen.
This week’s entry to the archives was based on an idea by Matt McDyre, with accompanying artwork on Twitter @Monstrous_Pod, on Instagram @Monstrous_Productions and on Tumblr @MonstrousProductions.
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