Episode 14
Travelling Light E014S01 Transcript
H.R. Owen
Hello friends, Hero here. This week's trailer comes from Camlann, a phenomenal new audio drama that reimagines Arthurian legend through a queer, modern lens. It's an epic post-apocalyptic fantasy following three survivors and their dog as they try to understand how the world ended and how to build a home from its ashes. I am frankly a little unhinged about this podcast. Please, do yourselves a favour and give it a listen. Stay tuned to the end of the credits to hear more and see the show notes for additional details.
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Fourteen.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
Entry EN85011-6: A description of an adiectum discovered at an archaeological dig in Doyino, with a discussion of the find's significance
Key words: adiecta; archaeology; architecture; Doyino; local history; Peteimos
Notes:
In the mid-afternoon, a small commotion arose from one of the trenches. When I went to see what the fuss was about, I found the dig team diligently scraping away at a big rectangular slab, cooing over it as if it were the pride of the galaxy.
Óli spotted me and waved me into the trench to hear Tsabec's explanation of the find.
“How's that for a bit of rock,” Tsabec said when I joined them, their eyes twinkling. They turned to Óli, who was standing bright with attention. “Well, m'dear. Go on. Tell me what you see.”
“What? Me?” said Óli, clearly alarmed. “Wha- What do you mean?”
“Precisely what I say. Tell me what you see. Don't worry about the context for now, just tell me what you notice.”
Óli's mouth twisted with uncertainty. “Alright. Um… [sighs] Uh. I think it is… made of stone? [sighs, exasperated] Sorry, that was stupid…”
“It's not stupid at all. It's made of stone. What else?”
“Um. I suppose, uh… Is it quite big?”
“Why are you asking me? Is it big, or isn't it?”
“It is,” they said, more confidently. “It is a big, stone rectangle. Um...”
“Come on,” Tsabec chivvied. “Tell me what you see. Where is it?”
“It is on the ground. No,” they corrected, “no, it is in the ground. The trench is deep, it was buried a long way down. A-and the trench!” they said, in a sudden rush of inspiration. “This one near where the original piece of masonry was found. Is this made of the same sort of stone as that piece?”
“We'll get to that. Good thinking, though. Now, look the artefact itself. What can you make out?”
Óli pulled a face. “It is very dirty...”
“So would you be, if we buried you in the back garden. Come on! You've already established it's made of stone – it won't disintegrate if you clean it up a little.”
Thus chided, Óli squatted down, running their hand over the face of the slab to clear what mud from it they could. They sat back on their haunches to assess their efforts.
“Oh. The face has carvings on it. The edges have this border running all the way around, and- [sighs] Well, there are things in the middle too, but I cannot really see what they are.”
Tsabec helped Óli to their feet. “Very good,” they said, warmth bleeding into their voice even as they tried to maintain their professorial posture. “Now you've gathered all this information, our next job is working out what it means.
Let's start from the start, hm? We found it in the ground, several feet deep. What might its depth be able to tell us?” When Óli looked blank, they turned to me. “Well? Any ideas?”
I had not expected to be called on, and scrambled for an answer. “I suppose the deeper is it, the longer is has been down there.”
To my relief, Tsabec nodded. “Just so. Time falls in sheets, each layer resting atop the last. When we dig, we move through those layers, from the most recent to the most ancient. At this depth, and in this particular trench, I should say we are looking at a piece of some antiquity.
Now, the object itself. It is a big rectangular slab with some sort of image on one side. It was meant to be viewed, presumably, and with that presumption, we can make a guess at how it may have been displayed.
Different sizes of image have to be viewed from different perspectives. You can't take in the fine details of a painting the size of your hand from the other side of the room, and you can't see a mural if you stand with your nose against the bricks.
This is a great big slab with great big images on. It was meant to be viewed from a distance, perhaps up on a wall or above a door. Somewhere you could get a real look at the whole thing, in situ.
Which brings us to the location. We already know from the other finds here that this was the site of an ancient temple. If I tell you that first piece of masonry was from a wall that runs right around this whole area, what does that tell you?”
Óli pulled a face, looking for all the world like they were doing some kind of terribly difficult mental maths. “I suppose it means it was indoors.”
“So…?” Tsabec prompted. “This image was where, precisely?”
“Inside a temple, high up on an interior wall.” Their eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, they must have wanted to see it while they worshipped? Maybe? Perhaps the carving is something to do with their faith, a depiction of something, a-a story or an idea or, or an important person…?”
Tsabec beamed at them like a farmer beholding their prize pumpkin. “Excellent deduction! Of course, it's pure conjecture at this point, but it's a jolly good start.”
Óli did not say anything, but their posture somehow became even more perfect, a flush of colour touching the high points of their cheeks.
“The carving itself is rather worn, we'll need to wait on proper imaging scans to really see what's going on. But just from looking at the thing where we found it, we can make all sorts of guesses – good, grounded guesses – about what it meant, and what else it might tell us.
Even now, lying there in the mud, it has a whole story it's just dying to sing out to us. And the more you study this stuff, the more story you can squeeze from what you find.
For example, you have no way of knowing this, but this slab reminds me of a certain class of object known as adiectra, adiectrum in the singular. It's an archaeological term for a decorative stone plaque, specifically one carved separately and then set into an existing wall at a later date.
Bryndi and her team have put a tentative date on the foundations of this temple at around two thousand years ago. But that style of carving on the border there is one we don't see in these parts until about a thousand years after that.
Either this slab is a very early example of this design, setting our timeline for the development of that artistic style back quite significantly, or…”
“Or it was added later. A thousand years later? People worshipped here for over a thousand years? Or, no, it-it might not have been the whole time. But they might have come back to it, or reused the building for a new faith or-or something.”
Tsabec laughed – a rare, real laugh, their hands clasped across their stomach as if to hold themselves together. [laughing] “Now you're getting it! All that inference from one – admittedly rather impressive – find. Imagine what we might learn when we have time to really study this site.”
Óli huffed a breath, hands on their hips, looking down at the slab with fresh wonder. “That is amazing.”
Tsabec clapped them on the shoulder – or as close to the shoulder as they could reach. “That, my young friend, is archaeology.”
[The sound of the data stick whirring fades back in, cutting out when the data stick is removed with a click.]
The Traveller
11th Enu 850, continued.
When I returned to the dig, Griori took it upon himself to show me around the parts of the garden not yet ravaged by the excavation, I think as a tactic to drum up some additional sympathy for his plight.
It reminded me rather of Nilsi's garden back in Emerraine, though you may tell her from me that Griori's sugar peas were nothing like as impressive as hers.
He had a pond tucked into one corner and I do hope that, at least, is not disturbed by the digging. There were little green plants floating across the surface of the water, and he scooped some up to show me.
“They have no roots, see? They grow in ponds and lakes and slow rivers, drifting about and getting everything they need from the water and the sun.”
Each one was about the size of my fingernail with fluffy fronds sticking out from the central structure.
“I think the proper name is inopinata, but I have always heard them called frog's pillows.”
When I went to check up on the others, I was surprised to find Óli kneeling in one of the trenches, excavating the little patch of dirt in front of them under the careful watch of one of Bryndi's team-mates.
They had cast off their not-so-practical travelling cloak and replaced it with a knitted jumper in a very unlikely pattern. Whoever they borrowed it off must have been enormous. It hung loose off their shoulders, and they had had to roll back the sleeves, so that the bulk of the bunched fabric made their wrists look fine-boned and elegant in comparison.
They had their skirts tied up into make-shift shorts, and when they stood, there were smears of dirt on their knees. They were, in short, as scruffy as I had ever seen them, and I could not help but smile.
“You have gone native,” I said, sitting down on the side of the trench.
The others were setting down their tools and finding comfortable places to sit and eat packed lunches, and Óli hopped up to sit beside me, cleaning their hands with some water and a spare bit of skirt.
“I think I shall become an archaeologist,” they said cheerfully. “It suits me.”
“You would have dirt under you fingernails for the rest of your life.”
They pondered this as they ate, hungry from a morning's work. “Perhaps, then, I shall become an actor, and play one in the theatre instead.”
“Are there many plays about archaeologists?”
“You can write me some.”
[laughing] “Oh, I am to be a playwright now, am I?”
“Yes,” they said decisively. “And Tsabec can be our expert advisor, so that you use all the right words for things and I do not get my costume wrong.”
I had brought an auren with me from the Tola, and I peeled it and broke it into segments, handing some to Óli.
“I do feel a little like I am on a school trip,” they said. “Or like I have been well-behaved all week and have been taken on an excursion as a treat.”
“If you are very good, you may have some pocket money for the gift shop.”
They laughed, kicking their feet happily against the side of the trench and possibly destroying several millennia of valuable archaeological data. Then they popped a slice of auren into their mouth, and in a quick, smooth motion, leant sideways to tap their head against mine with a knock of soft, sudden affection.
I spent most of the afternoon making myself useful, bringing people hot drinks and fetching tools and trying not to get in the way. Finally, the light began to fade and it was time for Tsabec, Óli and I to start the long trip back to Komi.
Just as Bryndi was about to give us a lift to the transit station, Griori came jogging over, a jar in his hands. He rather pointedly ignored Bryndi and the others, focusing instead on me.
“They don't need much,” he said, handing me the jar. “Pop the lid off once they're somewhere they won't spill, add some nutrient mix in the water once a year and that should do them.”
The jar was filled with water, with a handful of gravel at the base, and a cluster of frog's pillows bobbing around inside.
There is not much to say about the journey back. Tsabec was quiet, lost in thoughts of ancient people and the gods they worshipped. Óli, meanwhile, fell asleep almost as soon as the transport left the station, with a smudge of dirt on their nose and an air of absolute contentment.
I do not think anyone else on the Tola was still awake when we got back. It was a strange mirror of the morning, slipping through the corridors like a parcel of ghosts.
I have Griori's frog's pillows on my desk, bobbing quietly about. I will beg a lamp off Annaliese tomorrow to make sure they have enough light when we are travelling. They are very peaceful, and as I watch them I find myself slipping into that peacefulness with them.
[yawning] I will write again soon. I love you all.
[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 H.R. Owen, with accompanying artwork available on our social media accounts.
If you've got an idea for an archive entry, we want to hear it. You can send us anything from a one line prompt to a fully written entry through our website, by email, or on social media. For more information, see the show notes.
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This podcast is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. The theme tune is by Vinca.
[Fade to silence. The Camlann trailer begins.]
[Camlann is written and directed by Ella Watts and produced by Amber Devereux at Tin Can Audio, with production management from Ross McFarlane. This transcript was written by Ella Watts.]
[A dial tone - it’s a low, warm trilling beep which rings in sets of two, six times, before stopping abruptly.
The voice that follows is feminine and light, with a precise English accent. The character speaks with a sense of formality, and formal warmth - like you might find in a hospital.]
RECORDING 1:
Please hold. Your call is very important to us and we will get to it as quickly as we can. The Cataclysm is frightening for everyone. Remember, in times like these we need to stick together more than ever. If you need emergency assistance, please call 999 -
[The dial tone returns, ringing three times. The voice that follows is light, masculine, with a Scottish accent.]
RECORDING 2:
Your position in the queue is -
[The voice that follows is androgynous and light, a different Scottish accent to the one before.]
RECORDING 3:
Three-hundred and thirty-three
[A long, continuous droning beep as the phone connects, which ends abruptly.
The voice that follows is feminine and Scottish, specifically Glaswegian. She sounds confident, but somewhat rushed - like an emergency phone operator. She is immediately authoritative and polite.]
PHONE OPERATOR:
Hello, you’ve reached the Cataclysm Casualties Hotline. Can I take your name and date of birth?
[At this point, a very soft static begins to build in the background.
The first voice we hear is androgynous, English and precise.]
PERRY:
Peredur Green
[The second voice is a low, feminine voice with a Welsh accent.]
MORGAN:
Morgan Jones
[The third voice speaks with a Chinese accent, and is light and feminine.]
GWEN:
Shújūn Liu
[The fourth voice is low and masculine, with a broad Scottish accent.]
GWAINE:
Gwaine Turner
[The fifth voice is light and masculine, with a light Welsh accent.]
DAI:
Just call me Dai
[The Phone Operator is business-like and professional.]
PHONE OPERATOR:
Ok, and who are you calling for today?
[The static keeps building softly, getting slowly louder.
Dai sounds frustrated and anxious, and he speaks quickly.]
DAI:
My Mum. Siân Thomas? She was in Aberystwyth.
[Gwaine speaks firmly and slowly. He falters when he clarifies Kirkwall, revealing his anxiety.]
GWAINE:
Matthew and Louise Turner. In Kirkwall on Orkney.
[Gwen sounds audibly anxious, speaking with urgency and a slightly higher pitch.]
GWEN:
My father, Kai Liu.
[Morgan says Ben’s name as if around a lump in her throat - she sounds sad, like she already knows something has happened to him.]
MORGAN:
Ben. Ben Jones.
[Gwaine sounds comfortably skeptical - as if what he’s referring to cannot possibly be true.
A new drone builds alongside the softly building static - like a swarm of bees or string instruments being played vibrato. It slowly gets louder and louder, a low pitched sense of intensity and dread.]
GWAINE:
I saw something on the news about a sea serpent?
[Morgan sounds like she’s going to be sick. She’s deadly serious, firm and clearly seriously worried.]
MORGAN:
He’s fifteen years old.
[Perry is authoritative and comfortable with the bureaucracy, though they still speak with a sense of urgency.]
PERRY:
Anna and Sophie Green, in Portsmouth.
[When Gwen speaks, there’s a sense of dread in her voice.]
GWEN:
What’s happening in Kowloon?
[Perry sounds incredulous and confused as they ask their question, full of disbelief.
The droning bee swarm sound gets louder, it’s hard to tell if it’s musical or a sound effect, only that it’s building a sense of dread like a horror film.]
PERRY:
Listen, is this real? I’ve been seeing news reports about dragons -
[The phone operator sounds guarded and distracted when she answers, clearly avoiding the questions.]
PHONE OPERATOR:
Let me look that up for you. Where are you calling from today?
[Each of the following answers comes quickly and firmly. Gwen’s stands out.]
PERRY:
Bristol
MORGAN:
Bristol
GWAINE:
Bristol
DAI:
Bristol
GWEN:
Leicester
[The phone operator sounds sincere and sympathetic in the way that a doctor might when delivering bad news to a patient.
A new sound effect joins the static and drone - background voices or muffled clanging metal, like the echoes you hear in a swimming pool. It sounds strange and surreal, contradicting the sensible pragmatism of the Phone Operator’s delivery.]
PHONE OPERATOR:
I’m so sorry, it looks like we haven’t got anyone listed under that name on the database. This means they have’t been listed as a fatality. Call back tomorrow, and if you haven’t heard anything from us or your loved one in three days, try the online form.
[Very softly, music fades in - synthetic strings playing a warm, hopeful folk music kind of melody. The strings build.]
PHONE OPERATOR:
I know this is scary, but it’s ok. We’re going to get through this…
[Everything pauses - the sound effects, the music, and the Phone Operator herself. There’s a beat of silence.]
PHONE OPERATOR:
…together.
[The music resumes, louder than before, as everything else fades away. The tune builds from strings into a melodic keyboard like-tune on a synthetic instrument that sounds like fairy lights. The music is warm and hopeful.
It dips in volume under the following voiceover - delivered by a light, masculine voice with a Welsh accent, the same actor as Dai. His delivery is confident and formal.]
VOICEOVER:
Camlann, a post-apocalyptic audio drama by Ella Watts, inspired by folklore and Arthurian legends. Coming January 2024. Produced by Tin Can Audio.
[The music builds - the synthetic keyboard and strings joined by a synth that sounds almost like an organ, building to a gentle, slow crescendo before dipping back down - each instrument falling away until only the strings are left playing the core melody of the tune, more and more quietly until the music fades and the trailer ends.]
--END TRANSCRIPT--
