Episode 30
Travelling Light E030S01 Transcript
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Thirty.
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The Traveller
Entry HE85002-7: A discussion of the mote species, their companions, the Tovaric, and their history together.
Key words: Attala; communication; community; ethnography; galactic history; Koom; motes; Tovaric; travel and transport.
Notes:
It is a strange quirk of galactic history that one of the oldest sentient species is also among the least understood. Motes have achieved their remarkable longevity by the simple evolutionary tactic of being able to survive in almost all conditions.
As far as anybody can tell, the only thing a mote needs to survive is company.
This need for company is so profound, motes are never found on their own. They might travel with any type of companion, but are most often encountered in the company of Tovarics, a species native to the same planet as the motes.
Indeed, there is some speculation that the motes had a hand in Tovaric evolution, though motes themselves are often careful to stress that they do not claim the merit of raising this diverse civilization all on their own.
Nevertheless, the fact remains that Tovaric people enjoy an especially close relationship with the motes, and seem able to communicate with them far more easily than other species.
The matter was explained to me by a Tovaric boy named Gyorga, whom I met at the Attala landing pads transit station.
Gyorga explained that Tovaric people generally live communally, with several generations of several families living together under one roof. These sprawling family units usually include a number of motes, who will remain with the same community for generations.
In such cases, it is common for the mote to be referred to using the family name, prefaced with either the word “mote” or simply the letter M.
So, a mote belonging to the Kryshnyk family home would be referred to as Mote Kryshnyk, just as other family members might be called by their given names or, perhaps, as Cousin Kryshnyk.
Motes return the gesture in kind, referring to all individuals on and off planet with the title “friend”. A very useful and flexible word, I am sure you will agree.
In appearance, motes resemble orbs about the size of a human hand. They are able to control their own luminosity, colour and texture, disturbing their own surface so that it shivers, striates or dimples according to their wish.
Sometimes this is used as a form of physical communication, but quite often it is simply a personal preference of the individual mote.
In addition to this unusual appearance, motes possess an apparently unique ability to translate any language they come across, after only a very short period of exposure.
This skill with languages makes motes a choice travelling companion. And while assistive devices and recent developments in technology might technically enable a mote to travel under their own steam, as it were, the possibility of having no social partners on their journey makes this untenable
Instead, motes generally travel with members of their family groups, though some will re-home themselves if necessary, attaching themselves to a particular crew, expedition, or individual.
It has become something of a rite of passage for young Tovaric people to take a long journey far from home towards the end of their adolescence, and to bring their family mote with them as they travel.
On these trips, motes are usually carried in a decorative container or a specially designed bag. Gyorga wore his mote in a device attached to his shoulder, where the mote could both speak to its companion and experience the world around it.
Although they are not necessary for survival, there are several forms of stimulation that motes enjoy beyond socialisation. They enjoy the physical vibration of sound waves, for example, and take pleasure in all manner of music – the louder, the better.
And while they do not eat or digest, motes do have a fondness for smells. They often accumulate vast catalogues of cookery from all corners of the universe, so delighted are they by the smells of cooking.
When a mote is smells something new, they often ask for an explanation of how the smell is created. It is not unusual to see slightly uncomfortable young Tovarics in the markets and meeting-places of the galaxy, awkwardly asking a person to explain their perfume – or their body odour.
Gyorga explained, with a delightfully adolescent eye-roll, that a good deal of dramatic and comedic stories among motes and Tovarics work on the premise of the mote's companion accidentally indicating offence or attraction to a stranger as a result of their mote's curiosity.
Indeed, as Gyorga went on – and as he translated some of his own mote’s comments – I came to suspect that embarrassing their young travelling companions might be one of the motes’ most enjoyable pastimes.
An understandable impulse, I think, for anyone who has ever had the joy of mortifying a teenage relative.
[The sound of the data stick whirring fades in, cutting out when the data stick is removed with a click.]
The Traveller
2nd Herach 850
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
The rendezvous with Aboday's buyer was to take place on Koom, in a small settlement in the Valtat province. Aman brought the Tola to Valtat in one of those rare, in-atmosphere flights that are always such a treat.
We soared eastwards over rich, red desert, spotted here and there with flourishes of green, blooming like sudden drops of ink in water. Then, just as sudden, the sand gave way to the broad, flat expanse of Lake Intzar.
I worry that when I say “lake”, you may get the wrong impression. Lake Intzar is no mere watering hole, but a vast expanse of water to put any sea to shame.
It has its own currents, tides, entire ecosystems contained within its shores – shores, by the way, which cannot be seen, one from the other. And nestled in a curve of the lakeside, the ancient city of Attala, home to fully 94 percent of Valtat's inhabitants.
Leaving the ship was like walking into a wall of heat and moisture. I felt as if I would have been better off with gills rather than lungs. Even dressed as lightly as I was, I was soon damp with sweat.
But I did not let that put me off. I had read about Attala on the local directory, and I was determined to see the sights.
The buildings are built primarily out of red clay, dredged from the lake bed. Unlike Tauzig, to the south, Attala is decorated not by colour but by shapes. Door and window frames are particularly ornate, picked out in swirls and ridges of clay to make a layered, multi-textural filigree.
The city is centred on an ancient fortress, which has watched over life in these parts for full on three millennia. Attala spreads out from that point in ever increasing rings, reminding me somewhat of the rings of a tree.
My exploration of the city did not include the fortress. The directory had mentioned some interesting architectural features, but overall I cannot summon very much interest in military history, however distant it might be.
Instead, I tended downhill, minding my way in streets packed with vehicles and pedestrians alike, none of whom seemed to pay the least bit of attention to the few traffic signs I spotted about the place.
Eventually though, I reached the promenade between the city and the lake without any great mishap.
Again, the sense of layers upon layers. First, the promenade, bustling with traffic. Then the shore, where children and wading birds splashed and darted back and forth over the border between the brown-red sand and the grey-red waves.
Behind and above them, further out upon the water, boats hung tethered and bobbing on the waves. And further beyond, the sky, grey and looming, billowing with unbroken clouds.
Even there, there was movement. Ships like vast, distant birds, swinging out over the lake before curving back on themselves, making a slow, graceful descent to the city below.
I found my way to a stall selling cold drinks and other snacks. “Is there a storm coming?” I asked the vendor, nodding at the bank of clouds above.
She laughed, making the chains dangling from her horns tinkle and chime. “Fresh off the boat, are you?”
“Uh. Yes. Arrived this morning. Is it that obvious?”
“Only newcomers still hope for a storm to break the heat.” She leant on her counter, letting me in on the secret. “When it rains here, it rains hot.”
[laughing] “Good grief!” I laughed, fanning myself with my shirt.
“Don't worry – nice jar of kauli'll cool you right down. Only two bits!”
Kauli, it transpired, was a kind of cold whipped nut thing, sort of a-a sweet, nutty cream? It was very nice, at any rate – though I appreciated the iced tea I bought with it rather more.
Our meeting with the buyer was not until the following day, to take place in a far smaller settlement further north along the lake-shore – a place named Sulka. It was far enough away that we would have to stay overnight, and once I had finished enjoying the view, I made my way back to the Tola to pack and prepare.
I had a moment of gratification upon meeting the others before we left, glad that I had taken the time earlier in the day to acclimate to the new temperature – or at least, to know how best to dress for it.
Duytren had opted for a tight, short-sleeved shirt and a pair of shorts – plenty of bare skin but I thought the clothes looked too tight to be really comfortable. Poor Tsabec, meanwhile, looked very warm in their coat and trousers, and Aman's uniform seemed hardly better.
Óli was the only person who seemed somewhat at ease in the heat. They had forgone their usual layers of embroidered finery, and were dressed as simply as I have ever seen them, in a flowing, sleeveless top and loose trousers.
Of course, the heat did not mean they had given up all personal decoration. As well as their usual brace of earrings, they wore gold arm bands that hugged their biceps and glittered in the early evening sun. [sighing] I... do not think I had ever seen their upper arms before. [breathy laugh, then asigh]
[clears throat] We said our goodbyes to Wolph, Hesje and Annaliese and set out for the transit terminal.
We had a little time to kill before our train left, and I took the opportunity to speak with a young Tovaric person about their unusual travelling companion.
Then, finally, it was time to board, and make our way to Sulka at last.
[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 Valentine, with accompanying artwork available on our social media accounts.
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