Episode 32
Travelling Light E032S01 Transcript
H.R. Owen
Hello friends, Hero here. We're heading into the final stretch of Season One and are preparing as we ought – with a short rest before the final push. We'll be off for the next two weeks, though I do have something rather special to share with you on the feed next week, so watch this space.
Otherwise, we'll be back with Episode 33 in the second week of September. Then it's all systems go until our Season One finale in Episode 40 – so remember to get your entries in for the archive while you can. Enjoy the episode, look after yourselves, and we'll see you in September.
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H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Thirty Two.
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The Traveller
Entry HE85002-9: The role of textiles in history and language in the Tilfar system.
Key words: arts and crafts; Athaulen; clothing and costume; community; Drunvhitur; identity; material culture; Tilfar.
Notes:
Insofar as it is known at all, the small, out of the way system of Tilfar is known for its textiles. Indeed, the production and trade of textiles accounts for the vast majority of the Tilfar economy. Of particular note are the various styles of embroidery, generally used in clothing.
The history of embroidery in Tilfar is as complex as the embroidery itself. Academic consensus at the time of writing, however, holds that the tradition has its roots in the various clans and tribes of the Athaulen people, one of the ancient civilisations of the planet Drunvhitur.
Like so many civilisations across the galaxy, the Athaulen used personal adornment to indicate identity. Members of this clan would dress in such a style, while members of that would wear their hair just so. Over time, the Athaulen began to use embroidery as their primary mode of community expression.
Ancient carvings from this period depict Athaulen people wearing different styles of embroidery depending on the tribal affiliation, social class, gender and religious sect, each layered on the last to encompass an individual's various overlapping identities.
As the Athaulen culture spread and diffused, this tradition morphed and grew ever more complicated. A whole new language developed, at once visual and tactile – a language of colour, pattern, shape and texture, with embroidery as its script.
In time, the Athaulen civilisation sank into obscurity. New civilisations arose, and fell in their turn, each weaving itself into the complex tapestry of the history of Tilfar. But the echoes of the Athaulen can still be felt, most especially in the language of embroidery.
Today, Tilfar enjoys as much diversity in its people as any other system in the galaxy. People of all walks of life have made their home there, both descendents of the Athaulen and other ancient civilisations, and incomers from out-system.
The general rule is that if a group has belonged to Tilfar for multiple generations, it will, in that time, have developed its own style of embroidery – a sort of cultural dialect.
Relative newcomers to the system such as the Verklärt or the Arimau often begin by borrowing their neighbours' traditions. But by incorporating those traditions with their own, they naturally begin to create a style uniquely theirs. Then, a generation or two later, these quirks become formalised as a distinct cultural expression in their own right.
Personally, I have never had much of a mind for fashion. I dress for comfort and practicality – though I am not so modest that I would claim my looks do play some part in my decisions.
Yet despite this lack of thought, my clothing cannot help but for me. I dress like an Emerrainian, like a Serranite, like a human, like a person with my particular background, my tastes and my perspectives.
I dress, in short, like myself, and anyone familiar with these styles and forms of expression will be able to infer such information from my clothing. In Tilfar, however, this would be considered a very paltry account.
The people there would expect to read the patterns on my sleeves and see my heritage for several generations, my parents' professions, how many siblings I have, where I was educated and in what style, whether I am active in my faith or if it is solely a cultural identification, the name of my home town, whether I have lived elsewhere, what age I was when I first left home… [laughs]
In short, an entire life story, writ plain and clear for any with the skill to read it.
For most people, this highly communicative style of dress is achieved through careful layering of garments featuring various motifs – the layering itself inflecting the stitch-speech to convey additional meaning.
It is a practical habit, allowing for the exchange of clothes between individuals who share one identity but not the other, or for additional identifiers to be added or removed as the individual chooses. But of course, there are exceptions.
Tilfar's most powerful families would naturally be recognisable through their embroidery motifs alone. But far more immediately obvious is their style of dress.
Unburdened by concerns of cost or practicality, the Tilfar aristocracy have their identities hand-stitched on flowing robes, each unique to the individual for whom it was made. These garments tell the wearer's entire history – and give a good indication of their likely future.
These robes have a profound personal value. It is a person's life captured, an expression of their entire self in a single, wearable work of art. In short, it is the kind of thing that no Tilfarian would willingly part with.
And… [sighs] If circumstances were to arise where such a parting was necessary, well they would make all haste to be reunited with such an object. Surely. Wouldn't they?
[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, continued.
All around us, life went on. The other guests in the garden continued their conversations, breaking into sudden gusts of laughter here and there. Birds flew back and forth above, and all around was the cheerful buzz and hum of insects.
Yet nobody from the Tola or the Guillemot so much as breathed. We hung together in the wake of Scarry's words, set apart from the rest of the world.
It was Óli who broke the silence. They pulled themselves up their full height, bristling with cold fury.
“The correct form of address is 'Your Excellency.'”
Scarry's smile did not falter. He inclined his head, an almost mocking gesture of deference. “My apologies, Your Excellency. Now, if you will kindly say your goodbyes...”
“I shall do no such thing!” Óli snapped.
Their words crashed through the spell that had been holding us. Suddenly, we were alive again – alive, and outraged.
“Now see here,” Tsabec began, before Duytren interrupted.
“Scarry, you miserable son of a-”
“Captain Scarry!”
Aman's voice cut through the racket, silencing us all. She shifted her weight, not quite stepping between Scarry and Óli, but making it clear she would be willing to do so if the need arose.
“I'm afraid you seem to have badly misunderstood the situation. Whoever this person is in other walks of their life, they are currently a paid passenger aboard the RVS Tola. They and I have entered into a business arrangement, and I have no intention of reneging on that professional commitment.”
Scarry folded his arms. “Then we are at an impasse. For I have no intention of failing in my own commitments.” His black eyes found Óli's once more, their hardness belying his apparent calm. “Your parents have hired me to bring home their wayward child, and I intend to do just that.”
High points of colour rose on Óli's cheeks. “I am not a child!”
They stepped forwards as they spoke, a purely instinctual movement I am sure but not one we could afford in such a volatile situation. Scarry's crew reacted immediately, making to move towards us in return, and I felt the situation lurching towards something I did not think we could come back from.
“That is enough!”
Mercifully, this worked. The others stopped, turning to look at me. Scarry's eyebrow rose.
“And who's this little feist?”
I ignored him – and the heat rising in my cheeks. “This is not the way respectable people conduct their business,” I said, “and I will not have it! Captain Scarry, if you will give us some time to consider your proposal-”
“I am not proposing,” Scarry began, just as Óli said, “There is nothing to consider!”
“We will take some time to consider!” I repeated, glaring at them both. To my distinct relief, they fell silent, though Scarry had an irritatingly amused look on face.
“We're staying at the lodging house on the waterfront,” Aman put in. “Meet us there in an hour's time and you shall have your answer.”
One of Scarry's crew scoffed. [scoffing] “Give you an hour's head start, you mean.”
It was not my plan to make any kind of escape. Truthfully, I did not have a plan, beyond trying to avoid any risk of violence, and hopefully getting Óli somewhere quiet where we could talk. But even I could see, they had a point.
Before I could suggest any possible solution, though, Aman was reaching into her uniform, pulling out the payment Scarry had given her in exchange for the helmet. Óli twitched as if to step forward and stop her, but I put a hand on their arm, stilling the motion.
“Aman, you can't…” they whispered, but she either did not hear or chose not to listen.
“Consider this our security,” said Aman, handing the case back to Scarry. “I presume your contract is worth rather more.”
Scarry took the payment, eyes never leaving Aman's. “Aye, just a bit.”
“You may return it to me in one hour.”
As soon as we arrived at the lodging house, Duytren and the others set to work figuring out our next steps.
“We need to get back to the Tola,” Duytren said.
“And then what? We haven't the money to leave the system. Or did you forget the whole purpose of this little outing?”
“We could sell something,” suggested Tsabec. “Something else, I mean. Uh, the pheromiser, perhaps?”
My eyes slipped to Óli. They were slumped in their chair, their emotions unusually present on their face. [sighs] Exhausted. And angry. And afraid. I caught their eye, and nodded towards the door to the terrace.
“So,” I said as we sat down together on a bench beneath the awning. We could just make out the sound of the others inside, still bickering. “That was... a lot.”
Óli did not answer. They stared out at Lake Intzar, though I do not think they really saw it. “It is not an inherited title,” they said at long last. “At least, in theory.”
“System administrator?” I asked, earning a wry smile.
“I have still not found a proper translation for it. It is supposed to be a job, a high office but not… [sighs] Not what is has become. There are elections, if you can call them that. Once in a generation, with only one name on the ballot. [scoffs] It is a farce – or a 'formality' as my parents would have it.”
“Your family has held this office for a long time?”
[laughing] “Oh, generations. [sighs] Down and down and down.”
Our hands lay together in the space between us on the bench. I let my fingers brush against theirs, the offer of comfort if they should want it. “And I take it you do not want to inherit?”
Óli's mouth twisted, their expression complicated. [sighs] “N-no. I do not – do not mistake me, I have no interest it. But… [sighing] That is not why I left. Not quite.”
They kept their eyes on the horizon, but their fingers moved to tangle with mine. I could feel their pulse against my skin, and tried to match my breathing to it, trying to stay calm for their sake.
“My parents are not bad people. They are not even bad parents, or they were not when I was young. It was not until I grew older… [trails off and sighs]
They have expectations of me. And either I meet them, or I do not. I do not think they have ever been proud of me, for anything. Either I disappointed them or, if I did right, well. It was no more than they should expect from their child. Nothing to celebrate."
I cannot tell you how my heart ached at these words, spoken with such casual, crushing frankness. I wanted… I wanted to- [sniffs] I only wanted to help.
“Have you tried to talk to them about it?”
Óli stared at me. “You cannot fix everything by talking about it.”
“I did not say you could.” I fought to keep my voice calm. Nothing would be helped if I got upset. “I only meant that, perhaps if you were to go back, just for a little while, and discuss-”
“Go back?” Óli pulled their hand away from mine, opening the space between us as they recoiled from my words. “Who's side are you on?!”
“I am not on anybody's side-”
“Why not?! Why are you not on my side?”
“Óli-” I started, but it was done. They were up and on their feet before I could say anything else, storming back inside and letting the door slam shut behind them.
I wonder now if I should have gone after them. But I could feel myself getting upset- [sighs] No. No, I was already upset. I was upset and angry at myself and at Scarry and at this entire, horrible situation and yes, at Óli, however unjustified that might be!
And I did not want to bring that anger with me into the conversation. Óli deserved better than that! [sighs] No. I would let them cool off and we could speak further when things were less fraught.
They were sitting with the others when I came back inside. They did not speak to me, and I did not press the issue. I was not surprised to find our friends' planning efforts had been for nought. There was simply very little we could do.
It was a very dignified meeting, in the end. Scarry and his crew arrived promptly, and while he was perfectly courteous and polite, it became clear very quickly that he would not negotiate. Besides, we had nothing to negotiate with.
“I shall gather my things,” said Óli, getting to their feed. They still would not look at me.
“Oyan can go with you,” said Scarry, nodding at one of his crew-mates.
Óli's voice was quiet, more tired than anything else. “Please, Captain. I would like to be alone for a moment. You will grant me that, at least?”
“I apologise, Your Excellency,” said Scarry, apparently quite genuine. “Take all the time you need.”
Óli walked to their room with their head high, their back a strong, elegant line, unbowed, unbroken. I tried to take some comfort in that – in knowing that at least we had navigated this awful business without any loss of face on either side.
So you can well imagine the uproar when, half an hour later, Scarry's crew stepped into Óli's room to find the window hanging open and no sign of Óli to be seen.
[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.
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