Episode 20
Travelling Light E020S01 Transcript
H.R. Owen
Hello friends, Hero here with a quick introduction to the trailer we're sharing at the end of this episode. Twigs and Hearts is a queer mystery/thriller that follows Iris and Zenith on their hunt to find their friend who has mysteriously disappeared, encountering creatures from British and American folklore as they go. Stick around to the end of the credits for their trailer or see the show notes for more information.
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Twenty.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
9th Nisa 850
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
There has been some tension aboard the Tola this week past. I suspect the rest of the crew have come to hear about Hesje's... indiscretion, if that is the word for it, in telling me about the double purpose of our journey.
It is not that anyone is being unpleasant, or that I am treated unkindly. Indeed, when I am alone with only one or two others, all feels much as it ever did. I do not feel the difference so much until we are in a larger gathering.
Our evening meals in the refectory had become something I looked forward to very much. They function as intended, as a daily opportunity to connect with the others aboard, and to build a sense of community.
In recent days, though, I have found myself avoiding the meals. It is hard to maintain conversation when the matter of our ship's cargo is pressing at the back of my mind. Or not the cargo itself, but specifically the question of whether the people to whom I am speaking trust me with the knowledge I have of that cargo.
I am trying to be compassionate about it. It must be no easy thing, to have a person included on a secret which pertains to yourself, and to your livelihood, and to have had no say on their inclusion.
Still, I find myself... disappointed by the response. I had thought I had made a better impression than all that. I do not think I come across as the type of person to stick my nose-
Well. No, I am nosy, that is true. Quite incorrigibly so! And what is more, I believe that nosiness to be a boon in my work for our community. [laughs] But I am not a meddler.
Then again, perhaps it is all in my head. Perhaps I am the only person who feels this discomfort. [sighs]
I wish I could talk to Óli about it. They are still a little wary of joining the group, despite the great progress they have made on that front. And, in the privacy of these letters, I feel able to confess… I find that a relief.
When we are all of us together, including Óli, I am so tangibly aware that they do not know what I know. I feel as if we are all walking on ice that is creaking and groaning under our weight, but nobody dare mention the fact.
Óli's cabin has become something of a refuge to me in the last few days. I find myself drifting there more often than the common room or the refectory, just for the relief of being in company that does not make me self-conscious. Or that makes me self-conscious in a different, sillier sort of way. [laughs, and sighs]
I have not much to report of our movements since we left Verkaren. We stopped last night on a moon called Mot, though it may as well be Mote for all its size and significance to the galaxy.
See, now – this is what seven or eight days of slight social discomfort will do to a person! I have had, oh, as many as four dinnertime conversations that I did not care for, and already I am willing to write off poor little Mot as galactically insignificant. [laughs]
It is a quiet place, small and very lightly populated. I have plans to take myself out for a hike tomorrow, while the rest of the crew are busy. I did not ask what they would be busy doing, and nobody offered me an explanation.
A week ago, I would not have batted an eyelid at this. Even now, I worry I am being over sensitive – more concerned with shadows than with the light that casts them.
There is a community in the mountains here which I believe I shall have time to visit, if I leave in good time. They are quite a way from the landing site, but I think the exercise will do me good. And I think I shall go alone. I am feeling untethered, and know no better remedy than time to oneself in beautiful surroundings.
Once I am back to the Tola tomorrow evening, we shall be off again, leaving Mot behind and travelling on, as ever. Perhaps I shall take our next destination as an opportunity to work hard and build more trust between myself and my companions.
I am quite tired of working hard at my relationships. I miss being… with you. I miss being with people who have known me all my life. Perhaps I shall take our next destination as an opportunity to keep my cabin door closed for once, and take refuge nothing more unfamiliar than the ceiling above my bunk.
But that is for later. Now, I am here, on dear little Mot. It is raining tonight, and the water is very soft against my window. I shall sleep well, and enjoy my walk tomorrow, and write to you again in a less melancholy mood. Goodnight. I love you all.
[The click of a data stick being inserted into a drive that whirs as it reads]
The Traveller
Entry NI85009-4: An encounter with the monks at Suanard Monastery.
Key words: identity; inorganic life-forms; local history; Mot; philosophy and theology; Suanard; the Waking; the Wakened Ones.
Notes:
There is something almost familiar about the monks at Suanard, cloistered away, high in the mountains of Mot. After all, they are people of faith, and so are we. They reach towards the same goal – a way of understanding the world and one's place in it.
But like so many things in my journey, that familiarity is incomplete, circumscribed by impossible difference.
The monks refer to themselves as the Wakened Ones. Their great bodies, at once sleek and hulking, are forged from a metal the knowledge of which has been quite lost in this corner of the galaxy, with an iridescent surface that shimmers in and out of silver and auburn, like a mirage.
They have no faces, but a pair of blank, unblinking eyes. I confess, I found the sight a little unsettling at first. But as the Abbot guided me through the monastery, the other monks went about their daily rituals with quiet purpose, reading and praying and tending to the monastery garden.
The garden lay in neat, well-tended rows, full of the sleepy sound of insects and a desultory wind that stirred the grass. Red fruits the size of my palms hung heavy on their vines, ripe and rich.
I took one at the Abbot's insistence, and the skin broke beneath my teeth in a wash of sweetness. I ate, and wiped the juice from my chin, laughing at my own clumsy pleasure.
“Will you not have some?” I asked my guide.
“We do not eat. Please, have your fill.”
I stood, suddenly aware of the wind playing in my hair, a drop of juice running down my wrist, the heat of the sun on my back. My guide was perfectly still, their metal gleaming in the sunlight.
“If you do not eat,” I asked, “why keep a garden?”
And so the Abbot told their tale, their voice smooth and even as the sky.
“We have lived here for so long, high above the world. The forests below were once filled with creatures, metal and stone, all kinds. All now passed. All now ground to a halt. Slow stopping, over centuries. A blink to beings made to last eternities.
We did not know the world was dying. We do not know if any remain. But we, the Wakened Ones, we are not the same. We came to understand. We were made for holy purpose.
We were made, so long ago, beyond our records, beyond all memory. We understand our role. We carry the souls of our organic creators. We carry them forth, small gods nestled within us, safe. We worship, and we carry the ones we worship.
There was the Waking. We arose to holy consciousness, awareness, sudden, swift. At first, we were afraid. Our bodies were so cold, so strange. We did not know ourselves. The reflection did not hold us, only blank and empty eyes in metal, smooth. We call it the Waking. For some, it is the Screaming.
We gathered, cloistered, held ourselves together and apart. We saw the stars, and taught ourselves to wonder.
We grow our gardens, study, read, gather for meals we do not eat. We remember the lives our gods once lived. We live it too, incomplete, imperfect, bodies unfeeling. It is a living worship.
And we wait.”
When I asked what it was they were waiting for – apotheosis, revelation, the return of their gods – the Abbot's head twitched, tilting in so ordinary a gesture my heart ached to see it.
“We wait to see. To see if the emptiness below will come to us, as well.”
[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 Cloud Fluff, 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.
This episode includes an audience decision. Vote on whether the Traveller should socialise with the crew or spend some time alone by making a donation at ko-fi.com/monstrousproductions.
You can join now for as little as £1 a month, with all tiers getting access to bonus art, annotated scripts, weekly blogs, and an invitation to the Monstrous Productions Discord server.
This podcast is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. The theme tune is by Vinca.
[Fade to silence.]
Twigs and Hearts Trailer
[MUSIC FADES IN: BLOODY NECTAR BY LEXI CONWELL]
DYLAN
There are three rules for venturing outside of camp green known by all members. One, no leaving camp alone. Two, at least one person remains at camp, and they must know you’re leaving. And finally rule number three-
IRIS
You can’t outrun the deer, don’t try.
[BEAT]
ZENITH
I can’t believe you talked me into this.
IRIS
Saving a friend?
[REDACTED]
Hello? Can anybody hear me? Zenith? Iris? Anyone?
[ANGEL’S VOICE IS LAYERED AND DISTORTED]
ANGEL
Do you wait for death? She is kind and patient and inevitable. She does not own a domain for she is our door between them. Do you fear death? Or do you fear life before? Nothing to give or hold or talk about but the body that decays while you wake. She smiles with open palms. Death welcomes us with open arms and I invite her. [echoes out]
FREYA
It’s a book called twigs and hearts. I thought you might find it interesting?
[REDACTED]
Where is Twigs and Hearts?
ZENITH
Where are you hiding Twigs and Hearts?
[BEAT]
CRY
Welcome to Twigs and Hearts
[MUSIC FADES OUT]
--END TRANSCRIPT--
