Episode 48
Travelling Light E048S02 Transcript
H.R. Owen
Hello friends, Hero here with two announcements. First, it's time for Matt and me to take a short break. We'll be taking two weeks off and will be back with Episode 49 on June 27th. Second, we have a trailer for you from SCP Research Archives, an SCP comedy horror improv show. Check out their trailer at the end of the episode and see the show notes for more details.
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Forty Eight.
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The Traveller
Entry AV85102-1. An account of New Year's celebrations as interpreted by various diasporic individuals in Clanagh, Kerrin.
Key words: Clanagh; diaspora; Drunvhitur; food and eating; Kerrin; occasions and ceremonies; philosophy and theology; Serran; Tilfar.
Notes:
I have never rung in a year quite as I rang in 851. The celebrations began traditionally enough. Óli and I cleaned the cottage top to bottom, sweeping out the old year and making ready for the new.
It was a much easier job than the new year's clean had been when I was living with my grandmother. [laughs] For one thing, the cottage is much smaller than the warden's quarters at the temple. For another, Óli has not my grandmother's eagle eye for unpolished patches or overlooked corners. [laughs]
Next, I baked a loaf of bread, though I knew I would be in trouble with Sinséar for muscling in on their territory as a baker. But I cannot believe it is a new year if the place does not smell of fresh bread, and that is that!
Indeed, I was roundly chastised for my unscrupulous actions when Sinséar, Clia and Pol arrived. Sinséar and Clia both wore clothes decorated in polka dots, and Pol had little circular stickers attached to their carapace.
“They bring luck,” Clia explained. “Circles are a sign of plenty. They represent fullness, for a year stuffed to the gills with love and good fortune.”
Ranaí arrived not long after, bringing a punnet of berries – all quite properly, perfectly round.
And so, with the party complete, we were ready to go.
We piled into Sinséar's delivery van and headed thirty minutes up the road to the coast. This was a non-negotiable part of the celebrations, according to Óli.
“You must start the new year near the ocean,” they said primly. “Every year is a gift from Ishturga, who rules the sea, and you must give thanks properly, or she will not give you another.”
“What about people who don't live near the coast?” asked Ranaí.
Óli wrinkled their nose. "Ooh. I do not know. It was never an issue on the planet I grew up on. Everything is coastal on Drunvhitur – it is an archipelago.”
"Perhaps you could write Ishturga a postcard," Ranaí suggested, with an admirably straight face.
"That would not work," said Óli, as if it were obvious. "You cannot make written offerings to Ishturga – she cannot read. I suppose if you had a friend read it out loud, that might count?"
"What a fascinating theology."
Óli grinned, apparently taking this as a personal compliment.
We were the only people at the beach. The warmth of the day had dissipated as evening grew, and the grey pebbles strewn with trailing seaweed did not quite match the images Óli had painted of the sandy, sun-kissed new year's eves of their homeland.
But we were determined. Me and Ranaí set about building a fire out of driftwood, and the others unpacked blankets, food and flasks of warmed cider.
Dinner was a particular treat. We had all brought dishes from home and laid them out upon the blankets in a glorious array. Even Pol brought something, though they are not able to digest food like the rest of us.
“The stew is eaten in G-G-Garrigbuid, where I was made. It is usually made with c-cechi beans, but they do not grow here so I have used p-ponair instead. The flavour profiles are s-similar and Clia assures me, it is well seasoned.”
“I had to do the same," Óli said, filling their plate. "Back on Drunvhitur, people usually eat tabutsilde. Uh, salted fish.?But I could not find it here, so I made milk toffees instead.”
Pol tilted their head. “You m-made them? F-from scratch?”
“Well, no. But I unwrapped them, which is practically the same.”
“I think we m-might have different definitions of 'the same'.”
We sat and ate and drank as the stars began to show. Suddenly, I saw a bright streak rising far above the water.
“What is that? It is not a shooting star…”
“It's a ship," said Clia. “The aeroport's down that way, for the shuttle heading up to Cahu Station.”
I kept my eyes on the stars, and felt Óli's fingers twitch against mine.
Then Pol announced, “There are 14 minutes remaining until m- midnight.”
There was a flurry of activity as we got ourselves ready for our various traditions. First, Óli led us down to the water's edge.
“You must jump seven waves – one to give thanks to Ishturga, and six to make a wish from each of her consorts. Only you must not wish for a good harvest or for good sex, since those belong to the domains of other gods, and you would anger both them and the consorts and probably Ishturga and it would be a whole mess.”
I caught Ranaí's gaze, and could not help smiling. The more I hear of Óli's faith, the more grateful I am for the simplicity of our own.
Pol and Sinséar were not able to go into the water with the rest of us, as Pol's joints and Sinséar's prosthetic are vulnerable to salt water. But we were not about to let them miss out on the silliness.
I filled a bucket with water, and with Clia and Óli supporting them under each arm, Pol half jumped, half was lifted over the bucket, back and forth at least seven times and very likely more, since we all lost count from laughing. Then, we did it all over again for Sinséar.
Eventually, the rest of us tugged of our shoes and socks, waded into the water – freezing, by the way – and jumped and jumped, the sound of splashing and laughter filling the night.
Breathless and giddy, we clambered up the shore for the final rituals. Each of us took one of Ranaí's berries, and stood together in a circle.
“If we begin the year with full mouths," I explained, “it means we will be full and fed for the year to come.”
“I've not heard that before,” said Ranaí.
“It is a local tradition,” I admitted, “from Serran. Not a religious one.”
It is Kerrinite tradition to spend the 11 seconds before midnight in silence, remembering the year that has passed. Pol began the countdown, and I reflected on just how far I have come – both literally and metaphorically.
Finally, as Pol's count reached its end, I raised the berry to my mouth and ate. It was sweet, still cold, the juice popping over my tongue as my teeth sank into it.
Not one of the traditions we celebrated that night was what you might call “authentic”. The Kerrinite celebrations were all on the wrong date for one thing – in the middle of their year instead of the end. Pol's stew had the wrong beans, and Óli's salted fish had somehow become candy.
But ours is not an archive of strict authenticity. It is a collection of snapshots, showing how the Light shines on this corner of the galaxy and that, in this moment and that.
And in that moment, on the beach, surrounded by friends who had cobbled together the most wonderful party just for me, I felt the Light upon me, bright and clear.
[The sound of the data stick whirring fades in, cutting out when the data stick is removed with a click.]
The Traveller
2nd Avam 851
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
I made mention in a recent entry to the archive of the disparity between the date I use for my communications with you, and the date actually used in whichever part of the galaxy I happen to be in when I write – see Entry DM85014-1.
As I said then, on Kerrin it is currently the month of Iultain – the seventh of 22 months in the Kerrin year. But according to my count of days, I am writing this on 2nd Avam – the second day of the new year.
I had not planned to celebrate the new year. It seemed odd even to contemplate it. After all, to everyone else on the planet, the day was just a day, like any other.
I explained this to Óli over breakfast last week. They ate as they listened, dunking bits pastry in their cup of horha before popping them in their mouth.
“Alright then. I shall talk to the others.”
“What? No, I-I did not mean to-”
“Oh, shut up,” they said with a dismissive gesture that splattered horha-soaked crumbs on the table. “We can make it a leaving party for you.”
“I do not need a leaving party. [beat] Óli,” I said, making them look at me. “I am coming back.”
“I know.” They pressed their finger against the crumbs on their plate, mashing them into each other. “Only… you have packed rather a lot for two weeks.”
I tried to laugh. “I should not have thought you of all people would object to a bit of over-packing!” [laughs weakly]
They did not answer. They did not even raise their head.
“I will come back,” I said again, more firmly. “It just… might take more than a fortnight.”
“You talk as if you are going on some kind of quest. I wish I understood what you are looking for. Why you cannot find it here.”
“If I knew, I would tell you. I promise.”
Óli sniffed, and abruptly got to their feet and began clearing the breakfast things.
They were as good as their word, though. They organised a wonderful New Year's party – I have attached an account of it for the archives. So much effort to put into such a silly thing. I felt very taken care of.
On New Year's Day – uh, yesterday, in fact – Óli and I slept late. Once I had finished packing there was little else to do. The cottage was spotless and we had plenty of leftovers from the party to pick at if we got hungry.
We each gravitated to the common space between our rooms, orbiting each other like twin stars. By the time it was dark enough for to light the lamps, we had found ourselves tucked together on the window seat.
Óli had their legs up, their back against me as they flicked through the educational centre's course prospectus, circling the classes they hope to take next term. I read a book, enjoying the weight of them against me.
The night deepened around us. We were caught in a bubble of stopped time, neither willing to break it by moving. Besides, to go to bed would be to usher in the next day – something I know I was in no rush to do.
I felt Óli soften, growing heavy against me. Their breath came slow and even, the course prospectus drooping onto their chest. Then, quietly, they began to snore.
Of course we've hugged before. And goodness knows we've sat together – on that same window-seat, in fact, countless times.
But this felt different. Closer. I thought of waking them. I-I thought of… I wanted…
[sighs] I let them sleep.
We ended up shuffling to our rooms in the very small hours of the morning. My bed was cold when I climbed into it, my room very quiet. It took me a long time to fall asleep.
The next morning, Ranaí woke us with a brisk knock at the door. We breakfasted together, all three of us, though conversation was sparse. Both Óli and I were tired from staying up so late, and Ranaí is not one for idle chatter.
Then, all at once, it was time to go. Ranaí gave Óli and I some time to say goodbye, but there was not much to say in the end. I tried to stroke Poki, and got bitten for my trouble, though he did not draw blood which is definitely progress.
I was quiet as Ranaí drove me to the aerobase. He pulled up in front of the terminal building and looked at me with casual cool that reminded me so strongly of Duytren, I felt something like homesick.
“You'll keep in touch.”
It was not a question. I nodded anyway, then laughed.
[laughing] “I have the strangest urge to ask you to look after Óli for me.”
“Oh, they'll look after themselves. I'll be a friend to them, but not on your account.”
“You make it very difficult to like you, Ranaí.”
“Really? I thought we were doing quite well.”
I sat for a moment, looking at my hands, not ready yet to leave. “Am I making a mistake?”
“I have no idea,” Ranaí said, with his habitual frankness. “I'll pray for you.”
“Thank you. Really. I appreciate that. I shall pray for you too.”
“Go well with the Light, cousin.”
The traditional words struck a sudden chord in me. This was the connection I had been hoping for in Clanagh – to meet people who see the world as I do.
“Go well with the Light,” I answered, and headed in towards the terminal.
And so, my friends, I write this in the departure lounge of the Kerrin-Cahu shuttle, my feet up on my bag, surrounded once more by strangers.
I cannot pretend I do not feel a flutter of anxiety at the thought of travelling on my own again. But neither can I deny the flutter of excitement.
I long to see Cahu Station and the people who make their home there. To wander a little while in a new place, among new faces. To see what I can find – of the galaxy and of myself.
[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. You can see Matt's illustration for the entry on our social media accounts.
If you've got an idea for the archive, we want to hear it. We accept 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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[Fade to silence. Then, the SPRA trailer begins. Night of Chaos by Kevin Mcleod plays as though through a radio in the background]
[Mechanical keyboard typing, then a phone buzzes.]
Bertran
Ope! [frustrated noise] Why do calls from the Director never actually ring. Whatever, I’ll listen to it now.
[Voicemail box beep.]
The Director
[Voice sounds tinny like it’s coming from a phone.] Bertrand hiii, it’s me. Just calling to let you know the department is starting a Brand New Project! We’re going to be making audio versions of all the articles! You don’t mind helping me out with this, right? You’re my best archivist, and I couldn’t possibly give this job to anyone else. Ah- Obviously if you have any questions do not hesitate to call me or send me an email. I will be out of the office early today though. So. Just keep that in mind, but I’ll get back to you soon as I can. Oh! And there’s donuts in the breakroom, enjoy! Thank you so much. Bye now!
[Hang-up sound, beep]
Bertran
Yeah, sure, okay. Another project on my plate, cool. [weary] This is fine. Nyup- and there’s the email. With my first assignment. Alright, I guess I have to figure out how I’m gonna do these.
[dialogue ends]
Izze
Listen to SCP Research Archives, an SCP article reading podcast. A member of the Hearthside Enclave podcasting collective. You can find it on any podcatcher every Thursday.
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