Episode 50
Travelling Light E050S02 Transcript
H.R. Owen
Hello friends, Hero here, first with a content warning. The archive entry this week includes recreational drug use. It's in the second half of the episode, and there's a time-stamp and some more details in the show-notes.
Secondly, we are delighted to present the trailer for Clinical Space, a podcast about the daily life of the on-board counsellor for the starship Erebus.
Equal parts cerebral and hopeful, Clinical Space feels like if The Bright Sessions was set in the Star Trek universe, with a quick stop-off at the Vesta Clinic on the way. You can find more information in the show-notes, and do stick around for their trailer at the end of the show.
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Fifty.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
8ᵗʰ Avam 850
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
I told you in my last missive that I did not intend to linger on Cahu Station. Indeed, it did not take long for me to feel so energised by my time aboard that remaining still a moment more felt quite impossible.
My time with Ner-Mai reminded me how much I enjoyed meeting new people as I travelled. Not only is it a great personal pleasure, it feels vital to my purpose in leaving Emerraine. I am tasked, after all, to bring you a new view of the galaxy, from the people who live in it.
I have decided therefore to centre those encounters as I explore the Ionad System. I set aside my thoughts of joining an organised cruise – as tempting as that sounds – and instead decided to find passage on a working ship, with the intention of changing crews as often as pleased me.
Many of the advertisements on their job board were for skilled work, well beyond my qualifications. But there were a few scattered listings for general hands, especially those with any experience in cargo, which I did a little of on the Tola.
There was not much between this listing and that. There was no pay to speak of, since I would be working for my board and passage, and, since I had no destination in mind, the posted itineraries could not sway me.
I might have thought I would find this freedom exhilarating. But it was actually somewhat overwhelming, to have nothing at all guiding my choices.
In the end, I sent greetings to some four or five captains, and made a resolution to go along with whomever contacted me first. This happened to be one Captain Sula, of the MSV Brukis.
When I arrived at the docks, the Brukis boatswain, Alysaya, explained that mine would not be a long-term position.
“We came in from Mateig system last week,” she said, running a distracted eye over my letters of introduction. “Most of the crew's on shore leave down on Vana. We’re supposed to be relaxing.”
“I take it the plan changed?”
She handed my documents back with a wry expression.
“Job came up. Bit of local haulage for Ionad Mercantile Association. Cap says it makes perfect sense. We have to pick the lads up from Vana anyway, why not make some money for our trouble?”
“And does the captain help with the cargo?”
Alysaya pointed at me, eyes wide, in a fashion that would have been quite alarming if I had not known it for a common Mateig gesture of approval.
“No, she bloody doesn’t! [laughs] Well that all seems in order – spot’s yours if you want it!”
I do not think you need a detailed description of the actual cargo loading. There were crates, and I moved them. The two other crewmates aboard were clearly glad of the extra help.
Garran is a middle-aged Eisarnan whose soft voice and nervous habits are charmingly at odds with their massive size. I liked them very much.
It took me a moment longer to connect with Laufte, the navigator. It was not until I realised she wanted to be insulted back, and that she understood this as an indication of interest and affection, that we really started to get along.
I fell into step with the crew easily after that. Captain Sula may not be much use for heavy lifting, but she is a fine cook, and Alysaya is a fabulous story-teller.
After dinner each night, Garran taught me a game called galiks, played with cards and glass counters. It makes me think of playing gwychyl with Óli on the Tola, though I lose much more at galiks.
The ship itself had a wonderfully worn, lived-in atmosphere. There were flowers stencilled on the galley walls, much-loved books on the rec room shelves, personal mugs and favourite snacks in the cupboards.
I could feel all around me the shape left by rest of the absent crew. The web of their lives aboard brushed against my skin at every turn, spider light.
It was not a bad feeling. Indeed I was quite sad to say goodbye after we had finished unloading at Vana Port. But it needed said.
I am very grateful to have shared that life a while, to have known something of the Brukis and its people. But they are not my people, and it is not my life. I must travel on a little further yet.
[The click of a data stick being inserted into a drive that whirs as it reads]
The Traveller
Entry AV8508-1. The Sokashna festival and the role of the sumbrashki tree in Utomi culture.
Keywords: clothing and costume; flora and fauna; food and eating; occasions and ceremonies; Sokashna; sumbrashki; Utomi; Vana.
Notes:
Before I left the Brukis, Alysaya recommended I visit a town called Utomi while I was exploring Vana. Apparently our arrival on the planet coincided with Sokashna, a local festival she thought I would enjoy.
When I arrived, the transport station platform was covered in leaf-shaped paper garlands, and the platform attendants were in a fine, holiday mood.
Utomi sits perched high upon a mountain in a sea of mountains. All around, wave after wave of dense, black forest crested and fell beneath a dense, grey sky.
While the fashions of the local people were not uniform, of course, they did seem to favour loose, flowing clothes. I did not understand quite why until I stepped out from the cooled air of the station and into the street.
Almost immediately, I began sweating through my shirt, the hot, wet air so thick you could stand a teaspoon up in it.
Perhaps it was the weather, but I must admit, I was a little underwhelmed by the Sokashna festival itself. There were stalls, food and drink, local crafts, pieces of art – all in all, much as one would expect from such an event.
I was honestly more interested in the architecture – tall, thin buildings made of timber and plaster, very pleasing to the eye. But not what I had come for!
I bought myself a pastry and considered, as I ate, what to do to make the most of my time here. Those of you who know me well will not be surprised by my conclusion.
I needed someone to talk to.
My eyes fell on a tea stall, seating spilling over the pavement before it, busy but not too crowded. That, I thought, would do nicely.
I asked the proprietor for a pot of whatever they'd recommend.
“It’s got to be sumbrashki tea, for the festival!”
Their several arms moved in a busy blur behind them, scooping tea leaves, pouring water, stirring pots and arranging pastries and tray bakes in the glass case on the counter.
“You haven’t partaken yet? Just have to check!” they added with a defensive gesture from two of their arms.
“Uh, no? I have only just got here.”
“Good, good. Well sure, find a seat – Krio’ll bring it over for you.”
There was a table free, but instead, I approached a group of older locals. I introduced myself, explaining my newness to the town – to the planet.
“Sit you down, friend, sit you down!” cried one of the group – a twinkle-eyed old Erami who gave her name as Papazej.
The others chorused their agreement, shuffling their chairs to make a space for me.
As well as Papazej, there was Koro, and Kibirkaj, who was human – a rare sight in these parts. All were dressed in cool, flowing robes, and Koro had a pin upon his chest in the same leaf shape as the garlands.
“So then,” I said, getting comfortable. “What is all this about?”
“Sokashna's a harvest festival,” said Koro, just as Kibirkaj said, “It's to celebrate the town’s founding.”
”Utomi was never founded,” Koro argued. “People have been living in these parts since the year dot.”
“It’s a bit of both,” cut in Papazej, raising her voice before Kibirkaj could argue. “They started the festival to celebrate the town and they chose to time it to coincide with the harvest celebrations we already had.”
My tea had arrived by then, brought over by a gangly young person who looked like they might be a relative of the proprietor.
I poured myself a cup, admiring the delicate yellow hue as it caught the light. It had a clean, woody scent, with an unexpectedly sweet aftertaste that reminded me of the pastry from earlier.
“And this is a traditional beverage for the festival?”
[laughing] “You couldn’t very well have Sokashna without sumbrashki!” Koro laughed, tapping his pin.
“Oh! I did not realise that was the same plant! It is a symbol of Sokashna?
“It’s a symbol of the whole province,” said Papazej.
“These are sumbrashki,” Koro explained, gesturing to the trees all around us. “All the land hereabouts, it all grows sumbrashki.”
“Don’t exagerrate, Koro,” scolded Papazej . “Of course we grow other crops. But sumbrashki is a staple.”
“So you eat it as well as drink it?”
“You can eat the leaves,” put in Kibirkaj.
“Can is not the same as should,” shot Koro. “We haven’t had to eat sumbrashki leaves since the Great Freeze in 805.”
Each of the old people made a gesture at this – a warding sign, I think to keep off bad luck. 805 was clearly not a year remembered fondly.
“The tea is made from the flowers,” Papazej explained. “It’s the only part that has any effect. The rest is just useful.
“Almost every building in town has a sumbrashki wood frame. And the bark can be pulped for paper, or stripped long and processed into fibre.”
“You’d be a sight cooler if you were wearing sumbrashki,” Kibirkaj pointed out.
“Is that what your robes are made of?” I said, pouring another cup of tea. My first cup did not seem to have done much to quench my thirst, and I was very hot.
“This is separj,” Papazej explained. “That's the name for this fine woven stuff. Or you can keep it thick and coarse for work clothes or sacks – that’s called mevtej. Or knit instead of weave – we call that kodamsk. But it’s all sumbrashki.”
I thought for a moment about knitting long lines of little loops slipping past in ordered rows, flick and twist. A click click click of needles, flick and twist.
“It’s medicine too,” said Koro. “Ointment for my knees. World of good.”
His voice was very far away. I drank tea. I was very hot.
“And is that what your robes are made of?” I asked.
There was a long silence. I watched the light dancing in my tea cup. It was very pretty.
“…after two cups?” Koro was saying, in his strange, far away voice.
Papazej answered from somewhere else, quite as distant. “Very quick…”
“Krio!” called Kibirkaj. “Can we get some water? This one’s heading off.”
Water sounded good. I thought about it, cool and soft in my throat.
“I asked if they’d had any yet,” I heard the proprietor insist.
A hand was on mine then, cool and wrinkled like a lake in a breeze, and bony as a baby bird. It belonged to Kibirkaj, her breezey-lake, bony-bird face swimming into focus.
“Did you have anything else, my love? Before the tea?”
“I only just got here,” I said. “I had a pastry,” I added, after a moment. It was difficult to make the shapes my mouth needed for the words.
“This pastry,” said Kibirkaj in a gentle, old lady voice. “Was it square, do you remember? Or a sort of leaf shaped?”
[sighing] I didn’t want to think about this! I wanted to think about birds and water and light, and how they were so much like each other, sparks and drops and wings and waves.
But Kibirkaj was a nice old lady and I like old ladies.
“It was a little leaf,” I said, smiling politely.
And then the water was there, a cold glass pressed into my hand. I drank it down, soft as I had dreamed.
“A whole pastry and two cups of tea, ” Koro was telling someone. “And no tolerance to speak of? [laughing] Oh kiddo! You’re in for a lovely afternoon.”
Whoever Kiddo was, I was sure they could not be having as nice a time as me, all full up of light and birdsong. Kibirkaj was beside me now, her bony hand holding mine.
“Just relax, my darling,” she murmured. “You just sit there. We’ll keep a mind of you.”
“My grandmother looks like a little old vulture,” I said. “I love her so much.”
“She loves you too, I’m sure,” said Kibirkaj, petting my hand.
But I was not really listening. I was watching the light fall like water though the leaves of the sumbrashki.
[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 Moss. You can see Matt's illustration for the entry on our social media accounts.
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[Fade to silence. Then, the Clinical Space trailer begins.]
Dr. Graves: [via excerpts of recordings fading in and out]
Session notes, Dr. Graves, Counseling Officer, Starship Erebus. Client: Spessman Spacial… no, that’s not it.
… And why does my uniform have so many pockets, I’m just a psychologist, and – anyway…
Personal Journal Entry, Aja Graves…
… I adopted a pet today!
Client: Spaceman Special Class Stevin Smorth, Ship’s Cook…
… a lot of food, enrichment and belly rubs. What does that mean though?
… though I’m not quite sure to whom I would send that feedback.
Submit Report…
… Submit Report…
… Submit Report…
… Delete Message.
Haven: Clinical Space is a brand-new sci-fi fiction podcast about the crew of an exploratory starship, told through the voice of the person most integral to their ability to function: their therapist. Clinical Space, wherever you get your podcasts.
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