Episode 53
Travelling Light E053S02 Transcript
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Fifty Three.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
Entry AV85115-2. An encounter with an improvisational musician in Mórhal Station on Clonarty.
Keywords: arts and crafts; Clonarty; Lisheval; Mórhal; musical instruments; suthash music.
Notes:
As unusual as it may sound, I have always enjoyed spending time in transportation hubs. There is something soothing in seeing people rushing about and knowing that I have no part to play in their affairs whatsoever.
Of course, the hustle and bustle is a good deal less relaxing when I am one of the brief-glimpsed throngs, fumbling a fistful of tickets, fretting for a platform or a tight connection.
In those moments, I am sure there is nothing more likely to heat my blood than the thought of being observed by some placid, bovine bystander, munching on falafel and watching me flail about like so many fish in an aquarium.
But as I sat upon a bench in Mórhal Station, dunking my wrap into a tub of tzatziki, I considered myself very well-placed indeed.
As I sat, a noise began tugging at my awareness. Of course, the station was full of noise: growling engines, slamming doors, the chime of platform announcements and schedule updates echoing over the tannoy.
But over time, I came to hear a certain rhythm, so subtle I thought at first it was a trick of the ear. I began to hear syncopation. A counter beat. Even the promise, never quite fulfilled, of a melody, barely there and disappearing as soon as I tried to follow it.
For a long time, I simply let the music – for I was sure now that it was music – pass over me. It found its place among the other sounds of the station as easily as the sunlight found its way through the faceted glass of the ceiling.
The source of the sound was not obvious; the acoustic properties of the station sent echoes bouncing every way and back, disguising the direction of origin. But eventually, I saw her: a Maderin person tucked beside a wall with a small sign in front of her and a ready jar for tips and donations from passers-by.
She was sitting at an instrument – a wide, flat disc covered in metal keys with pedals beneath. Some of the pedals affected the instrument's sound drastically, in turns mimicking the soft burr of conversation or the thrum and twang of metal.
The musician danced as she played, eyes closed for long periods, savouring her own creation. Her obvious joy was both charming and contagious; I felt my heart lift and gladden as I watched.
After a time, she began to bring her music-making to a close. The rhythms she had set moving came slowly to a stop; the melodies returned home; and her instrument fell silent.
I was on my feet immediately. I had no desire to interrupt her while she worked, but now, I had no intention of letting her slip away.
I introduced myself, and told her how much I had been enjoying her music. When I asked if she would be interested in making a contribution to our archives, she agreed, and we removed to a nearby teashop to chat. This is what she told me.
“My name Mertha Dun Dergrial. I come from a family of musicians in a town called Borra. You won’t know it. It’s small even for the province, which is nothing to write home about.”
“Is it on Clonarty?” I clarified.
“Oh! Oh, yes, sorry. Yes, its about 10 days travel from here, more or less.
“My family’s villa is in the foothills of the Lisheval Mountains. It’s a beautiful spot. Not much to do, but if you’re in the mood to do nothing, you couldn’t find a prettier place to do it.
“There’s nothing like sitting out on a cool, spring night, smelling the herbs in the kitchen garden, the blue-black sky dotted with stars. The humming insects. The night birds. The wind through the barley fields…
“If you listen hard, you might start to hear music on the air. It’ll be gentle, almost lost among the sounds of wind and night. But if you can tune into it, you realise there's intention there. A tune on the edge of your ear, something darting in time with the swallows and the bats.
“That’s suthash music. We play it all over that part of the province, right up to Cardon in the north and Blin in the east. Music designed to use the sounds of the world around it.
“Suthash is always improvised. The idea is that you’re joining in with all the music around you, whether that’s birdsong or a river flowing or the sound of animals. Every performance is unique; a response to the moment in which it was made.
“Traditionally, it’s played on very simple instruments – wooden pipes, rain sticks, or you might just hum or clap. The point is for it to sound as natural as possible, to blend in with all the sounds it's singing with.
“I’ve been in Mórhal for two years now. I’m a music student at Mórhal Technological College. And I love it here. The big city!”
This made me smile. Mórhal is a medium sized town, at best.
“The only problem was, I missed suthash,” Mertha went on. “Missed it like it was my own sister. And I couldn’t see how I could get it back. The sounds of the city are so different – industry and technology. [sighs]
“Noise. [laughing] I thought it was noise – endless, growling, drowning noise! It made me miserable. I didn't want to be miserable, but there I was.
“And then, my mother came to visit. We were sitting one afternoon in a teashop, like this, and the conversation died away a little. And she started to hum.
“Her fingers tapped a rhythm on the tablecloth in time with the hammers of some workmen down the way. She caught a tune from a child burbling to its parent, with the rumble of a lorry for a bassline.
“She wasn’t trying to make a point. It was just habit – to hear the world as it was, and sing back to it.
“After that, I started working on my own performances. I built my keyboard and trained my ear to hear the musical potential of the city; the mechanical sounds of industry and the organic sounds of all of us who make our homes here.
“Turns out, there’s no such thing as noise. It’s all just music in the making. All you need is an open mind, and open ear.”
[The sound of the data stick whirring fades in, cutting out when the data stick is removed with a click.]
The Traveller
15ᵗʰ Avam 851, continued.
The sounds of the festival pulsed and throbbed around me, muffled by my own shock. Time stretched and slowed, the air turning thick. I could do nothing but stare, my very breath congealing.
Then my face bloomed hot and red. Time found its footing, the music snapped back into sharp focus, and I pulled in a breath as a wave of incandescent fury washed over me.
“What in stars are you doing here? Was it not enough for you to hunt us across the galaxy? You have to dog our trail even now? By the Light, man, have you nothing better to do with your time?”
Scarry did not look as wounded by this excoriation as I might have wished. “Us, is it?” he said mildly, looking around. “Is the little princeling with you?”
“They are not a princeling,” I spat. “They are… somewhere else,” I finished, realising as I spoke that I had no desire to reveal Óli’s location to their one-time bounty hunter.
If said bounty hunter noticed my emendation, however, he took it in his stride. As well he might, the size of his legs. “No? Ah well. I hope they're finding their feet, wherever they are.”
I wanted to snap at him that yes, actually, they were – that Óli was thriving, no thanks to Scarry and his crew. But as soon as I thought it, my chest twisted with guilt. I have not spoken to Óli in the two weeks since I left Clanagh. I trust that they are well and happy, but I do not really know.
Another hot burst of anger broke through me.
“It is none of your business how they are. They are nothing to you, and you are less to them.”
Finally, a crack of emotion showed on Scarry’s face. He did not look hurt, of course, but seemed almost confused by my outrage.
“I had a job to do,” he said, slow and clear like he was speaking to a fool. “I took a contract and I fulfilled it. Your friend agreed to negotiate terms with me and we did so to mutual satisfaction. What precisely is your objection here?”
“My objection is to you hunting my friend across the galaxy. My objection is to you seeking to profit from their suffering. My objection is to your abject lack of moral principles.”
[laughing] “Moral principles?! You are a smuggler!”
“I am not!”
“You travelled with smugglers, you assisted smugglers, you dealt on behalf of smugglers.”
[scoffing] “You bought from us!” I spluttered, blinded by this blatant, bare-faced hypocrisy.
Scarry’s head jerked as if he had been slapped. He opened his mouth to answer, but for the moment, could not seem to find the words. Then, his expression hardened.
“I did,” he said at last. “I did buy from you. You do me a favour, little feist? When the heat goes out of you, and you’re ready to come down off your high horse and join the real world – look up Asmoru Museum, would you? See where your moral principles have got you.”
He turned his great broad back, and started to walk away.
“Why are you here?” I called after him.
He did not look at me when he answered; only turned his head to speak over his shoulder, as if I was not worth the energy to do more.
“I’m just here for the music. Take that as you will.”
I wanted to take it straight back into the beer tent – back to my friends, to drink it down and drown it with music and laughter and distraction. But I have never been entirely comfortable with anger. I needed to clear my head.
I ended up in an all-night café in town. Greasy yellow lights buzzed above, making everyone inside look a little unwell. There were plenty of seats available. I found one, ordered some chips and a cup of tea, and tried to calm down.
I felt better after eating. Steadier. But Scarry's words rang in my mind. So, I ran a search in the local directory for the Asmoru Museum.
I did not find the story immediately. The Museum is in the Glasra system, on the planet Velosyn, and it was hardly front page news even there. It was only reported on here in the Ionad system by historical interest outlets.
“Archaeologists and community leaders celebrate as lost artefact returns to Velosyn.”
Scarry and the Guillemot were not mentioned by name. The article only made reference to traders who had salvaged the artefact from the black market. But the photographs were unmistakable.
A helmet. Or, to be specific, a Spréif Dynasty zischägge, complete with authentic Echtern cloisonné and hand-crocked strapping. The very helmet I had helped to trade.
I spent a long time in the café, reading about the helmet and its place in Velosynish culture. It came from the ancient people who once populated a spread of land in the south-west corner of one of their larger continents.
Those people made their wealth from mining, and the helmet may have belonged to a mine-owner or a high-ranking official. The decoration indicated that this person was of a cyclical gender, and very wealthy. It was a beautiful, precious thing.
Then, I spent some time going back over my notes. I was sure I remembered Hesje telling me that nothing the Tola traded was of significant cultural importance – that they dealt in art pieces and… [sighs]
I found the account I wrote to you of our conversation. They said no such thing. They indicated that they would not wish to accidentally trade in “some poor sap's sacred texts”, but everything else was fair game. “Just stuff”, they called it. “Just… stuff.”
[laughing] It is funny. At about the same time as that conversation, I wrote to you talking about how grateful I am to have been raised in a faith that allows a person to be wrong. To make mistakes.
But this? This is more than a mistake. I must name it for what it was: wilful self-deception. I loved my friends on the Tola and I did not wish to believe they would do something I thought was wrong. I did not wish to believe I would do something I thought was wrong.
And so, when it seemed I might be confronted with just such a situation, I simply refused to see it. I averted my eyes, and believed my own narrative so strongly…
[laughing] Oh, Light! I argued about it! With Scarry tonight but with Ranaí and Ornush back in Clanagh. I was so sure. [pause] I was so sure.
I thought that writing this letter would help, and it has, a little. Mostly it has just made me terribly homesick. I wish I could spend a few hours in your company, my friends. I wish you were here to help me see my path forwards.
Because I must move forwards. I must act, I must do something.
I need more information. And there is one person I can think of who can give that to me. I shall get some sleep and send this letter in the morning. And then, I shall see about discovering where the Guillemot is docked.
[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 a submission by Naomi. You can see Matt's illustration for the entry on our social media accounts.
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[Fade to silence.]
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