Episode 59
Travelling Light E059S02 Transcript
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Fifty Nine.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
Entry IS85118-1. Ephemerality in the faith and culture of the Cenit people.
Keywords: arts and crafts; Cenit; death and mourning; ethnography; Heivol; philosophy and theology; rites of passage; Whel.
Notes:
The Cenit people make their homes on the grassy plains to the east of Whel’s largest continent. Unlike most of the cultural groups on Whel, they are almost exclusively of the same species – the Heivol.
I did not see anyone of another species in the Cenitian settlement we visited who was not a merchant, a tourist, or some other itinerant.
The settlement – the largest of its type in this region – has no official name, and is usually spoken of as simply “the settlement.” Even that is a misnomer, for there is nothing settled about it.
There is no brick or stone used here, and very little wood. The buildings are made from sheets of loosely woven fabric, and are erected, moved and dismantled as required.
The settlement’s skyline is in constant flux. Its borders spread and contract so much, so often, the settlement itself actually moves some several metres each year, creeping over the land like a living thing.
Instead of building permanent homes, the Cenit people prefer to use tents and other temporary structures. When they wish to sleep, or retire from public view, they simply find a suitable spot to set up camp and make themselves comfortable.
Everything in the settlement is done in this ad hoc fashion. There are very few laws, and nobody has a set job or a career such as I would understand it. Each takes their turn at whatever needs to be done.
When a merchant comes to sell their wares, for example, they deal with whichever member of the community is free and willing to do business in that moment. The traded goods are then stored in public, free for anyone who needs to take as they will.
Cenit clothing is light and simple, usually not much more than a loose tunic, left to drape over the body as it will. Cenit manners and habits are similarly stripped back.
Where I might say, “Excuse me, may I pass please?” the Cenit say, “Move one step left.” A Cenitian does not waste syllables with, “Could you please direct me to the landing pad?” They simply ask, “Landing pad?” and let context do the rest.
The more I explored the settlement, the more curious I became. So, I decided to put these forthright Cenitian manners to work. I approached a Cenit person digging tubers in one of the community plots, greeted them, and got to the point.
“I want to know about your culture.”
“Local directory?” suggested the person, without pausing in their work.
“Insufficient,” I replied. “Answer while you work?”
The person gestured agreement. “Ask.”
“I am collecting information for an archive. May I record your answers?” When the person assented, I asked their name.
“Bayske. My culture?” they prompted.
I considered how to word my question. “Everything here is so… temporary,” I said at last. “I am wondering why.”
I am not always good at reading other species’ expressions, but Bayske seemed amused by this observation. “What are you? Forra?”
“Human,” I corrected. Bayske gave no sign of recognising the word.
“How long do you live?”
“Healthy and unharmed, we may naturally reach… between 80 and 100 years?”
At that, Bayske let out a short hiss in the Heivol equivalent of a laugh. They tapped the ground with their knuckle – a religious gesture, referencing the Cenit belief that the creator, Gotrof, makes her home in the planet’s core.
“Gotrof grants us two, be praised.”
I took a moment to understand. “You only live for two years? How old are you?”
“8 months,” Bayske replied, tossing a final tuber into the basket. “Carry those?”
I took the basket up while Bayske hefted a second, full of leafy green plants. They led the way to a communal resource collection point.
“Childhood is 3 months. At 20 months, decline begins. Rare to live past 24, maybe 25 months all told.”
Little wonder the Cenit are so averse to wasting time. I have since done the calculations. Giving myself a life expectancy of 96 – not unreasonable, given my grandmother’s longevity – then to Bayske, a day speaking to me would be the equivalent of my spending a month and a half in conversation.
“Is that why there are not many non-Heivols among you?”
Bayske made a sound of agreement. “Hard to match up. Others love like growing, reaching for each other. We cut to it. Love or don’t. Simple.
“Same for everything else. Gotrof grants me one brief flight through her skies. I won’t waste it farming, haggling, sewing, building.”
“How do you spend it?”
“Talking to nosy tourists.”
We added our baskets to the collection point and I made to thank Bayske for their time. But something in their body language changed, all humour gone.
“How far is your home?”
“Serran? I am not sure of the exact distance-”
“How long to get there?” Bayske cut in.
“Flying directly? Uh. 10 months, maybe? But nobody would go direct. It could take… years.” I did not dwell on the sudden vertigo this statement induced.
A light came into Bayske's eyes. “Can you keep a secret?”
They led me to a structure that I thought I could remember being a fruit stall that morning but which sat empty now, waiting to be be dismantled or put to some other use. They pulled the walls closed behind us, shielding us from sight.
“This is not for locals, right? Nobody who can… [sighs] Remember. You swear?”
“I swear. I shall not tell anybody except my community at home.
Bayske hesitated, their knuckles tapping compulsively against the woven floor of the tent. “You will put my words down. They will not pass on with time.”
“That is true,” I said, slowly understanding. “Barring some tragedy in our archives, whatever you tell me today will be preserved for a long time.”
“Gotrof made us brief. We honour her in transience. [sighing] 10 months direct, though,” Bayske countered, taking both sides in the argument. “And a record is not the thing itself…”
I did not say anything. This was their choice. I would not influence them.
As I might have expected, they did not take long. With a final, decisive tap of their knuckles, they rummaged in their pack and pulled out a folded bundle of fabric.
“How we spend our time,” they repeated. “Gotrof calls to us all. Her voice in the wind, her touch in the rain. And each of us answer, as best we can.” They laid a reverent hand on the bundle. “This is my answer.”
Slowly, they unfolded the fabric, and It revealed itself to be a small, half-finished embroidered quilt. The strips of hand-sewn fabric shimmered in the low light, green and gold. The grass of the steppes, shimmering under the sun.
“That is so beautiful,” I breathed.
“Hmm. Every answer is different. A poem, a recipe, a song. My enna carved a hirn bird for their answer.
“You keep your answer close, working on it all your life. When you die, it is revealed. Your family and friends see what you have made with yourself – see what Gotrof has been to you.
“And then, they burn it. Or take it apart, or eat it. They take it out of the world, as Gotrof has taken you. It was here and beautiful and we loved it. Now it is gone. You see?”
I reached out, not quite daring to touch the quilt's surface – Bayske’s answer to the divine presence in the universe.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I understand.”
We sat a few seconds longer, letting the moment hold us together. Then Bayske jumped to their feet, folding the quilt and stuffing it back into their pack.
“Enough of that! Things to do. But remember – not a word!”
[The sound of the data stick whirring fades in, cutting out when the data stick is removed with a click.]
The Traveller
18th Ishal 851
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
Friends, I can hardly express how much my situation has improved since last I wrote. I finally feel as if I am making real in-roads with the Guillemot crew – not least because I have finally participated in one of their missions returning stolen artefacts to their original owners.
I had not been invited to join the others when they collected the artefacts in question. This was back on Rei, in the city of Auva, which I had explored alone while the rest of the crew were working.
I am grateful – if slightly embarrassed – that I did not realise what my crew-mates were up to that afternoon. The knowledge of being so casually and entirely left out would, I think, have dampened my mood.
Instead, I shall simply be grateful to have received such a definite indication of my improved standing with the others. Just a few days after my repair on the Guillemot’s hull, I was invited to join Resimus and Masha when they delivered the artefacts to the Sechari Diaspora Cultural Hub on Whel.
The artefacts themselves were a collection of religious amulets – small rectangles of pottery painted with symbols to represent different manifestations of the divine power which underpins Sechari cosmology.
They were beautiful objects, each about the size of my palm, with a hole at the top to thread a ribbon through so the amulet might be worn if desired.
They were collected into an intricately carved chest which I took great pride in carrying into the Cultural Hub. Our contact was a Sechari high priestess who manages the Hub’s collection, resplendent in her vestments of pink and orange.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she used her delicate trunk to sift through the pile, holding up this amulet and that, whispering prayers of thanks for their return. It was a precious moment.
At least, until Masha cleared her throat and reminded the high priestess that she had yet to transfer the final payment into the Guillemot accounts.
All the same, I felt the balance of my actions in this journey shift. I know it is not theologically sound to think this way. We are supposed to do good for good’s sake, not as a tally to count against our wrongdoing. But… still.
My situation has improved aboard the ship, too. Despite his previous claims to have no work for me, Scarry has at last added me to the shift roster. I work mostly with Oyan in the comms deck, or with Tarlin in the galley.
In fact, I do a little of everything, save actually flying. I have had a few shifts alongside Masha in the cockpit though, giving what assistance I can. She is still recovering from her opasht and, while she does not say it, I think she is glad for the help.
There is a great deal this crew prefers to leave unsaid. They prefer to let their actions speak, trusting that, after years of living, working, and travelling together, their meaning will be understood.
I do not have the benefit of these shared years. But I think I am growing more fluent in the crew’s silent language. Tarlin’s inclusion of at Masha’s favourite dishes in every meal since her opasht hardly requires a translation device.
Resimus picking up the wrong type of paint during our last supply run, however, was so plausibly deniable, it could only have been vengeance against Oyan using up the hot water before Resimus could bathe the night before.
“I’m so sorry, Oyan. The packaging just looked so similar. I could go back...”
“Oh, no, don’t fret on my account,” Oyan replied, all sickly sweet. “How’s that book I lent you, by the way? Is the protagonist’s mother still alive?”
Resimus’s neck fluttered, the skin turning green. “What do you mean, ‘still’?!”
I am even making in-roads in reading Captain Scarry. After our confrontation over the repair last week, I had worried he might make life difficult for me. Instead, he has been scrupulously polite, showing me every courtesy a respected crew-mate could warrant. Clearly, he is furious.
I mentioned my concerns to Masha. Oh, what a relief to be with people with whom I am able to share my concerns! People to talk about how I feel!
Admittedly, she did respond to my opening salvo with a filthy sidelong look and a short, “Don’t get all feely with me.” But I would not be put off.
“Unfortunately, Masha, you have now befriended me. There is nothing to be done but for me to treat you as a friend. Which. I am sad to say, includes ‘getting all feely.’”
She grimaced, flicking switches to adjust our course. “I preferred it when we were all just sort of ignoring you.”
“Too late. I know you like me now.”
“'Like' is a strong word. [sighs] Alright. Make me a brew and you can talk feelings for five minutes.”
“Twenty.”
“Ten.”
“Fifteen, and I shall bring you a biscuit. Tarlin's made some with yofi currants.”
“Yeah, alright. Deal.”
Snacks delivered, I settled into the copilot seat and laid out my concerns. Masha sipped her drink, face impassive.
“You’re upset because Cap’s being nice to you?”
“He is not being nice. He is being polite, and he is avoiding me.”
“You can’t avoid anyone on this boat. There’s nowhere to go.”
“And yet. I have not been alone with him for over a week.”
Masha looked at me over her cup. “You want to be alone with him?”
“I want it to be no issue whether we are alone or not,” I said, ignoring the tone of insinuation.
“You were quite rude to him.”
“So was he rude!”
“Yeah but he is rude. That’s just what he’s like. You being rude is like, ‘Oh, you actually mean it, don’t you?’”
I looked out at the starfield beyond the cockpit window, considering her words. [sighing] “I suppose that is true,” I allowed.
Her boots banged against the console as she kicked up her feet. “I don’t like to delve into Cap’s emotions. Frankly, I think it's weird that you do. But if you want to know, I can see where he's coming from.
“The Gilly's not just a ship. It’s our home. And that’s because he’s made it that way. He could get a new crew every run if he wanted. He could sail the ship on his own if he liked. He used to.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. He had a whole system of mirrors set up so he could steer from the engine room. He used string to pull the levers.”
“Oh, shut up.”
[laughing] “All I’m saying is, he loves this old tub. And he won’t say it, not ever, but he loves us too. Not you,” she added hastily. “But you are a member of his crew and that means something. Means something to him, anyway.
“And then you turn round and tell him, to his face, that you think he wouldn’t bat an eyelid if you went out on the hull and got brained by a chunk of floating debris or exploded out of your iso-suit or whatever. So, yeah. I think you hurt his feelings.”
“Right,” I said, letting the truth of that sink in. “Should I apologise?”
“Absolutely not, he'd chuck you out the airlock. Just cut him a little slack, you know? He's alright.”
I know I can be stubborn. All of you know I can be stubborn too. Integrity is important to me – but there is a thin line between being true to oneself and being obstinate.
Stubborn as I can be, I am not incapable of change. When presented with new information, I believe I am someone who can change my views. Scarry is giving me new information about himself. I ought to shift my perception accordingly.
I chose to sail with the Guillemot because I wanted to see the other side of the story. I wanted to challenge my assumptions, to get more information about the complex web of relationships and ethics we are all of us tangled in.
I have given space to everyone aboard to show themselves from another angle. Everyone, except Scarry. There is nothing for it; I shall just have to do better.
Keep me in your prayers, as you are all in mine. I will write again soon.
[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 Ealasaid. 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.
If you want to support Travelling Light, please consider leaving a review on your podcast platform of choice. You can also make a one-off donation or sign up for a monthly subscription at ko-fi.com/monstrousproductions.
With tiers starting at just £1 a month, all supporters receive bonus artwork and additional content, the ability to vote on audience decisions, 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.]
--END TRANSCRIPT--
