Episode 60
Travelling Light E060S02 Transcript
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Sixty.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
Entry IS85126-1. The Zeban District Martial Arts Festival on Demil.
Keywords: arts and crafts; community; Demil; local history; martial arts; occasions and ceremonies; Zeban District.
Notes:
I attended the Zeban District Martial Arts Festival after Tarlin read about the event on the local directory following a cargo run to the planet Demil. I was not sure it was quite my thing, but since everyone else was going, it felt churlish to remain alone on the ship.
The festival was in full swing when we arrived. In many ways, it was just like any other street festival I have been to. But I found I could not relax into the holiday spirit as my companions did.
Everywhere I looked I saw people with blacked eyes and bloodied noses, bodies being thrown into padded floors, weapons glinting in the sunlight and cracking into protective gear that looked all too fragile to my eyes.
“You folks finding your way around alright?” called a voice. It belonged to a stocky, thick-limbed person wearing an official Festival uniform. “My name’s Ogrel. I’m offering tours, if you’re interested – wee bit of history, information about the different styles, very reasonably priced!”
Tarlin was obviously taken with the idea, and easily corralled the rest of us into joining her on the tour.
“So! The Zeban Martial Arts Festival. Well, it's exactly what it sounds like – five days celebrating the best of every fighting style in the district. We’ve got pallerine, Iber No, archery, treble-whips, golp and more!”
Ogrel led us to one of several demonstration booths. “This is pallerine: a close-quarters, unarmed style that uses short bursts of several strikes once.”
Masha raised a hand. “Is it like fresstol at all?”
The booth’s proprietor lifted her head at that. “Do you fight fresstol?”
“I used to,” Masha confirmed. “Hard to find anyone to spar with these days.”
“Come on up! If you know fresstol then pallerine'll come easy!”
Without further ado, Ogrel and the proprietor helped Masha don protective padding and led her into the sparring ring. She and the proprietor circled each other, fists raised in front of their faces.
Then, at a signal I could not see, the match began in earnest. The fighters jabbed at each other with fists and knees, and more than once, the proprietor whipped out with her tail, making Masha jump out of the way.
[sighing] Honestly, I could not see the point. It seemed a lot of effort to put into something objectively unpleasant.
“Not enjoying the bout?” Ogrel asked, sidling up next to me.
“Not really,” I admitted. “I do not take much interest in violence.”
Ogrel‘s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t call it 'violence'. For one thing, I don’t think you can do violence with permission. Everybody fighting here today has agreed to it. There are rules and boundaries.
“Violence, to my mind, inherently involves transgressing boundaries. I might do violence with my words as easily as my fists, after all. It is the transgression that offends – not the inherent act of speaking.”
It was an… interesting proposition. “I can see my way to that,” I conceded. “But I have seen people injured today. Consenting or not, they still got hurt.”
“Hurt is not the same as harm,” Ogrel argued. “If you were to hit me, square in the bracket, I will surely be hurt. Possibly quite badly, looking at those guns. [laughs]
“But the degree of harm will really depend on the context. Did I, for example, ask you to hit me? Did I want you to? Did I enjoy it? Did it perhaps even do us some good – bring us closer together, or connect us to our community?”
I scoffed. “How is punching you in the face supposed to bring us closer together?!”
[laughing] “You don’t know it, friend, but that is exactly the question this festival is all about.”
Masha finished her bout, and bowed to the proprietor, dipping low to the ground. The proprietor laughed, gesturing her to stand, and pulled her into an embrace. It seemed a remarkable degree of mutual fondness for two people who had spent their entire short aquaintance trying to pummel each other into the dirt.
Still, when Masha rejoined the group, she was flushed and happy, obviously delighted with her experience. She bumped her shoulder against Scarry's. “Remind me to get you in the ring one day, Cap. Do you a world of good.”
Ogrel led the way further into the crowd. “We’re a peaceful bunch in Zeban these days,” they continued. “Conflict is a fact of life, but people are fed and housed and educated, and generally willing to live and let live.
“Back a couple of centuries, though, this district was as prone to skirmishing and power-grabs as any ancient battle-clan from one of the more salacious historical entertainments.
“We’ve put most of that behind us. But the styles of fighting we developed over all those centuries of knocking seven bells out of each other… [laughs] Well – there’s no reason to let good skills go to waste!
“Nowadays, we fight each other for fun. We have competitions all over the district, ranked leagues, professional matches and amateur classes.
“Have yous heard of tabuns? Tabuns? Did your translators catch that? No? Good. Some devices turn it into the word ‘clan’ or ‘tribe’ but that doesn't really do the word justice. It’s more like if your tribe was also a part of your soul? But without the religious connotations…
[tuts] “Anyway. I'm not getting into the etymology. The thing is, a person's tabun is decided not by blood or birth, but by your fighting style. Each child, upon reaching the age of discretion for their species, chooses a style to specialise in, and so joins the tabun that developed the style to begin with.
“The style you learnt back there,” they said, nodding at Masha, “was pallerine – that is, the style of the Paller people. It’s good for folk who are big and strong but quick, too.
“When you’re fighting in pallerine, you want to get in, land as many blows as you can, and get out again. It’s close-range, bare-handed, one of the fastest styles in the district.”
They brought us to a second booth where two people in loose-fitting robes moved about one another in drifting, dance-like movements.
“Iber No is an altogether different beast. It's good for people with a good amount of flexibility and control, but perhaps not the strength you need in pallerine.”
“Ooh! Sounds like me,” Resimus said.
“Would you like a go?”
Resimus’s shoulders slumped, the skin of their neck fluttering morosely. [sighing] “I can't. I have a clotting disorder. I’d need to take extra medication if I was going to do something like that.”
“Even if it’s no contact? Just going through the movements?”
Resimus visibly brightened. “Oh! No, that shouldn’t be an issue!”
Ogrel got the attendants’ attention, and they beamed identical smiles at Resimus as they took them through a series of elegant poses, flowing one into the next in a hypnotic cycle. It was undeniably beautiful.
“But why can they not just enjoy the movements instead of using them to hurt each other?” I said to Ogrel as we watched.
“Some people do. Non-combat Iber No is quite popular. But its roots are in combat. It’s a fighting style. It would be dishonest to pretend otherwise.”
When Resimus was done, Tarlin stomped over to Ogrel, holding up her arm. She was wearing her usual prosthesis – a lightweight, multijointed limb designed with as much versatility of movement as possible.
“I can’t be hitting anyone with this,” she said, “and I’m not exactly built for the wifty wafty flowy stuff. What do you have for me, hm?”
Ogrel considered. “Do you want to be up close, or long range?”
“She wants to bash someone’s head in,” said Scarry.
Tarlin grinned. [laughing] “You’re bloody right I do!”
Before long, Tarlin was cackling with glee as she swung a huge sword around her head, bringing it to meet the demonstrator’s own with a clash of metal. She twisted, her prosthesis allowing her enough range of motion to easily bring her sword free and swing again from another angle.
“Aim for my head, not my sword!” the demonstrator called, parrying Tarlin’s attack with apparent ease.
It was a bold thing to say. I certainly would not have made such an invitation. For all my misgivings though, there was no denying Tarlin was having the time of her life trying to knock her demonstrator’s head from his shoulders.
“We should give all old ladies a sword,” Scarry mused, leaning on the fence around the practice enclosure. “They’ve clearly got something in their system they need getting out.”
“You’re smiling,” Ogrel said to me. “Does that mean I’ve convinced you?”
“There is obviously artistry here. Not here,” I added, gesturing at Tarlin’s current onslaught.
[laughing] “Shows what you know. Fess there’s the best golp fighter in the district. That’s why he takes the demos every year. He’s the only person who can go up against amateurs and keep both them and himself safe.”
“Fair point,” I allowed. “These activities-”
“These art forms,” corrected Ogrel.
I hesitated, not sure I wanted to allow so much. But then, I thought of the instant connection between Masha and the Pallen woman when they realised they shared the experience of similar fighting styles.
The control and grace of the mesmerising Iber No. The sheer unbridled joy in every line of Tarlin’s body as she swung her sword.
And then, the festival itself; a declaration of hope and determination that these styles would be shared and enjoyed by future generations without violence.
Something must have changed in my expression, because Ogrel’s face split into a satisfied grin. “You see it, don’t you? You see what I see.”
“No,” I said. “This is your home. Your… art. I will never see it quite as you do. But I do understand your position. Thank you, truly. I… I needed that.”
Ogrel waved my words away. “You can thank me by trying something out. Go on – there must be something that’s caught your eye.”
Honestly, nothing had. But I looked around, willing to entertain the possibility.
“Perhaps… some archery?” I suggested. “I can see no harm – or hurt, or whatever – in shooting at a target.”
I need not have worried. I might have aimed any number of shots at any number of living targets and still done no harm. Turns out, I am an abysmal shot.
[The sound of the data stick whirring fades in, cutting out when the data stick is removed with a click.]
The Traveller
26th Ishal 851
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
I have been sitting looking at those opening lines for whole on an hour now. So much has happened in the last week, I scarcely know where to begin. I can tell you now, this missive is going to be a long one.
But there is no part of my recent adventures that I would leave out for the sake of brevity. You deserve to hear it all, and to do so with the reassurance that I did come out the other side in one piece. Just about.
After our cargo trip to Demil, we had a long stretch in the black scheduled. I was working in the engine room when it all kicked off.
I have been finding my way there more often since my resolution to see a better side of Scarry. But my efforts were thwarted by the close quarters of the engine room itself.
“How is it that you somehow manage to put yourself directly where I need you to not to be, every time you move?”
I squeezed around Scarry’s bulk, giving him access to the part of the engine I had previously been leaning against. “You see me moving! You could always say, ‘Not there please, I need to get to that part next!;”
“Is it some kind of religious practice? Some monkish training, to make up for your size? How fit yourself where no reasonable person would expect you?”
“I am not a monk. And I am not that small. You are the one taking up enough room for an entire ruyfo team.”
He turned, stepping into my space in a way I am sure he intended to be intimidating.
“This is my ship. My engine room. I will not be packed away like excess cargo because some jumped up little priest cannot stay out of my road!”
Unfortunately for him, every one of our shifts together had followed this particular pattern. His tactics no longer affected me.
“I am not a priest,” I said coolly, tipping my chin to look up at him. “And you have left the patch valve open.”
“What? Oh, for mercy's sake!”
A stream of cursing filled the air as Scarry span, taking a wrench to the rogue valve. I took up my own tools, and was about to get back to work – when the ground suddenly lurched out from under me.
I was thrown sideways, and would have cracked my skull against the bulkhead if Scarry had not caught me. His arms wrapped around me as the whole ship shuddered and shook. His grip did not ease until the racket finally stopped.
“Are you alright?” he demanded. His eyes were fierce as he looked down at me, searching for any sign of distress or injury.
“Uh… Y-yes,” I stammered. My legs were shaking but I managed to pick myself up, holding onto Scarry’s arms for support. “I am alright,” I said, more certainly.
His mouth was a grim line. “All hands, report,” he barked into the intercom.
“Oyan, comms deck. All well here, Cap. What was that?”
“Resimus in cargo. A few crates knocked over, but no injuries.”
“Masha, reporting from the cockpit. I need you up here ASAP.”
With each report, Scarry’s face relaxed. At the silence that followed Masha’s comment, all that concern came rushing back.
“Tarlin, report!”
The intercom crackled. “I’m alright, boy. Calm yourself. Saints and fishes.”
“Where are you? Are you hurt?”
“I’m the galley, where else? I tripped, I banged my knee. It's not important.”
Scarry was having none of it. “Oyan, get down there. Masha – I’m on my way.”
For the second time that month, I followed Scarry’s furious bulk to the cockpit. Lights flickered here and there, a sign that something had gone badly wrong.
My suspicions were confirmed when we reached the cockpit and found Masha silencing a barrage of warnings and alerts from systems throughout the ship.
“We’ve stopped,” she said, hands busy on the controls. “We weren’t running engines but we should have been drifting on inertia. Something stopped us.”
“We hit something?”
“If there was something big enough for us to hit, big enough to stop us if we hit it, I’d have seen it on scanner hours ago. We’re free and clear in empty space. There’s nothing out there.”
The intercom hissed, and Oyan’s voice filled the cockpit. “Reporting in from t'galley. Tarlin’s knee’s a bit banged up but nothing serious.”
Tarlin’s voice followed. “Didn’t I tell you? Fussy old mare!”
Scarry was not looking at me. I was free to watch as open relief and genuine fondness washed over his face at Tarlin’s rebuke.
“Glad to hear it,” he said into the microphone. “Now stay off the line. We’ve got enough on our plate.”
A burst of static rang through the cockpit. I expected Tarlin again, but the voice that followed was entirely new.
“Hello, the Guillemot! Am I saying that right? Funny word. Anyway, sorry about the fuss! Incoming!”
With a roar of alarms and flashing lights, a fresh wave of alerts flooded through Masha’s displays.
“Vessel to starboard, sir!” Masha shouted over the din, her lapse into formality no good sign. “I don't know where they came from, but they're coming in hot.”
“Get us out of here, pilot!”
“I… I can’t. Sir, she’s not responding. Foreign vessel incoming. Collision in 5, 4-”
“All hands, brace for impact!” Scarry roared into the intercom. “Brace! Brace!”
“3, 2, 1!”
There was a soft thud, the faintest shiver, and then nothing.
“Well, that was painless,” came the voice over the speakers. “Good job, us, eh? That almost never works! Ha! Prepare for boarding!”
A growl came from somewhere down the corridor in the direction of the ship’s entry hatch. Scarry reached for the intercom, his face a steely mask.
“All hands, be advised. We are being boarded by persons unknown. Remain in your positions, I repeat, remain where you are.”
He strode off in the direction of the entry bay. Naturally, I followed.
The hatch, when we reached it, was whirring and clanging as the newcomers forced their way through its locking cycle. Scarry looked down at me.
“I said, stay where you are.”
“I know you did.”
Scarry sighed, but did not argue.
I shivered. It was hot in the engine room. I always got cold when I left, sweat evaporating and leaving me chilled. I kept a jumper outside to put on at the end of my shift, but had forgotten it in the rush.
Without a word, Scarry reached into one of the lockers in the bay and fished out a lumpy bundle of wool.
“One of Resimus’s early efforts,” he said, handing it over. “We keep it for emergencies.”
“And public shamings?” I said, earning a wry huff of laughter.
Still, I pulled the jumper on and immediately felt better even as I rolled the uneven sleeves up off my wrists.
The clanging fell silent. Scarry took a breath, standing tall. “Here they come.”
The hatch swung open, revealing the inside of the airlock and our new arrivals. There were five in all – four subordinates, in outfits cobbled together from half a dozen different styles, and the fifth slightly in front of the others, tall and undeniably magnificent in a tailored uniform of gleaming white.
This person stepped forwards, smiling broadly, hands spread in greeting.
“A welcoming committee!” they beamed – obviously the voice from the intercom. “How splendid to meet you. I’m Captain Flissy, this is, uh, everyone! [laughs] We’re here to rob you!”
I am sure this would have been very alarming, if I had been paying attention. But I was staring at one of the members of Captain Flissy’s crew. One of the pirates.
They were near the back, decked out in the same hodgepodge assortment of clothing and equipment as the rest. But it would take more than a change of clothes and some very unlikely circumstances for me not to recognise them.
“Hesje?!”
At hearing their name, Hesje frowned. Then, recognition dawned. “Oh, hello! Fancy seeing you here! How are things?”
I looked from them, to Captain Flissy, and back. “They have been better.”
[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 bresisnrthere. 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.
This episode includes an audience decision. Something needs to be done about the pirates. But should the Traveller try to reason with Hesje, pulling on their personal connection, or should they leave Scarry to handle things as a professional? Vote by making a donation at ko-fi.com/monstrousproductions.
With tiers starting at just £1 a month, all supporters receive bonus artwork and additional content, 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--
