Episode 68
Travelling Light E068S02 Transcript
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Sixty Eight.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
26ᵗʰ Shebath 851
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
I have been thinking a great deal lately about time: its strange fluidity; the subjectiveness of how we experience it passing; the efforts we make to measure and quantify it, to wrestle it into some sort of universal, objective shape.
We arrived in Naina Port yesterday morning, and Scarry gave us the day off in deference to the severe difference between the ship’s clock and local time. In short, he knew we would all be too knackered to be of any use.
I had a quiet enough morning. I could not sleep at first, so visited a local tea shop wherein I met my interlocutor for the attached archive entry.
Upon my return, I all but collapsed into my bunk, too worn out to mind the sunlight creeping round the edges of the curtains or the sounds of industry drifting in from the port outside.
I woke again with all the disorientation that usually accompanies a long nap. I could not tell the hour at all. For several minutes, I could not even remember what planet I was on – not something I ever imagined being unsure of.
[sighing] Despite my grogginess, I knew I would not get back to sleep. So, however reluctant I was to leave the warmth and comfort of my blankets, I roused myself and went blearily to find something to eat.
I saw no-one else on my way to the galley. My fellow crew-mates were all resting in their cabins or perhaps had taken the opportunity of a day off to do some sightseeing or run errands in the city.
It did not feel as if the ship were empty. It was more the quiet of a hotel, where lives are unfolding behind closed doors, present but occluded.
I made myself a cup of tea and a plate of leftovers from the previous evening’s dinner. Then, on a little more than a hunch, I took out a second mug.
“Today is supposed to be a rest day,” I called over the clanging of Scarry’s tools.
All I could see of him was a pair of long legs sprawling out from beneath the engine chassis. They moved at the sound of my voice, a twitch of one bent knee.
“I am resting,” he called back, voice muffled.
“You are working.”
“I’m tinkering. It’s restful!” He pulled himself out fully from beneath the chassis and sat up, nodding at my plate of leftovers. “Is that for me?”
“No. This is, though.”
I handed him the second mug and he took it with a nod. He hoisted himself up to sit on the lip of the trough that allows access to the bottom of the engine. I am not used to looking down at Scarry. I could see the back of his neck, bare and strikingly vulnerable.
I leant against the bulkhead and used the top of a tool rack as a makeshift table. Scarry seemed content not to break the silence, which was a comfortable, companionable sort.
Finally, he took a decisive swig of his tea and hopped down off his perch to venture back beneath the chassis.
“What are you working on?” I asked, watching him become once more a pair of disembodied legs. They really are excessively long.
“Oh, nothing really. Just giving the old girl a tune up.”
“How long have you had her?” It was something I had wondered for a while now.
“Saints, I don’t know. 20, 25 years? I didn’t own her outright at first, of course. But she paid for herself soon enough.”
I tried to imagine living like this for a quarter of a century, travelling back and forth across the galaxy with no one place to call home. But then, I suppose, that is what the Guillemot must be: a home, to Scarry and Tarlin and all the others.
“It is really weird that you do not decorate more.”
Scary let out a burst of laughter. [laughing] “You can put up a picture as well as anyone else, you know!” he pointed out. A single, grease-caked hand stuck out then, waving vaguely around. “Pass me the jig vice?”
“I am not working,” I said, picking at the food on my plate. “My captain has given me the day off.”
There was a pause. Then Scarry trundled out from beneath the chassis and glared up at me from between his knees.
“Are you serious?”
“Not very often,” I admitted. “I do not want to get my hands dirty.”
Scarry muttered something my translator did not quite catch. Probably for the best. He found the tool he wanted, but stopped, looking wistfully at my plate.
“Is that satura fruit?”
I proffered the plate to him, and he levered himself up to kneel at the edge of the walkway and reach over. Then he stopped himself, face rueful.
“Speaking of dirty hands,” he said, lifting his to show me the caked-on grime that covered them, tip to wrist and then some.
And then time did something very strange.
It was not that it moved more slowly. More as if it were all happening at once, so that I could see my actions before I took them; as if I were moving along a path set out for me long ago, as inevitable as falling.
I stepped forward, plate in one hand, and with the other, I took a piece of sweet, wet fruit between my fingers and brought it to Scarry’s mouth. Black eyes held mine as he leant forwards and ate, lips brushing against my fingertip s.
“May I have another?”
I gave it to him, wishing I had the heat of the engine to excuse my flush, and yet obscurely glad I did not.
I did not say anything as he got to his feet. Standing on the walkway, I was of a height with him, our gazes level for once. My shirt did not quite meet the top of my trousers. When he placed a hand upon my waist, I felt his palm against my skin, hot and rough with calluses…
“All hands, calling all hands,” came Masha’s voice over the tannoy. “I’m getting a take-away, does anybody want owt?”
I turned back to Scarry but he was already moving away, climbing out onto the walkway, wiping his hands on a rag.
“That’s what makes her such an excellent pilot, you know,” he said conversationally, reaching for the tannoy to respond. “Impeccable timing.”
I did join Masha for the meal, in the end. I wanted the distraction of company. Before I went up, I threw on the jumper I keep outside the engine room, firmly placing another layer between myself and the world.
It was late when I got back to my cabin, and I was once more very ready for my bed. But when I went to undress, I stopped, staring down at myself.
Black smudges of oil streaked my waist, stark against the white of my skin. They must have been on me all evening, and I had not known.
He would still be awake, I knew. If I were to go to him… He would be there.
I was aware once more of time passing with every careful breath. I could feel it cleaving along two paths, ‘now’ and ‘then’ becoming ineluctably ‘before’ and ‘after’. It would be so easy… And not, I think, unwelcome…
And I remembered Sandé telling me she thought Scarry was jealous of Óli. I had dismissed the idea outright. Yet it was Óli who I thought of, half reaching for my cabin door, fingers tracing the mark Scarry left upon my skin…
[The click of a data stick being inserted into a drive that whirs as it reads]
The Traveller
Entry SE685126-1. A discussion of time-keeping across cultural divides.
Keywords: calendars and time-keeping; community; diaspora; identity; Neina; occasions and ceremonies; Tionu.
Notes:
One of the most persistently strange parts of travelling for the faith is the effect travel has upon my relationship with time. Almost everything else, I have grown used to. But time continues to jostle my awareness.
I was in the midst of one such jostle when I walked into a tea shop in Neina, the principle port city of the planet Tionu. We had arrived in Neina in the early hours of the morning in local time, but late evening according to the ship’s clock.
We did have the day off to recover, but I could not sleep. After a few hours of tossing and turning, I gave up. My body was sure it was the middle of the night when I finally stepped out of the ship into the broad, summer sunlight of mid-morning.
I needed some comfort, and called into the first tea shop that did not look too busy. I was, unusually for me, not in the mood for company.
“I am new to the planet,” I said to the server, launching into a by-now familiar spiel. “I am not familiar with the ingredients used here. I was hoping you might recommend me something.”
The server took this in his stride. “Certainly, esteemed. What are you in the mood for? Hot, cold, caffeine?”
I was sorely tempted by the mention of caffeine. But I knew I should give myself the best chance of getting some sleep when I eventually did return to the ship.
“Hot. No caffeine. Something…” I trailed off, my words lost in a fog of exhaustion.
“I’ll make you a kamusk latte,” the server said when it became clear to both of us that I was not going to continue. “It’s like a hug in a mug.”
I retreated gratefully to a comfortable chair beside the window. The buzz of the other customers’ conversations filled my ears, adding another layer of fuzziness to my brain. I almost ached with the desire to sleep.
The server brought me my drink and a spiralling, sugar-dusted pastry.
“Saudenberry swirl,” he said proudly. Then, to my surprise, he put another mug down beside the first. “Mind if I join you?”
I did not have the wits to object. He took the seat opposite and looked at me with his head cocked at a sympathetic angle.
“Time sickness?” he guessed. “You said you’re new to the planet. Still running to a different clock, is it?”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, my body thinks it is about, uh, three in the morning right now.”
[wincing] “Ooh, that’s no fun. Staying long?”
I blinked at him. There is really nothing like lack of sleep to make your brain turn into sludge. His face fluttered, giving the impression, I think, of a smile.
“I was going to have a bit of flirt,” he admitted. “But if you’re leaving soon, I’ll not bother.”
“Ha. Sorry to disappoint. I do not think I would be up to much wit, anyway.”
The server’s face flexed, perhaps pouting? I began to regret my answer. He was rather good-looking.
“I do not want to keep you from your work…” I began, but he waved me away.
“Oh, I’m on my break. You’re good camouflage – save other people trying to talk to me! [laughs] Have you come far?”
I was eating my saudenberry swirl and considered the question as I chewed.
“From Serran, originally, by way of Kerrin for a time. I am with a merchant ship now – we were just on Parvunash and are away to Mistkey next.”
He let out a soft, hooting breath. “Far enough, then! You must be an old hand at new time zones thing, then.”
I could not help but laugh. [laughing] “You would think I would be better at them by now.”
For all that I had not been feeling particularly sociable, I found Tavuq very good company. We talked easily, and I felt better for it. The pastry and the nutty, spicy kamusk latte did their part as well, of course.
“I was wiped out for a week when I first moved here. The planet,” Tabuq clarified, “not the city. I’m from Doia originally. The trip took over a month. I finally felt like I was used to ship’s time, and we arrived! How long are the days on your ship?”
“26 hours on the Guillemot, my current boat,” I said. “They were 20 on my previous one, and 24 on Kerrin. The days on Serran are 22 hours long. I’ve found it easier to get used to longer days than shorter ones.”
Tavuq made a sort of pointing gesture in agreement. “Same! Days on Doia are 20 hours, and 26 here. I hardly knew what to do with the extra time! It was the longer work shifts that really hit me! [laughs]
“I didn’t mind the year being a different length,” he mused. “The weirdest thing was the difference in seasons.”
It was my turn to gesture my agreement. “It was winter on Parvunash,” I said. “Four days later, I’m in the middle of summer, with no spring in between!”
[laughing] “Oh, that’s nothing – I gave up two whole seasons when I moved here! On Doia, we have seven: Dry Winter, Wet Winter, First Spring, False Summer, Second Spring, True Summer, and Fall. There are only five here.”
“Do you still have family on Doia? I write home a lot, it is part of my purpose in travelling.”
I gave a brief overview of my journey, including the tradition of travellers dating their entries according to the passage of time on Serran.
“I was wondering how you navigate the disparity.”
“Oh, I see,” Tavuq said, his face moving in a gesture I did not understand. “I, uh, don’t have much contact with the folk at ho- On Doia.”
I worried I had strayed into uncomfortable territory, so tried to redirect. “When do you celebrate your birthday, then?”
[sighs] “Well, I didn’t, the first year. I moved here on my own, and it took a while to settle in. I didn’t, uh. Well. I, uh, didn’t have anyone to celebrate with.
“It got better though, obviously. Found things to fill those extra hours. Made friends at last. And as they all had their birthdays, one by one, I realised, I wanted my own.
“Only I didn’t want to go by the Doia calendar. It, um. I, uh…”
I nudged him with my foot, making him meet my eye. “You have only just met me,” I reminded him. “You do not have to go into all the gory details.”
Tavuq’s face fluttered. “I appreciate that. Let’s just say I didn’t want to use the Doia calendar. I uh, didn’t want much to with the place after I left.
“A friend of mine suggested using the liturgical calendar. I’m a practising Candari, and St Mageli’s Day was a few days after my birthday on Doia.
“I could have picked a date a few days before St Mageli’s is celebrated here and called it my birthday. But I never really cared much either way about St Mageli. And I wanted it to mean something.
“I toyed with the idea of celebrating on the anniversary of the day I’d arrived. [sighs] But I’d been so lonely when I first got here. I didn’t want to bring that into my birthday.
“Another year passed. I made more friends, lost some too, and grew closer with others. I started to feel my roots setting down. For the first time, I really began to think of Neina as home. Not the whole planet, not yet, but the city felt like… mine.
“Neina isn’t actually all that old. There’s been a settlement here for centuries, but it didn’t actually become a city until the port at at Nashkenza closed and they moved the planetary port here. Neina only got its city charter 48 years ago.
“It was granted on 15th Visebok, in the middle of the dry season. And that’s what I chose. My birthday – same as hers.”
His face fluttered, furling and unfurling, and this time, I had no doubt he was smiling.
[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.
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[Fade to silence.]
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