Episode 71
Travelling Light E071S02 Transcript
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Seventy One.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
Entry SH85108-1. Concerning the sporting pastimes of the Terefi people.
Keywords: hunting and fishing; local history; Mistkey; sport and recreation; Terefi.
Notes:
Despite being of a comparable size to other inhabited moons like Nimidol and Clonarty, the little moon of Miskey supports a permanent population less than a tenth their size.
Just under 750,000 people live here, clustered together in two settlements; the slightly larger Kumedan, on the southern continent, and little Dedo to the north.
Beyond these settlements, Mistkey runs wild. The moon is home to a staggering variety of flora and fauna, with more individual species found there than in the other two planets in the system combined.
Mistkey itself is no less diverse than its inhabitants. Desert and tundra, rainforest and mountain, wetlands and moorland and open ocean – all can be found here.
My work with the Guillemot saw me delivering supplies to the Mistkey Adventure Centre. After landing in Kumedan, we made our way out on the moon’s only public transport line.
It was incredible to me, how quickly all signs of civilisation were swallowed by the surrounding wilderness. Kumedan is situated in the middle of a temperate zone with thick broadleaf forest stretching in all directions beyond the city walls.
Even in full daylight, it was cool and dark beneath the canopy. I could easily imagine this dim, quiet world teeming with unseen life, briefly paused to let the transport pass before returning to its close, unwitnessed ways.
The Adventure Centre stuck out like a sore thumb, an aberration of synthetic materials and artificially perfect angles.
Inside, it resembled every other community recreation building I have ever seen. There was a machine to extrude hot drinks into flimsy recyclable cups; a welcome desk with a bored-looking teenager studiously ignoring us; and a general air of determined good cheer in the inexpensive, hard-wearing decor.
And then, there were the guns. Racks of them, lining the walls in locked cabinets. My grip tightened on my crate, mouth suddenly dry.
I have never really seen a gun before, not counting the ones carried by the crew of the Flissy Shippy. They are not part of ordinary life in most parts of the galaxy. It was jarring, to say the least, to be suddenly surrounded by these… these tools of violence.
“You must be the supply run!”
A short, stocky person in practical clothing came towards us from a back office. He spread his hands in welcome, beaming in a way that felt utterly at odds with the bristling weaponry all around us.
“I’m Natshu, lovely to meet you. Pop the crates by the desk. Grincap’ll see to ‘em.”
The teenager – Grincap? – did not acknowledge this statement.
The transportation links to Kumedan are not frequent. We had a long time to kill before we could head back to the ship. Masha stepped outside for a smoke while Resimus investigated the drinks machine and I caught up with Natshu.
“E-excuse me? I am sorry if this is a stupid question but I was wondering. Um… What are all the guns for?”
Natshu blinked. “We’re an adventure centre,” he said, as if that explained it.
“Right. No, I-I know that. But where I am from, ‘adventure’ usually means more, taking small boats out on a river or climbing things. Not, um. Guns.”
“Oh, we do that too! But this is a Terefi moon.” Again, he said this as if I would know what he meant. At my blank expression, a look of pure delight came over his face. “Oh! Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know who the Terefi are!”
From behind the desk, Grincap let out a beleaguered sigh. They shot me a look as if to say, ‘You’ve done it now’, and sloped off into a back room.
“The Terefi are a people – my people!” Natshu explained. “We come from Aymer originally,” naming another planet in the same system. “Mistkey is ours though.
“It was bare rock when we found it – no life, no plants, nothing but few bits of land and a whole lot of dead water in between. But we took it, and we shaped it.
“Centuries on centuries. We purified the water, tilled the soil, planted and planted and planted. Eventually, we had a world that could sustain animals and birds and fish. And we brought them too!”
“That is very impressive,” I said, making Natshu beam with pride. “But… why? It was not to live here.”
Natshu gave me a sly look. “We Terefi take our sport very seriously. Back in the old days, it was how we gained rank. A child might be born into nothing and be lifted to kingship through the games.”
An awful suspicion began to stir. “What kind of games?”
Natshu spread his arms wide and grinned. “Hunting, of course!”
I… I needed a minute.
“You mean your people terraformed this moon and developed multiple biomes and filled those biomes with as many species as possible…”
“For hunting. Exactly!”
I felt sick. I have never heard of such wanton arrogance. Such a-a blatant disrespect for life! My reaction must have shown on my face.
“It was a long time ago,” Natshu hurried to add, as if that helped.
“And now?” I gestured at the guns lining the walls. “What about now?”
Natshu’s concern gave way to genuine confusion. “These are tranquilliser guns,” he said slowly, as if I were slightly stupid. “They’re not real.”
“You tranquillise animals for fun?!”
“Animals? No! No, you have it all wrong! No, animals are sacred to us. No! We only hunt people!”
I cannot imagine what my face did at that. Fortunately, it is part of Natshu’s job to introduce visitors to Terefi culture. And so he took great delight in explaining.
“Terefi culture puts enormous store by a person’s ability to fend for themselves. It values people who can look after themselves, find their own path forwards. We love visionaries and mavericks – people who go their own way.
“Hunting – chiampan – was a part of that culture. Each year, the kishlas – the clans – would gather at the lasmoot and the young people would vie for a place in the quarry. Only the finest were selected – the bravest, quickest, brightest.
“On the longest day, those who were selected for the quarry would set off into the wilderness. And the hunters would follow after. Whichever quarry managed to go the longest without being captured won! They’d be showered in praise and wealth and social status. It was an enormous honour!
“Mistkey was designed as the perfect challenge to the quarry. There’s all sorts of terrain they have to cover their tracks in, all sorts of opportunities to use the natural world to your advantage. All those different species, they’re all variables in the hunt.
“The lasmoot isn’t what it was. We don’t really organise ourselves by kishlas any more, and not many people still keep the old ways. But still, on the longest day, we hold a traditional Terefi chiampan.
“The rest of the year we host pilchiam, or small hunts. Anyone can take part, not just Terefi. These”-he gestured at the guns-“are for those. Some people prefer using rifles, others like handguns. But it’s all voluntary! You wouldn’t believe the waivers we have to use!”
“Why tranquillise people? Why not use paint or something safer?”
Natshu shrugged. “We did, for a bit. But the quarry complained – said it wasn’t dignified, having to turn themselves in when they got shot. They said they’d rather be taken down properly. It’s a matter of pride, you know. Here.”
He jogged over to one of the display cabinets and unlocked it with a key from a bunch hanging by his hip. He took one of the guns from inside. I have no idea what kind. Sort of small? I suppose? It fit in one hand, anyway.
“Take it,” he said, holding it out to me.
I was reluctant. It was ugly to me, with an air of malevolence about it. [sighs] But I left home to learn, and I cannot do that if I never let myself be uncomfortable.
“It’s perfectly safe,” Natshu reassured me. “There’s no mechanism for shooting bullets – it’s impossible to load it with anything but these.”
He cracked open one of the crates we had delivered and took out a small cannister about the size of his thumb. It sloshed with liquid when I took it.
“Before every hunt, we take careful medical records of the quarry,” Natshu explained as I fiddled with the gun, trying to see how it worked. “Everyone’s signed off by two medical officers on site, and the tranq load-outs are calculated according to the quarry’s weight, height and species metabolism.”
“It cannot be good for them, though,” I said, having finally got the… barrel? The bit in the middle open, but could not see how the vial slotted into it. “What if one of the hunters gets shot by accident? Oh, it goes like that…”
“I’ve been working here 28 years. The worst injury I’ve ever seen was when someone ran into a tree during a chase.
“The people who come here, they’re not messing around,” he said blithely, waving a hand. “They’re experienced hunters and they know the importance of taking the safety precautions seriou- Wait. What are you…?”
“I am just seeing how it works,” I said, making what I intended to be a reassuring gesture and, in doing so, waving my hand. The one… holding the gun.
Something popped. I felt a sudden spike of not-quite-pain in my thigh, and looked down to see the shard of a tranquilliser dart sticking out of it.
“Oh,” I said aloud.
There was a blur of motion, a sound like someone swearing, and then nothing.
[The sound of the data stick whirring fades in, cutting out when the data stick is removed with a click.]
The Traveller
8th Shadoch 851
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
You will remember, I am sure, when I wrote to Óli after our call on the Kalosfa machine and instructed them to send their reply to a port further along in our itinerary. That port was Kumedan on the small moon of Mistkey.
At the time, it seemed horribly distant. That was rather the point. It was far enough along our scheduled route that their reply would stand a good chance of reaching the port before I did. But even then, it was only a chance.
My own message could have taken longer to reach Kerrin than I planned and shortened Óli’s reply window. Or, equally likely, Óli might simply not get round to answering in time. I tried not to get my hopes up.
It still took every scrap of self-control not to run to the communications office as soon as we landed this morning. But I had work to do first. I was scheduled to go on a delivery with Masha and Resimus. The first part of the job went fine. It was not til after that things went… awry.
On the plus side, mine and Scarry’s extracurricular activities are no longer the primary subject of gossip among the crew. Instead, I am bearing that burden alone after a minor incident with a-a… a tranquilliser gun.
I have put more detail into the attached archive entry. The short version is, I may have accidentally… [sighs] shot myself. I did not mean to! One minute I was having a pleasant, if slightly strange, conversation, and the next…
I came to horribly disoriented, no sense of where I was or what had happened. I struggled to sit up, but I could not make my body co-operate. My limbs felt as if I were operating them from a great distance.
Then, out of the ether, a pair of strong hands emerged, helping me into a sitting position.
“Easy, now,” came a familiar murmur. “Mind yourself.”
I tried to speak, but only managed a rather feeble croak. Something cold pressed against my lips – a glass of water. I drank deeply, and felt much better for it.
Feeling fortified, I tried to make sense of my surroundings. I was on the Guillemot, I realised, in my bunk. Someone had dressed me in soft sleeping clothes and half drawn the curtains against the fading daylight.
With great effort, I turned my head. Scarry sat in an armchair nearby, looking at me with a combination of wry amusement and lingering concern. A book lay open, face down on the bedside table.
“You should not put them like that,” I croaked. “It is bad for the spine.”
Scarry’s expression softened, not quite smiling. “Noted. How are you feeling?”
[sighing] “Like I got hit in the head with a boulder.”
“You essentially did, chemically speaking. The dose you took was meant for an adult Saqiuq, not a wee thing like yourself. You’ve been out for nine hours.”
He filled me in on the details. I had accidentally dosed myself while fiddling with a tranquilliser gun. When it became clear I was neither in any medical danger nor likely to be roused, my crew mates got me safely back to my cabin to recover.
If you perceive a sardonic note in my tone, it is because said crew mates apparently saw fit to entertain themselves by taking a few opportune photographs with me while I was unconscious. The one of me propped up in a transport carriage wearing an I Heart Mistkey Adventure Centre hat is pretty funny, I admit.
I am less fond of the one where Masha has me over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, with a visible line of drool pouring out of my mouth, over my face and into my hair. Everyone else finds it hilarious. Oyan is even threatening to paint it.
“I think it’ll be a while before you live this one down,” Scarry finished, a smile in his voice. I had closed my eyes in the faint hope it might keep the worst of the headache – and the embarrassment – at bay. “I should go. We’re sailing soon. You get some rest.”
I waved a hand in vague acknowledgement. Then, my brain put several thoughts together. I had meant to go to the comms office after we finished at the Adventure Centre. If I had been asleep all day, if we were due to depart-
I bolted upright, or tried to. I was still dizzy, and ended up just sort of flailing in my sheets. Scarry was there in an instant, sitting on the bunk to lean close.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“The comms office!” I managed, still trying to get up. “I was expecting a letter!”
[sighing] “Settle down,” Scarry sighed, pushing me back with ease.
He reached over to the dresser, picked something up and pressed it into my hands. It was a print-out, folded neatly and closed with the comms office seal.
“I popped over when Masha called to tell me what had happened,” he explained. “I… didn’t want you to miss it.”
My vision swam, eyes prickling with tears of relief. Oh, I do not think I could have borne it, to have missed Óli’s answer by sheer dumb accident.
Scarry dropped his gaze, staring at his hands in his lap as if to give me privacy. He is not the most emotionally expressive person, nor the most comfortable with the emotions of others.
“Sorry,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Sorry, it is just, um. [sniff] I-It… is from Óli.”
Scarry shot me a look I could not read. “I know who it’s from.”
Before I could answer, Scarry reached out and cupped my face with one hand. He wiping my cheek dry with a single, practical swipe of his thumb.
“Rest up, little feist. If you need anything, use the intercom. I’ll be back in a few hours with something for you to eat.”
“Thank you,” I called as he left, broad shoulders filling the space of the doorway. He said nothing – only waved his hand, and was gone.
I did not wait. I do not think I could, even I wanted to. I tore open the letter’s seal, and forced my eyes to focus on the words despite my pounding headache.
[sighs] They are doing very well. Joyfully well! They are about halfway through the classes they must take before joining the archaeology class. They have some examinations coming up but are feeling optimistic about them.
It is deep winter now in Clanagh, and they wrote at length about their opinions on snow and sleet and hail and every other bit of weather they have been suffering through. [laughs] But they had some respite in a recent trip to the coast with Sinséar’s wife Clia, with whom they seem to have grown quite close.
They have even been attending temple with Ranaí, though they were quick to assure me they have not been neglecting their own gods. Perish the thought!
[sighs] It is strange to think of them finding a home among the community in Clanagh when I could not. I am so happy for them. And a little sad, not to be building that life, finding that home, alongside them. I wanted so badly to… But I am not that person. Not yet. I must make my peace with that.
I will not mention my regrets to Óli. It is not their burden to bear. I will tell them how pleased I am for them, how proud, how delighted I am to hear their stories.
I do not know if you will remember this. During our call, I gave Óli my word I would not meet with their parents without their explicit permission. I promised, too, I would give them plenty of time to consider.
We are some way from the Tilfar system and further still from their home planet of Drunvhitur. But accounting for how long it will take for our letters to reach each other, I am afraid it is time for them to start considering.
I will mention it when I write back. And I will be clear: if I do not hear from them in time, I will not go. I am sure there is plenty to see on Drunvhitur that has nothing to do with their family. And if there is not, I shall simply stay in my cabin.
I remember all too well their hurt and disappointment when I suggested they try to talk things out with their parents. I will not make that mistake again. I will trust their judgement and respect their boundaries.
I am mindful, too, of their boundary about hearing no news of Scarry. They were very clear; they have no desire to hear the least thing about him. But this nascent thing between me and Scarry, it does feel like the sort of thing I ought to tell them. I do not want to lie to them, either outright or by omission.
Although… Well, perhaps it is better to wait until there is something concrete to tell. My visions of a robust, clarifying conversation upon the matter did not come to pass. It just seems so juvenile. [mimicking] “What are we?” Urgh.
The fact is, I do not actually have an answer for that question. And perhaps it would be kinder to refrain from mentioning anything to Óli until I do.
A letter feels so impersonal though. Besides, my letter will take months to reach them. Perhaps by then there will be nothing to tell. I should just wait until I see them again, I can explain better in person.
They will be unhappy about the news either way. Is it better to delay that unhappiness, or just to get it over with?
Ugh. No. I must leave off answering Óli until I have decided what too tell them. Besides, my head is still very sore and I would very much like to lie down in the dark and not move or think for a while. Send my love to everyone. 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 an idea by Lionessfeather. 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. Should the Traveller tell Óli about Scarry in their next letter, or wait until they meet again in person? Vote by making a donation at ko-fi.com/monstrousproductions.
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