Episode 51
Travelling Light E051S02 Transcript
H.R. Owen
Hello friends, Hero here to tell you about Wanderer’s Journal, a fantasy adventure show about an unlikely friendship formed through a magical journal.
Marigold and Pluto come from very different backgrounds. They might never have connected with each other if they hadn't both discovered a journal that allows them to communicate back and forth.
The show follows their burgeoning friendship as, unbeknownst to them, they become a part of an ancient mystery. Stick around to the end of the credits for their trailer, and find more information in the show-notes.
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Fifty One.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
Entry AV85112-1. An account of the history of Punitive Day, a religious rite with geological roots.
Keywords: ethnography; health and well-being; Kelani; local history; natural world; Nepator; philosophy and theology; places and landmarks.
Notes:
Historians and archaeologists are a fractious bunch – as my time with Doctor Tsabec can attest. Aside from unearthing a significant artefact, or discovering a forgotten primary source, the one thing they absolutely love is arguing.
Who mastered the art of shipbuilding first? Who introduced this crop to that continent? Or, indeed, that planet? Who came up with the idea to scoop all of the squishy bits out of their enemies in this particular way? And, who did it best?
The length, breadth and sheer variety of the academic disagreements on offer are as incomprehensible to normal… I-I mean, lay folk as the age of the galaxy itself.
With this is mind, it is all the more remarkable when you happen upon one fact that all (well, most) leading academics agree on. One such fact is this: the city of Kelani is old. Truly, extraordinarily old.
Exactly how old is still the subject of numerous vendettas and at least one recorded death-threat, but its several-thousand years of existence can be attributed to the hardiness of its residents, the ingenuity of its construction, and no small measure of luck.
That it was founded at all, in one of the most geologically-active regions of the planet, is testament to the questionable choices and sheer bloody-mindedness of the folk who first settled here millennia ago. Despite countless struggles over the years, anyone visiting today can see that Kelani is thriving.
It is a place of narrow streets that weave between low, sturdy buildings of stone. These winding paths flow from small communal squares to large civic marketplaces in a dense, snarled web of people and wares.
To walk these neighbourhoods is to be drawn into the very lifeblood of the city itself, carried along an artery of bodies, sights, smells and noise all jostling for attention. Even for life-long urbanites such as myself, the experience can be overwhelming.
Which is why locals recommend finding a moment now and then, between the bustle and chaos, to look up. Because the skies above Kelani are some of the most astonishing you shall ever see.
One of the few benefits of being surrounded by a ring of (mostly gently) smoking mountains is that, thanks to a combination of various volcanic gases and particles, the sky above Kelani is often rendered in deep, complex colours.
Ochres and golds, rusts and browns, sharp greens and sapphire blues – all can be observed shading the narrow strips of sky visible from the alleyways below.
They are changeable too, thanks to variations in the winds and geothermal emissions. A single day can see the city bathed in a dozen or more hues, each painting this ancient place with a different feel and texture.
In seeing this phenomenon for myself, I find it entirely understandable that, in the distant past, these changeable skies were given a religious significance – each colour determined to be a message from the gods unto their creations.
For centuries, Divine Interpreters would peer into the skies from the squat pyramids of the Sacred District, the only buildings of any height to be found in the city. There they would consult the Holy Colour Charts to determine what message or instruction should be sent out into streets for the populace to heed.
Some skies would encourage charitable giving; some would promise great fortune to those willing to take risks; some would warn of disaster on the horizon. And sometimes, every so often, you might be unlucky enough to see a purple sky – the herald of a Punitive Day.
When a Punitive Day was upon the city, every inhabitant had to remain indoors under the threat of punishment by the local deacons. These officials would haunt the deserted streets in elaborate ceremonial garb, dispensing humiliating penance to those unlucky enough to be caught outside.
The faithful were forbidden to do any manual labour – not even cooking or cleaning. What little food one was permitted was eaten raw, hurriedly consumed amidst a strict regimen of rest, prayer, and religious contemplation.
To do anything more without the divine protection wielded by the deacons, as symbolised by their ceremonial robes and masks, was to risk incurring divine wrath. Transgressors would be marked by long illness, impairment, and even death.
Over time, the scientists of Kelani came to understand the ailments that struck in the wake of a purple sky – a sky that could only occur when the particulate levels in the city streets reached a terrifying peak.
A sky that made every unfiltered breath count against you. One that would smother you by increments until your body could only sputteringly, slowly, inhale its last.
This particular religion is still widely practised, but the holy messages from the sky are no longer followed with the same diligence as they once were.
The dangers of a Punitive Day are still present, but air quality forecasts, civic atmo scrubbers, and personal rebreathers have turned divine retribution into an occasional inconvenience.
However, the fears and superstitions of our ancestors tend to linger long in the blood, and there will always be those willing to exploit them.
Politicians looking to establish conservative credentials will often invoke the rituals and practices of the past. Which is why, below the blaze of garish neon signs and the rumble of starships, you will still find neighbourhoods where Punitive Days are enforced, even now.
Although every effort is made to provide warnings, holo-barriers and personal device alerts to those unfamiliar with the phenomenon, the tangle of streets and alleyways means that coverage is never comprehensive. There are always paths left to snare the unwary.
All of this is to say: if you are not careful, if you get swept up in the history and life at the heart of Kelani, if you forget to take a moment to look up every now and then, there may very well come a day when you find yourself suddenly alone amidst millions of people.
Standing in an empty stone plaza. Gazing up at a dark and purple sky.
[The sound of the data stick whirring fades in, cutting out when the data stick is removed with a click.]
The Traveller
12th Avam 851
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
I had forgotten how quickly time passes when one is travelling. At least, some times.
Hours spent in a crowded transit depot watching delays and cancellations fill the departures board sink like feathers in tar, the movement barely perceptible to the naked eye. And days spent traversing the black have their own weird relationship with time, set apart from the ordinary flow of the universe.
But in the next moment, one lifts one's head to discover all those endless hours have quite suddenly gathered themselves together and built a week – or longer.
I have been away from Clanagh for 10 days already. I will soon have to start retracing my steps, making my way to Kerrin once again.
But [sighing] I cannot leave yet! I have already agreed upon my next stage of travel with the crew I am joining. Or rather… the band!
Those of you who remember my youthful attempts to learn the rhuon may well flinch at the thought of me trying to play anything more complicated than the triangle. Do not fret. I am not inflicting my personal musical stylings upon the world just yet.
I met the actual musicians in the guest house I am staying in. They were playing in the lobby when I arrived, a style is called tsinlacho, which has a charmingly ragged sound, loping from beat to beat with no sense of urgency.
The band members – Atsa, Magitso and Jei – sat down to a meal after their set. I happened to be having dinner at the same table, and they told me the troubles they had in finding reliable technological support while they travelled.
It was something of a touchy subject, actually. Their last technician had left them in the lurch when her ex-girlfriend reached out to rekindle the relationship, despite having until that moment been in a committed relationship with Jei.
They had woken to find the technician gone, a farewell note stuck to one of their instrument cases, and a chunk of money missing from the travel funds to pay for the technicians passage home. Needless to say, they were not impressed.
It felt perfectly natural to mention that I have some experience with electronics. The band explained what they would need, and it sounded very doable. Before I knew it, I had agreed to join them for their next show.
[sighing] I know I should be starting to move back towards Kerrin. But there is no need to hurry. I told Óli before I left I might be away a little more than the two weeks we had initially discussed. No, I certainly have a while yet before I will be missed.
Besides, if I ever wanted an argument for my continued travels, I need look no further than beyond the guest house door. For I am writing to you tonight from one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen.
It is called Kelani, on the planet Napator. It sits like a jewel at the centre of a ring of mountains, the close-huddled landscape echoed in the streets themselves, which wiggle and run like a nest of rivers cutting deep into ancient bedrock.
Black volcanic dust whirls and eddies on gusts of hot wind, my hair crunches with it, the skin of my hands and cheeks red and wind-stung. Fortunately, the pilot who gave me passage to Napator warned me about these conditions.
I met her back in Utomi – a visitor attending Sokashna like myself. We actually met the day after the festival. I had not intended to overnight in Utomi, but found myself, uh… unexpectedly delayed. [clears throat]
I had no notion of where I might travel to next, or how, until I fell into conversation with Friya over breakfast at the Utomi Mountain Lodge. We were of a similar age and each travelling alone, and so naturally had a great deal to say to one another.
I told her about my time aboard the Tola. My account of accidentally smuggling aboard a mass invasion of talking frogs had her laughing until tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving shining streaks on the delicate lapis skin.
I did not mention the other, less accidental smuggling. I did not want to get bogged down in another moral debate. I just wanted to enjoy myself!
“You should come with me," she said, later that night. “Boat's big enough for two.”
[sighing] “I do not think I can. I have things to get back to.”
[laughing] “Well I'm not asking for a co-pilot! I'll drop you wherever you want. I just think we could have some fun together.”
I could not argue with that. Friya was definitely fun. So we set sail for Napator, and kept each other company on the way.
Friya did not offer to show me around Kelani herself. But she saw me to my lodgings, and before she left, she pressed a tin of moisturising balm into my hand.
“For the dust,” she explained. “It'll play havoc with your skin. It's ysgau berry – my favourite flavour.”
I thanked her, and watched her leave with the dust swirling around me, faint music on its back, and the familiar taste of ysgau berries on my lips.
[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 written by Interiority. 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.
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This podcast is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. The theme tune is by Vinca.
[Fade to silence. Then, the Wanderer's Journal trailer begins.
[Everything is muffled. Sounds of wind through trees. Marigold is walking quickly through grass and plants]
MARIGOLD:
(quiet rushed breathing) (to self) Keep going, keep going, almost- (sudden gasp) Ah!
[Marigold collides with vines, followed by a thump. Marigold takes a deep breath and attempts to free themself]
MARIGOLD:
Right, it’s fine. I’m fine. I just- (pauses)
[Marigold turns, still tangled in plants]
MARIGOLD:
(spots the Journal) Huh. What’s- that shouldn’t… (softly) What are you doing out here?
[Something is picked up, moved around, and the audio stops being muffled]
MARIGOLD:
How could you even be here? That’s so s-
[Audio abruptly cuts off. Everything is once again muffled. Slight wind followed by echoey sounds of pages being turned quickly. Ambience of a s quiet shop. Pluto’s are audible on the wooden floor. Pluto reacheinto a shelf, picking something up]
PLUTO:
(to self) Huh…
[It’s quiet. Pluto inspects the book. Pluto moves back]
PLUTO:
(a bit louder) Excuse me? How much is this book?
[Intro music plays]
LUMI OAKES:
Wanderer’s Journal is a fantasy fiction podcast about connections, perspectives, and change. To learn more, visit us on our website wanderersjournal.info or follow us on social media @wanderersjournalpod or @wanderjournpod. Listen to Season 1 now, wherever you get your podcasts.
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