Storyteller

by Amy Thomson

  "Her body took a huge, grateful breath of air while her mind struggled to grasp what had happened. She was lying on the broad back of a very large sea creature. Its purplish gray skin was as rough as sandpaper.

  "Behind her she heard a billowing rustle. She looked up. An iridescent purple and pink sail had unfurled from the creature's back. She stared at the sail for a long moment, too chilled and stupid with shock to take it in. Then she crawled behind the towering sail to get out of the chilly, re­lentless wind.

  "Once out of the wind, she felt warmer almost immedi­ately. The brilliant sun warmed her dark, quick-drying uni­form. Gradually, her shivers began to ease.

  "Coming slowly back to herself, she examined what she could see of the creature. The exposed area of the creature's back was almost five meters long and some three meters across at its widest point, and there seemed to be far more of the creature underwater.

  "The mast was thicker than her thigh at its base and tow­ered nearly eight meters over her head. It was jointed like a wing, with long, flat ribs running across the towering, translucent sail. The sail shaded from deep purple near the mast to pale pink at its trailing edges. The gleaming, im­probable sail's beauty lifted her exhausted spirits.

  "She felt the presence in her mind glow in response to her admiration. Sudden realization dawned in her shocked and sodden brain. The strange presence in her mind came from the creature.

  " 'What are you?' she whispered, awestruck.

  "A complex song resounded in her mind. It began with the harsh, laughing cry of some kind of sea bird. The song also held within it the endless surge and swell of the ocean, and the stretched tension of wind against a living sail, com­bined with a sense of ancient time. Like Jump Space, it was too big for her to take in. It seemed to fill the aching void in her mind where her Talent had been. She closed her eyes and let the song resonate in her bones. There was a surge of plea­sure from the huge creature at her response.

  " 'I'll call you a harsel,' she decided. The word held in it the cry of the birds and a hint of the sail. The rest remained as inexpressible as the vastness of the sea or the depths of Jump Space.

  "A deep, resonant gong sounded in the Pilot's mind. She sensed acceptance and approval.

  "Then the harsel urged her to move. Tentatively, she headed toward what she supposed was the creature's nose un­til she was in front of the mast. Another deep peal sounded, and the huge creature turned, cutting a smooth, tight curve in the water. The sail fluttered as they turned into the wind, then bellied out into the place where she'd been standing. The crea­ture had wanted her to get out of the way of the moving sail.

  "She realized that she had no idea where the creature was taking her. 'Where are we going?' she asked it.

  "She felt the harsel query her. Her gaze fell on the white shape of the shuttle, which was surprisingly far away now. They had sailed farther than she had thought. She felt a sud­den surge of fear. She didn't want to lose the shuttle, her only link to the orbiting freighter.

  " 'The shuttle. Please take me back there.'

  "The harsel gonged acknowledgment, and turned back toward her shuttle.

  "The Pilot sheltered against the towering sail, letting the brilliant sun warm her as they sailed toward the shuttle. Her uniform was still damp and chilly, and she realized that she was hungry and thirsty. Apparently this was not her day to die.

  "The harsel tolled its approval of her decision. It wanted to know more about her. She could feel the surge of its cu­riosity, all the questions it longed to ask of her, competing with the creature's resolve to wait until she was fed and rested. The Pilot smiled and rested a tired hand on the harsel's broad, rough-skinned back. 'Thank you. I will an­swer your questions later. I promise.'

  "She felt the harsel's surge of pleasure. It arched itself higher in the water and tightened its sail, speeding up until the water foamed at its sides and spray began to fly.

  " 'Careful!' the Pilot exclaimed, when a clot of cold spray drenched her again.

  "The harsel contritely slowed down, continuing on to the shuttle at a more sedate pace.

  "The huge alien sidled carefully up to the rolling, pitch­ing shuttle. The Pilot grabbed one of the shuttle's hand­holds and let the rise of the swell lift her off the harsel's back. She scrambled up the side of the shuttle into the warm, familiar shelter of the small spacecraft.

  "Inside the shuttle, the Pilot could feel the harsel's pres­ence in her mind, regarding her with a mixture of curiosity, fascination, and amusement. She reached out to it, grateful for the company, and it responded with an inward pulse of welcome. The Pilot felt the knot of pain inside her ease. She was no longer alone.

  "Bracing herself against the buoyant shuttle's wild rocking, she put on a warm, dry coverall and opened a self-heating ration pack. The hot food drove the last of the chill from her bones. When she was finished eating, she settled herself in the pilot's chair to think things over. All that sea-water seemed to have blunted her death wish. But if she wasn't going to die right away, what should she do next?

  "She needed to return to the freighter and bring back supplies for a more permanent settlement. But her suicidal plunge and the subsequent override had left her without enough fuel to reach the freighter. So she would need to set up the shuttle's emergency fuel distiller. But distilling volatile shuttle fuel would be too dangerous on this bobbing cork of a shuttle. She needed solid ground. And that meant finding an island.

  "Calling up the preliminary survey maps on the com­puter, the Pilot began searching for a suitable island.

  "As she did this, the harsel focused on her with sudden, intense interest. The Pilot smiled and let the harsel watch through her eyes as she zoomed the survey map through sev­eral successively wider views, until a full view of the planet's surface was visible. Suddenly the harsel's understanding rang jubilantly through the Pilot's mind. The harsel was wildly excited at this new view of its world.

  "The Pilot pointed out the closest island on the map and explained her need to reach dry land. The harsel disagreed. It guided the Pilot's attention to another island a little far­ther away. After a long and confusing interchange involving a lot of incomprehensible underwater landmarks, she real­ized that this island had a better harbor.

  " 'All right,' she said. 'How long will it take to get there?'

  "There was another long, confusing series of mental im­ages that seemed to be about duration.

  "'I don't understand,' she replied with a sense of bewil­derment.

  "The harsel sent her a mental picture of the shuttle fol­lowing a harsel.

  " 'Yes,' she replied. 'How far?'

  "The harsel radiated confusion. The Pilot closed her eyes and visualized sunrise and then sunset, one full day. 'How many sunrises and sunsets?' she asked inwardly.

  "The harsel gonged understanding, a sound the Pilot heard both in her mind and faintly through her ears.

  "Two full days flared and died in her mind's eye. Two days' travel, at the harsel's rate of speed. It was more than 400 kilometers by the map. She didn't have enough fuel to go more than a third of the distance. Could she persuade the harsel to tow her?

  "In a flurry of images, the Pilot suggested the idea to the harsel. It pondered the idea for a while, trying to understand what she was asking. The harsel swam around the shuttle, gauging its size.

  "Then it sent her the strangest picture of all. The harsel wanted her to put the shuttle inside of it.

  "Her blank confusion amused the harsel. When its laughter ceased ringing in her mind, it told her to go out­side and look. The harsel surfaced next to the shuttle. The Pilot gaped in amazement as its back split open, releasing a flood of seawater. Empty of water, the harsel rose higher in the water, revealing its entire length. Now she could see that the huge creature was shaped like a large, wide-bodied fish. It was more than twenty meters long and far wider than she had expected.

  " 'May I look inside?' she asked.

  "The harsel assented. She cl
imbed out of the shuttle and leaped onto the creature's broad back. The opening ran from the back of its sail to the base of its tail. Peering inside the huge chamber, the Pilot was even more amazed. The chamber was enormous, with wide, flat ribs curving up to a ceil­ing six meters high.

  "Gathering her courage, the Pilot lowered herself into the vast space. Once inside, she could hear the one-two-three beat of the harsel's heart, sounding like a ponderous, stuttering drum. The vaulted chamber of its hold was lined with tough, rubbery skin. Cold seawater sloshed around her ankles, and barnacles crunched under the soles of her shoes as she paced off the length of the space. Small, brightly col­ored fish darted in to snatch up the crushed shellfish. There was the marine smell of very fresh fish, with an odd, spicy hint of cinnamon and the clean scent of citrus. With its wings fully retracted, the shuttle would fit inside with a lit­tle room to spare.

  " 'It won't hurt you?' the Pilot asked.

  " 'no.' The harsel replied, using its first human word. Then it sent an image of the shuttle moving inside very slowly.

  " 'But we must be careful,' the pilot told the harsel.

  " 'yes. careful.'

  "The Pilot was relieved that the huge alien was learning her language. The creature's bell-like mind speech was be­yond her.

  "She climbed out of the harsel's vast hold and stood watching as the harsel submerged, then came up in front of the shuttle. It opened its back very wide. The Pilot retracted the shuttle's wings as far as they could go. Steering with quick squirts of the booster engines, she eased the shuttle slowly into the harsel's gaping hold. It slid inside with only a couple of barnacle-scraping bumps. The walls of the small spacecraft creaked a bit as the harsel closed its ballast cham­ber, but no harm was done. The wind caught the harsel's sail, and they were on their way.

  "The Pilot spent much of the two-day trip riding on the harsel's broad back. She communed with the huge creature, learning its ways and working out the basics of a common mental language. The Pilot fascinated the harsel. It bom­barded her with endless questions about life on land and in space.

  "Oddly enough, space travel and zero gravity made more sense to the harsel than life on land. It found walking ex­tremely funny. And the concept of falling seemed utterly unbelievable to a creature that had lived its entire life in the embrace of the ocean.

  "When her mind grew tired of stretching itself around the harsel's alien thoughts, the Pilot stood on the shuttle with a portable lantern and cleaned off the barnacles, weeds, and burrowing parasites from the vaulted roof of the harsel's hold.

  "The harsel responded with intense pleasure, as though a long-endured itch was finally being scratched. The brightly colored fish gorged themselves on the falling barnacles and the bloody remains of the crushed parasites. Soon the little fish began following the Pilot, swimming around her legs like a flock of hungry cats.

  "It was just after noon on the second day when they reached the island. The shuttle floated out of the harsel even more easily than it went in. The Pilot beached the shuttle, climbed out, and became the first human to set foot on Thalassa.

  "She found a nice spot overlooking the little cove where she had first landed and began setting up a campsite. The harsel's presence rode along in her mind as she worked, ut­terly fascinated by dry land. Their mental bond had grown stronger during the trip, and she welcomed the great fish's company.

  "The next morning, after setting up the fuel distiller to

  begin refueling the shuttle, the Pilot climbed to the island's central peak. The far side of the peak ended in a sheer cliff, overlooking a boulder-strewn gravel field far below. She looked at the bottom of the cliff, far below her. One step out into nothing, and she could accomplish what she had come to this world to do. The harsel could not stop her. But—

  "To her surprise, she found that she wanted to live. Part of her still yearned for Jump Space, but the harsel's mind-song had turned it into a bittersweet ache rather than a longing for oblivion.

  "She turned around and looked back the way she had come, the green, green island, full of wonders she had yet to explore. Her gaze went wider, out over the dark blue, shin­ing sea. In the distance she could see other islands, and she knew from the survey maps that there were millions more scattered over the blue ocean. There was whole new world to explore.

  "The Pilot started back down the hill. She had a great deal of work to do in order to build a life here.

  "But that's a tale for another day," the storyteller con­cluded. "I will be telling the next story in the Pilot's Cycle to­morrow, at two o'clock and four o'clock, here in the Market."

  The story over, Samad came back to himself with a rush of horror. He had been drawn into hearing the whole tale, and now he was obligated to pay the teller. With a growing sense of shame, he watched the rest of the audience drop money, buttons, and other small gifts into the storyteller's bowl. His pockets were empty. The rich merchant who had scowled at him earlier tossed a heavy ten-centino coin into her bowl. The coin landed with a metallic clatter, knocking a scatter of beautifully carved wood and bone buttons out of the bowl. Samad saw several people in the audience frown. The storyteller looked up at the man. Compared with her quiet dignity, the wealthy merchant seemed cheap and over­dressed.

  "My family is descended from the Pilot," the merchant declared in a haughty, carrying voice. "It's good to hear someone tell her story. You must come and tell stories to my children some evening."

  "Perhaps," the storyteller allowed in a noncommittal tone of voice.

  "Then I will expect you tomorrow night around eight," the merchant told her.

  "Sadly, ser, I am engaged both tonight and tomorrow night at Voula's Taverna. But you could bring your family to hear me later this afternoon. The presence of a prominent family such as yours will encourage others to take an inter­est in our illustrious pioneer ancestors."

  The merchant seemed to swell with pride. "Then I will bring them to listen."

  "Thank you, ser," the storyteller said, bowing low. "I shall look forward to your presence."

  Samad thought he saw a grimace flicker over the story­teller's features as she bowed, but she wore a dignified smile when she stood up to thank the audience for their gifts.

  The story had seemed like such a rich banquet while it was being told. Now he was a poor beggar again, unable to pay for what he had just been given. He was desperately tired of living off other people's charity and scavenging food from richer people's garbage. There was nothing in his pockets but lint. He couldn't even afford buttons for his tat­tered shirt. It was held together with ties of frayed string.

  His empty stomach grumbled as he walked past a pile of golden loaves marked with the distinctive crown-and-flower pattern of Perez's Bakery. Tonight, the other bakers would give away their stale loaves. But by then the storyteller would be eating a hot meal at the taverna. He'd tasted

  Voula's cooking before. Even cold from the trash, her food was good. The storyteller wouldn't be interested in a loaf of stale, dry bread.

  Perez never gave any of his loaves away. He chased off anyone who begged for bread, never giving so much as a crumb to those in need. Samad wished that someone would punish Perez for his miserly ways. He looked again at the mound of golden, crusty loaves, and temptation over­whelmed him.

  Ignoring his protesting conscience, Samad bent as though he was removing a stone from his shoe. He watched the baker from the corner of his eye, waiting until the man's full attention was on a customer. Then he slipped a half loaf up his sleeve and walked casually on without a backward glance. Just as he thought he'd gotten away with it, a hand fell on his shoulder. It was Perez's apprentice, a gangling, pimply faced teenager.

  "I saw you take that loaf!" the apprentice accused.

  Samad twisted out of the boy's grip, tucked the loaf more firmly up his sleeve, and ran. He vaulted over a bin of old electronic parts, ducked between two booths, and pelted down the next aisle followed by angry shouts and the sound of heavy fee
t pounding behind him. Then Samad plunged into a crowd of plump housewives listening to a honey seller reciting recipes. The women scattered like startled hens as he charged through them.

  Despite his clever dodges, the pounding feet of the baker's boy drew closer. Samad darted beneath the belly of a rangy draft mule. The startled mule lurched forward, upset­ting a basket of ripe plums and jostling a clay jar of oil off the back of the wagon. It broke open on the paving stones with a heavy thunk. His pursuer's relentless running feet splashed into the widening puddle of oil. There was a sudden cry and a wet splat as the baker's boy skidded on the

  plums and fell against the legs of a trestle table loaded with produce. A multicolored avalanche of fruit and vegetables cascaded onto Samad's pursuer. The ripe, sweet scent of crushed and bruised fruit spread through the air.

  As the vegetable seller harangued the apprentice in a vol­uble blend of Arabic, Spanish, and Greek, Samad slipped down an alley formed by the backs of two rows of stalls. He emerged, whistling innocently, into the main square where the storyteller had set up. Pulling the somewhat battered loaf from his sleeve, he presented it to her with a flourish.

  "This is for you, Sera Storyteller," Samad said, addressing her formally. "It's payment for the story you told."

  The wrinkles around the storyteller's eyes creased as she smiled at Samad.

  "Thank you—" she began.

  Then, a hand gripped Samad's arm.

  "I got you, you grimy little thief!"

  It was the spotty-faced baker's boy, fruit-stained and oily but triumphant.

  Samad struggled, but this time the boy's grip was too tight to shake.

  The storyteller stood. "What's going on here?"

  "He stole a loaf of bread from my master's stall. I nearly killed myself, chasing after him. Now I'm taking him to the Guardia."