Storyteller

by Amy Thomson

  "No!" Samad shouted, struggling even harder against the apprentice's iron grip.

  "Easy now!" The storyteller told the baker's boy. "You're hurting him."

  "Calm down now, and let me settle this," the storyteller told Samad. "I'll see you're treated fairly."

  Samad stopped struggling and looked anxiously from the apprentice to the old woman.

  "How much was the bread?" the storyteller asked the baker's boy.

  "It was a quarter-centino loaf," the apprentice replied, "I saw him slip it up his sleeve."

  "Like this one?" she asked holding up the loaf Samad had given her. Just then, Perez the baker bustled up, looking angry.

  "Yes, that's our bread, Sera," Perez confirmed. "We're the only ones in Melilla with that design on the top. So you caught the thief then, Ghazi? Good work!"

  The storyteller stood. "My name is Teller. I'm a Senior Master in the Storytellers' Guild. I'm afraid this is my fault, ser," the storyteller told the baker. "I sent the boy to get the bread for me. He must have stolen the loaf so that he could keep the money."

  Samad started to protest, but the storyteller silenced him with a look.

  "Allow me to make reparations," she continued. "Here's a centino for the loaf, and this for your trouble, Ser Perez," she said, holding up a brassy ten-centino coin. "If you would like, I will tell stories by your stall tomorrow. It will draw a crowd that will buy up all your bread. You can go home early tomorrow with a bulging purse and no leftovers."

  Samad expected Perez to argue, but the baker nodded. "We will be honored by your presence, Sera Teller." He paused, then inquired, "But what about the boy? He shouldn't go unpunished."

  Samad glanced anxiously from the storyteller to the baker's boy. The storyteller knelt down to talk to Samad.

  "Do you pledge your honor to abide by whatever punish­ment I set, young man?"

  "A beggar's honor?" the apprentice sneered. "How much is that worth?"

  Samad stiffened in offense, but Teller laid a quelling hand on his shoulder.

  "It's worth everything in the world, if the beggar is an honorable man," the old woman said quietly.

  The storyteller turned back to Samad. "Do you promise to abide by my punishment?"

  "Will you hurt me, sera?" Samad asked.

  The storyteller smiled. "A wise question. Do you deserve to be hurt?"

  Samad considered this solemnly. "Well. . . maybe a beating."

  He saw the storyteller's lips purse in disapproval.

  "But not the Guardia." He was terrified that they would send him back to the grim foster home he had run away from. He would rather die than go back there.

  "I won't hurt you, Samad," the storyteller said. "Do you trust me enough to honorably submit to my punishment?"

  "By my honor, I will, sera. I swear by my name, Abd al-Samad," he said solemnly. The storyteller's eyebrows lifted when she heard his name. "Most people just call me Samad," he added.

  "Very well then, Abd al-Samad. I swear by my honor, and by my membership in the Guild of Storytellers, that you will come to no lasting harm through my punishment of you."

  She turned to the baker and his apprentice. "Are you sat­isfied Ser Perez?"

  Perez nodded grudgingly. His apprentice looked like he was about to say something, but a sharp glance from the baker silenced the boy.

  "Thank you. I will see you tomorrow," she said, bowing gracefully to the baker.

  "We look forward to your stories," the baker said. "Come on, Ghazi, let's get back to the stall."

  The baker and his apprentice made their way through the gathering crowd.

  The storyteller rolled up her mat, slung her pack on her back, and picked up her staff.

  "Well then, Samad, let's go find a quiet place to talk this over."

  She led him to a sunny plaza near the Street of the Collimators. It was a quiet place. The distant whine of machines created a drowsy undertone to the steady trickle of the foun­tain in the square. In the distance, Samad could hear the plaintive chant of the muezzin in the local mosque, calling the faithful to prayer. Teller sat on the wide lip of the foun­tain, leaning against a large concrete urn planted with the native red-leafed tsekoulou plants. She gestured to Samad to join her. When they were settled, she took out the loaf of bread, a cheap glazed saucer, and a bottle of oil. She broke the loaf in two and held out half to him.

  "Here, you look hungry," she said. "Eat."

  "Sera, I can't eat this! It was my payment to you for your story." He looked down, face darkening with embarrass­ment as he remembered her paying the baker twelve centinos for a half-centino loaf of bread. "I mean ..." He glanced up at her. "It was supposed to be my payment for the story. But it cost you so much!" He looked down again, eyes welling with tears. "I'm sorry, Sera Teller. I shouldn't have done it."

  "There are other ways to pay for a story besides stealing," she reproved gently. "For example, you can always pay for a story with another story."

  "But I don't know any stories, sera."

  "Of course you do, Samad. There's one story you know better than anyone else."

  He looked up at her, hazel eyes wide with surprise. "There is?" he asked.

  "Yes, there is. And it's a story I want to hear. Tell me, Samad, how did you come to be here, stealing bread to pay for stories? Where are your parents?"

  "My mother's dead," he began. "And I never met my fa­ther, but my mother said he was a Jump pilot." He looked up at her defiantly, as though daring her to call him a liar.

  "What do you remember about your mother?" Teller asked.

  Samad shrugged. "She was a Jump pilot, too, but she lost her Talent and couldn't do it anymore. We lived in Nueva Ebiza, near the spaceport. She sang to me when I was little. We'd go to the park, sometimes." He looked down at the ground, remembering. "When I got older, she started going out a lot. And she'd come back all strange. She'd stare off into space and laugh at nothing." He met Teller's gaze with­out flinching. "It was drugs, usually sa'adat. I hid the stuff when I could, but she would just go out and buy more. There was a small fortune of the stuff hidden all over the apartment when she died."

  "How did she die?" Teller asked.

  Samad shrugged. "I found her in bed. I thought she was sleeping, but she wouldn't wake up. She was so cold." He looked away, lost in that terrible memory for a moment. "They said it was an overdose."

  "How old were you when this happened?" Teller asked.

  "I'd just turned six," he told her.

  "What happened after your mother died?" Teller gently prompted him.

  "When I couldn't get her to wake up, I went and got a neighbor. My mother used to pay the woman to look after me when she went out. The neighbor called the Guardia. They took me away and put me in a foster home in the Janubi Archipelago. I didn't like it there. It was cold all of

  the time, and we were beaten if we didn't get our chores done. So I ran away. I hid on a big cargo-sailer, and then a fishing boat, and wound up here in Melilla." He looked at her, his hazel eyes wide and frightened but still determined. "I won't go back there," he told her. "Don't try to make me." He watched her intently, ready to run.

  Teller shook her head. "I won't make you go back, Samad. So tell me, how do you survive? It gets pretty cold and rainy here in the winter."

  "There's an innkeeper who lets me sleep in the stable if I keep his courtyard swept clean."

  "And food?" she asked. "What do you eat?"

  "There's a baker who gives me stale loaves that haven't sold. And there's plenty of food in the garbage at the end of the day. I do all right," he said defiantly. "I've been in Melilla more than a year now."

  "I can see that you manage pretty well," Teller told him. "That's a long time to be on your own. You must be pretty tough. Thank you for telling me your story, Samad. It's a good one. I enjoyed listening to it."

  Samad felt naked and ashamed at having revealed so much of his past. But telling the storyteller had made him feel a little lighter somehow. His
stomach growled. All that running and dodging and being afraid had made him very hungry.

  "Enough talk," the storyteller said. "Now let's eat!"

  Teller poured the oil into her saucer, carefully not watch­ing Samad. The boy looked ready to run away if she blinked. This ragged, scrawny boy had been through so much. She understood why he was so stiff-necked and proud now. All Samad had was his honor. She glanced sidelong at the boy, wondering how old he was. At least eight, but he acted older. She wondered how long he'd been in that grim sounding foster home and how long he'd managed to slip through the cracks. Things like this weren't supposed to happen to children on Thalassa.

  She set the saucer of olive oil on the bench between them. "Please, eat a little something with me," she invited, hand­ing him half of the loaf. "I'm starved, and it would be rude for me not to share my food with a guest. All I have to offer right now is bread and oil, but the bread is fresh, and the oil is good."

  Despite his hunger, Samad politely waited for her to take the first bite. But hunger overtook the boy as soon as he started to eat. He ate all of his half of the loaf and looked longingly at Teller's.

  "Here," Teller said, "I'm not as hungry as I thought I was. Would you please help me finish this loaf? It's too good to go to waste."

  Samad hesitated, glancing warily at her before accepting the rest of the bread. Teller refilled the oil dish, hiding a pri­vate smile at the boy's appetite. She had to do something about Samad. He needed a good home before stealing be­came a habit.

  At last the loaf was gone, except for crumbs. Samad re­laxed, lulled by a full stomach and the warm sun.

  "Well, Samad, I promised the baker that I would punish you."

  Instantly Samad was as wary as a startled zibok.

  "Now remember, you promised by your name that you would abide by the punishment I set you."

  "And you promised you wouldn't hurt me," Samad warned.

  "So I did. Your punishment shall be to act as my guide while I'm here in Melilla. Will you accept this punishment, Abd al-Samad?"

  Samad's face lit with a dazzling smile. "You want me to

  be your guide!" he exclaimed in wonderment. Then, recov­ering his dignity, he continued, "By my name, and by my honor, I will accept this punishment. Where would you like to go first, honored sera?"

  CHAPTER 2

  WHEN TELLER BID SAMAD GOOD NIGHT AT the door to her inn, she wondered whether she would ever see the wary boy again. But when she looked out her win­dow the next morning, she saw Samad waiting for her in a doorway across the street. She dressed and hurried outside to invite him in for breakfast.

  Samad hesitated, his eyes flicking to the door of the inn and back to her. He was hungry but too wary to go inside the inn.

  "I tell you what, I'll get breakfast to go, and we'll make it a picnic," Teller suggested. "I don't suppose you know of any good places for that?"

  "Yes, sera. There's a nice spot where we can watch the boats in the harbor."

  Samad showed her a sheltered niche between two build­ings where the sun shone, but the chilly spring wind could not find them. It was the kind of place that a street child

  would know about, safely hidden from the eyes of passersby, but with a panoramic view of the harbor. When Teller handed Samad his meal, he hesitated, pride warring with hunger. That bothersome pride gave her a handle to manage him with.

  "Please eat, Samad. It's going to be a long day, and I don't have time to wait while you get food out of the trash." She watched as his dislike of accepting charity warred with his shame at being seen rummaging for thrown-away food.

  "Yes, Sera Teller," he replied and bit into the hot, fra­grant meat roll she had given him.

  Teller looked away and down past the steep sweep of tiled roofs and whitewashed stone walls while the hungry boy tore into his food. From this vantage point the boats in the harbor looked like toys. The sky was a pale, clear blue. Off to the east, it was still clear, and the morning sun was bright enough to bask in. Thetis, the smaller of the two moons, had set, leaving Amphitrite hanging in the western sky like a pale ghost, veiled and then revealed by the scud­ding clouds blowing in from the southwest.

  A front was blowing in. The weather report posted at the inn predicted another gale moving through the archipelago. She didn't want Samad to sleep outside in that kind of raw weather. If only she could get him to trust her enough to share her room. Once she won his trust, perhaps then she could coax him to come with her. Then she could try to find him a decent home.

  She glanced at Samad. His meat roll was already nearly gone. Teller hid her smile by biting into her own meat roll. At least the boy was going to be easy to feed.

  "I promised Ser Perez that we would tell stories by his stall today," Teller said when Samad had finished all the available food. "Before we go, I want you to wash your face and run this brush through your hair. We are going to pres­ent you as a reformed character, so you need to look nice."

  "But sera!" Samad protested, "that miserable miser doesn't deserve it!"

  The wrinkles fanning out around the corners of Teller's eyes deepened as she smiled. "You're right, Samad. He doesn't deserve it, but you do."

  Samad stared at her in surprise.

  "Samad, the better you look, the worse Perez looks."

  Samad pondered her words.

  "Why does it matter?" he asked.

  "Because I hope to teach Perez a lesson. I asked around. Every other baker in town gives bread to the poor, but not Perez. I hope to change his mind today."

  "What are you going to do?" Samad asked.

  "Just what I promised. Tell stories by his stall." Her smile grew predatory, the creases on either side of her mouth deepening. "I didn't say what kind of stories, though."

  Samad's eyes danced with laughter as understanding came. He tidied up the food wrappers, then washed his face and hands in a nearby fountain. He allowed Teller to comb out the tangles in his black hair, arranging his wild black curls into a deceptive semblance of tameness. Thus fortified, they set off for Perez's stall.

  Word of yesterday's encounter had spread. There was a crowd waiting when they showed up, eager to glean any new gossip. Teller smiled. They wouldn't be disappointed.

  "Greetings, Ser Perez," Teller said. "Thank you for pro­viding me with this opportunity to tell stories."

  She spread her mat and painstakingly settled her Guild shawl around her, allowing the audience's anticipation to build. When the time was right, she set out her bowl and began rattling her drum. The crowd drew in around her,

  ready for her stories. She set down her drum, waited a mo­ment, and began.

  "Once upon a time, there was a baker whose bread was as fine and light as the clouds in a summer sky. The baker's grandfather had done the Sea King a favor, and in return, the Sea King had given his family the gift of making excep­tional bread. This baker charged twice what the other bak­ers did and still sold out by the middle of the day. He was rich and prosperous. His family dressed in fine clothes and lived in a big, well-furnished house.

  "One day, when the rich baker had nothing but the stale heel of a loaf left over from yesterday's lunch, a little orphan girl came into his shop. Her clothes were worn and ragged, and her face was pinched with hunger.

  " 'Could I have just the heel of a loaf, Master Baker?' she pleaded. 'I've no parents, and I'm cold and hungry.'

  "The baker shook his head. He didn't want to gain a rep­utation for giving bread to every hungry beggar who needed a free meal.

  " 'There's nothing left, little girl,' he lied. 'Maybe you could try the baker across the street.' The rich baker didn't like the baker across the street because he gave his bread away to anyone who claimed to be poor or hungry.

  "So the girl went to the baker across the street. He was a young man who had recently inherited his childless master's big house and bakery. He lived alone in the big house except for his master's old dog. The big house made him feel small and lonely. The little girl's plight t
ouched his own loneli­ness. He gave her a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven.

  " 'If you need a place to stay, there is room in my house. I would be grateful for the company,' he told the little girl.

  " 'Thank you, I can sweep the bakery for you if you like.' And so the little girl went to live in the kind baker's attic.

  "The next day, an old woman bent with age came to the stingy baker's store as he was cleaning up at the end of the day. All that remained was a loaf that was singed at one end.

  " 'Please, kind sir, might I beg a loaf of bread from you?' she asked him. 'I have nothing to eat. Even a burned loaf is better than nothing when you are starving.'

  " 'Be off with you,' the stingy baker said officiously. 'I have nothing to give you.'

  "So the old woman went to the kind baker across the street and asked him for bread.

  " 'This will fill your stomach until better days come,' the kind baker told the old woman as he gave her two loaves of bread. 'And there is room in my house if you need a place to stay. You could help look after the orphan girl who lives with me.'

  " 'Thank you, my dear, that is very kind of you,' the old woman said. 'I'm lonely as well as old.' And so the old lady came to live with him, too.

  "The next day a poor mother carrying a baby stopped to beg at the stingy baker's stall. All that he had left was a lumpy, lopsided loaf that was too misshapen for him to sell.

  " 'My baby is hungry, and I have no food for him. Perhaps you have a loaf you can't sell. We'd be grateful for anything at all.

  " 'Go away, I have nothing for you today,' the stingy baker said haughtily. 'All my loaves are perfect.'

  "The mother shifted her baby higher on her shoulder and walked across the street to the kind baker's shop, where she asked him for bread.

  " 'Of course,' he said, tickling her baby till it laughed. He gave her three loaves of bread. 'There's room in my house for you and the baby, if you would like it. And your little one will cheer up the old lady who lives with me.'

  "And so the mother and her baby went to live with the baker.

  "On the fourth day, the stingy baker sold every loaf he had baked. All he had left at the end of the day were the crumbs at the bottom of his bread baskets. A little sparrow fluttered onto one of the shelves and began picking at the crumbs.