Storyteller

by Amy Thomson

  Samad left as soon as he could after that. Despite his wor­ries, he tried to walk out into the wind and rain as though he was headed for a warm hearth and a roof over his head.

  Teller watched the door close behind Samad, and sighed. His speedy exit had told her how afraid he still was. Had she

  pushed things too far with her offer? Would he come back tomorrow? What if something happened to him out there?

  She shook her head. Samad had given his oath to serve her, and he was a resourceful and cautious child. She would have to trust to the boy's prowess and his sense of honor. Teller paid her tab with a few small coins and a handful of buttons, and headed upstairs. She lay awake for a long time, listening to the rattle of rain and then sleet against her win­dows and thinking about Samad, out there somewhere in that wild, wet night.

  The next morning she woke early. Peering out of the window through a steady, settled spring drizzle, she saw Samad huddled in a doorway across the street. He looked cold, wet, and miserable. She dressed as quickly as she could and hurried downstairs, a towel over her arm. She found a ' private parlor room with a fire in the hearth, and laid the towel down over the back of a chair to warm, then dashed out to get Samad.

  The child's lips were blue with cold and he offered no re­sistance to her as she led him into the warm parlor and sat him before the fire. Voula, the innkeeper, glanced in, as­sessed the situation, and returned with more towels and a pot of hot cocoa. Teller smiled gratefully at her. Voula merely shrugged.

  "I'll be back with breakfast in a bit," she said. "Get that cocoa into him as soon as you can. It'll do the most good."

  Ignoring the unwashed funk rising from his drying clothes, Teller toweled Samad's wet hair and plied him with hot cocoa and food until his shivering subsided. All of a sud­den he sat up, looking alert and wary again. The food and warmth had done their work. Samad was himself again.

  "Finish your breakfast, Samad, we have a long day ahead of us." Teller told him, relieved and saddened by the boy's

  fear. He had chosen to honor his oath by returning. But she had not yet earned his trust.

  "Yes, sera," he said obediently. He had polished off a huge fritatta rich with cheese and vegetables, and was start­ing to slow down halfway through a double portion of ba­con. Perhaps, she thought with an inward smile, he was finally starting to get enough to eat. Certainly his skin was less waxen and pale, and his skinny frame seemed fraction­ally less skeletal. If he kept eating like that, he wasn't going to be able to squeeze into those ragged clothes he was wear­ing. She would have to do something about that.

  Samad fought the relaxation and sleepiness brought on by a full stomach and the luxurious warmth of the fire. It had been a cold and miserable night. Two different mem­bers of the Guardia had thrown him out of the doorways he had sheltered in. Samad had wound up huddled behind a collection of garbage bins in an alley. His hiding place was out of the raw wind but exposed to the rain. When dawn came, Samad had huddled in a doorway across from the inn, waiting for Teller.

  Samad glanced furtively up at Teller. She had buried her long, bony nose in a big mug of hot, spiced tea. Her watch­ful, intent gaze met his over the rim of the cup.

  "Where would you like to go today, sera?"

  "It's too wet and too early for stories yet, Samad. I want to have a leisurely breakfast and just wander for a couple of hours."

  Samad watched Teller carefully as they wandered through Melilla. The meal and the fire had warmed him thoroughly, but there was still a spot between his shoulders that remem­bered the biting chill of last night's storm. It would be good to sleep somewhere warm, but would it be safe? Could he

  trust Teller to be what she seemed, a cynical, funny old woman with a core of solid kindness, or would she meta­morphose into a nightmare in the dark silence of her room?

  So far, the storyteller had treated him fairly. She hadn't forced him to do anything he didn't want to do. And she hadn't turned him over to the authorities. He dreaded being sent back to that bleak, punishing warehouse for unwanted children. He was hungry, cold, and lonely, but he was free.

  But some part of him wanted to trust Teller, wanted to believe that he could stay in her room and be safe and warm and dry. It had been two years since his mother had died, and he hadn't met an adult he trusted since then. He re­membered Teller drying his hair in front of the fire. The memory touched a forgotten place where there was warmth and safety and someone to protect him. It was something he hadn't known for a very long time, not since the drugs had turned his mother into a vague, affectionate stranger.

  Teller had taken him to that safe, warm place once. He watched her warily now. Could he trust her to take him there again?

  Teller seemed to take no notice of his watchfulness. She wandered the streets, chatting with strangers, listening to whatever they had to say. But sometimes Samad would catch her turning away, as though she had been watching him.

  The rain let up about midmorning. They set up beside Perez's stall for a brief storytelling session. But though Perez was glad to see them again, the cold and the damp hurried people through their shopping, and their audiences were scant and easily distracted.

  "Some days are like that," Teller said, when Samad tried to console her. "Let's get some lunch, and then I want to buy some clothes."

  By evening, Samad was no closer to a decision about sleeping in Teller's room. It was growing late, and by the

  time Teller had finished telling stories at the inn, a light drizzle was falling. Samad was exhausted, and he didn't want to face another cold, rainy night outside. But could he trust her?

  Teller rose from her seat near the hearth. "I'm tired, Samad. My offer of last night still stands. You can stay in my room, and I promise that you will sleep safe and warm. No one will bother you. Are you coming?"

  He was on his feet and halfway up the stairs behind Teller before he realized that he had decided without think­ing about it, propelled by a cold feeling between his shoul­der blades and the lonely place inside him. He hesitated for a moment, thinking it over, and then continued up the stairs to Teller's room, frightened but determined. He sim­ply couldn't face another cold, wet night alone. Not now, not when he felt so warm and fed and comfortable.

  Teller's room was low-ceilinged and cozy. A low bank of coals smoldered in the hearth at one end, filling the room with the smoky, wet-dog scent of burning peat. Teller stirred up the fire, coaxing up the blaze with some small branches from the bundle of kindling and adding a couple more chunks of peat to drive the chill out of the room. The revived fire cast a gentle glow on Teller's bony, ironic face. She smiled reminiscently.

  "You know, I once had an off-worlder ask me why we didn't just install hydrogen furnaces instead of burning peat. I told him that we've wood and peat enough, and the time to appreciate a good fire. I think of that man every time I tend a fire. So rich in ideas, so poor in time."

  She hung the poker up, and looked at him. "I'll be down the hall in the bathroom, changing. Make up a bed wher­ever you like. There's blankets and linen in the closet if you need them."

  With that she left him alone. He stood in the middle of

  the room for a moment, unsure what to do next. It would be better to sleep close to the door, in case he had to make a speedy retreat. But if he had any sense, he'd be sleeping out in the rain. He peered out the window. It wasn't a bad drop, if he had to run. He unlocked the window, hoping he wouldn't have to run for it. Having made sure of his escape route, he took off his pack and spread his blanket near the hearth.

  Samad was curled up near the fire, pretending to be asleep, when Teller came in. He tensed as her footsteps ap­proached, paused, and then padded quietly away. There was the rustle of bed sheets and the creak of the bed frame as she crawled into bed.

  "Good night, Samad. Sleep well," Teller called as she turned out the lamp.

  He slept poorly at first, starting awake at every sound, but there was the great, warm, luxurious presence of the
fire at his back, and the reassuring sound of Teller's light, steady snore. It was so wonderful to be warm and dry! At last he re­laxed and fell deeply asleep. It was midmorning when he woke.

  He remembered where he was and sat up abruptly. Teller was seated on the bed, sewing a button on a shirt she had bought yesterday in the market.

  "Good morning, Samad. You slept in."

  "Forgive me, sera," he said. He should have woken be­fore her.

  Teller shook her head. "There wasn't anything that needed doing, and you needed the sleep. Here," she said, holding out the shirt she was working on. "I was putting on the buttons that Perez gave you. I hope you don't mind."

  He took the shirt. It was made of thick, soft blue wool with thin white stripes. The crispness of the fabric betrayed its newness. He fingered the beautiful buttons that Teller

  had put on for him. Cutting those buttons off in order to buy something would be like selling his own fingers.

  "No sera, I... It's too much."

  "Take it, Samad. You've earned it. With your help I've made more than twice as much money as I usually do. Go ahead, try it on," she urged.

  Hesitantly, he slid the shirt over his head. He stood stiffly, looking down at the shirt. It fell in rich blue folds to midthigh and felt as warm as last night's fire. Finally, he let himself take the fabric between his fingers, feeling its soft­ness and warmth.

  "It's beautiful," he whispered. He couldn't remember when he'd had a shirt that was entirely new. It must have been when his mother was alive, but back then, he'd taken such things for granted. He blinked back a sudden prickle of tears.

  "It looks good on you, Samad. And there's room for you to grow into it." She held out her hands for the shirt. "Let me sew on that last button."

  "I can do it, sera."

  "No, Samad. I'll finish it out in the hallway while you try these on." She held out a pair of sturdy black wool pants.

  "But, sera—" he began, but one look at her determined face told him that it was useless. He shrugged, embarrassed, but secretly pleased as well. "Thank you, sera." He said, meeting her eyes. She smiled back at him, and that was a gift he prized far more than the shirt.

  Samad listened to Teller bring the second story in the Pi­lot's Cycle alive. Her eyes shone as she told of the Pilot's early years, her struggles to build a base and grow enough food to feed herself. Then she talked of the Pilot's travels with her harsel companion. Normally, this was one of Samad's favorite stories. He loved to imagine seeing the

  vast empty world of Thalassa for the first time. He tried to imagine what it had been like before fields, fences, and or­derly orchards clothed the islands, when the only sails on the horizon were wild harsel. Normally he listened, en­thralled, but today, he fingered his fine new clothes and worried.

  In the week and a half since Teller had allowed him to guide her, he had grown used to hot meals and warm, dry places to sleep. He had come to like Teller, and even to trust her, and that scared him. He had grown used to being with Teller, and he didn't want to lose her.

  But traveling storytellers never stayed long in any one place. Someday soon she was going to leave, and then he would have to go back to dinners scavenged out of the trash and the cold, lonely life of the streets.

  He stroked the cuff of his shirt. At least he had warm clothing. But even that was a problem. His new clothes, with their beautiful, hand-carved buttons, would attract thieves. Once Teller was gone, he would remove the buttons and sell them: He could get enough to live on for a week or more. He could rub dirt into his fine new clothes and sew patches on them so they would look ragged. Then he wouldn't have to fear their being stolen.

  Sudden tears welled in his eyes at the thought of inten­tionally spoiling Teller's gift to him. He wiped them on his sleeve, then glanced up quickly at Teller to make sure she hadn't seen him. She was caught up in the details of her story. Good. He didn't want her to see him crying. Samad inhaled sharply and tried to focus on her story. He should enjoy Teller's stories while they lasted. It would be a long time before another storyteller would let him listen for free.

  Teller watched Samad brooding beside the fire. His new clothes had delighted him at first, but in the last few days he

  had grown withdrawn and uncommunicative. Had she somehow wounded that sensitive pride of his?

  "Samad, what's bothering you?" she asked him.

  "Nothing," Samad said, not taking his eyes off of the fire.

  Teller sat beside him. She thought she glimpsed tear tracks on his face when he glanced up at her.

  "It looks like something to me," Teller said. "Have I hurt your feelings somehow?"

  Samad shook his head, not looking at her.

  "Has someone else hurt you?"

  He shook his head again.

  "Are you worried about something?"

  Samad sat still for a long moment, and then grudgingly nodded.

  "What are you worried about?"

  He shrugged his shoulders. Teller repressed a sigh of frustration. Pulling out information from Samad one tiny bit at a time was like uprooting couverta weed. She waited, repressing her impatience, while Samad stuttered through several false starts.

  "You're going," he finally managed.

  "And you'll miss me?"

  He drew his shoulders up as though afraid of a blow, and nodded again.

  "You know," Teller offered, "you could come with me."

  Samad's head came up and he stared at her, owl-eyed with amazement. It was all Teller could do to keep from laughing at his expression.

  "I could?"

  She nodded. "But Samad, I want you to think about this. I travel rough, and I travel hard. I'll be going south through the mountains to Nueva Ebiza on this trip. There's still snow up in the high passes. It will be very cold. And you must promise to do exactly what I say."

  "Yes, sera. I will," he told her seriously. "And you gave me these warm clothes. I won't be cold."

  "We'll have to get you a warm coat and some good shoes as well," Teller said. "We'll be leaving in two days' time. Can you be ready by then?"

  Samad nodded. He was ready now. He would happily walk barefoot on hot coals all the way to Nueva Ebiza if it meant that he could be with Teller.

  "Then it's settled." She held out her hand, and Samad took it.

  "Thank you, sera," he said. "You won't regret this."

  Teller smiled at the boy's solemnity. "Of course not, Samad."

  Samad stared into the dying fire, listening to Teller's light snore. He was too excited to sleep. Teller was taking him with her! He wasn't going to have to go back to being alone! He lay there thinking of how to show Teller that he would be worth keeping. He would start by tending the fire and learning how to put up the tent. Maybe he could carry her pack for her, too. He would get up early and make breakfast for her. He remembered making breakfast for his mother.

  Samad rolled over restlessly, turning away from the painful memories of his mother and her death. Perhaps, just perhaps, if he was really, really good, maybe she might let him stay forever. It would be fun, traveling with Teller.

  He turned back over. There was no point in getting his hopes up yet. He'd been hopeful before and disappointed before. But Teller traveled all over Thalassa, just like the Pi­lot. He might even get to visit some of the places where the Pilot had been! He pulled the blanket up over his head and let himself dream of all the places they would see.

  Teller watched Samad sleeping. They'd been on the road for two days now, and she was astonished at how much drive and energy there was in Samad's small frame. He had started the fire, pitched the tent, and washed and dried her socks. He'd even tried to fix her breakfast. Though the meal was fairly dubious by her standards, it wasn't bad for an eight-year-old boy who'd never cooked over an open fire before. Samad woke up before her and never went to bed until she was in her sleeping bag. And he walked all day long through the chilly rain and the mud without a word of complaint.

  Teller had deliberately
picked the shorter, harder moun­tain road to Nueva Ebiza. She wanted to test Samad, to get some idea of what he was made of. She also wanted to make life with her seem difficult and unpleasant. Hopefully, by the time they got to Nueva Ebiza he would be ready to set­tle down with a new family.

  The morning after Samad had agreed to come with her, she'd sent the boy off on an errand and called the central Guild House in Nueva Ebiza. She told them about Samad and asked them to find him a home. Shortly before leaving Melilla, she'd received a report about several interested fam­ilies. She'd selected the Karelli family. It was large and lov­ing, with several adopted children and two biological children. The Karellis had been hoping to adopt a boy of Samad's age. They'd adopted several children whose lives had been even worse than his. She felt confident that the Karellis had the experience to be good parents for Samad.

  Teller smoothed away a black curl from Samad's forehead and sighed. She would miss the boy. His company had leav­ened her loneliness. She hoped the glowing reports about Samad's new family were true. If the Karelli family was as wonderful as the Guild said they were, perhaps she would feel better about leaving Samad in their care.

  Teller yawned. Samad wasn't the only one who was working hard on this trip. She was pushing her own limits. Usu­ally she took a less strenuous route, going from town to town, staying at inns for the night. But she was glad to have done this. It had been a long time since she had struck out across the countryside. Over the years she had become a creature of towns and villages, and that saddened her.

  She stood up and stretched her tired, sore muscles, banked the fire, and settled into her sleeping bag for a good night's rest. They would be crossing the pass tomorrow. If they made good time, there was a small inn where they could stay for a night or two.

  Samad glanced up at the innkeeper with a shy smile of thanks as he topped up Samad's mug of mulled cider. After three days of slogging through the rain with Teller, the warmth and hospitality of this country tavern was very welcome. This was their second night here. On the first night, they had squelched in through the door, sucked down a hot dinner, and steeped the chill from their bones in the steaming water of the bathhouse. Then they had climbed wearily up the steps to the low-ceilinged room in the attic and fallen into bed.