Storyteller

by Amy Thomson

"I need you too much to lose you, Abeha," Teller confessed.

  "I know," Abeha replied, sounding more resigned than angry now. "I know."

  "I'm glad you're back," Teller offered. "I missed you."

  "I missed you, TOO," Abeha replied, love and longing ringing in his voice. He turned in a long, sweeping curve that made Teller's heart soar. She was so relieved to see him. Just then, a wind-driven wave slapped at her legs, soaking her pants.

  "go in before you freeze," Abeha scolded her, "i'll

  BE THERE AS SOON AS I CAN."

  "All right," Teller said, joy rising like a spiraling seabird within her. "I'll see you soon."

  She clambered up the rocks, slipped her shoes onto her still-wet feet, and ran to the harbor as quickly as a girl.

  CHAPTER 6

  SAMAD SAT ON ABEHA'S BROAD BACK, CLAD in foul-weather gear against the blowing spray of the gray and stormy sea. Abeha's sail was reefed as small as the harsel's powerful web of muscles could contract it. Despite the reef in his sail, Abeha was heeled over sharply as he raced through the storm-tossed water, waves crashing over his broad back.

  Samad sat astride the harsel's dorsal ridge, his lifeline clipped to a padded ring buckled around the base of the harsel's mast, feeling the surge and sway as the great fish sped through the gale. He shared Abeha's exultation in the wild sea and the driving wind. It was good to be at sea again, freed temporarily from the drudgery of school. Abeha rejoiced with him; his singing resounded in Samad's head like an avalanche of church bells.

  A school of sea sprites rode the great fish's bow wave, their bodies flashing with bright colors like streaming rainbows. They crossed back and forth in front of the speeding harsel, leaping from the water as though propelled by sheer joy. Off to one side a long-winged ma-o-ha bird skimmed across the face of a wave, a winged mote of calm amid the vast, raging sea. With a subtle shift of its wings, the bird lifted away from the water and skimmed past them, silent as a ghost. Samad's heart soared like the bird, racing with joy at Abeha's return.

  "I'm so happy you're back, Abeha. I missed you so much," Samad said when the bird was lost in the driving spray.

  "i'm happy to have you back with me," Abeha told him. But Samad could feel a deep sadness underneath the harsel's words.

  "Something's bothering you, Abeha," Samad said. "What's the matter?"

  "THERE IS SOMETHING I MUST DO THAT WILL MAKE

  teller unhappy," Abeha told him. "What is it?" Samad asked, "I can't tell you yet, samad," the harsel replied, "I

  MUST TALK WITH TELLER FIRST. WHAT I HAVE TO SAY WILL NOT BE EASY FOR HER TO ACCEPT. I NEED YOU TO BE READY TO HELP HER."

  "Please tell her soon, Abeha," Samad urged. "I don't like keeping secrets from Teller."

  "don't worry, samad," the harsel reassured him. "I

  WILL SPEAK TO HER AS SOON AS I CAN."

  Abeha fell abruptly into a listening silence, "that was teller, she says that lunch is ready," the harsel relayed. "You'll be okay?" Samad asked. "i'll be fine," the harsel told him. "go and eat."

  Teller paced the length of the harsel's dorsal ridge. Yester­day's glorious gale had blown itself out. Today was gray and

  foggy and eerily still. Abeha had furled his sail and drifted in a doze. Samad was still asleep in his bunk. For the mo­ment, Teller was alone with her thoughts, and she was glad of it. Something was going on. There was a strange sorrow underlying Abeha's thoughts. After an initial burst of high spirits, Samad had become quiet and watchful, as though he was waiting for something to happen.

  She paced back and forth across the harsel's back, mulling over the little clues that led nowhere until she real­ized that Abeha was awake and watching her think.

  "Good morning," she said. "Did you sleep well?"

  "no, someone's been pacing up and down on my back," the harsel replied. But there was very little levity in the harsel's presence.

  "What's going on, Abeha?"

  "I'M GOING TO CHANGE, TELLER. I HAVE TO."

  "No! You can't, Abeha. I love you. I need you!"

  "I must," Abeha insisted, "it's long past my time TO

  DO SO."

  "No!" Teller cried.

  "I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU NEED ME, BUT YOU HAVE TO

  let me go," the harsel said.

  "No!" Teller shouted again. Her voice sounded small and weak amid the blanketing fog and the wide, calm ocean. She turned as if to flee, but there was nowhere to run. She fell to her knees on Abeha's broad back. "No. Don't do this to me, Abeha!" Teller pleaded in a desperate whisper. "Please!"

  Just then, Samad emerged from the harsel's hold. His hair was still rumpled from sleep; there was a worried look on his face. His jacket gaped open, and Teller could see that he was still in his pajamas. Teller stood up.

  "What's the matter?" Samad asked. "Abeha said you needed me."

  "it's time for me to mate," Abeha told him.

  Puzzled, Samad looked at Teller. "I don't understand, Abeha's mated before hasn't he?"

  "many, many times," Abeha agreed.

  "So why is this time different?" he asked.

  "I have chosen to become female," Abeha explained.

  "What?" Samad said, blinking in surprise. "How can you do that?"

  "it's a question of body fat, samad," the harsel ex­plained, "once my body fat reaches a certain level, i

  BECOME FEMALE, AND MY EGGS BEGIN TO DEVELOP. I'M RIGHT AT THE THRESHOLD NOW. I ONLY NEED TO FEED HEAVILY FOR ANOTHER WEEK OR TWO, AND THEN THE CHANGE WILL START. BUT I WANTED TELLER TO KNOW BE­FORE IT HAPPENED."

  Samad looked at Teller. To his surprise there were tears in her eyes.

  "All right, so Abeha becomes a girl, and lays eggs instead of—well—instead of being a boy. Why are you so upset?"

  Teller got up and took Samad's hands. "Females mate only once, Samad. They die giving birth to their young."

  "No!" Samad shouted. "Abeha! You can't do this to us!"

  "I MUST, SAMAD," Abeha Said. "WITHOUT THIS SACRI­FICE, THERE WOULD BE NO HARSELS."

  "B-but why now? Can't you wait a few years?"

  "I HAVE WAITED A LONG TIME ALREADY, FOR TELLER'S SAKE. BUT I CAN'T PUT IT OFF ANY LONGER."

  "Why not?" Samad demanded.

  "every six years, the two moons align to create a series of very extreme tides. during these tides, the harsels congregate in bays where the condi­tions are right for mating. because i've waited so long, i've grown so big that there's only one mat­ing bay that I can still safely enter. if I don't mate there this year, i'll grow too large to enter that

  BAY AS WELL. THIS IS MY LAST CHANCE FOR A FEMALE MATING."

  "Couldn't you just decide to live?" Samad asked. "if I don't mate as female, i'll become an outcast among my own people," the harsel said, "my name will

  BE FORGOTTEN, AND MY MEMORIES LOST. IT WILL BE A LIV­ING DEATH."

  "You'll still have us. Me and Teller," Samad offered. "We'll still love you."

  "I know YOU do," the harsel said gently, "I would wait

  IF I COULD, BUT I AM A HARSEL. I MUST SERVE MY PEOPLE BY BEARING YOUNG."

  "But you'll die!" Samad cried.

  "I HAVE LIVED MUCH LONGER THAN MOST HARSELS, SAMAD. I HAVE LOVED MY LIFE, BUT NOW IT IS TIME FOR ME TO PASS ALONG MY LINEAGE. IT GRIEVES ME TO CAUSE

  YOU pain, but I must do this." Abeha enfolded Teller and Samad in his warm, loving presence. Samad could feel the intensity of the harsel's grim resolve and the depth of his sorrow.

  "I love you, Abeha!" Samad told him. "I don't want to lose you!"

  "I know, samad," the harsel said, speaking only to him. "but you are young and can face this grief, teller has known me most of her life. our lives are deeply intertwined. losing me will shatter her. she will need you. and I need to know that you will be there to help her."

  "No! I can't! It's too much!" Samad shouted, and he fled down into Abeha's hold.

  Things were tense aboard the harsel for the next few days. Teller wandered, mute with grief. Abeha was silent as well, a hurt,
determined silence. Samad, caught between them, could only watch, helpless, as Teller and Abeha struggled with their anger and their need for each other. How could Abeha expect him to heal Teller? He was too young, too inexperienced. He could, and did, make sure that Teller ate, but there was nothing he could say or do that would cheer her up. How could he, when he was nearly as devas­tated as Teller?

  It was a sad relief to finally make landfall at Kyrenia.

  "I'm going to go make arrangements, Samad. Can you please see that the crew pod is safely stowed, and then come find me at the inn? We're staying at the Sea Sprite again."

  Samad nodded. He suspected that Teller wanted to be alone. And, much as he loved her, he needed some solitude himself.

  "samad?" Abeha asked when Teller was gone.

  "What is it?" Samad said resentfully. The emotional weight of the harsel's troubled presence had rubbed all the surfaces of his mind raw.

  "I'M SORRY, SAMAD. I NEVER REALIZED HOW HARD THIS

  would be for you," Abeha apologized, "when I met

  YOU, I HOPED THAT YOU WOULD TAKE TELLER'S MIND OFF OF ME, GIVE HER SOMETHING TO LOOK FORWARD TO, AF­TER I----"

  "You mean you planned all this? You expected me to pick up all the pieces for you?" Samad demanded.

  "i've held off from completing my final mating because I was afraid that my death would be teller's as well. then you came along. you were perfect, just what teller needed."

  "And so you just thought you'd use me, is that it?" Samad shot back. "You never bothered to try to find out how I'd feel about all of this, did you? Damn it, this isn't just Teller's life anymore! It's mine, too!"

  Samad picked up his pack, swung it onto his shoulder, and fled, leaving the crew pod just as it was. His sense of

  anger and betrayal was like a raw wound. The harsel's pleas grew faint and then died away to nothing as he strode away from the harbor. He kept going until he was halfway up a high, rounded hill overlooking the small harbor town. He paused for breath and looked back at the town, enclosed by the placid, grassy hills and the wide, oblivious ocean. He was wholly alone at last.

  Samad climbed the rest of the way up the hill and lay back in the long, wiry grass. He watched the clouds slowly billow and glide across the endless azure sky, thinking as lit­tle as possible. It felt good up here. There were no impossi­ble demands, no quiet despair. He was tempted to just shoulder his backpack and head into the hills. To run away from the whole mess, leaving Teller and the harsel to settle things on their own.

  He could leave if he wanted to. He was old enough now to sign on somewhere as an apprentice. He could settle down and learn enough to make a comfortable living. He could live like an oyster, sedentary and safe in his own shell.

  He sat up and looked down at the town of Kyrenia, nes­tled between the sea and the hills. It seemed so tiny from here, a cluster of maybe a hundred buildings, edged by the docks. Fishing boats were spread like scattered grain on the dark blue surface of the sea. He could see the inn where they were staying.

  They had stayed at the Sea Sprite last summer, on their way to Thira. He remembered the fireplace in the inn's main room. Embedded in the black basalt stones lining the fire­place were thousands of tiny chips of shiny volcanic glass that threw back the light of the fire like a million tiny em­bers. The mantelpiece was made of a single twisted log of opalescent petrified wood, polished to a gemlike gleam. Teller had rested her palm lovingly on it and smiled as though she were encountering an old friend.

  Teller. What was he going to do about Teller? Teller and Abeha had taken him in when he was a shabby, half-starved child. And now they needed him. He couldn't leave Teller to face Abeha's death alone. Besides, the life he shared with Teller and Abeha was the only life he could imagine living. He couldn't leave them now.

  He shouldered his backpack and followed the afternoon sun down the hill into town.

  Going back was not easy. Abeha had vanished, crew pod and all, when he returned. Samad shrugged. The harsel could manage with the pod in place for the few days they would be on Kyrenia. There would be hurt feelings to soothe when the harsel returned for them, but he would deal with that when the time came.

  The real problem was Teller. She sat hunched and silent over her dinner, toying with her food without really eat­ing. The stories she told were dark and depressing, and her audience began to dwindle. When the last of her audi­ence had crept away, she found a quiet corner and started drinking.

  Over the next few days, Samad watched Teller with growing feelings of helplessness and fear. Nothing he did seemed to help ease her pain. After a couple of days, Teller gave up even trying to tell stories. She paid her tab in cash and sat in the corner of the bar, dark and self-absorbed, drinking with a steady, wordless determination that terri­fied Samad. When Teller's evident pain got to be too much to bear, and he couldn't stand her drinking anymore, he went upstairs and read or tried to sleep. His conscience yammered at him to do something, but Teller was too wrapped in grief to respond to his attempts.

  After a week, they rejoined Abeha, but Teller's depres­sion continued. Abeha became increasingly frantic with worry. Samad, caught in the middle, was tempted to tie

  himself to an anchor and jump overboard. He began to long for port, where he could spend a little time alone.

  Then, late one night, as they were cruising between is­lands, Teller sat up in bed. Samad, who had become increas­ingly sensitive to changes in Teller's mood, woke almost immediately. He felt Abeha's listening presence focus on them both.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "I can't sleep," Teller said. "I've had a Pilot story running through my head for the last couple of hours. Would you like to hear it?"

  Samad blinked the sleep out of his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows. Teller wouldn't venture a story this late at night if it weren't important. Besides, this was the first time she'd spoken of anything besides an immedi­ate task for a couple of weeks.

  Samad fought back a yawn. "Yes, I would, Teller," he said, trying to shake off the clinging grip of sleep.

  "All right then," Teller began. "Most people believe that the Pilot was simply lost at sea or died in obscurity some­where. But the true story can be found if you know where to look and what stories to believe. The Pilot quietly merged into the colony. Eventually, she met and married a quiet, gentle man full of long silences. He loved her and shared her secrets and love of solitude. Together they settled a big tract of land on Bonifacio Island and raised a family. Their grown children settled the land around them, starting families of their own. It was a good, full life.

  "Then the Tauran influenza struck. Bonifacio was hit early and hard. In less than a week, half the island was sick. The Pilot's husband and her youngest granddaughter were the first people in the area to come down with it. Two days later, everyone in that part of the island was ill, including the doctor and her nurses. Comm calls for help went unanswered by emergency personnel who were too sick to reply. By then three of the Pilot's four children were sick, and all her grandchildren were stricken as well. People in outlying settlements had to manage alone. The Pilot, who had helped so many people, had no one to help her as her family sweated and gasped their lives away. She was filling in the grave that held her second son's family when one of the colony's four medical 'thopters finally brought help.

  "By the time the emergency medical teams got to Boni­facio, almost a quarter of the four hundred fifty souls on the island had died. A third more were still severely ill, and the rest were either recovering or exhausted. Even with help from the medics, another thirty-five people died. Bonifacio was an island of grief. Every family on the island had lost someone to the plague. The Pilot's life was one of many shattered during the epidemic.

  "The medics were able to save the Pilot's youngest daughter and two of her children. They had been up in the hills with the sheep when the epidemic broke out. Her daughter's isolation had saved their lives. They didn't get sick until after help had arrived.
Her eldest grandchild sur­vived. He was taken in and raised as part of her daughter's family. The Pilot's husband; three of her children; and eight of her grandchildren died in the epidemic.

  "The Pilot wandered, lost in the dark shadow of despair. Her remaining daughter tried desperately to bring the Pilot out of her grief, but nothing worked. One day her daughter woke to find the Pilot's bed empty. A note left all her pos­sessions to her daughter and her grandchildren."

  Teller looked down. Samad had fallen asleep. His eyelids were dark crescents framed by black lashes. She watched the boy sleep, her face unreadable. At last she shook herself and headed for the door, shedding her clothes as she went.

  Naked, she stepped out into the harsel's hold, dimly lit by a few small spotlights. Moving as silently as possible, she climbed to the top of the pod. Where the walls of Abeha's hull came to a peak, there was a small gap, just big enough to crawl through. She crawled along the space, moving to­ward the front of Abeha's hold. The harsel's thickened layer of fat made it a tighter fit than usual, but Teller squirmed her way to the front of the pod and climbed down a recessed access ladder to the forward end of Abeha's ballast chamber.

  There, where Abeha's great ribs met like the prow of a boat, there was a small, triangular space. It was a dark little cave of flesh, resonant with the great fish's heartbeats. Teller sat, sheltered beneath the harsel's ribs like a baby in its mother's womb. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to grieving. She keened in a bare, shredded whisper for her family, and for the many other beloved people, human and har, that death had taken from her over the long years. Fat, hot tears forced their way out between tight-shut lids. At last, wrung out by grief, she rested her head against the massive wall of the harsel's hold.

  "But that was not the end of the story either," Teller whispered into Abeha's listening darkness. "The Pilot walked down to the sea, to a hidden cove where she stored her crew pod. Wading out into the water, she summoned her harsel. He came for her at sunset, ghosting silently into the little cove as gracefully as a bird. The great fish took her away from humans and all their heartache. The Pilot lost herself among the harsels' alien songs, out on the endless, infinite sea."