Storyteller

by Amy Thomson

  "Good ones, too," Florio acknowledged, smiling at Samad. "Better start training him, Teller. We need new storytellers."

  "Don't teach grandma to suck eggs," she chided with a laugh. "Remember who trained you." Samad had never seen Teller look so young and coquettish.

  "Mahleesta dhaskala," Florio replied in Greek. Yes, my teacher. His tone was gently chiding and sarcastic.

  Samad looked from Teller to Florio, confused, wary, and more than a little angry at being excluded from their shared intimacy.

  "Did you really think I had a child? At my age?"

  "I've grown to expect surprises from you, Teller," Florio replied.

  "Just how old are you?" Samad interrupted.

  "Old enough," Teller replied lightly.

  "But still young enough," Florio teased, waggling his eyebrows in an outrageously flirtatious fashion.

  "Oh Florio!" Teller scolded with a giggle. "Stop! You're making me feel like a giddy young forty-year-old!"

  Florio laughed. "No, teacher. You make me feel young."

  "Samad," Teller said, laying her head against Florio's shoulder. "Florio and I need some time together. We'll be taking a room at the taverna where he's staying tonight."

  "Wait a minute—" Samad began. But the two of them were already walking off, holding hands like two teenagers in love.

  Samad followed after them, feeling confused, crestfallen, and left out. Once they reached the taverna, Teller booked a room for Samad and arranged for his meals. Then Florio and Teller headed upstairs, entwined in each other's arms. Samad ate lunch alone, then went upstairs to read and wait for Teller to reappear. Dinner came and went, and Teller still had not emerged from Florio's room. He paused in front of Florio's door, about to knock, when he heard Teller murmur something in a low, intimate voice. Florio laughed at what­ever she had said, and the bed creaked as someone shifted position on the mattress. Samad turned away, his face hot with shame and anger, and he went back to his room.

  Teller finally emerged late the next morning. She came down the stairs into the public room of the taverna with a spring in her step and a smile on her face. She hadn't looked this happy since the day Abeha had returned from the southern migration.

  "Ready to go, Samad?" Teller asked.

  Wordlessly Samad nodded. He shut his book and fell in beside her, stunned at how much more cheerful Teller was today, and hurt that Florio had been the one to cheer her up.

  When they reached the boat, Samad went forward to cast off the bow rope, while Teller pushed off from the pier and started the dory's small hydrogen engine, powering out into the harbor. When they were out from under the lee of the land, Teller turned off the engine and raised the mainsail. The sunlit water of the harbor purled and chuckled under the brightly painted bow as the boat gathered speed in the light breeze. The wind freshened as they headed out to sea. Teller lifted her face to the sun, took a deep breath of the cool morning air, and laughed from sheer pleasure.

  Teller's cheerful mood only angered Samad further. As they approached the mouth of the harbor, he saw a distant figure standing on the breakwater. It was Florio. As they passed the point, Florio lifted his bright storyteller's cape, letting the wind unfurl it like a flag. Teller let her own Guild shawl stream out in the breeze in reply. Florio waved once, then stood watching as they sailed out of the harbor.

  Samad shook a stray lock of hair out of his face, frowned, and turned away. Florio looked like he was barely half her age. And a former student. How could she do such a thing? Didn't she care what people thought? How could she go off and leave him all alone like that, just to spend the night with Florio?

  "Hey, Samad!" He looked up, startled. The island had re­ceded into a smudge on the horizon, and the sun was high in the sky. Teller was looking at him, hands on her hips.

  He glared up at her. "What!" he demanded.

  "It's nearly time for lunch. I've got spanakopita or lamb stew. Which one do you want to eat?"

  "I don't care," he snapped. "I'm not hungry." He turned away again, gazing moodily at the boat's wake.

  Teller sat beside him. "You're mad at me for going off with Florio, aren't you?"

  Samad just shrugged.

  "Look," Teller began, "I'm sorry if I upset you. It's just that Florio and I—"

  "He's half your age!" Samad interrupted. He turned to look at her, his face blazing with anger. "Are you going to fuck me next?"

  Teller slapped him.

  They stared at each other for a moment, too shocked and angry to speak. Samad stormed off to the bow of the boat and stared out at the open ocean. He fought back tears of anger, his shoulders high, braced for whatever Teller was go­ing to say next. But there was only silence. Finally, he glanced back at Teller. She was seated in the stern, watching him, her face drawn and sad. She looked old again, and Samad felt a twinge of guilt.

  "Samad," Teller began. "I'm sorry I hit you. I lost my temper."

  Samad looked back out at the horizon for a moment. He shrugged, then nodded, accepting the apology.

  Teller came forward, checked the trim of the sails and the rudder, then sat down next to him, putting a tentative hand on his shoulder.

  "You're my son, Samad. Florio isn't. Yes, he was my stu­dent once. It was a long time ago, and he likes to tease me about it sometimes. But we didn't become lovers until long after he'd stopped being my student and became my friend. Anyway, my love life isn't really any of your business, Samad."

  Samad felt the embers of his anger flare up again.

  "Right," he said tightly. "You just left me to cool my heels in a rented room without telling me when I'd see you again. I promised Abeha that I'd look after you, but how can I do that when you run off and leave me all alone?" Samad looked away, embarrassed by the frightened quaver in his voice.

  "Samad, I said I was sorry, and I meant it," Teller replied. "I shouldn't have left you alone. It was selfish of me. But—" she sighed and smoothed back her gray hair. "Look, Samad, I know you take your promise to Abeha seriously, but Abeha's not human. He—" Her pause was painful, "She doesn't understand how hard a promise like that is to keep."

  "But what if you don't come back?" Samad demanded. He swiped at his eyes, angry at his sudden surge of tears.

  "I've always come back before," Teller told him, enfold­ing him in a hug. "And I'll keep coming back. You're my son, Samad. For as long as I live, you'll be my son. I hope that, for as long as you live, I'll be your mother. I love you. But there are just some things that I need another adult for."

  "Like sex?" Samad said dryly.

  "That, and more than that. Especially now that Abeha's—" she paused.

  "Dying," Samad completed.

  "Abeha's not dying yet, Samad. But she only has a year or so left. It will, be hard to watch what's going to happen to her. Florio ..." She paused, "Florio's one of my best and closest friends. I'm going to need his help. He comforts me in ways you can't."

  Samad stared down at the neatly coiled bowline. He felt hurt and inadequate. "I'm sorry I'm not enough help."

  "Oh, Samad. I know how much you want to help, but this—" she shook her head. "You help me more than you re­alize, Samad. But sometimes I need a different kind of help. I've asked too much from you, lately. You should be relying on me, not the other way around."

  She paused, gathering her words. "I didn't behave well, back there," she acknowledged. "I hurt you, and I'm sorry. I was in pain and not thinking clearly."

  Embarrassed by Teller's blunt honesty, Samad shrugged and looked away.

  "I'll try to do better, Samad. But in order to do that, I'm going to need to spend some time with Florio. And you're going to have to let him help me. Understand?"

  Samad didn't know what to say, so he just nodded.

  Just then the wind shifted, and they had to attend to the boat. When the sails were retrimmed, Teller served out the spanakopita, and they ate in silence.

  "Samad, do you want to begin training as a storyteller?" she asked when the
meal was over and he started to clear away the dishes.

  "Me?" Samad said. The last remnants of his bad mood evaporated. "A storyteller? Really?"

  "You're a bit young for it, but I think you're good enough, and Florio agrees with me."

  "He does?"

  Teller nodded. "Florio likes you, Samad, and he knows good storytelling when he hears it. Only, no more making up Pilot stories, okay? And until you're a Journeyman, I'll have to be there when you're telling stories."

  Samad nodded. "All right," he agreed.

  "Well then, I'll be your teacher, if you'll be my appren­tice. Deal?" Teller held out her hand.

  "Deal!" he confirmed, shaking her hand.

  "All right, apprentice. Sit down, and I'll give you your first lesson."

  Abeha was pleased by the improvement in Teller's mood when they returned in the dory. The harsel was eating rav­enously, fueling the ripening eggs developing under the tough skin of her hold, and thickening the layers of fat that would feed her young in the months before they emerged. The company of other harsels was always welcome, but she had missed Teller.

  Abeha was relieved to be dying before Teller. Their lives

  were intertwined in a way that even most partnered harsels would have found difficult to understand. Living without Teller would be like losing her rudder fins; she would lose all sense of direction and purpose. Abeha knew that Teller felt the same keen sense of loss. That was why she needed Samad to look after Teller while she was away from her.

  But in the last few days, several senior har captains and their harsels had joined the fleet. Abeha was glad to have their company. They understood Teller's grief, though they were helpless to alleviate it. Harsels usually outlived their captains. Often one harsel would be captained by several generations of the same family. Or a harsel would partner with a human for a time, and when the har captain retired or died, he rejoined the wild harsels, returning to his own kind with a greater understanding of the short-lived, land-dwelling creatures that shared their world.

  Even though Teller found the har captains' solicitousness maddening, her frustration blunted the edge of her grief. And now that Samad was her apprentice, Teller had another distraction from Abeha's approaching death. And Abeha herself found Samad's quick, bright, inquisitive presence a welcome relief from the endless elegiac parade of harsels. Glad and honored as she was by their company, their mournful remembrances were starting to get on her nerves. Harsel females were treated like honored ghosts by the other hars. At least Samad and Teller treated her like she was still alive. She would be dead soon enough as it was, and the thought of living on through her children was shallow com­fort sometimes.

  Teller listened to Samad recounting "The Tale of the Three Oranges." The boy was an eager student, but he questioned everything, and answering his questions took a lot of thought. Florio had probably hoped that teaching Samad

  would keep, her too busy to fret over the loss of Abeha. He was right, too, Teller thought with an ironic lift of one eye­brow. It was oddly comforting to find herself the subject of Florio's manipulation.

  But all this concern and distraction would not delay Abeha's death. Teller simply refused to think past the mo­ment of Abeha's death. Living without Abeha was, quite simply, unimaginable. She would deal with the harsel's death when it happened. Until then, Teller tried to live each day as normally as possible, despite the deathwatch of mournful harsels and somber har captains that surrounded them.

  And so time passed, blue sky over blue water by day, and dark water under dark sky at night. Each day was as pre­cious and distinct as a jewel. Teller turned her face away from the oncoming shadow, while those around her— Abeha, Samad, Florio, the har captains, and the harsels—all watched and worried.

  Then one day, a large, moist blister appeared on the in­side of Abeha's hold. Samad pointed it out to Teller, who gently ran a finger over it.

  "my eggs are ripening," Abeha told them, "the crew

  POD MUST COME OUT. I THOUGHT I HAD MORE TIME."

  "How soon?" Teller asked, focusing on Abeha's immedi­ate needs and trying not to think about what they implied. "one day, maybe two. by the third day, there'll be

  DAMAGE."

  Teller nodded. "We don't have a lot of choices for a har­bor. We're about a day's sail from the Jazayir al Hudr Arch­ipelago. The island of Jerba al-Haddis has a good sheltered harbor, as I recall, but the currents are very strong this time of year. Reaching the island will be tricky. But it's our best choice. We'll head there with a couple of har captains to es­cort us in case we have to pull the pod early. The pod's only barely seaworthy on her own. We'll need a tow."

  "at least the feeding will be rich on the way."

  Teller smiled. "You're turning into a pig," she remarked.

  "the more I eat, the longer i'll live," Abeha replied.

  Teller's face grew grim. Her wall of denial was crumbling under the weight of too much truth. She needed to get away from those horrible bulging blisters for a while. "I'm going to go lie down," she said. "Let me know if there are any problems."

  Samad watched her step into the crew pod. "Abeha, what are we going to do without the pod?"

  "you'll have to ride with one of the other cap­tains," Abeha explained, "or buy a larger boat, the dory's a weatherly craft, but it's not big enough for long cruises."

  "I see," Samad said. "No wonder Teller's upset. Should I go in or leave her alone?"

  "I THINK ALONE IS BETTER RIGHT NOW," Abeha Said.

  Samad stood silently inside Abeha's hold, listening to her hearts beating.

  "Once your eggs ripen, can we come into your hold?" he asked her.

  "no, samad, i'm afraid not."

  Samad nodded, feeling a deep canyon of loss opening in­side him. "I'll miss this. I'll miss you."

  "i know," Abeha said, "and i'll miss you, too. it'll

  BE LONELY WITHOUT YOU LIVING INSIDE ME. BUT YOU'LL STILL BE ABLE TO RIDE ON MY BACK."

  Samad gently touched the blister on the wall of Abeha's hold.

  "Does it hurt?" he asked.

  "no, samad, i'm fine."

  "I wish things were different, that you could have babies and live."

  "SO DO I, SAMAD BUT THINGS ARE THE WAY THEY ARE."

  Samad could feel Abeha's sorrow. This was the first of many losses for her. He leaned carefully against the wall of her hold, letting his grief mingle with the harsel's.

  "I love you, Abeha."

  "I KNOW, SAMAD. I LOVE YOU, TOO."

  The blisters inside Abeha's hold grew larger and more nu­merous as they approached the Jazayir al-Hudr Archipelago. As the next day's dawn broke, they saw the mountaintops of Jerba al-Haddis in the distance.

  By noon they had reached the windward side of the is­land. But the current was strong, and the wind was against them. It would take days to reach the leeward side, and the harbor they were seeking.

  "We'll have to find another island." Teller declared. "Abeha, how are you doing?"

  "the pod must come out soon, tonight, if possi­ble, TOMORROW MORNING AT THE LATEST."

  Teller called up the relevant charts on her display tablet. "Let's head for here." Her finger tapped a C-shaped island with no name, only a designation number. The tablet zoomed in on the island, and Teller peered at it. "The chart says that the water is deep, and there's a good anchorage there. With luck and a favorable wind, we'll reach it by midafternoon."

  But the winds and currents continued to be contrary, and late afternoon found them only halfway to their new goal. Teller consulted her charts again and found a tiny cluster of islands only a few kilometers ahead.

  "We'll shelter between these two islands. The moons are both near full; we'll be able to float the pod out after sunset if we have to."

  "good," said Abeha. "the sooner the better, those

  BLISTERS ARE READY TO BURST."

  The sun was nearly touching the horizon as they reached the channel between the two islands. They were sheltered from the w
ind and the current, but the water was still very choppy.

  Teller stood on Abeha's back and frowned down at the rough sea.

  "It's going to be tricky, getting the pod out without bumping the sides in this swell."

  "some of the blisters have already burst, teller, we have to do it now."

  "We'll fasten tow ropes to the pod," Teller told Abeha. "You submerge. I'll go in and release the anchor lines, and the harsels will steady the pod as we ease it out."

  "you could get hurt if the pod shifts when you're in there," Abeha cautioned.

  "I'll be careful."

  The sun was sinking as they set the tow ropes. Abeha folded her sail, opened her hold, and sank beneath the waves.

  "all right, teller." Abeha said, "be careful."

  Teller nodded, then put on her mask and breathing gear, while Samad watched anxiously from the back of another harsel. It was growing dark by now, and he watched the boiling patch of water that marked the spot where Abeha had sunk beneath the choppy waves. Samad found himself holding his breath in sympathy with Teller. The minutes passed, and the tension mounted. No one said a word.

  "Maybe we should—" one of the har captains began, breaking the seal of silence.

  Just then, Teller's head broke the surface. She spat out the mouthpiece of her breather. "Pull!" she shouted. "Pull now!"

  The two harsels took up the slack with a couple of strokes of their massive tails. They shifted out of the eye of

  the wind, each on a separate tack, letting the wind and their sails do the work of pulling the crew pod out of Abeha's hold under her direction. A few minutes later, the pod bobbed to the surface, followed by Abeha.

  "Abeha? How are you? Did the pod hurt your eggs?" Teller shouted as she swam toward the harsel.

  "I'M FINE. I FELT A BUMP OR TWO AS IT WAS PULLED

  out, but IT didn't do much damage," Abeha informed Teller and Samad.

  Samad passed on the message to the other har captains, who nodded and smiled in relief. Teller swam over to the harsel that carried Samad and pulled herself onto its broad back.