Storyteller

by Amy Thomson

  "Once there was and twice there wasn't an old man who lived over on the island of Chelm. Now this old man had a mule who loved apples above all else on this world. ..."

  Samad's attention wandered away from the familiar story of the foolish old man and his mule. He looked out over the audience, watching the off-worlders in their shiny fabrics, a

  fortune in precious metals winking at ears, throats, and cuffs. They seemed so gaudy and out of place in this plain room with its thick stucco walls and dark, massive timbers. He tried to imagine telling them about the Compact, and couldn't. How could they understand? They'd never lived on one of the out-islands. They had no idea how lonely it could be; how dependent most of the people of Thalassa were on the harsels and their captains. The har captains brought trade, company, and the kind of news and gossip that could only be told over a mug of foamy beer or a cup of coffee.

  ". . . and so the mule became mayor of Chelm, and he governed as wisely as any of the human inhabitants of that island until the end of his days."

  The audience laughed and applauded, and Samad re­laxed. Perhaps he could tell these strangers a story. And if he could tell a story to an audience as exotic and distracting as these people, he could tell a story to anyone.

  When the applause subsided, Florio began the story of Nazreddin and the three har captains. Samad listened to the convoluted nonsense tale with a nostalgic smile. Even though he knew the tale by heart, and could tell it himself, he laughed with the rest of the audience at the sudden, wry twist that brought the tale to its end.

  Then Florio was introducing him, and it was time to get up and tell his story. He checked the drape of his Apprentice cape and stepped onto the stage.

  The lights were so bright that the audience was just a dim blur in the darkness. He sat down upon the stool, re­membering to keep his back straight.

  "This is the true story of how the Pilot and the harsel's Council of Memory created the Compact that brought hu­mans and harsels together on Thalassa," he began.

  "Four centuries ago, Thalassa was a very different place.

  The colony was still in its first generation. Its human popu­lation was barely twenty thousand people, mostly refugees from the Mediterranean basin following the explosive erup­tion of Stromboli. Metal was scarce, there were few boats, and the comm network was unreliable. There was almost no interisland trade. Isolated settlements could easily be cut off from the outside world. Life was precarious, difficult, and lonely.

  "It was here on the Isla de Zafran that one of the most important events in our world's history occurred. In the time of this story, Zafran had been recently settled by the Uberagua family, ancestors of the family that owns this ex­cellent inn. Back then, there were only a few sapling fruit trees. The groves of olive trees and the vineyards had not been planted. Like many of the settlers on neighboring is­lands, the Uberaguas herded cattle. Hoping to make more money by selling leather instead of raw hides, they built a tannery at the mouth of the Kurkum River, which runs into the head of the harsels' mating bay. The tannery grew and prospered, taking in hides from nearby settlements and turning them into finished leather.

  "But the Uberaguas had underestimated the height of the mating tides, and the tannery was flooded, releasing thousands of gallons of noxious tanning agents into the pure water of the river. As the tide receded, a cloud of noxious tanning chemicals washed over the assembled harsels. The surviving harsels fled on the next high tide, their gills scarred. The har females, unable to mate, beached them­selves and died a slow, painful, and dishonorable death. It was the first failed mating in two thousand years.

  "In response to this disaster, the harsels convened a Council of Memory, an assembly of senior harsels charged with holding the memories of their people. After deliberating for several weeks about what to do, the Council sent a delegation to see what had happened to Zafran Bay.

  "At high tide, the Council's delegation sent a young harsel up the shallow river to the site of the tannery to see what had happened. The youngster returned with the news that the humans were rebuilding the tannery. Harsels are extremely slow to anger, but the reconstruction of the tan­nery was an insult that they could not ignore. The delega­tion decided that it was time to let the humans know of their anger. They summoned every harsel in the Samali Sea to come to Zafran. They came by the hundreds as fast as their sails could move them.

  "When enough harsels were assembled, they unleashed a torrent of angry mindsong against the twenty human set­tlers living on Zafran. At first the mindsong was like the buzzing of a fly against a windowpane, but as more harsels arrived, it grew in intensity. Soon thousands of harsels sur­rounded the island, with more coming every day. Even the most mind-blind humans on the island felt the harsels' anger hammering against their skulls. Infants screamed continuously, children rocked and pounded their heads against walls until they had to be physically restrained by adults who could barely think through their own agony. The settlers retreated to the central mountains, where the pain was less intense, leaving behind their livestock and gardens.

  "By the time word reached the Pilot, the settlers on Zafran had endured ten days of this mental siege, and the harsels showed no sign of stopping. Through her harsel, the Pilot explained to the Council of Memory that the humans did not realize what they had done. She asked for and re­ceived several days' worth of peace from the harsels while she went to talk to the besieged settlers. She beached her

  dinghy and walked up into the hills, where they had taken shelter from the pain.

  "Pale and shaken, the settlers emerged from the caves where they had been hiding. They greeted the Pilot with grateful eagerness. Their eagerness turned to dismay and anger when she explained the source of the mental assault and why the harsels were doing this.

  " 'But my baby died,' one mother said, 'and look at my other two children!'

  "The two children, a boy and a girl, sat next to each other, rocking and unresponsive. Next to them sat another half dozen children, all under the age of six, all lost to the outer world. The Pilot recoiled in horror.

  " 'My husband couldn't stand the pain,' another woman said. 'He went outside and shot himself. And Edurne's little son died, too. He wouldn't eat and couldn't sleep. There was nothing we could do to help him.'

  " 'I-I'm sorry.' The Pilot said. 'Your suffering has been terrible, and I share the pain of your loss. But there has been suffering on both sides. Hundreds of harsels perished in great pain when the tannery flooded. The harsels insist that the tannery must not be rebuilt. I have been sent to try to settle this issue.'

  "And so began a long and difficult negotiation. The set­tlers wanted recompense for their suffering, and for the loss of their livestock and crops, as well as for moving the tan­nery. The harsels, who owned nothing, had no understand­ing of the human's material losses. And just as the settlers were beginning to soften, a delegation from the colonial government arrived to straighten things out, and every­thing began all over again.

  "The harsels were growing impatient; some threatened to begin the mental assault again. The settlers, furious over the damage done to their children, were adamant in their

  demands for restitution. The talks were breaking down. It was looking very bad for everyone involved. Then the Pilot's harsel made a suggestion.

  " 'Harsels have no money, nor any pockets to keep money in, nor hands to pay money with,' the Pilot's harsel said. 'But perhaps we can create something that will help all hu­mans and all harsels on this world. I propose a partnership between harsels and humans. Harsels will partner with hu­mans and carry people and their things from island to is­land, as I transport my partner.'

  " 'And perhaps the losses the settlers have incurred can be repaid from the revenues made by that partnership,' the Pi­lot suggested.

  " 'But what about my daughter?' demanded the mother of one of the dead infants.

  " 'And my husband,' demanded another settler.

  " 'And our lost children who stare
into space?' said another.

  " 'Who among you can bring back our dead?' asked the Pilot's harsel. 'We have lost many of our own, and the off­spring that would have carried on their line. There is noth­ing we can do for the dead, except remember them. But perhaps our healers can help the children we have harmed.'

  "And so the lost children were carried out to the harsel's mindsingers. And the mindsingers sang the children back into themselves. Healing the children made all the differ­ence. The parents, relieved that their children were well again, backed down on their demands for reparations. The harsels were so appalled by the damage they had done to the humans' children that they were eager to atone by entering into partnership with humans. Once the initial anger and misunderstandings were resolved, the rest was relatively easy.

  "The tannery was moved to the other side of the island and placed well out of reach of the highest mating tides.

  The colonial government placed strict controls on the efflu­ent from the tannery.

  "The initial source of irritation resolved, the Council of Memory entered into talks with the colonial government, with the Pilot and her harsel acting as translators and medi­ators. After several months of careful talks, they agreed upon a formal Compact. Humans were prohibited from harming or interfering with the harsels in any way. The harsels' mating bays were identified and placed under the highest degree of human protection. Harsels, in return, promised never to launch another mental attack on a human settlement. The basic rules governing a harsel-human part­nership were agreed upon. A mechanism for resolving any future differences between harsels and humans was created. The Compact was ratified and signed by the colonial gov­ernment, and solemnized in mindsong by the harsels. Every schoolchild on this world must know the Compact by heart. Immigrants must memorize the Compact in order to qual­ify for citizenship. Every adult harsel can sing the mindsong about the Compact.

  "The harsels and the Pilot found and trained the first har captains. Soon a modest but growing fleet of har captains traded goods and transported people, passing along news and gossip, and connecting the out-islanders to the larger world. The profession became considered both profitable and honorable. The injured settlers of Zafran received full reparations. The tariffs paid to the harsels have been in­vested in projects to aid and assist them. Sophisticated weather forecasts are passed along to the harsels, helping them avoid storms and dangerous seas. A network of float­ing clinics and hospitals has improved the harsels' health, fertility, and longevity. Because of the Compact, humans have been able to settle remote islands and create a reliable trading network that supports those islands. Over the centuries, harsels and humans have achieved a peaceful coexis­tence. Together we have prospered more than either would have separately."

  Samad paused a moment before delivering the last line of his account. "But most of all, here on Thalassa, humans are not alone." He thought of Abeha as he said this, and his heart swelled, and tears prickled at the backs of his eyelids.

  The story over, Samad stepped away from the storyteller's seat and bowed to his audience. Applause and even cheers for his tale swelled and lingered, especially among the lo­cals. He ducked his head, surprised by their response. The audience had listened and liked his story. He felt pleased, relieved, and overwhelmed in equal measure.

  Florio stepped back onstage as the applause died. He thanked Samad, squeezing his shoulder encouragingly. Samad bowed again, and stepped into the welcome, anony­mous offstage shadows. Now that the story was over, he felt oddly restless and jittery.

  Samad slipped out of the stuffy taverna onto the stone-paved patio. Scattered across the patio were a dozen small wood tables where couples sat, knees touching, faces illumi­nated by flickering candlelight. It was no place to be alone.

  In search of greater solitude, Samad wandered down the hill to a graveled terrace overlooking the dark water of the bay. There was a low wall around the terrace that marked where the hill began to slope more sharply down to the bay. Samad stepped over the wall, onto the sparse grass and gravel below. He settled back against the wall, alone with the wind, the hillside, and the dark void of the bay. In the distance, he could hear the harsels singing. Closing his eyes, he listened inwardly to the distant chorus of mindsong. There was a new excitement tonight. Samad felt aware of his body in a way he never had before. The harsels' singing reached a peak and then dissolved into the chaos of thousands of males singing individual courting songs. Samad opened his eyes and sat up. The mating had begun.

  He was about to get up and tell the Uberaguas, but then he heard the crunch of gravel underfoot. Two people were on the terrace. Uncertain what to do, Samad hesitated.

  "At last," said a man with an off-world accent. "I've been trying to get you alone all night long."

  "I'm here now," another man with a deep bass rumble of a voice replied. He sounded familiar, his accent was local, but Samad couldn't tell who it was.

  Then there was the soft rustle of clothing, and the whis­per of two people moving together in the darkness. Samad listened, wondering what they were doing. He peered over the wall but could only see the faint gleam of an off-worlder's shirt, nearly swallowed in the shadow of another, much larger man.

  "Oh, yes," the off-worlder sighed. "There. That feels so good."

  A wave of horrified realization swept over Samad. The two men were having sex. He crept softly along the low wall, afraid of what would happen if they discovered him there. He reached the shadows where the wall tapered into the hillside, and looked back. The two men shifted position slightly, and light from the distant patio illumined them for a brief moment. His breath caught in surprise. He didn't care about the off-worlder. But the man with him was Erramun Uberagua.

  Gripped by a sudden, helpless fascination, Samad watched the outworlder reach down to caress Erramun.

  "Oh my," the off-worlder purred. "You're big all over."

  Samad became aware of a strange tightness and heat cen­tered in his groin that grew as he watched the two men fon­dle each other. Frightened by the intensity of his feelings, he

  fled into the darkness, running until he tripped over a stone and fell.

  He lay on the grassy hillside, chest heaving, listening to the echoing throb of the harsels' mating songs in his mind. The harder he tried to rid his mind of Erramun and the off-worlder, the more vivid they seemed and the more urgent the tension and heat in his groin became. It must be the harsel's mating that made him feel like this. It couldn't be anything else. Two men having sex could not have aroused him. He wanted to be normal, like everyone else. He wanted a family, a known future, not some dark and terrifying mystery like this. As a child on the streets, other children had whispered warnings about men like the off-worlder and Erramun. He didn't want to be like that. He wouldn't be like that. He would be normal.

  But if he was normal, why hadn't Florio and Teller's pas­sion stirred him like this? He'd seen men and women in the midst of passion once or twice, and nothing had stirred within him. Why now? Why them? It must be because of the harsels' mating. The harsels' passionate mindsongs had woken something in him. It had to be. It had to. Gradually, his breathing slowed and his heart stopped hammering. He got up and went back to the taverna.

  The storytelling had just ended when Samad slipped back inside. Florio caught his eye, and Samad felt a sudden rush of fear. What if Florio knew what had happened?

  Florio excused himself from a crowd of admirers and came over to Samad.

  "Congratulations, Journeyman," Florio said, giving him a hug. "You really earned your cloak. I'm proud of you, and Teller will be, too. It isn't easy to turn a historical account into a tale that moves an audience."

  Samad shrugged. He'd been so startled by the encounter

  on the terrace that he'd almost forgotten the story he had told.

  "It needed better balance, more polish," Samad demurred.

  "Perhaps," Florio said. "And that will come. But you told the whole thing without stumbling or missing an imp
or­tant detail. And more importantly, you touched their hearts. Relax, Samad, you did fine."

  "Thank you, Florio," Samad told him. "The mating's started. I felt the singing change when I was outside."

  "Good, I'll tell Karmel. I thought Erramun was out there keeping track of things. He's talented at hearing the harsels. I've always thought he'd make a good har captain."

  Samad cast a quick, guilty glance at the door. Just then Erramun came in, his bulk filling the doorframe. Samad looked away, afraid that if he met Erramun's eyes, the big man would know that Samad had seen him. Five minutes later, Samad noticed the off-worlder on the patio, laughing and talking as though nothing had happened. Erramun treated the man with the same remote politeness that he showed toward the other off-worlders. Samad marveled at his casualness.

  "Samad!"

  Startled out of his reverie, Samad looked up at Florio. "What?"

  "Are you ready to go?" Florio asked him. "You looked like you were on the other side of the sun just now."

  "Let me get my pack."

  Samad trudged quietly behind Florio on the long walk home.

  "Are you all right, Samad?" Florio asked finally. "You seem quiet tonight. Are you thinking about your perfor­mance? I meant it when I said you did well."

  "I'm worried about Teller, Florio," Samad lied. He didn't

  know how to talk about what he'd seen and felt, out on the terrace. Florio was still too much of a stranger. And he didn't want to bother Teller. She had enough problems.

  "I understand, Samad," Florio said, "but I'm pretty sure she's fine."

  "Fine for now, I guess," Samad said, grateful to be dis­tracted from the images running through his head. "But when Abeha—" He hesitated, not wanting to say it. "When Abeha dies, what then?" he finished.