Storyteller

by Amy Thomson

"Thank you, aghapitos, thank you for everything!" Teller said, hugging him.

  "I thought we might have to leave quickly, if something happened to Abeha."

  "It's a good thing you did. I want to take a look at where Abeha scraped herself on the rock, and make sure that she's really all right."

  They scooped up their gear and started back down the trail to the inn, following what had become a well-beaten path. It was all Samad could do to keep from breaking into a run, so eager was he to be off this island. It was a beautiful place, but there were so many dark and uneasy memories here. He glanced at the taverna, over on the next ridge, and remembered that night out on the patio with a queasy sense of fear. He pushed the memory away. It was time to move on.

  They hurried along, all of them eager to leave. When they reached the taverna, Teller went in to thank the Uber­aguas. Samad waited outside. It was quiet. All of the tourists had gone down to the bay, armed with bottles, to capture some of the milt-stained water. With the guests gone, the old inn felt abandoned and lonely. In a day or two, this place would be just another sleepy out-island like any other, with more sheep than people, shipping their wine, olive oil, wool, and mutton off to distant ports of call three or four times a year. According to Florio, the inn was shut down between matings, and the Uberaguas went back to farming and sheepherding till the harsels returned again. The flashy, thrill-seeking off-worlders would go back to Nueva Ebiza, and from there to the stars, leaving Thalassa to its own again. Samad could hardly wait for them to leave his world alone.

  Erramun Uberagua came out of one of the buildings, a huge bundle of laundry slung over one massive shoulder. He glanced over at Samad, nodded, and continued on his way, oblivious to the wave of terror that rolled over Samad. A few minutes later, Florio and Teller emerged from the inn with Alazne Uberagua, who walked with them to the gates of the estate.

  "I hope we'll see you again, Teller," she said. "You'll al­ways have a welcome with the Uberagua family."

  Teller smiled. "Thank you, Alazne."

  "Well then," Alazne said with the briskness of one trying to cover up sudden sorrow. "We will carry you in our hearts until then."

  "As I carry your entire family in my heart," Teller replied. The two women embraced.

  Alazne turned to Florio. "And you, stay out of trouble," she scolded affectionately.

  "I will, Tia Alazne." He stepped forward and kissed her formally on both cheeks. The old woman patted his face. "You're a good boy, Florio. Visit when you can. We miss you when you're not here."

  Then the old woman turned to Samad. "I wish we'd got­ten to know each other better, young man. Perhaps next time?"

  Samad nodded.

  "And take care of Teller, eh?"

  "I will," Samad replied. "Whenever she lets me."

  Alazne laughed. "That's always the problem, isn't it?" She shook her head. "Ay, she's a tough one to help." She smiled and kissed Samad lightly on the forehead. "Vaya con Dios, mijo."

  "Vaya con Dios, tia," he replied politely.

  Then they were on their way. Samad glanced back to see Alazne standing there before the stark, whitewashed stone pillars of the gate, a tiny woman garbed in black, watching them leave.

  "I hope I see her again," Teller said. "She's become an old woman since I last saw her." There was a lonely note in her voice. Samad glanced up at her and was surprised to dis­cover tears in her eyes.

  Florio shrugged. "The Uberaguas are a long-lived family."

  "I know, but I get so tired of watching people get old." Her voice sounded bleak and very tired.

  "We all do, aghapitee. We all do," Florio soothed, putting his arm around her. "Come on. Let's go see if Abeha's all right."

  CHAPTER 9

  TELLER STOOD ON THE DECK OF THE ESMERALDA, looking out at the choppy gray sea. Abeha and her es­cort of harsel males were feeding on a rich patch of plankton. Abeha's tall sail made her easy to spot, even though she wal­lowed heavily in the water, her hold full of ripening eggs.

  In the two months since they had left Zafran Bay, Abeha had continued to gorge herself while her fertilized eggs ripened inside her. The harsels had headed south, to the rich feeding grounds on the edge of the Great South Sea.

  Sometime in the depths of midwinter, Abeha's eggs would hatch. A milky substance secreted by the walls of her hold would nourish the two-inch long hatchlings. The more Abeha ate, the longer she could feed the mindless, hungry harlings sheltering in her womblike hold. The longer the hatchlings stayed in her hold, the bigger they would be, and the better their chances for survival when they emerged.

  Teller had never seen a female harsel as fat as Abeha. And

  she had gained this weight despite the deep, raking gashes in her keel from the fanged rocks of the Narrows. Teller closed her eyes, remembering the blood in the water and the gallons of wound sealant that she and half a dozen other har captains had hurriedly applied to the bone-deep gashes. Abeha had been right. The next mating would have been too late. But that didn't make it any easier to accept the harsel's approaching death.

  Samad stuck his head out of the deckhouse.

  "The weather report on the radio's predicting a blow to­night," Samad called over the rising wind. "Should we put on more storm lashings?"

  Teller nodded. The storm was no surprise. She'd seen the mackerel belly clouds closing in at dawn. The barometer had fallen steadily throughout the morning, too. It was the third serious gale in the last ten days. The winter weather was closing in. The harsels seemed to thrive amid the gales, but the. Esmeralda couldn't handle the high winds and mountainous seas of winter in the Great South Sea.

  It was time to head back to port. If Teller had been alone, she'd have stayed until the boat sank and took her with it, but she couldn't risk Samad's life.

  "All right, Samad. You put on the storm lashings, and I'll reef the sail," Teller told him. "After the storm blows over, we're heading back to Viento."

  "For the season?" Samad asked, looking unhappy.

  "I'm afraid so, Samad. It's just getting too dangerous out here. We've already stayed out long past any other boat on record."

  "But—"

  "No, Samad. It's too dangerous."

  "I was hoping to stay out until Abeha's eggs hatch."

  "So was I, but we just can't stay out here any longer."

  He sighed. "It's going to be a very long winter."

  Poor Samad; he hated Viento. Teller couldn't blame him. The barren, rocky island lived up to its windy name. There was grazing for sheep in the sheltered upland valleys, but most of the people on Viento were fisherman, who stayed in port during the turbulent storms of winter. She'd never wintered this far south before because of the harsh weather. But living on Viento had given them nearly three weeks more this fall, and she'd probably see Abeha at least two weeks sooner in the spring.

  "Hey, Teller, look on the bright side. We can always get jobs nailing down sheep so they don't blow away."

  Teller laughed, grateful for his company. He would make this long, cold, miserable winter less lonely.

  "Gracias, mijito," Teller said.

  "What for?" Samad asked.

  "For putting up with a crabby old lady," she replied.

  "Oh, I'm just putting up with you for the chance to stay on Viento. It's such a charming place, and the people are so outgoing!"

  Teller laughed.

  "I'm so glad to hear that, Samad. I was thinking of retir­ing there, but I wasn't sure you'd like it," she teased.

  Samad looked horrified. "If that's the case, then maybe I should just jump overboard and end it all, now!"

  "Not before you put on those storm lashings!" Teller scolded.

  Samad looked up as the door flew open. Teller came in with an armload of damp peat, letting in several gallons of rain. He got up and helped her push the door shut, thinking for the thousandth time how much he hated Viento, with its endless wind and sideways rain. They'd been here for three months now, and it felt like forever.

&nb
sp; "Are the sheep still nailed down?" Samad asked. The joke

  was wearing thin by now, but there wasn't much else to laugh at. The wind seemed to have scoured all the humor out of the dour fisherfolk and the silent, stoic shepherds. Teller told the traditional tales, which were received with a grunt and a shrug of thanks. Samad's shorter, funny stories received only stares and silence, except for one or two of the youngest kids, who were cuffed into a decent and respectful reticence by their elders.

  "A harsel came into port today," Teller mentioned as she knelt near the hearth with her armload of peat bricks.

  Infected by the islanders' taciturnity, Samad raised his eyebrows in a wordless question.

  "He came by to let me know that Abeha's eggs have hatched. The hatchlings are thriving. Abeha's keeping her weight up." Teller started stacking the peat next to the fire­place, careful to arrange the damp peat in a crisscross fash­ion so that air could circulate between the bricks and dry them.

  "Good," Samad replied.

  "The ice is starting to break up, farther south," Teller added, propping several bricks up close to the fire to dry. "The harsels will be heading north soon. They'll start arriv­ing in a couple of weeks. Our stay in Purgatory is nearly at an end."

  "I'm looking forward to seeing Abeha even more than I'm looking forward to leaving," Samad said.

  Teller nodded, then looked into the fire for a long mo­ment, a brick of peat in one hand.

  "You've never seen a female harsel give birth, have you?"

  It was a rhetorical question, and Samad didn't even bother to shake his head.

  "I've seen it. Too many times." She glanced up at him, her eyes full of old pain. "It's hell, Samad. It's a long, slow, ugly decline. The harsels try to make it seem noble with lots

  of sad songs of sacrifice, but it's a horrible way to die." She sighed. "We'll be getting off this awful goddamned island, but things aren't going to improve much." She was silent for a long while, considering. "Samad, I want you to prom­ise you'll let me know if it gets to be too much for you. I'll find you someplace to stay until it's over."

  "I promised Abeha—" Samad began.

  "I know what you promised her, Samad, but Abeha's not human. She doesn't understand when she's asking too much of a child."

  Abeha wasn't the only one who asked too much of him, Samad thought, remembering some of the grim nights Teller had spent drinking this winter.

  He met Teller's eyes, his gaze unwavering. "I need to be there as much as you do," he told her. "Even if it is unpleas­ant and ugly. I watched the drugs take my mother, and that was bad, too. If I can do that, I can watch Abeha's death as well."

  Teller smoothed her hands down the thighs of her drying trousers and shook her head.

  "You were too young to have any choice with your mother, Samad. But you have one with Abeha. You can leave if it gets too bad. I'll understand, and I'll make sure that Abeha does, too. Or you can stay all the way through to the grim and bloody end if you want to. But I want you to know that you have the freedom to choose."

  "I understand," Samad said. "I'll stay."

  "As you wish," Teller said. "Now that's settled, how are you doing on those math problems I gave you the other day?"

  Abeha arrived at Viento about three weeks later. From a dis­tance, the huge harsel looked pretty much the same, but as she glided up to the dock, Teller saw that Abeha was riding

  lower in the water than when they'd last seen her. The harsel was already drawing on her fat stores in order to secrete food for the thousands of hatchlings in her hold.

  Teller stepped onto the harsel's back. Last fall, Abeha's skin had been stretched tight over a hard layer of thick fat. Now the harsel's skin gave slightly as she walked on it, an­other sign of Abeha's diminishing stores of fat. Teller tried not to let her grief show on her face or in her thoughts.

  "my little harlings are doing well in there," Abeha announced proudly, "I can feel them wriggling.

  THEY TICKLE."

  Teller, too horrified to speak aloud or inwardly, said nothing.

  "i'm not in pain," Abeha reassured her. "and my fat

  STORES ARE HOLDING WELL. I SHOULD BE ABLE TO LAST FIVE OR SIX MONTHS MORE, IF THE FEEDING IS GOOD."

  "Oh, Abeha, we have so little time!" Teller finally man­aged.

  "WE HAVE ALL THE NOW THERE IS."

  "It's still not enough." Teller lamented, tears coursing down her cheeks.

  "I know, but it is what we have," Abeha said gently.

  Teller nodded through her tears. She knelt on the harsel's broad back and wept until the knot inside her was gone. In its place was a still, bottomless pool of unending sadness. Abeha took in Teller's grief and shared her own sadness at leaving this beautiful, living world for the cold unknown of death.

  "Oh Abeha, I've missed you so much." Teller said when she could speak again.

  "and i have missed you," Abeha replied, "my other

  HALF."

  "Yes," Teller said. "As you are mine."

  They were silent for a long while, sharing their happiness

  at being together, trying to stay in the present, with no thought for the future.

  "how is samad?" Abeha asked at last.

  "Good. He misses you, too. He's been waiting until we're ready for him to join us."

  "come on over, samad," Abeha said, "I want to feel

  YOUR FEET ON MY BACK. I'VE MISSED YOU SO MUCH!"

  Teller and Abeha shared a flash of amusement at the boy's eagerness as Samad ran down the dock and leaped onto Abeha's back. With a pang, Teller remembered that he was only eleven years old. They had loaded so much onto his shoulders in the past year.

  "Hello Abeha!" he called, coming forward to embrace the harsel's mast. "I missed you. It's been a long winter. And there's been nothing to do but study," he complained.

  "and did you learn much?" Abeha asked, amused.

  Samad shrugged. "I guess. Nothing very interesting, ex­cept for some new stories."

  "He learned a lot!" Teller protested.

  "of course he did. i can tell," Abeha soothed, "he

  FEELS EVEN SMARTER THAN WHEN I LEFT."

  "Really?" Samad said. "I feel smart?"

  "most of the time you do," Abeha said, gently amused, "are you ready to leave this fascinating is­land?" she inquired.

  "Absolutely!" Samad said eagerly.

  "We need a few hours to get some fresh provisions and make our farewells. But the Esmeralda is ready to go," Teller replied. "We could be ready to leave by the evening tide if we hurry. I don't want to keep you from the grazing grounds for too long," Teller said.

  "it's all right, teller," Abeha said, "one day spent

  NOT EATING WON'T MAKE MUCH DIFFERENCE IN THE LONG RUN."

  "Perhaps," Teller replied, looking grim. "But it might mean another day or two of life for you. We should get busy."

  They squared accounts with their landlord, said a brief good-bye to the host of the local taverna, and hurried to buy their supplies. The Esmeralda set sail as the red glow of the sunset faded from the sky. As they sailed away, Samad looked back at Viento. A scattered handful of waxy yellow lantern lights gleamed against the island's black bulk.

  "God, I'm glad to leave!" Samad said. "That must be the most godforsaken place on the planet!"

  "Oh no," Teller said. "There are worse places, and I've spent longer in some of them than we have here on Viento."

  "How did you manage?" Samad asked.

  "Just like I'm doing now," Teller said. "One day at a time, one foot in front of the other, until it's all over with." Teller glanced over at Abeha sailing just off their starboard bow, her sail silhouetted against the dying sunset. "I wish I was as good at it as I used to be," she said thoughtfully.

  "You need some food," Samad declared and went below to make dinner.

  The gathering night plucked at Teller's resolve as she tried to fend off the looming, dark cloud of grief that was a constant presence in her life now.

  "O
ne day at a time. One foot in front of the other, until it's all done," she muttered to herself as she adjusted the helm slightly to keep on course.

  As the year slid slowly from winter to spring, Teller and Samad followed Abeha and her escorts as they moved north­ward. They followed an erratic course toward the equator, moving from one rich bloom of plankton to the next. Abeha ate almost continually now, but that only slowed the loss of her reserves as she secreted food for the growing harlings inside her. Teller spent every minute she could spare on the harsel's back. By late spring she had given up even the pre­tense of teaching Samad.

  They were nearing the tropics now, and the fat was melt­ing from Abeha's bones like wax near a flame.

  "What happens when you run out of food to feed the har­lings?" Samad asked Abeha, as she crisscrossed a patch of plankton.

  "then they eat their way out," Abeha told him.

  "But why?" Samad asked, appalled. "Can't you just open your hold and let the harlings go?"

  "no i can't, samad, the opening to my hold has fused shut. my body will be my last gift to the chil­DREN who will carry my memories," Abeha said.

  "Won't it hurt?"

  "yes, it will, but the other harsels will help drown the pain with their mindsongs."

  "Are you afraid?"

  "sometimes, yes. but my mother made the same sacrifice for me, and her mother for her, and so on as far back as harsel memory reaches. it is a sacri­fice that is part of who we are."

  "I wish things were different."

  "I'VE LIVED A VERY LONG, RICH LIFE. MY MEMORIES WILL BE CELEBRATED BY MANY GENERATIONS OF HARSELS. MY ONLY REGRET IS THE GRIEF I AM CAUSING TELLER. BUT HER LOVE FOR YOU MAKES ME FEEL BETTER ABOUT MY DEATH. I WILL NOT BE LEAVING HER ALL ALONE."

  "She says that you ask too much of me."

  "AH, BUT I KNOW THAT YOU ARE STRONG ENOUGH TO DO WHAT I ASK. I KNOW THAT YOU WILL NOT LET HER DIE."

  "I won't," Samad agreed, remembering his mother, lying cold and dead in her bed. He wouldn't let Teller die. This

  time he was going to fight death and win. But even in the fierce heat of his determination there was a cold seed of fear in his heart at the immensity of the burden he had promised to carry for Abeha.