Storyteller

by Amy Thomson

  "then i am not afraid of death," Abeha told him.

  Another month passed. By the beginning of summer, every one of the massive bones of Abeha's skull, backbone, and ribs were visible under her skin. Teller could hardly bear to look at her. But the harsel's mental voice was as strong as ever. If she closed her eyes, Teller could pretend that Abeha was the same as always.

  "it won't be more than two or three weeks now." Abeha confided to Samad. That night, as Teller slept, Samad radioed the Guild with a message for Florio, asking him to come.

  Word also spread among the hars. Abeha's escort grew to several hundred harsels. The hars believed in mourning their dead while they still lived, that they might know how well loved they were. Their sad songs of mourning reverber­ated through Teller's mind until she thought she was going to go mad. Then she would sail out of range of the hars' ele­giac singing and stand on the bow, looking back at the sails on the horizon.

  Three weeks later, Samad woke Teller. "It's Abeha. Her sail—it doesn't work anymore!"

  Teller pushed past Samad and hurried to the deck. Abeha's magnificent purple sail trailed in the water like the broken wing of a drowned bird.

  "Abeha!" Teller shrieked. "No!"

  "it won't be long now, a few days, no more, it doesn't hurt," Abeha reassured her, "i'm just very . . .

  TIRED."

  Teller turned her head away. "I'm tired, too, Abeha. I wish I could just—"

  "remember the boy, teller, samad needs you. and my children will need you, too. you must be strong."

  "No, Abeha. You ask too much, I—"

  "i'm not asking, teller, there are things you must do when i am gone. let samad help. he can do more than you realize."

  "Abeha, no! He's only a child."

  "you underestimate him. there is such fierceness and strength in his love for you."

  Teller shook her head, so full of grief that she could not speak, even inwardly. Abeha cradled Teller in her mind, ac­cepting the grief and sharing her own sadness with Teller. There really was nothing more to say, nothing more to do. There was only the waiting and the sharing left.

  The next day a mixed fleet of harsels and man-made boats arrived, carrying grim-faced har captains and subdued fish­ermen. One of the fishing boats pulled up alongside the Es­meralda. Florio was aboard. Samad closed his eyes and breathed a quiet prayer of gratitude.

  "Yasou!" Florio called in greeting. "I thought I'd come and see if there was anything I could do. I brought a few friends with me, and some nets to help catch the harlings before they get eaten. I—"

  Florio stopped speaking, and a look of shock came over his face. Teller had emerged from the main cabin. Samad looked at her and realized how much she had changed in the last couple of months. She had lost weight. Her face looked gaunt, and her hair straggled every which way like a crazy woman's. He looked back down at the deck, suddenly ashamed. He had been so caught up with Abeha's health that he had forgotten to look after Teller.

  "Yasou, Florio, come aboard," Teller said.

  Florio handed over a couple of net bags full of food. There was fresh bread, a foam container of eggs, and a roast chicken. Samad's stomach growled, and he realized that Teller was not the only neglected one. He was suddenly con­scious of the tangled state of his own hair. When had he last combed it?

  "I brought some supplies," Florio offered. "There's lunch in here, too. The boy looks hungry, Teller. He needs feeding."

  "Goddammit, Florio! The last thing I need is a lecture on nutrition! Abeha's dying!"

  "I know, aghapitee. I've seen her. How long?"

  "Her bones have softened. She can't feed herself anymore. It's a matter of days, now." ' "How can I help?" Florio asked.

  Teller shook her head and turned away. "There's nothing anyone can do, Florio."

  "There is something that you can do to help Abeha, Teller."

  "What?"

  "She needs you to be strong. Eat. Both of you," he com­manded, glancing meaningfully at Samad. "You cannot help Abeha and her children if you are starving yourselves."

  "he's right." Abeha said, "eat, please, i need you to

  BE STRONG TO PROTECT MY HARLINGS."

  Florio bent over and took a cloth-wrapped jar out of one of the bags he carried. "Avgolemono. Your first course."

  The soup was warm and filling. Samad sat back from his empty bowl feeling more alert and aware than he had in days. He glanced over at Teller, whose bowl was still half full.

  "Come on, Teller. You need it as much as I do," Samad urged.

  Grudgingly, Teller began to eat. Samad glanced at Florio, who winked at him. Samad felt an immense wave of re­lief wash over him. He didn't have to go through this alone.

  Florio fixed their meals and helped coax Teller into eat­ing them. Teller started combing her hair again, and she looked a little less crazy. Samad felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted off of his shoulders.

  "teller, it's begun."

  Teller's eyes snapped open in the darkness, then closed again briefly.

  "I'm coming," she said and slid from her bunk. She dressed, climbed into the Esmeralda's inflatable raft, and rowed toward Abeha.

  The other harsels had drawn close to Abeha when the pain first began. Teller could hear their plaintive, high-pitched songs of comfort. The circle of attendants parted to let her row in. Teller removed her shoes and climbed onto Abeha's back. Her stomach churned with nausea as her feet sank into Abeha's spongy flesh with a soft squelching noise. Teller walked carefully over to the harsel's dorsal fin, which sagged over to one side, the bones too soft now to hold it upright.

  "I'm here, Abeha."

  "thank you."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "YES. BUT THAT DOESN'T MATTER. I NEED YOU TO RE­MEMBER WITH ME AS MY CHILDREN BEGIN TO EMERGE, SO THAT THEY WILL KNOW YOU AND REMEMBER YOU."

  "Yes, Abeha," Teller said obediently.

  "perhaps one day a child of mine will come to you and take the place that my death leaves open."

  Teller's heart squeezed. The thought of partnering with one of the greedy morsels that were eating their way out of

  Abeha's body made her feel ill. But she hid that thought, re­plying only, "Perhaps."

  "my children will not always be mindless animals, teller. promise me that if one of my children seeks you out, that you will make him feel welcome."

  "I-I'll try, Abeha," she faltered.

  "thank you, it eases my heart to know this," Abeha replied, "let us remember what we can, before it's too late."

  And together they dove deep into the well of their mem­ories, from their first unlikely meeting, to their years spent exploring Thalassa together.

  Abeha's memories twined with Teller's, memories of lift­ing Teller from the water, carrying the shuttle, and the months spent converting one of the Jump ship's lifeboats into a suitable crew pod. How clean and simple it had been, with only the harsels for company. There were memories of perfect blue-water sailing, just her and Abeha alone on the endless sea. There were islands explored and storms weath­ered, and Abeha's wonder of learning about life on land. There were the other harsels, some curious, some startled, and still others scandalized by their partnership. But as they came to know Teller better, the other harsels began to trust her, especially after she spent long hours cleaning their bot­toms and holds of parasites and seaweed.

  Then there was the excitement of seeing the winged sil­ver needle bearing the first colonists. Abeha had shared Teller's first exultation, and then her turmoil and fear at the prospect of seeing other humans. Instead of announcing her­self openly, Teller had put on her last set of good clothing and slipped into the crowd of people emerging from the sec­ond ship down.

  The colonists were too busy to question her origin. Vol­unteering to be on the exploration crew, she had "discovered" the orchards she had planted. When the company of the colonists became overwhelming, Teller would slip away with Abeha for a couple of weeks of companionable solitude.

&n
bsp; Abeha remembered carrying supplies on Teller's anony­mous rescue missions as the Pilot. Teller had helped many desperate colonists through a hard winter with gifts of food and supplies from her own surpluses. Sometimes she only left a note, pointing out an overlooked source of food, shel­ter, or fuel, or perhaps an essential tool bartered from some other, luckier homestead. It pleased her to provide this help anonymously, signing her notes only as "The Pilot." Grati­tude only made Teller feel awkward. She and Abeha had both reveled in the secrecy of it all.

  In a few years, other colonists began copying her good deeds, so that the Pilot appeared to be everywhere at once. When charitable organizations named after the Pilot began to flourish, Teller decided that her work as the Pilot was fin­ished. She settled down among the taciturn Corsicans who colonized the island of Bonifacio. It was there that she met and married Stephano. His silence absorbed her secrets like a sponge; heard, acknowledged, accepted, and then held close. The Corsicans were good at secrets, and the tight-knit community of Bonifacio accepted her without comment, grateful for her knowledge and expertise.

  Their memories wove gradually from the past to the pres­ent. Through centuries of partnership, of seeing ephemeral generations of humans come and go. The Har-Human Com­pact. The slow, steady growth of har-human partnerships and how they opened up new out-islands to settlers. There were Teller's keenly painful memories of the death of her family, and Abeha's memories of her slow, wordless healing.

  There was the creation of the Storytellers' Guild, and how it grew and changed the world yet again. Of stories found, recorded, and shared.

  Decades together became centuries of sharing. Over the last century there arose between them an increasing tension over Abeha's need to mate, and Teller's fear of losing her. And finally, they shared their memories of meeting Samad and the last three years, so rich with love and sorrow. Such long, long lives, so completely woven together, so full, so loving, so rich a tapestry of memories. They unrolled it for each other and admired what they had shared.

  The sun was fully up when they emerged from their en­twined memories into the bright, painful present.

  "you must go now," Abeha said, "the harlings will

  BEGIN TO EMERGE SOON, AND STAYING WILL BE DANGER­OUS. AND THE OTHER HARSELS WISH TO SING THEIR OWN MEMORY SONGS BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE."

  "Please, Abeha, don't make me live on alone! Let me die with you," Teller pleaded.

  "no," Abeha told her. "you must live, or my death

  WILL BE IN VAIN. YOU MUST CARRY ON MY MEMORIES AMONG THE HUMANS. WITHOUT YOU, THERE IS NO REMEMBERING."

  "Abeha!" Teller cried in anguish.

  "i will not let you die! go! please!" For the first time, Teller could feel the pain Abeha was in, and how much her control cost.

  Teller got up slowly, sadly. "I love you, Abeha."

  "I know. I love you, TOO." There was a surge of love, sadness, and regret from the harsel.

  Stepping into the little gray rubber boat was the hardest thing Teller had ever done. Teller could feel Abeha watch­ing her, feel the harsel's love and concern as she sat down and started to row jerkily away, blinded by tears. She bumped into something hard, a boat. Dimly, Teller heard Samad and Florio calling to her, felt them lift her up out of the boat. Teller sat in the bow of the sailboat watching the brilliant tropical sunlight flare and die on the water. Something essential had broken inside. She would never move again.

  Samad had been afraid since the moment when he woke up and found Teller's bunk empty. He had watched Teller sit on Abeha's broad back for three hours, and had almost man­aged to convince himself that everything was all right. But when Teller woke from her communion and lurched like a broken toy toward the raft, he suddenly knew. He called ur­gently to Florio as Teller began to row mechanically, with­out looking where she was going. They maneuvered the Esmeralda to intercept her and hauled her aboard. Now Teller huddled motionless on the deck of the boat. The harsels ranged around Abeha had begun singing with a des­perate new intensity.

  Now what? Samad wondered. He looked over at Florio, who shrugged helplessly.

  Samad sat down beside her. "Teller! Teller! It's Samad. Come on Teller, wake up!"

  Teller blinked as he passed his hand in front of her eyes. Other than that, there was no response. Her skin was icy cold.

  Florio knelt beside Teller and wrapped a blanket around her.

  "Come on, aghapitee. Wake up. We need you." He saw Samad glance at the blanket. "Shock. She's in shock. Lay her back on the deck. Raise her feet up a bit," Florio com­manded. "I'll get her something warm to drink. Once we rouse her, we'll need to keep her too busy to think."

  He returned a few minutes later, stirring something into a glass of warm water. He made Teller drink it all, a couple of sips at a time. A few minutes after she drained the glass, she began to move.

  "Wake up, aghapitee. Abeha needs you."

  Teller opened her eyes. "What?" she inquired.

  "The harlings are emerging, Teller. You have to tell us what to do. We need you to help us save Abeha's children," Florio urged.

  Florio's pleading seemed to wake her from her trance. Teller pushed herself up. "Bring the boat closer in. Is the tank ready? And the nets?"

  "Can you get the nets out?,Samad will start the water in the holding tank," Florio said. "I'll take us in closer to Abeha."

  "Tell the other boats to get ready," Teller told him.

  Samad ran back to the stern and turned on the pump. There was a low, smooth throbbing, and then seawater surged into the hundred-gallon holding tank mounted on the deck just aft of the helm. The Esmeralda settled a little by the stern as the tank filled.

  Florio skillfully maneuvered the boat until it was only a few meters away from Abeha. Something squirmed under Abeha's skin. Samad swallowed hard, nauseated by the sight. Then there was a bright flower of blood. A slender shape, silvery gray under a slick coating of bright red blood, writhed up out of the wound and slid into the water. Imme­diately one of the harsels surged forward, its mouth gaping wide, and scooped up the harling.

  "Once the young emerge into seawater, they stop eating. The harsel attendants take the harlings into their mouths to protect them from predators," Teller explained. "Later, the harlings are transferred to another harsel's hold. They'll live in the hold for a year or more, only coming out to feed. We help the harsels by catching the ones they miss."

  "Emergence is the most dangerous time for harlings. All the blood in the water draws predators from miles away," Teller continued. "We're here to rescue the harlings and try

  to drive off the predators. We'll try to catch as many har­lings as possible. When it's all over, we'll transfer them to the harsels. A good crew can sometimes save a hundred harlings."

  More harlings squirmed out from Abeha's body. Blood oozed from the wounds left by the harlings, staining the wa­ter red. Samad looked over at Teller, who stood frozen near the railing, several long-handled scoop nets in her arms. Samad realized that she had forgotten them. He took the nets from Teller.

  "What do I do with these?" he prompted, holding up one of the nets.

  Teller blinked and came back to herself. "You stand in the stern next to the tank. Watch for harlings, scoop them up like this," she moved the net in a long, smooth arc through the water, lifting it with a quick flick of her wrist. "Then put them in the holding tank. You need to work fast. Be careful. Don't lean over too far. There will be hungry manaos in the water, and some tibiria as well. They're after Abeha, but they'd be just as happy to take a bite out of you if you fell in."

  "Teller!" Florio called, holding up the microphone on the comm unit. "Ibrahim isn't sure about the nets. Come talk to him."

  By now the harlings were coming out two or three at a time. The attendant harsels were scooping them up as quickly as they could. The water around Abeha was stained with swirls of red. Samad saw a thin silver shape slip be­tween two harsels and scooped with his net.

  "I got one!" he called. He drew in
the net and looked at the slim, wriggling shape caught in the fine mesh. "That is, I think I've got one. Is this a harsel?" It was bigger than he'd expected, nearly half a meter long and silvery gray, more

  like an eel than a harsel with its mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. Its eyes were huge and round, and there was no sign of a sail, only a strange, bony fin on its back.

  Teller peered into the net. "That's a harling, all right. It's big! Abeha's offspring should do well! Go put it in the tank."

  "Manao!" someone shouted. Samad saw a dark, slender shadow cutting through the water toward the knot of harsels. He heard and felt the harsels' alarm. One of the harsels patrolling outside the ring of attendants folded its sail and dove toward the dark shadow of the predator. Samad saw the two shadows merge as the harsel rammed the manao, which swam away. But more shadows were ap­proaching. A fisherman with a harpoon got one, but another slipped past two harsels, only to be rammed by a third just outside the ring of attendants.

  "Samad!" Florio called. "Keep your eyes on the harlings! Let the others worry about the manaos."

  Dutifully, Samad returned to watching the water for har­lings. They were emerging thick and fast now. He saw a tight cluster of several harlings circling in confusion. He netted two, but the others scattered. Samad quickly dumped the baby harsels into the holding tank and turned to scoop up more. Teller was netting and dumping harlings with a fierce concentration. Soon he was dipping and run­ning and dipping again so quickly that he had no time to watch for predators in the swiftly reddening water.

  "samad?" Abeha said as he dumped another toothy, squirming harling back in the tank.

  Samad stopped and straightened in surprise. "Abeha? Is that you?"

  "NOT FOR MUCH LONGER. I WANTED TO SAY GOOD-BYE. THANK YOU FOR SAVING MY YOUNG, AND FOR LOOKING AF­TER teller." Abeha's voice sounded faint and distant.

  "and thank you for letting me be one of your par­ents. IT WAS A RARE GIFT TO WATCH YOU GROW UP."

  "Abeha!" Samad called. "I love you!"

  "I KNOW. AND I LOVE YOU. WE WILL REMEMBER YOU, SAMAD. WE WILL AL----"

  Just then a swift-moving shadow slipped through the at­tendants and hurtled toward the dying harsel. The manao bit into Abeha's side, twisting and shaking its head to tear off a hunk of flesh.