Storyteller

by Amy Thomson

  "Damn," Eric said with an edged grin. "I'd just hate that." Eric sobered again. "Seriously, Samad, I've been want­ing to thank you for giving me my life back."

  Samad shrugged. "You've done all the hard work. I just gave you the nudge that got you started."

  "But without that nudge, Samad—" Eric shook his head again. "Without you, I'd be dead, or worse, still stuck in that living hell. Please, say you'll be my best man. Jahan and I, we owe it all to you."

  "Eric, I—" Samad began. "I'd be honored. But I can't. I'm on my way up and out, to start my pilot training. The shuttle leaves the day after tomorrow."

  Eric's face grew serious and very sad. For a moment, Samad saw the shadow of the man he had first met, the lost Eric, whom he had guided into a new life as a har captain. "Oh, Samad, no," he pleaded. "Don't do it. Please. You don't know what it's like, to lose everything like that. I'm better now, but the longing never quite goes away. There are still some very dark nights, even with Jahan, Hau'oli, and Elawe."

  Samad took a breath. "I understand, Eric, but I've held onto this dream for so long. It's something I need to do."

  "I'm sorry if that's so, Samad. There's so much you can do here. But promise me one thing." Eric's face was intent. "Promise me that when your Talent burns out, you make your way from wherever you wind up back to Thalassa, and let us help you heal. I owe you too much to let that debt go unpaid."

  Samad remembered Eric's face, just after he had bonded

  with Hau'oli, lit from within with joy. "I will come back, Eric. I promise. I will return."

  Eric clasped Samad's hands in his work-roughened ones. "Thank you Samad. We'll be waiting for you."

  "Good-bye, Eric, and thank you."

  "Farewell, Samad. We will carry your memories in our hearts," Eric said, but his face looked like he was leaving the new grave of a dear friend.

  Samad strode back up the long, floating dock. It seemed longer walking away than it had when he had come. Per­haps it was the ebbing tide lowering the floating dock. But more likely it was his heavy heart.

  Samad spent the next day visiting all the places he loved in Nueva Ebiza, old inns where he and Teller had stayed, parks where they'd told stories, and stopped just outside the old Grande Teatro, closed now for renovations, remember­ing how he had performed Roxana and Paoli, remembering Jose. How different life had been then. It seemed so much simpler now, looking back. He raised a pint of cider in a couple of his favorite omophilos bars, remembering Jose. How he had longed for his student, and how deeply ashamed he had been. If he had never gone to Bindara, what would he be like now?

  . Then Samad spent an hour in the Museum of the Story­tellers' Guild, reviewing the public history of Thalassa, and remembering Thalassa's secret history, locked away in Teller's archives. He smiled, holding his invisible memories of Teller to himself and trying not to feel the pain of leav­ing. He would carry Thalassa in his heart. No matter where in the Galaxy he went, these ties of love and longing would go with him.

  He had one last quiet dinner alone with his memories at Carlucci's, Teller's favorite restaurant. The maitre d' and the

  waiters greeted him by name. He was seated at a small table in a private corner near the front window, where he could see both the street outside and the restaurant in a single, sweeping glance. The waiters retreated, giving him his pri­vacy, but his wineglass was never empty, and his food came quietly and swiftly, served with warm, welcoming smiles. It was an odd, professional kind of love, born of many years of meals that they had served him and Teller. Sitting there, he remembered all the times they had eaten here over the years, for celebrations, birthdays, or just because Teller needed a familiar place. He lifted his glass of ruby red wine in a silent toast to Teller.

  God, I miss you so much, Teller! he thought to himself. I wish I could be two people. One to stay here, and one to go off to the stars. But neither self would be happy, with their fate, he re­alized with a wry smile. Each of his separate selves would have wanted the life of the other.

  Ser Carlucci, the great-grandson of the original owner, came by as he was finishing up his dessert.

  "Ser Bernardia, your dinner is on us tonight," he told Samad. "It's our way of thanking Teller for the handsome bequest that she left us. Her bequest has enabled us to send my son and my daughter to the finest cooking school in the Central Worlds."

  Samad smiled, deeply touched. "Thank you very much for this exquisite meal, Ser Carlucci. And good luck to your children. They've had such excellent training from their parents that they may be able to teach their teachers a thing or two. You've certainly taught me to appreciate fine food. Every other restaurant I visit has to measure up to your standards. But most do not."

  "Thank you, Ser Bernardia," Carlucci said with a proud smile. "It's been a great pleasure to have you come here over the years. We hope we'll continue to see you often."

  Samad opened his mouth to tell Carlucci that he was leaving Thalassa, but he couldn't quite bring himself to say the words aloud here in this beloved restaurant. No, it would be better to just vanish, and let this tie wane with the passing years. Besides, someday he would return. Perhaps in a few years, in the full glory of his piloting career, or perhaps not until his Talent was gone. But tonight, he wanted to leave his tie to this place intact, to pretend that he could come back and everything would be the same as it had ever been.

  Samad walked back alone through the rain-washed streets and climbed the worn steps to his room. He packed everything but the clothes he would be wearing the next day, and went to bed.

  He woke from an incredibly vivid dream. In the dream, Abeha was gliding noiselessly away from him. Samad ran as fast as he could along the breakwater, calling to Abeha, pleading with her to come back. But the huge harsel contin­ued to sail away across the mirror-still water, into the gray mist. He felt as though his soul was being torn from his body, and he was helpless to stop it.

  Samad lay there, blinking up at the ceiling as the dream faded. Then he remembered. He was leaving Thalassa today. His dream lingered in his mind as he got up and showered, shaved, and dressed. Then he packed a few remaining items into his satchel and checked out of his room. The dream haunted him as he ate a quick, cold breakfast in the inn's parlor, looking out at the fine drizzle falling outside. The dream still clung to him as the bus to the spaceport pulled up to the curb.

  He found a seat among all the other early-morning trav­elers headed for the port. He was leaving Thalassa. The bus's windshield wipers seemed to echo his thoughts, whispering, "Leaving, leaving, leaving," with each squeaky swipe of

  their blades. He felt as desolate as the chilly rain. In the back of his mind, Abeha continued to sail farther and far­ther away.

  Then they were at the spaceport. Samad pulled out his ticket and joined the line at the check-in desk. Somewhere in the back of his mind Abeha had paused, waiting for him. It was only a leftover shred of dream, but it felt oddly real. He tried to push the image away. He was going to be a Jump pilot, like his mother, like his father, like Teller. It was his destiny to follow where they had gone. An image of Teller, drugged and helpless with grief after Abeha's death, came to him. He saw his birth mother, dead and cold in her bed. And he remembered Eric Kellen, passed out amid his own filth. No! he thought. Not like that! I won't be like that! I want my own life!

  "Ser! Ser! It's your turn!" Samad came back to himself with a start. It was his turn to step up to the check-in desk.

  Samad set the ticket in its brightly colored folder on the desk. The world seemed to be moving in slow motion. There was a roaring in his ears.

  The desk clerk looked up at him. "Yes, ser. How may I help you?"

  "I—I, uh . . ." Samad cleared his throat. "I want to turn this ticket in. I'm not going."

  Suddenly the roaring went away, and the world resumed its normal pace. The old shepherd had been right. If he didn't like the choice the coin gave him, he could always change his mind. He could be just as free here on Thalassa a
s he could be in space.

  "But this is a Pilots Union ticket, ser," the blond, off-world woman behind the desk said, studying the folder. "We can't pay you anything for it. The money goes back to the Union."

  "I know," Samad said. "I don't want any money. I just want to tell you that I'm not going." In his mind's eye, Samad saw Abeha turn and glide back toward him as the mist dissolved into bright morning sunlight, and a flight of greenthrushes spiraled into the heavens with wild, piping cries of joy.

  He stepped away from the desk.

  "Ser! Wait! You need to fill out this form!" the desk clerk called.

  He ignored her and walked out of the spaceport into the soft drizzle falling from the skies of Thalassa. He reached the sidewalk and hailed a taxi.

  "Where to, ser?" the driver asked.

  "Our Lady of Perpetual Devotion Mission," Samad said. "It's not far."

  CHAPTER 15

  "AND SO THE PILOT CLIMBED ABOARD HER harsel and sailed away. No one knows where she went after that. The fate of the Pilot remains a mystery," Samad concluded. As always, when he told of the Pilot's disappearance, he felt a twinge of guilt. But it was not yet time to reveal Tellers secret.

  The audience applauded. One by one, they paused to put a button, a coin, or some other small gift into his bowl. Samad thanked his listeners and chatted with those who had ques­tions. When the last listener had filed away, a har captain ap­proached him, a hesitant expression on his weathered face.

  "Are you Teller Samad?"

  "Yes I am," Samad acknowledged.

  "My name is Spiros Anatolios. There's a harsel who wants to see you."

  "What does he want?" Samad asked."

  "I don't know. They only ask for you to come as soon as you can."

  "Is it an emergency? I'll need a few minutes to pack my bag."

  The har captain shook his head. "Wouldn't do any good with the tide like it is. Could you come to the har dock half an hour before the tide turns tomorrow morning?"

  "I'll be there," Samad assured him. "Should I bring any­thing? A harsel med kit?"

  The har captain shook his head. "Just yourself."

  Samad lay awake long into the night, puzzling and worry­ing over the fragment of information Spiros had given him. What could this harsel want from him? Was there some kind of trouble? He had heard no rumors of any problems. He tossed and turned for a while before falling into an uneasy slumber filled with dream-memories of Abeha and Teller.

  Despite his sleepless night, Samad woke well before sun­rise. He was waiting on the dock with a satchel of provisions long before the appointed time. Spiros and his harsel glided smoothly up to the pier about an hour before they were due to meet. The har captain accepted Samad's gift of provisions with a pleased grunt of thanks. He stowed Samad's gift, in­vited him on board, and then strode up the dock carrying two large empty shopping baskets.

  Spiros's harsel, Kupohu, greeted Samad with quiet respect.

  "Why have I been sent for?" Samad inwardly asked the harsel.

  "you will see," Kupohu replied. The harsel radiated ex­citement and anticipation, but there was a thread of concern underneath his eagerness.

  "Very well then, go ahead and be mysterious," Samad told him.

  The harsel gonged a slow, deep chime of laughter. A lit­tle while later, Spiros returned, his baskets laden with sup­plies. Kupohu sculled away from the dock, set his sail to the wind, and they were on their way.

  They sailed steadily westward for three days. The next morning, Samad saw Saint Sophia's Rocks on the horizon. The Rocks rose from the midst of an upwelling of nutrient-rich seawater that supported a rich bloom of plankton. The ocean around the rocks was alive with millions of fish. Seabirds nested on the rocks, and the air was full of birds, wheeling and diving. Every so often, Samad could see a patch of water churned into tiny wavelets that flashed silver as bigger fish fed on the enormous schools of braefish. Huge fleets of harsels were feeding in the distance.

  As they neared the feeding grounds, Kupohu began call­ing to the other harsels. At last there was a faint reply. The haunting familiarity of that distant harsel's presence brought Samad to his feet. He reached out with his mind, searching, as Kupohu veered toward a fleet of harsels.

  "samad? is that you, samad?"

  "Abeha?" Samad was simultaneously hopeful and terri­fied. "No! It can't be! You're dead!"

  There was a brief chime of laughter from the surround­ing harsels. Samad realized that he was the center of a still pool of focused awareness. In that stillness, a young harsel, not quite ten meters long, sailed out of the group. He looked exactly like a miniature version of Abeha. He still bore the fading markings of a juvenile.

  "my name is awili," the small har told Samad, "abeha

  WAS MY MOTHER. I CARRY HER VOICE, HER MEMORIES."

  "But, how—" Samad began.

  "all harsels carry some of their mother's memo­ries, ENOUGH TO SPEAK AND SING. SOME CARRY MORE, STORIES, FRAGMENTS OF THE PAST. BUT IN EACH GENERA­TION, THERE ARE A FEW HARSELS THAT CARRY ALL THEIR MOTHER'S MEMORIES. WE ARE THE KAHIKO, THOSE WHO REMEMBER."

  "But why didn't Abeha or Teller tell me about the Kahiko?" Samad asked.

  "because kahiko are extremely rare, we emerge very late from our mothers, and are often lost. i was lucky to live. abeha didn't want you to get your hopes up and then be disappointed. and teller only wanted abeha. she wasn't willing to accept a

  KAHIKO."

  "But why are you coming to me?"

  "abeha still carries you in her heart, she loves you very much. and you loved her so intensely in return. there was such fire in your heart. i came to see if it was still there." Awili hesitated, his presence roiling with dissonant fear and plaintive longing, "I want

  TO BE YOUR PARTNER, IF YOU WILL HAVE ME," the harsel

  told him.

  Samad was stunned. He had thought about seeking a harsel to partner, but just hadn't felt ready. Abeha still dom­inated his thoughts, and he had feared that his longing for Abeha would sour another partnership. Now, here was Aw­ili, looking and sounding so much like Abeha. He claimed to remember everything that Abeha remembered. It was tempting, very tempting.

  "I need to know you better, before I can decide," Samad replied. "May I come aboard?"

  Awili glided alongside Kupohu. "be welcome, samad," he said formally. Samad could feel the young harsel's excite­ment, and he felt his own heart beating faster in response.

  "Thank you, Awili," he said, stepping onto the harsel's back. Awili drew his sail in, catching the stiff breeze and bearing away from the crowd of watching harsels. He was much faster than Abeha, and more maneuverable.

  "abeha was this fast and nimble when she was my

  age," the young harsel explained, "and i remember every­thing ABEHA KNEW ABOUT SAILING."

  When the sails of the har fleet had dwindled to white flecks on the horizon, Awili turned into the wind and folded his sail. He arched out of the water, opening his ballast chamber. Samad could feel the small harsel bobbing on the waves. There was an enormous silence, broken only by the hush of the wind and the occasional splash as a fish jumped.

  "please be welcome in my hold," Awili invited shyly. "you wished to know me better."

  Samad nodded and swung down into the harsel's hold. The familiar smell of the harsel surrounded him, and he heard the muffled beating of the harsel's hearts. Awili was still very young. Even a small crew pod would be a tight fit.

  "only at first," Awili reassured him. "i'm growing as

  FAST AS I CAN. IN A LITTLE WHILE, ANOTHER YEAR OR TWO----"

  "I know," Samad soothed, touched by the hars eagerness to please. "It's all right, Awili, it doesn't matter."

  He splashed through the ankle-deep water, running his hands along the smooth, damp wall of Awili's hold, auto­matically checking the harsel's condition as Teller had taught him. There were some weeds and barnacles, but only a few parasites. Overall the young har's hold was very clean. Then Samad reached the forward w
all. The three-beat rhythm of Awili's hearts was much louder here. He could feel the young harsel's anxiety.

  He leaned against the forward end of Awili's hold. The har's slick, resilient flesh was cool under his touch. Samad closed his eyes and opened his mind.

  "I'm here," Samad said inwardly. Then, guessing at the source of the harsel's fear, he said. "But if we partner, Awili, I will be partnering with you, not your memories."

  "thank you," Awili said with a gentle chord of relief.

  Then Samad felt Awili's presence roll over him like a wave. He yielded to it, letting Awili wash over and through him like clean, cold saltwater. Though Awili sounded much like his mother, their presences felt very different. Under­neath the young harsel's shyness there was a joy and a sense of playfulness. Even after he had come to love Abeha, Samad had always been a bit awed by the huge har's majestic pres­ence. He realized now how that awe had distanced him from Abeha. But he felt no such distance from Awili. He liked the young harsel very much.

  "you feel different from Abeha's memories of you. there's more control, you could get so angry, SO quickly, it frightened me," the harsel confessed.

  "I have grown."

  "yes he has," a familiar voice said from within Awili.

  "Abeha! Is that really you?"

  "awili carries me inside him," Abeha explained. "I LIVE IN HIS MEMORIES."

  "But you sound alive! How can that be?"

  Abeha laughed, "who are we, if not our memories?

  BUT THERE IS SOMEONE ELSE WHO WISHES TO SPEAK TO YOU."

  "Hello, mijo. I have missed you."

  There was a long moment of pure emotion, to intense for speech or even thought. Then he hesitated; this was not the Teller he remembered. This Teller felt younger and much more wounded than he expected.

  "I'm only what Abeha remembers of me. I remember nothing af­ter her death."

  Samad felt sorrow cut through him like a knife. This Teller had never fought her way through suicidal grief. Or decided to keep on living. This Teller had never trusted him with the fact that she was the Pilot. Or shown him her se­cret archives. She had never heard Samad call her Mother, or