Storyteller

by Amy Thomson

  "Why did you do that?" Teller said, speaking inwardly now, to exclude Samad.

  "he wanted to come." The big fish still sounded ashamed.

  "You've never done anything like this before. Why now?"

  "because you need him as much as he needs you," the harsel replied. "What!" "it's true," Abeha insisted, "ever since you got on

  BOARD, YOU'VE BEEN MOPING BECAUSE YOU MISSED HIM."

  "Of course I missed Samad," Teller replied. "He's a good kid, and I'm fond of him. But he belongs with a real family who can love him and provide a stable home."

  "oh?" the harsel said, his mental voice dissonant with sarcasm and irony.

  "Yes, he does," Teller replied.

  "but that's not what samad wants, he wants to be with you," the harsel pointed out.

  "Abeha, children often want things that aren't good for them," Teller explained.

  "but you are good for him," Abeha insisted, "I'VE

  LOOKED INSIDE HIM, AND I KNOW."

  "And I'm a human, and I know what's best for a human child, Abeha. I say he goes back to Nueva Ebiza."

  "no!"

  "Yes!" Teller shouted out loud.

  "no!"

  "Yes, Abeha! Turn around now! We're going back to Nueva Ebiza," Teller said, moderating her voice with an ef­fort. She couldn't afford to lose her temper.

  "MIGHT I REMIND YOU THAT I'M BIGGER THAN YOU ARE?"

  Abeha pointed out in a mild and reasonable tone of voice.

  Teller noticed Samad's lips twitching as he fought back a smile. Abeha was letting him hear his side of the conversa­tion. It wasn't funny, dammit. Why the hell was Abeha let­ting Samad hear what he was saying to her?

  "because this conversation concerns him," Abeha replied, "when we're talking about something that doesn't concern him, I won't open my mind to him."

  "Abeha, we need to take Samad back to the Karellis; they must be worried sick about him," Teller insisted, speaking out loud to include Samad.

  "No! I won't go back!" Samad insisted. "Besides, the Karellis know where I am. I left them a note."

  Teller squatted down so that she and Samad were on eye level, and she placed both hands on his shoulders. "Samad, I love you, I really do. But right now, you need a family and a consistent place to live. I travel too much, and I'm too old and sour to be a good parent."

  "No you're not," Samad said. "And I like to travel."

  "Samad, the Karellis love you, and they can provide you with a real home. I live inside a big fish. It's dark, it's cramped, it's wet, and it's smelly."

  "I beg your pardon?" Abeha interrupted. "I thought

  YOU LIKED IT."

  "But I don't want to live with the Karellis! I want to live with you," Samad protested.

  "And what about school, traveling around with me?" Teller asked.

  "You can teach me. You know everything," Samad said. The infinite confidence in his gaze was terrifying.

  The harsel's sarcastic laughter jangled like out-of-tune golden bells.

  "Abeha, that's enough out of you!" Teller said. "You aren't helping one bit! Now please come about, and let's go back to Nueva Ebiza."

  "No!" "no" Samad and Abeha spoke in unison.

  "I'm not taking samad back to nueva ebiza. he's staying with us!" the harsel informed her.

  "Goddammit, Abeha! Don't start playing games with me!" Teller snapped.

  "i'm not playing games," the harsel said, "I mean it. I won't take you back to nueva ebiza. samad stays

  WITH US. HE NEEDS YOU, AND YOU NEED HIM. AND I NEED BOTH OF YOU."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Teller said. "I don't need a damned keeper, Abeha, and looking after you is my job."

  "I WORRY ABOUT YOU. I ALWAYS HAVE. YOU NEED SOME­ONE TO LOOK AFTER YOU WHEN YOU'RE ASHORE," Abeha

  insisted, "that's why I need samad. if he's with you, I won't worry."

  "I'm old enough to take care of myself," Teller replied.

  "I KNOW THAT, BUT I STILL WANT TO KNOW THAT SOME­ONE IS LOOKING AFTER YOU WHEN YOU'RE ON SHORE."

  "Why now? After all the years we've been together?"

  "BECAUSE SAMAD CAN DO IT. AND I CAN TALK TO HIM. THE ONLY OTHER HUMANS WHO CAN DO THAT ARE AL­READY HAR CAPTAINS. AND I TRUST HIM. BESIDES, HE'S GOOD FOR YOU. YOU NEED HIM, BUT YOU'RE TOO STIFF-NECKED TO ADMIT IT."

  "Abeha, I know you worry," Teller soothed, speaking in­wardly so that Samad couldn't hear. "But I've taken care of myself through good times and bad. You know I need my freedom. Please, let's turn around and take Samad back."

  "no. he stays."

  The argument continued for the rest of the night and into the next morning. Teller tried threats, pleas, placation, and reason. None of it worked. The harsel remained stub­bornly insistent that Samad stay with them. At some point, Samad set soup and sandwiches in front of Teller. She ate mechanically, her mind intent on her argument with Abeha. Around four in the morning, Teller noticed Samad curled up asleep on the galley bench. She covered him with the blanket from her bunk and went back to arguing with Abeha.

  By dawn, Teller was getting too sleepy to argue, but she hung on grimly until midmorning before giving in.

  "All right, all right, Samad can stay. But it isn't going to be easy on either of us," Teller warned the harsel.

  "no, I suppose NOT," the harsel said. He tried to sound grave and regretful, but the undertones of his mental voice rang with joy. "you're going to have to wait a while

  TO TELL SAMAD, THOUGH. HE'S STILL SLEEPING."

  Teller smiled down at Samad and smoothed the blanket over him. She poured herself a cup of last night's coffee, grabbed some bread and cheese to eat, and shrugged on her jacket. Then she tiptoed out of the cabin and climbed up the metal rungs set into the back of the pod. Abeha opened his hold to let Teller climb out onto his broad back. She leaned against Abeha's tall dorsal fin, admiring the familiar curve of the giant fish's sail as it gleamed iridescently in the morning sun.

  It was a perfect day for blue-water sailing. The sun was bright, and a strong breeze was blowing. The waves were studded with whitecaps, and an occasional whisk of spray landed on her jacket. Sea birds curvetted against the waves, soaring high against the glorious, cloud-studded blue sky. Off on the horizon she could see the green-clad volcanic peaks of the Kiklades Archipelago ranging off to the west. She inhaled deeply through flared nostrils, smelling the wild, fresh scent of wind-carried spray, then exhaled, letting go of all her fears and hesitations about adopting Samad.

  I'm a parent, she said to herself. "A parent," she repeated out loud. It's been a hell of a long time since I was a mother, she thought. Now that she had stopped worrying about the pos­sible complications, it felt good. She was no longer alone.

  "what about me?" The harsel asked, but there were un­dertones of humor in its question.

  "Well, you got me into this. I guess that makes you his father," Teller told Abeha.

  "gee, and i'd so looked forward to being a mother," Abeha remarked.

  Teller became suddenly silent, reminded of their old ar­gument. "You're much too young to be a mother," she said at last, trying to keep her mental voice light, and failing.

  There was a very long silence in which Teller could hear her heartbeat and Abeha's, beating in very different rhythms.

  "you'll have to teach me how to be a good par­ent," the harsel offered at last.

  "You'll be fine, Abeha," Teller reassured the harsel. "I'm the one who should be worried. It's been a long time since I've been a mother. I've probably forgotten how it's done."

  After that, there wasn't anything more to say. Teller sat on the harsel's broad back, feeling a bit light-headed with tiredness, but very happy. She watched the scudding clouds bunch up against the slopes of the distant island peaks, imagining the future she would share with Samad.

  Samad woke from a dream in which he was trapped in the bow of a sailboat with hungry manaos circling patiently be­low, waiting for him to fall in. Still groggy, he tried to roll over and encounter
ed a hard, unyielding surface. A surge of fear raced through him; he was trapped. Then he felt Abeha's reassuring presence, and Samad remembered where he was. He recalled Teller's frowning, angry face as she and Abeha argued over his fate last night.

  If Teller had really wanted him, then she wouldn't have tried to leave him with the Karellis, and she wouldn't have argued so fiercely with Abeha about whether he could stay. Teller had lied to him, then abandoned him to the care of strangers. After last night, Samad wasn't sure that he

  wanted to stay with Teller. But without Teller, what was he going to do? He didn't want to go back to the Karellis. They were nice people, but they weren't his family.

  At least he wasn't stuck in Melilla anymore. Spring was here, and summer was on the way. He would find some­where else to live, someplace where people were kinder and the weather was warmer. He didn't need Teller. He could manage on his own. He could and he would. Despite his re­solve, Samad blinked back tears in the safe darkness.

  Then he heard the walls creak as the harsel relaxed its grip on the crew pod. Teller's feet thudded on the rungs of the ladder as she climbed down from the harsel's back. Samad swiftly knuckled the tears from his eyes and sat up, bracing himself for whatever she had to say to him.

  Teller opened the door. "Lights on!" she commanded, and the lights brightened gradually, giving his eyes time to adjust. Teller was clad in a worn yellow raincoat, and her hair was wet.

  "I'll get you a towel," he volunteered, rolling off of the bench and pulling a clean towel off the rack.

  "It's okay, Samad—" Teller began, but he had already tossed her the towel.

  Teller caught it. "Thank you." She hung her wet coat in the shower stall and began drying her hair.

  "Are you hungry?" he asked, trying to delay their in­evitable conversation.

  "I'm fine, Samad," she said, wrapping her damp hair in the towel. "Sit down." He sat back down at the little galley table. Teller sat across from him. She took a deep breath. "Abeha and I talked things over last night, and we would like you to stay with us."

  "You don't really want me," Samad told her.

  "That's not true!" Teller replied.

  "Then why did you try to leave me with the Karellis?" he demanded.

  "Because I believed it would be best for you," she con­fessed. "I was wrong." She looked down at the table and then back up at him. "I'm sorry, Samad. I've treated you very badly."

  Shaken by Teller's unexpected apology, Samad looked away.

  "It won't happen again. I promise," Teller said.

  The silence stretched for a long while, neither one cer­tain what to say to the other. Then Teller put a hand on Samad's arm.

  "What were you going do on your own?"

  Samad looked down at the table and shrugged. -"I don't know yet. Find someplace better than Melilla, I guess."

  "Then stay with me, Samad. You'll be well-fed and clothed. You'll get to travel all over Thalassa. You'll be safer than if you lived on the streets. We won't always get along, but I won't let anyone hurt you."

  "You won't try to give me away to someone else?" Samad asked her bluntly, his hazel eyes meeting hers.

  Teller looked down, her face darkening with shame. "No," she said. "Never again. I promise you that. And you're free to leave whenever you want."

  Samad sighed and looked up at her. "I need to think about it," he said.

  Teller nodded. "I understand, Samad." She looked very tired.

  "Can I get up on Abeha's back? I haven't been outside since we left Nueva Ebiza." He desperately needed some time alone to think things over.

  "Of course. Take my coat. Stay in the hollow where the sail goes until you get your balance. Abeha will be keeping an eye on you, but the water's chilly, and it'll take some time for him to come about and pick you up if you fall in."

  "Don't worry, I'll be careful," Samad reassured her. Then

  he opened the door to the crew pod and escaped onto Abeha's broad back, into the blue and gold glory of the af­ternoon, burdened by the weight of his decision.

  Teller retrieved her blanket from under the galley table, climbed wearily into her bunk, and closed her eyes. She was so tired that even her worries about Samad couldn't keep her awake.

  When she awoke, Samad was quietly trying to make din­ner. She got out of bed and helped him get things started. While Samad kept an eye on the galley, Teller opened up the spare bunk. The bunk's unused hinges protested loudly as she unfolded it.

  Teller surveyed the dusty, lumpy mattress with a frown. It had been a long time since anyone had slept on that bunk.

  "Looks like I need a new mattress," Teller remarked as she thumped it to drive off the dust and even out the lumps. Then she pulled the extra bedding out of the storage locker and made the bed.

  The timer dinged. Dinner was ready. Samad dished up the bean stew, while Teller sliced thick hunks of bread and cheese to go with it. The two of them ate in silence. The si­lence continued as Teller washed the dishes and then settled in with a book.

  "Teller, tell me a story," Samad asked.

  The silence between them had grown so intense that Teller jumped at the sound of Samad's voice.

  "Okay," Teller said. "You get ready for bed, and I'll think about what story to tell you."

  Samad brushed his teeth and changed into the light­weight pair of pants that he used for pajamas. Teller watched him. What could she say to repair the damage that her clumsy interference had caused? She shook her head. There was only one thing she could say, and that was the truth.

  The top bunk creaked as Samad climbed into it. Teller made a mental note to oil the hinges tomorrow.

  "Are you ready for a story?" Teller asked.

  Samad nodded. Teller leaned against the edge of Samad's bunk.

  "Well then," she began. "Once upon a time, there was a grumpy old woman who thought she had everything she needed. She traveled all over the world telling stories. Her best friend was an enormous harsel with a sail the color of a dawn sky. Her life was busy, and she thought she was happy.

  "Then one day, she met a young boy who had just gotten himself into trouble. He was thin, he was ragged, and he had no mother or father. She decided to try to help the boy. So she listened to him, fed him, and clothed him. Because she believed that her own life wasn't good enough for him, she found a family willing to adopt the boy. Then, her duty done, she turned back to her life again. Or so she thought.

  "But even her harsel's company could not fill the empty place in her heart that the boy had left behind. She would not admit it to herself, but leaving the boy with strangers, even kind strangers, had been a mistake. She missed him more than she would let herself know. Deep down, at the center of her loneliness, was the belief that the child could not love someone as old and set in her ways as she was.

  "But the boy was wiser than the old woman in the ways of the heart. He would not let go of her. He followed the woman to the harbor where her harsel waited for her, and the harsel, seeing how much the boy loved her, helped him sneak on board.

  "The old woman was surprised and angry when she first found the boy, but now she is happy that the boy is here, and hopes that this story will end with the boy deciding to stay, and that they will live together happily ever after."

  In the hanging moment between the end of the story and

  Samad's response, Teller wondered why she always had to put things in a story. If only she could tell the truth straight on. . . .

  "Teller," Samad said, touching her arm lightly. "It's all right. I want to stay."

  In her mind's ear, Abeha pealed wordless chords of jubi­lation. Teller clasped Samad's hand. Then they slid awk­wardly into a hug. She blinked back the sting of tears.

  "Thank you, Samad. I'm glad you're staying."

  She released Samad, sniffed a few tears away, and smiled. She smoothed the covers over him.

  "Get some sleep," she told him. "We've got a lot to do tomorrow."

  Samad nodded sleepily. "Good nig
ht, Teller."

  "Good night, Samad."

  She lowered the lights and moved quietly around the cabin, settling things for the night, then climbed into the bottom bunk. First thing tomorrow, she would turn on the comm and call the Karellis to tell them what had happened. When they got to port, she would have to find out how to legally adopt the boy.

  "Hey, Abeha," she said inwardly. "We're parents."

  "I know," the harsel replied, "i'm looking forward to it."

  CHAPTER 5

  AFTER A COUPLE OF MONTHS, SAMAD SETTLED into a comfortable routine with Teller. He quickly learned to maintain the crew pod and its environmental sys­tems. Crew pods were not merely passive cabins for crew and cargo. They were exquisitely molded to the shape of their harsel's hold and covered with several inches of re­silient foam padding. The crew pod's life support system en­abled them to remain submerged indefinitely, so that the harsel could ride out a bad storm beneath the waves.

  In addition to maintaining the crew pod, there was the harsel to look after. Every month or so, they pulled out the crew pod, donned diving gear, and removed the parasites, barnacles, and seaweed that accumulated on the harsel's sides and hold. The first time Teller cooked up the parasites and seaweed from Abeha's hold, Samad was appalled. But once he got up the nerve to taste it, the parasite stew turned out to be delicious.

  "Doesn't Abeha mind?" Samad asked Teller.

  "why should i?" the harsel inquired.

  "Because we're eating things that ate your flesh," Samad told him. "They grew on you. Doesn't that bother you?"

  "of course not. those parasites itch, and they dam­age the skin of my hold."

  "What did you do before humans came?" Samad asked.

  "there's a whole community of creatures living on and inside us. there are creatures that graze on the seaweed; others that eat barnacles; and still others that eat flesh burrowers. but humans do a more complete job of removing parasites. I remem­ber the first time that teller cleaned my hold. it was bliss!" The harsel sang a shimmering cascade of pure pleasure, "we didn't live as long before the humans came," Abeha added, "now that the har captains are