Storyteller

by Amy Thomson

  "and I'll miss you, too, SAMAD," Abeha replied sadly, his words tolling like a funeral bell, "study hard."

  "Only if you'll come back as soon as you can! I don't want to be stuck in school forever!"

  The harsel's laughter pealed down the scale in Samad's mind, "don't worry, samad, I promise i'll come back," the harsel said, answering the unspoken fear behind Samad's thoughts. Samad ran forward to the harsel's mast, the only part of the great creature, he could truly embrace. He laid his cheek against the rough skin for a moment, letting his inward love and gratitude say all that words could not. As his ear pressed against the mast, he could hear the gentle luff of the sail. Under that steady vibration, he could hear Abeha's hearts beating.

  "Good-bye, Abeha," he said, releasing his hold.

  "good-bye," the harsel returned with a surge of love and sadness, "take care of teller for me."

  "I'll take care of her for both of us," Samad reassured him.

  "i know," Abeha replied with a warm chord of gratitude.

  Samad stepped to the wharf, feeling Abeha's massive, gentle presence recede from his mind as he left the harsel's back. He began loading their baggage onto a cart, giving Teller the time to say farewell in private.

  Abeha turned his sail to catch the wind and coasted away. They stood watching the harsel until he rounded the breakwater.

  "Well," Teller said. "I guess we'd better get going."

  Samad nodded. The crew pod was already on its way to storage. All that remained was to load their things onto the wagon that would carry them to their quarters. He turned toward land, his belly feeling like a stone. They were going to be staying in one place for four months. It seemed like forever. He leaned into the cart, pushing it up the pier. He

  could hardly wait for Abeha to return so that he could spend another year just like the last one.

  School was not as bad as he had anticipated. All of the studying he had done over the last two years had paid off. Even though he had missed several years of school, he was able to keep up with his age mates in class in every subject except math. To his surprise, he was at the top of the class in history and reading.

  He had dreaded coming into the term so late, but a number of other har captains' kids joined the class at about the same time. Their awe of Abeha made them treat Samad with deep respect. And Teller was the focus of much inter­est from the rest of the student body. Storytellers were re­garded as persons of mystery and glamour, and Teller was no exception.

  Soon Samad was the center of a circle of admirers, all ea­ger to know more about Teller and Abeha. It was fun at first, but gradually Samad realized that most of the kids were more interested in the storyteller and her harsel than in him. And living with Teller had gotten him into the habit of reticence.

  His circle of friends dwindled down to two. First was Ettore, the quiet, dark-haired son of a har captain. Samad had sat next to him at lunch one day. They had started talking about harsels and just kept talking.

  A couple of weeks later, as Samad and Ettore were walk­ing home from school, they came upon a group of boys clus­tered around a girl. Samad had noticed her at school because she had always seemed to be alone. The boys were jeering, and the circle of bullies was slowly tightening. The girl's face was pale but defiant. She looked ready to fight them all, no matter what it cost her. Almost without glancing at each other, Samad and Ettore decided to intervene.

  "Hey!" Ettore called out. '"Leave her alone!"

  "Yeah? What are you going to do about it?" replied a large, lumpy boy, whose face seemed made to wear a sneer.

  Samad had been the victim of bullies himself, when he had been poor, ragged, and alone. Mostly, he had run. Today, Samad decided to stay.

  "We're going to stop you," Samad told him.

  "Oh, and who are you?" the boy demanded. His eyes flicked sideways, and Samad, following the bully's glance, saw another boy about to pounce on Ettore.

  "Behind you, Ettore!" Samad called. Samad ducked, punching the first bully in the stomach, hard. His hand sank deep into the boy's belly, and the boy bent over, wheez­ing. Then Samad pivoted in time to block a rabbit punch from someone else.

  Ettore, warned by Samad, dodged the first blow and only took a glancing blow from the second. He started to fight back. Behind Ettore, Samad saw a red and brown blur. The girl had joined the fight. She fought with a desperate feroc­ity that spoke of many such battles. Then someone con­nected with a jab to Samad's nose.

  "Hey! What are you boys doing?"

  It was a man, coming out of a house. The bullies melted away.

  The man started to lecture them. The girl stepped for­ward, curtsying politely. "I'm sorry sir. It was my fault. They were protecting me. Do you have any ice? My brother here's got a nosebleed."

  Samad touched his nose, and his fingers came away red.

  The man's manner changed. "You should take better care of your sister," the man advised Samad. "I'll get some ice," he said and vanished into the house, returning a few min­utes later with a newspaper cone full of crushed ice.

  The girl thanked him politely; oblivious of her own

  swelling lip and the reddening bruise on one cheek. Ettore spoke up then, reassuring the man that everything was all right, and that they'd see the girl home safely.

  The man scolded them once or twice more, then re­treated into his house.

  "Thank you," the girl said. She held out the dripping cone of ice. "Put this on the back of your neck. You should pinch your nose like this; it'll help stop the bleeding," she said, pinching her nose to show them how.

  Samad did as she said, and the bleeding slowed almost immediately.

  "I'm Ettore. Who're you?" Ettore was clearly impressed.

  "My name is Agnese."

  "I'm Sabad." Samad said, his nose still clogged with blood. "Are you okay?"

  Agnese nodded. "Thank you for rescuing me. Usually I can take care of myself, but today there were just too many of them."

  Samad shrugged, Ettore looked down at his feet. Neither knew what to say next.

  "But you really shouldn't be seen with me," she cau­tioned. "My mother's ..." she hesitated. "My mother lets men visit. For money. If you're seen with me, your parents aren't going to like it," she told them. "I don't want you to get into trouble."

  "Oh," Samad said. He remembered his own mother, and the shadow her drug addiction cast over his life. "I see." He thought about Teller, and the Pilot, how they always helped out whoever needed it. He looked at Agnese. She was tense, bracing herself for another rejection. Ettore was looking at him, waiting to see what Samad was going to do.

  "I don't care what your mother does," he said. "But could you try to pick some bullies who don't hit so hard next time?"

  "Yeah," Ettore added. "And maybe not so many, either."

  "Can we see you home?" Samad offered.

  Agnese hesitated. "Just as far as Via Santo. I'll be all right after that."

  Samad and Ettore started walking to and from school with Agnese. After so long as a street child, it felt good to be able to help someone else. And it gave him a way to sail out from under Teller's shadow. It took several more fights, but eventually the bullies found easier prey.

  Then a delegation of concerned mothers came to see Teller. Teller listened politely and then turned to Samad to ask him what happened. As truthfully as possible, he told her how he met Agnese.

  Teller listened with her usual intentness, but Samad could see a slight tightening of the corners of her eyes that only happened when she was hiding her anger. He met Teller's gaze defiantly. Let her punish him. He was not ashamed of his friend.

  "Could you name some of the young men who were ha­rassing Agnese?" Teller asked him.

  "Adriano Vicente, Cosmo Akilina, Cesar Gonsales, and Victor Bonsalves," he replied. Sera Akilina and Sera Bonsalves were part of the delegation that had come to warn Teller about Samad's friendship with the daughter of a whore.

  "You're sure that's all of them, then, Sam
ad?"

  He nodded. "Some other kids were watching, but they were the leaders."

  "I see," Teller said. "Thank you, Samad." She laid an af­fectionate hand on his shoulder, and he felt the knot of ten­sion in his stomach relax.

  She turned to the other women, and Samad saw a flash of anger in her eyes. She drew herself up in the small, narrow

  chair she was sitting in. Her presence suddenly filled the shabby living room of the teachers' residence where they were staying. Their visitors drew together like a clutch of nervous hens.

  "I'm proud of what Samad did. He saw a wrong and stepped in to stop it. When your sons stop bullying girls be­cause of their mother's reputation, I'll speak to my son about not defending those girls. Until then ..." Teller stood straight as a young reed despite her iron-gray hair. "Thank you for coming."

  Samad listened, amazed. Teller had called him her son! He ducked his head and smiled, not wanting to embarrass her with his joy.

  "Thank you," he told her, when the delegation of women had left.

  "For what?" she asked. "You did something that was good and brave and kind. I'm the one who should thank you. Now, tell me about Agnese and her mother."

  "I don't know her mother very well. She's beautiful, and seems a little sad. Agnese said that her father was a fisher­man whose boat was lost in a storm. They had nothing after her father died. Her mother had no choice but to . . ." He hesitated. "Do what she does," he finished lamely. He couldn't bring himself to call Agnese's sad, dignified mother a whore, no matter what she did to keep a roof over their heads.

  "Doesn't she have any family?" Teller wondered.

  "Agnese never mentioned anyone. I think her grandpar­ents are all dead. Or . . ." He shrugged. "Maybe they don't get along."

  "Thank you, Samad. That was well told. Let me see if I can find some way to help Agnese and her mother."

  "Really?" Samad said, his eyes shining.

  "Really," Teller replied, ruffling his hair. "Give me a few days to think about this, and I'll see what I can do. And Samad?"

  "Yes?"

  "Better not say anything to Agnese or her mother until I find some way to help them. I don't want to offer them false hope."

  Nothing happened for several weeks, and then one day Agnese came to school in a new dress.

  "Samad! Guess what happened! My great-aunt Lucia has left us four thousand dinario!"

  "Four thousand dinario!" Samad repeated. "Agnese, that's wonderful! I'm so happy for you. What will you and your mother do with that money?"

  Agnese looked briefly downcast. "Mama wants to go to Tiranesi and open a shop. We'll be leaving as soon as the term is over. I'm happy to be going, but I'll miss you, Samad."

  "I'll miss you, too," Samad told her. "But with all the traveling we do, we'll surely see you again. We'll look for you if we're ever on Tiranesi."

  "But what about Ettore? Will I ever see him again?"

  Samad shrugged. "Who knows? His father's a har cap­tain. Perhaps someday they'll go to Tiranesi, too."

  That night, when he reached the teachers' residence, he told Teller about the good fortune that had befallen Agnese and her mother.

  "So you don't need to figure out a way to help them after all."

  "I'm glad they found their own way out of their trou­bles," Teller said with a pleased smile. "It's usually better that way."

  Teller accompanied Samad and Ettore when they went to the harbor to bid farewell to Agnese and her mother. Agnese

  and her mother were leaving on one of the little wooden fer­ries that plied the waters between islands. Agnese cried when she said good-bye, but her mother looked defiantly cheerful as she stood on the wharf, with their worldly pos­sessions packed into one battered canvas suitcase.

  "Your grandson was kind to Agnese," she told Teller. "He's been well-raised."

  Teller shook her iron-gray head, feeling suddenly old. "He's my son, and whatever kindness he showed your daughter came from his heart no prompting from me. I'm proud of him, though. Your Agnese's a good girl. She's got a lot of courage."

  Agnese's mother glanced at Teller warily, then, realizing that there was no insult intended, smiled with a tentative pride. "I'm proud of her. The times we've been through have been hard." She drew herself up. "But that's going to change, thanks to our good fortune."

  Teller nodded. "I'm glad. Please write us when you get settled, so we can visit when we're on Tiranesi. We'll be here for another two months at least, and they'll forward my mail after that."

  "I will," Agnese's mother promised.

  Samad stepped forward and awkwardly shook Agnese's hand. Ettore shook her hand as well, then stopped, looked her in the eyes for a long, searching moment, and leaned for­ward to kiss her on the cheek.

  Agnese turned bright pink and covered her cheek with her hand.

  "Good-bye Ettore," she said. "Thank you."

  "Come along, Agnese," her mother said. "It's time to go."

  Agnese and her mother picked up their suitcase and started up the gangplank. Agnese turned back to wave at Samad and Ettore, but her mother walked onto the ship without a backward glance, her back straight, her head held

  high. Teller was impressed by the woman's dignity, and sorry that she hadn't gotten to know Agnese's mother better.

  Teller followed Samad and Ettore up the wharf. All Agnese and her mother had needed was enough money for a fresh start. The hard part had been finding a way to get that money to them in a way that preserved their dignity. Watching Agnese's mother walk proudly up the gangplank on her way to a new life made it all worthwhile.

  "Hey boys!" she called to them. "I'll race you to the ice cream shop!" And she ran after Samad and Ettore, her heart light as a wind-blown pennant.

  With Agnese gone, Samad spent more time than ever with Ettore. The two became inseparable companions, often sleeping over at one another's houses. Through Ettore, he met the other har captains' children wintering over on Thira. Over the course of the school term, they had recov­ered from their initial awe of Abeha. With that out of the way, Samad, discovered that he liked most of them very much. Like him, they loved to travel, and they had lots of stories about the places they had gone and the things they had seen. He looked forward to seeing them again as they all headed north.

  About two weeks after the summer term ended, the wind shifted, blowing cold out of the south. That wind brought the first harsels back on their northerly migration. Akuale, Ettore's father's harsel, was among the first to return. He sailed in with three or four others on a fresh fall day, a breeze sending clouds and fleecy whitecaps scudding from horizon to horizon. Ettore and Samad were at the lighthouse on the point, watching for the returning harsels. As soon as he real­ized that the pale gray sail on the horizon was Akuale, Et­tore ran to tell his father. Samad remained behind, watching

  the sea until night fell, but there was no sign of Abeha.

  After Akuale's return, Samad spent most of the day down on the docks, helping Ettore and his family prepare for their long trading journey. Whenever a harsel's sail appeared on the horizon, Samad stopped and looked to see if it was Abeha's. After a week of careful stowing and sorting, Ettore's family was ready to sail. Samad stood for a long time on the dock, watching as their sail dwindled in the distance. He missed Ettore's company even more as he sat on a rock near the South Point lighthouse, scanning the horizon for Abeha. When waiting became too tedious, he would return to the harbor and help one of his other friends' families load up their harsels and leave.

  After three weeks with no sign of Abeha, Samad noticed that Teller was getting anxious. She started asking the other harsels for news of Abeha. None of them seemed to have any news. The few that had something seemed strangely reti­cent. Samad walked with her, trying not to show how much her concern was affecting him. By the fourth week, Teller stationed herself by the lighthouse on the point, looking out to sea, watching the other harsels leave, their crew pods laden with trade goods.

  Teller sat on
the rocks out by the lighthouse, chin on her hands, watching the last of the har captains leave port. Abeha had always been one of the first harsels to return from the south. The other harsels' lack of news only increased her concern.

  "Look!" Samad said, pointing off to the south. "Is that a sail?"

  Teller sat up, peering intently at the blur on the horizon. "Maybe. The binoculars, Samad?"

  She looked through the binoculars for a long time, her

  body tense with concentration. It was a sail, and it was heading for Thira.

  "Is it him?" Samad demanded anxiously.

  "I'm not sure. It's still too far away."

  She stared through the binoculars until her eyes swam. Samad was staring intently out at the horizon, one hand gripping the seam of her shirt. Then the approaching harsel turned slightly, and something in the way it moved and the new silhouette of the distant sail caused a sudden thud of certainty in her gut. She felt almost giddy with relief.

  "It's him!" Teller announced, handing Samad the binocu­lars. "It's Abeha!"

  Samad peered intently through the glasses for a long mo­ment, then broke into a pleased grin.

  "Finally! Shall I go tell the harbormaster that you'll be needing your crew pod?" he asked her.

  Teller nodded. Samad handed her the binoculars and sprinted back up the point. At the rate he was going, he'd be too winded to tell the harbormaster anything when he got there. She smiled, happy that this long period of tense waiting was finally over.

  Teller put the binoculars in their case. Then she took off her shoes and rolled her pants up to her knees. Clambering down to the water's edge, she stuck her feet into the chilly autumnal sea.

  "Abeha?" she called inwardly.

  "i'm back," came the reply, faint but clear.

  "It took you long enough," Teller said. "I was getting worried."

  "I WAS hungry," Abeha replied, sounding peevish and defensive.

  "You know what will happen if you eat too much," Teller warned.

  "I know," Abeha replied, his voice in Teller's head was

  growing stronger as he drew nearer. Teller could sense an undercurrent of guilt in the harsel's voice.