by Amy Thomson
But who was going to look after her when he had to travel somewhere to put out a fire?
Perhaps he could find some eager young Journeymen storytellers to look after her. And perhaps, just perhaps, one of them might learn enough to take over from him after Teller died. He closed his eyes, sinking into the comfortable, familiar daydream of sitting in a pilot's Jump seat, preparing for a Jump. Just a flick of a few switches, a sudden surge of acceleration, and all his problems would be left behind. . . .
Teller sat alone on her porch, watching the path that led to the house from the road. Samad had been due for several days now, and she was beginning to worry. There had been no major storms, but perhaps some other emergency had arisen that had delayed him.
Teller shook her head, wishing that she could be more help to Samad. But these days, she was barely able to advise. She was so out of touch with current events. It was easier to sit and let herself be waited on by the tribe of eager young apprentices who came and went like flocks of sparrows, picking up the crumbs of stories as they passed through. She still had her stories and an eager audience to listen to them, renewed every few months with fresh ears. But even that was starting to slip away.
Three months ago, she had forgotten the ending of the story about the wise man's donkey attending classes at the University of Chelm. The apprentices sat looking sidelong
at each other as she groped for the ending. At last one of the Journeymen whispered a prompt in her ear, and the story sprang back into clear focus. But it had been a bad moment. She hadn't forgotten the ending to a story since . . . She couldn't remember when she'd ever forgotten a story. And it had started happening more and more often. She didn't mind the everyday memory lapses, forgetting names, or what day of the week it was. But her stories were her life, and she was losing them. It was more than she could bear.
The director of the rejuve clinic had talked about managing her medicines so that her body accompanied her mind into death. All her preparations for her death had been made a long time ago. Her estate was prepared, her memoir was as polished as she could make it, and her archives were all organized and ready for strangers to see. She was ready. It was time to stop taking the medications that propped up her failing body. She would speak to Samad about it as soon as they had a quiet moment together.
She wondered, for perhaps the millionth time, what Samad would decide to do with his life when he was free of her. She had made other plans if he chose to walk away from Thalassa, while still secretly hoping that he would continue her work. Even vastly expanded Guilds could not do the job a tenth as capably as Samad. But she saw the longing on his face whenever he looked up at the night sky.
Teller felt a flicker of her old rage. If only the Pilots Union had not tried to recruit Samad! But she was too old, too tired to stay angry for long. She had done her best to convince Samad to stay and look after Thalassa, but it was not a job that could be done with an unwilling heart.
If only he weren't so damned good at looking after things. She had done very little these past few years, nor had she needed to, and frankly, she had been glad to let him assume the responsibilities she had shouldered for so very long. She
was so tired and so alone. Abeha was gone, but not forgotten, not yet, at any rate. She missed the harsel and his gentle presence so much. She closed her eyes, and remembered. . . .
"Hey Teller, wake up."
Teller struggled up from a dream of sailing on Abeha's back, blinking and confused. She wasn't on board the harsel; she was here in Bonifacio. Abeha was dead. So were Stephano and the children. Her closed eyes tightened momentarily in pain as she felt the weight of her years. So many people gone, leaving her behind. It was time for her to follow.
"Teller, wake up."
Samad's insistent voice pulled her up out of the last shreds of past dreaming, into the waking present. She still had Samad. He was her last gift to the future, she thought with a smile.
"Mijo, you're finally here," she said, looking up at him. "I was getting worried."
"We were windbound coming out of Valldemqsa. The harsel had to scull out, half the time against the tide. Then the winds were against us most of the way."
"It sounds like a trying voyage."
"Especially for the harsel. Pakiki tried to talk me into going somewhere else. But when I told him I was visiting you, he strained his sail to get me here. His mother was Wailana, and he says that her memories of you are good ones."
Teller nodded, "And I remember her well, too. Wailana was a sweet, graceful har, small, but fast on a reach. I'm pleased that her line has continued. There was concern that, because she was so small, her young would not survive." Teller felt a twinge of regret at yet another reminder of the centuries of dead friends that trailed in the wake of her memory.
"How are you, Teller?" Samad asked.
Teller shrugged and looked down at the worn floorboards of the ancient house's front porch. "I feel old," she said at last. "Old and tired. My memory's going. And what good is a storyteller who forgets her stories?"
"Everyone forgets once in a while."
"It's not that kind of forgetting, Samad." She looked at him, her faded olive eyes meeting his youthful hazel ones. "I've had all the years the doctors promised, and one or two more besides. I don't think the drugs can prop me up much longer. Nor do I want them to. I don't want to watch my mind go. This last year's been bad enough."
"Teller, I—"
Teller laid her hand on Samad's arm to stop him, "No, querido, don't argue with me, please. You saved my life once before. Not this time. I've had half a millenium, and that's enough. It's time to stop the drugs and let nature take its course."
He looked at her, steadily and long. She met his gaze and reached out to touch his cheek. "Please, Samad," she whispered, feeling the tears welling. "Let me go."
"All right," Samad said. "But please wait a few more days. You may be ready for this, but I'm not."
"For a few days, Samad, but no more than that. You won't be losing me right away. It'll take several months for my body to wind down." She smiled. "I don't think this old heart will stop beating very easily. It's too used to ticking along."
"I hope so," Samad said. "It will be like having my heart torn out of my chest when you die."
Teller gave him a piercing look. "But when I am gone, you will be free to live your own life instead of mine."
He looked out across the hills to the sea. "I don't want your death to be the price I have to pay for my freedom."
"Then you should go now. Before I die."
"No," Samad said, shaking his head. "I can't—"
Just then a laughing group of apprentices came up the path from the garden, interrupting their conversation.
The apprentices, perhaps a bit guilty at leaving Teller unattended on the porch, became extremely attentive. It was two more days before Samad and Teller had a quiet moment together.
Finally, Teller sent the apprentices off on errands. "It'll give me some time to catch up with Samad," she said a little pointedly as she sent them off.
"Help me out onto the porch," she said. "It's too nice a day to sit inside."
Taking her arm, Samad helped Teller into her favorite chair and sat beside her. For a while they just sat there quietly, enjoying the beautiful summer afternoon, watching the swift, brilliant sunnu birds speeding after insects, sometimes skimming within inches of their heads as they swept under the overhang of the porch. The iridescent green patches on their backs blazed brilliantly as the birds emerged into the afternoon sunlight.
"It's a beautiful old world," Teller said after a long silence. "I'm going to hate to leave it."
"All the color will go out of the world when you're gone," Samad said, his voice husky with grief.
"Perhaps for a while, querido, but I have watched countless people die, and countless more live on. For almost all of the survivors, the color comes back eventually. Perhaps it is muted and more somber in tone, but th
ey do recover. I confess I'm more curious than afraid. I have seen so many people die, leaving me behind. I wonder where they go and what happens. Perhaps nothing at all, perhaps there is some sort of afterlife. For myself, I think I'd prefer to be reincarnated as a harsel. Their souls are so full of joy."
"Teller please, I—" Samad began, feeling tears threaten.
"It's not a tragedy, Samad. I've lived a good life, and an exceptionally long one. I feel a bit of regret and some sadness at leaving this world behind, but I can hardly say that I've been cheated. Besides, I've a bit of time left. Don't bury me just yet."
Samad nodded but didn't speak. Teller could see tears gathering in his eyes.
"You know what I'd really like to do?" Teller said.
"What?" Samad replied.
"Go up to the cave one last time, and sit in my old crew pod. Can you help me up there?"
Samad put his arm under Teller's shoulders, and helped her walk slowly up the hill. They stopped to rest every dozen steps or so. What had once been a fifteen-minute walk took them nearly an hour and a half, but they made it. The door opened at the touch of her palm on the lock. With Samad supporting her, Teller walked to the smallest of Abeha's old crew pods. Samad opened the hatch for her and helped her in.
The pod's lights came on as they entered. Teller smiled. "I'm glad I kept the batteries up on this lifeboat," she said.
"This was a lifeboat?" Samad asked.
Teller nodded, then eased herself into what would have been the pilot's chair. The ancient upholstery crackled and crumbled as she sat down on it, but she paid it no heed. It was old, too.
"Yes, this was Abeha's first crew pod. I brought down one of the starship's lifeboats and adapted it to fit Abeha's hold. It didn't take much to make it work, just a thick layer of soft foam insulation to cushion the sides. I made do with the space-based air system, though it left a lot to be desired. Nowadays the crew pods are much better designed. But this one was the very first pod, and it did its job well enough."
Samad looked around the tiny cramped space, barely four
meters long by three meters wide, and a little more than two meters tall. "I'm amazed you didn't go crazy in here."
Teller shrugged. "I was a Jump pilot, Samad. I was used to living in small, cramped spaces. In some ways living in this pod was much easier. I could go out onto Abeha's back whenever the weather cooperated. And there were always new islands to explore when I couldn't stand it anymore. Besides, I had Abeha's company, which made it all worthwhile. Life was hard but never boring."
Teller closed, her eyes, clearly lost in her memories. Samad perched on the edge of the tiny galley table waiting for her to return to the present.
At last she opened her eyes. "Be a dear, Samad, and go get the photo album, the first one."
He went to the shelves and brought it back. He carefully settled the heavy volume in her lap. She opened the album, not to the early pictures of Thalassa, as he had expected, but to the pictures of herself as a young pilot.
She shook her head. "I had the universe by the tail back then," she reminisced with a wistful smile. "I was young and Talented, and by God I knew everything there was to know about being a Jump pilot. Which meant that I knew everything important there was to know about everything. I visited every inhabited world during my career. Leave regulations being what they were, I had a couple of weeks to see the sights, if there were any to be seen. You can cram a hell of a lot of sightseeing into two weeks. Most of the other pilots thought I was crazy, spending all that time sightseeing on a dirtball, but it was what I liked doing. I used to have a huge picture file of all the places I'd been to, but I erased every last copy in a fit of depression. I've regretted it ever since. But my remorse over that loss led to all of this," she waved, her gesture taking in the archive that filled the huge cavern.
"I had an incredible time while my Talent lasted, Samad. And my Talent lasted much, much longer than most of the other Jump pilots of my time. But when it ended ..." She shook her head. "It really was like all the color was gone out of the world, and the flavor, and the music as well. If it hadn't been for Abeha—" Teller shook her head, her eyes hooded. "It was years before my life got back into some kind of balance. And I was lucky. I've searched all the Pilots Union archives I could get into, and I talked to others with access to the restricted archives. As far as I know, I'm the only Pilot ever to live more than ten years beyond the loss of their Talent. That fat pension they offer is a joke. Since pilots die only a few years after burnout, the Union actually makes money on it. That's why I've taken such pleasure in collecting my pension all these years. I don't need their blood money, but I enjoy milking them of every penny they owe me."
She looked at him, her eyes returning from the distant past to the present. "I know you want to be a pilot, Samad. I understand better than you do why it calls to you so. But promise me one thing. Before you accept the Union's offer, go talk to some ex-pilots. There's probably one or two in the bars around the spaceport, poor souls."
Samad looked down, deeply ashamed. All these years Teller had known his secret desire.
"I didn't want you to know," he said. "I didn't want to hurt you."
"It's all right, Samad," Teller soothed. "I understand, and I appreciate the kindness you were trying to show me."
"Thank you," Samad said when he could speak again. "I'm sorry."
Teller shrugged. "Nobody said that life is fair. I've lived a long and mostly fortunate life. I'm sorry that you don't want to take over from me. But it is your life, Samad. You have to
live it for yourself. Just promise me that you'll talk to an ex-pilot before you go. Please, Samad. It's important. I can't rest easy until you promise me that." Her hand gripped his arm, and her eyes focused with burning intensity upon his face.
"All right, Teller," Samad said gently. "I will. I promise." Teller searched his face a moment or two longer. "Thank you, Samad. Let me rest here for a few minutes, and then we can start back." Her eyes slid shut, and she lay back against the ancient upholstery. Her breathing became deep and even, and then a small snore rattled in her nose. Samad smiled. She was asleep.
Two days later, Teller stopped the geriatric drugs. For a few days nothing happened; then she began sleeping a lot more. When she was awake she seemed distant and distracted much of the time, as though she'd let some essential part of herself slip from her grasp.
Samad watched with a growing sense of pain and helplessness. A logical part of his mind knew that Teller had lived a long, full life and was ready to die. But the boy who still needed her overwhelmed his logical mind. He waited on Teller as attentively and anxiously as he had during their first months together. They sat on the porch, looking out over the rolling hills and the ocean, and watched the birds sweep and glide, making the air joyous with their flight and their song. Sitting there on the porch, it seemed somehow impossible that Teller should be slipping away from him while the world was in the full flood tide of summer.
Word of her slow dying spread. During the rest of the summer, visitors came to the little house in a respectful trickle. Only a very few of the visitors roused Teller from her absent graciousness, and those were old, old friends. Large fleets of harsels assembled in the channel offshore. Once,
Samad and the apprentices carried her down to the beach to hear their singing. Supported by Samad and one of the apprentices, she waded into the warm, calm water. They held her up as the harsels sang their farewells. She closed her eyes and listened, her seamed and ancient face alight with joy. Then suddenly her eyes widened in shock, and she clutched Samad's arm tightly.
"It's Abeha, Samad! Abeha's out there. I can hear him!"
"Teller, it can't be! Abeha's dead! We saw her die!" Samad told her.
"But I hear him!" she insisted "Abeha!"
She tried to struggle free of their grasp.
"Take her out of the water!" Samad shouted at the frightened huddle of apprentices. "Take her!"
She struggled as the apprentices carried her back to shore. Once they put her in the litter, she seemed to remember where she was. Samad waded back out in the water and looked at the now-silent fleet of harsels. He reached outward, searching with his mind. He had heard that fleeting voice, too. It had sounded hauntingly similar to Abeha's. But it was gone now. He wasn't even sure it had been real.
Teller wept quietly all the way home.
Florio arrived a week later. He came slowly up the path, dressed in black as always, his bright cloak draped over one arm. Teller watched him come, her faded eyes squinting against the glare, her face giving away nothing. Florio came up to the front steps and stood looking at Teller for a long moment. There was a liberal salting of gray in his hair, and he had grown much wider and softer about the middle.
"Hello, aghapitos," Teller said at last. "I hoped you'd come."
"I'm here, aghapitee," Florio said.
"And Juana?" Teller asked a little coldly.
"She's home with the children," Florio told her. "I came alone."
"I see," Teller said. "Thank you."
"Of course," Florio replied.
"Samad, could you ask the apprentices to bring us some lemonade and a cool, damp towel? Florio must be very hot and thirsty from his long walk."
"Of course," Samad said and headed inside, grateful to escape the building tension on the porch.
Teller had never really forgiven Florio for marrying, but Samad knew how much Florio had longed for a family, something Teller could never give him. He took his time with the lemonade, leaving the two of them alone for as long as he could manage. When he came out, Florio was kneeling before Teller, his head in her lap, weeping. Teller was stroking his head. She looked up at Samad and held a finger to her lips. Samad set the tray down and slipped quietly back inside.
Florio stayed the night. He seemed subdued and quiet. After Teller went to bed, Florio and Samad sat on the porch watching Thetis, the smaller moon, rise over the orchard. Nightflicks whizzed past in search of flying insects.
