Storyteller Read online

  AMY THOMSON

  ACE BOOKS. NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada

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  Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  STORYTELLER

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace trade paperback edition / December 2003 Ace mass market edition / February 2005

  Copyright © 2003 by Amy Thomson. Cover design by Judith Murello. Cover illustration by Tim O'Brian.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form with­out permission. Please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 0-441-01256-6

  ACE

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the "A" design

  are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 987654321

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  To my daughter, Katherine Chan Yuan Vick, who not only taught me to think outside the box, but also how to put the box on my head and wear it like a hat.

  And to my wonderful husband, Edd Vick, who also looks pretty good wearing a box as a hat.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a large book while raising a small child is nearly impossible without good child care. I want to thank the fol­lowing people who looked after Katie while I wrote:

  Tanya King, Teresa Glenn, and the staff of the Jose Marti Child Development Center.

  And many thanks to my husband, Edd Vick, who is not only the world's greatest dad (just ask our daughter!), but also listened to me maunder on endlessly about Thalassa and the harsels, and proofread far beyond the call of marital duty.

  And to the members of my writers group, Sound on Pa­per: Leslie and Chris Lightfoot, Roberta Tower, Laura Staley, Kara Dalkey, and Edd Vick, for their thorough and detailed critiques.

  I also wanted to thank the following people for their help in getting the fiddly little details right:

  Loren MacGregor for double-checking my Greek.

  Jihane Billacois for double-checking my Arabic.

  The Seattle Public Library Quick Information Line for providing near-instantaneous responses to all kinds of un­usual questions. Not only were they fast, they answered even the strangest questions without laughing once.

  Kelly Sandy, Sid Stillwaugh, Mickey Moss, Howard Mojfield, and Tom Kendrick.from the National Oceanic and At­mospheric Administration for advice and reassurance on ocean tides on Thalassa.

  My brothers Joseph and Michael Thomson, for all sorts of strange oceanic and nautical details. Any mistakes of lan­guage, grammar, and fact are my fault entirely.

  The following people provided inspiration:

  Jean Olivier Heron for his wonderful print, Comment Naissant les Bateaux, planche 2: Le Coter (sloop). This print gave me the initial idea for the harsels. Readers wishing to view this picture and more of Heron's work may seek it out at: .

  Kim Graham, a sculptor of truly extraordinary talent, for helping me sculpt a harsel. Actually creating a creature that had only existed in my mind was an incredible experience. Wow!

  And Bill McKinzie and Captain Eric Kellen. Thanks for the lovely cruise!

  Geoff Taylor's marvelous book Whale Sharks: The Giants of Ningaloo Reef lived next to my desk while I was writing this book. It provided much useful information about large plankton feeders. I confess that occasionally I took it out when I was bored just to look at the wonderful pictures.

  Other books that were inspirational, evocative, or just plain useful were:

  Corsica: Portrait of a Granite Island and The Dream Hunters of Corsica, both by Dorothy Carrington.

  The Pillars of Hercules by Paul Theroux.

  My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell.

  Patrick O'Brian's amazing Aubrey / Maturin series (of course!).

  Ted Brewer Explains Sailboat Design and Understanding Boat Design, 4th Edition also by Ted Brewer.

  And finally to my mother Muriel Thomson and to Lindblad Expeditions and their wonderful ship, the Lindblad Ex­plorer. During my childhood they took me to islands ranging from Attu to Zanzibar and fostered a lifelong love of islands and island ecologies that has cropped up in almost every one of my books.

  CHAPTER 1

  SAMAD SAW A CROWD FORMING. CURIOUS, he pushed his way through the press of people to see what was going on. A storyteller, wrapped in her Guild's tradi­tional brightly colored shawl, was rattling her drum to sig­nal the beginning of a performance. The teller was an old woman with iron-gray hair. Her skin was weathered to the color of oiled leather, and a deep web of wrinkles radiated out from the corners of her olive-green eyes. It had been a long time since Samad had heard a story, and he longed to stay and listen. This storyteller looked like she knew a lot of good tales.

  A merchant, richly dressed in a tunic of off-world shimmercloth decorated with several rows of expensive metal buttons, glared down at Samad. The man pointedly shifted his fat, jingling purse and comm unit to the other side of his belt. The merchant's haughty gesture reminded Samad that he had nothing to give the storyteller in return for her story.

  Longing weighed like a cold stone in his empty belly as he looked around for a way to slip quietly out of the crowd.

  Just then, the storyteller caught his eye. An ironic and surprisingly mischievous smile creased her leather-brown face, deepening the web of wrinkles round her eyes. Samad found himself smiling back. She winked at him, then looked away. A wave of misery washed over Samad. He was caught between offending the storyteller and incurring a debt he could not pay. He would have to slip away as soon as the story began. If he didn't hear her tale all the way through, he wouldn't have to give her a gift.

  The storyteller set aside her drum and drew herself up, waiting until the murmuring audience quieted. Then she
began to speak in a rich voice that lent the rough local Ara­bic a dignified, almost majestic feel.

  "This is a story about the Pilot, and how she came to our world. Most of you know some of the Pilot's story. We don't know how many of the legends are true; but the Pilots Union records show that a Jump pilot was stranded in this system nearly five hundred years ago, a decade before Thalassa's first pioneers arrived.

  "Although the Pilot was never found, the first pioneers found herds of livestock and young orchards of Terran fruit trees on dozens of islands, as well as caches of preserved fruit, vegetables, and meat.

  "The pioneers also discovered a space shuttle and the re­mains of human habitation on Pilot's Island in the Summer Sea. The Pilot's body was never found. Perhaps she died; perhaps she never existed at all. The legends we have about the Pilot may or may not be true, but generations of our people have kept her alive by telling her stories."

  The storyteller paused to sip from a worn plastic cup. Then she leaned forward, as though about to impart a secret to her audience.

  "Imagine a cramped, battered old freighter that had hauled goods around the Ring of Worlds for many decades. It was almost five hundred years ago, during the time of the Second Expansion. This ancient freighter's Jump pilot had been pushing ships through Jump Space for nearly forty years. She was long overdue for burnout. Back then, there were so few people with the Talent for Jumping that every pilot was kept flying right up to the edge of burnout and sometimes beyond. Since she was considered a likely candi­date for burnout, this pilot was only allowed solo, low-priority shipping runs to the outer colonies. She didn't mind. She could still Jump, and that was what mattered to her. Her home world, her family, her friends were all mere shadows in comparison to her desire to experience the ec­stasy and mystery of Jump Space one more time.

  "But during the last couple of Jumps, the Pilot's Talent had begun flickering in and out. Her course lay through an uninhabited system where she would drop off some survey probes to investigate a possible colony planet, and then on to Epsilon Eridani, where she could get a complete checkup.

  "As she approached the system, the Pilot started to push the ship back into real space. Suddenly her talent faltered and then winked out completely. For one terrifying mo­ment, she was caught in the shift between Jump Space and real space. A red-hot needle of fire lanced through her brain as the freighter lurched and juddered, slamming back into real space as though dropped from a great height.

  "The Pilot slumped against the worn cushions of her Jump chair and shut her eyes. There was only an aching void where her Talent had been.

  "Pain flared again in the Pilot's head as she opened her eyes. Her console was alive with flashing red warning lights. She sat up, fighting the pain, and began dealing with all the systems that had gone haywire during the rough transition

  to real space. When the last warning light had changed to a safe, serene blue, and the ship was safely on a new course, the Pilot staggered to the autodoc. She entered her symp­toms and then set the sensor net on her head. The net tight­ened, and she winced at the familiar prickling sensation as the sensors dug into her skin, seeking neurons to probe. She felt a sudden warmth and tingling over various parts of her skull as the sensors mapped her brain.

  "The autodoc hummed for several minutes, then spat out a diagnosis that confirmed her fears. Her Talent was gone. She would never Jump again. She was trapped in this empty system. She thumbed approval for her treatment, and the autodoc hissed as it sprayed a dose of painkillers and seda­tives into her arm. She stumbled to her bunk, fell in, and was asleep almost instantly.

  "She slept for a long time, and woke slowly, feeling wooly and a bit vague. A faint twinge in her head was the only remnant of the previous night's agony. Then she remem­bered what had happened. Her piloting Talent had burned out, and she was marooned here. It would be a couple of months before she was missed, and more months, possibly years, before a pilot could be scheduled to search for her.

  "She would have to survive for a year or more on this cramped freighter, living on recycled ship rations. And even if she were rescued, she would be Talentless and planet-bound. Washed up. She had lived for those ecstatic mo­ments in Jump Space. Now she would never feel that sweet, timeless joy again.

  "A tide of grief threatened to overwhelm the Pilot. She paced the length of the crew quarters, no more than a dozen strides long, fighting the despair that threatened to over­whelm her. She still had to deploy the survey probes. Only when the probes were safely away could she think about the next step.

  "It would be five long weeks before the Pilot's ship reached orbit around the planet to be surveyed. Once the initial course corrections were entered, there was little to do besides basic maintenance and housekeeping. To keep busy, she inventoried the freighter's hold. The ship's cargo in­cluded a wide array of tools, housing kits, and even an agricultural tissue bank, complete with incubators, all scheduled for delivery to a colony world farther out on her aborted run. There was plenty of equipment useful for surviving on the surface of a habitable world, if the planet proved habitable.

  "Even the busywork was not enough to keep her mind off of her fate. Several times she set a sharp knife to her wrists and thought about opening her veins, but she still had a mission to complete. And there were better ways for a pilot to die. Besides, she didn't have the nerve to do it.

  "The Pilot felt a heavy relief when the ship finally reached orbit, and she could begin launching the probes. Soon her mission would be completed, and then she could think about an end to her pain.

  "It took only a day to deploy the survey probes, but her mission plan required her to make sure they were opera­tional and to log their preliminary reports. She looked down at the blue, cloud-swathed world turning below her and wondered if it was as beautiful as it appeared from space.

  "The preliminary survey data revealed a living world filled with promise. The air was breathable and the climate temperate. Though there were no continent-sized land-masses, the planet's vast ocean was dotted with millions of islands, green with vegetation.

  "Someday humans would come here, and they would make this world their home. The Pilot was bitterly pleased that the loss of her Talent had not been wasted on a barren, inhospitable planet. She logged the preliminary report and methodically began shutting down the ship.

  "A few hours later, the old freighter was dark, quiet, and beginning to grow cold. The Pilot paused to reread the note she had placed on her console, then took one final look around at the ship that had carried her so far. At least it would survive this trip, even if she would not.

  "The Pilot climbed into the waiting shuttle and buckled herself into the pilot's seat. She flicked through the startup procedures and felt the gratifying rumble of the powerful engines. With deft touches on the attitude-control buttons, the Pilot guided the shuttle gently away from the ship.

  "For a long moment, the Pilot admired the planet below her. There were islands below the shuttle now, scattered flecks of green and brown on the deep blue ocean, veiled by white whorls of cloud. She pointed the shuttle straight down at the blue, blue ocean below her and punched the ig­nition on the main engines.

  "The shuttle's acceleration shoved the Pilot back into her seat. She smiled grimly and watched the planet grow nearer in the forward view port until its blue and white island-flecked immensity filled her vision. This world was beauti­ful, so beautiful that it brought tears to her eyes. She felt a sudden twinge of regret that she'd never live to explore it.

  "The navigational computer began bleating warnings about an incorrect atmospheric insertion. She turned off the sound and ignored the flashing lights as the ship dove to­ward the planet. Suddenly, the words Safety Override ap­peared on the computer screen. The controls froze up and refused to respond. With a loud roar, the attitude jets cut in, pushing the nose of the shuttle up and away from the gleaming blue ocean.

  "The Pilot swore and yanked on the steering yoke, but it didn't respond.
She tried to shut off the navcomp, but the controls were completely dead. The craft shuddered as it hit the atmosphere, slowing even further. She watched helplessly as the shuttle steered itself onto a safe glide path and splashed down in the ocean, bobbing like a cork on the choppy sea.

  "The Pilot sat in her chair and swore until anger, frustra­tion, and grief overwhelmed her. Then she finally wept.

  "Gradually, the Pilot became conscious of an eerie sense of presence in her mind, as though someone was staring over her shoulder. It was so strong that she looked behind her to see if there was someone else in the shuttle. She felt the mental presence respond with ringing chimes that somehow evoked curiosity and amusement. A sudden wave of terror passed over her. Was she going crazy?

  "Opening the hatch, the Pilot surveyed the vast expanse of dark-blue ocean. Crazy or not, it didn't matter. It was time to finish things. If she couldn't die one way, she would die another. She crawled out onto the hull of the wildly rocking shuttle, clinging to the handholds designed for zero-g work.

  "A wave broke against the side of the shuttle, drenching her. The water was cold enough to make her gasp for breath. Good, she thought grimly, I'll die even faster. The Pilot crawled to the tail of the shuttle and pulled herself upright. She looked down at the deep blue, choppy sea, and then jumped in. The cold water numbed her and dragged at her baggy coveralls as it closed over her head. The trapped air inside her clothes pulled her back up to the surface. The powerful swell shoved and dragged at her until she was dizzy and disoriented.

  "The sense of a mental presence felt even stronger now. It rang in her mind like bells chiming in an underwater cathe­dral. The presence's feeling of curiosity had a dissonant thread of concern running through it as it watched her.

  "A cold, choppy wave slapped the Pilot as she drew breath. She choked on the salty water. Her body struggled

  reflexively against the cold, dark ocean as she slipped be­neath the rise of another swell. Underwater, with no choppy swell to fight against, it was easier to let go and sink through the cold water toward death.

  "Something bumped her legs. Fear shot through her. Her eyes snapped open, but all she could see was a dark shadow rising beneath her. The huge presence suddenly seemed as omnipresent as the ocean itself, radiating calmness and reas­surance. Then something rough-skinned and massive lifted the Pilot out of the icy water.