by Jeri Taylor
“Don’t leave me,” she breathed, voice barely audible, as though the sound were dampened and absorbed by the evening shadows that were enveloping the gazebo. “Please.”
To his satisfaction, he found he was not disquieted by what he could only describe as her unseemly groveling. The universe was ordered, and he had rediscovered order after having lost sight of it for a moment. That was the effect humans had had on him, and he must find a way to disengage that effect.
“If I am to follow Surak, I must be true to his teachings. I must not harm another, must not cause another pain, for such actions speed entropy, the heat death of the universe.”
Her slender body began to tremble, and he sensed a fierce struggle within her, a concentrated effort to achieve mastery over her ragged emotions. Finally she drew three deep breaths and lifted her eyes to him.
“I offer you peace,” she said, quoting Surak, “and peace again until I die.”
“And in this way you will find peace,” he intoned. Then he turned and left the gazebo, never looking back. It was his last encounter with her.
“I can no longer live among humans. They hasten the heat death of the universe.”
Six years had passed since his graduation from the Academy, and he was standing in the formal room of his parents’ home on Vulcan, feeling the comforting familiarity of the intense heat, and the lightness of spirit that came from returning to one’s origins. T’Khut was high in the sky, looming menacingly above them, volcanoes visible and smoking. But to Tuvok, the huge disk was calming in its familiarity.
After graduation, he had taken an advanced degree in Tactical Strategies and Weaponry, and served a three-year tour of duty aboard the U.S.S. Excelsior under Captain Hikaru Sulu, and thus had once again been closely quartered with a large number of humans.
Nothing in his experiences aboard the Excelsior altered his basic perception of this species: although gregarious, valiant, and clever, they were ruled by emotion. Increasingly, the strain of maintaining the rigors of cthia while living among humans became exhausting, sapping his energy and fragmenting his mental disciplines.
He longed for retreat. He had begun to dream of the desert, of its unknowable mysteries and vast silences. It was a cleansing place, which baked confusion and disquietude from one’s mind and left purity and serenity in their place.
When the Excelsior returned to Earth, he tendered his resignation from Starfleet and returned to Vulcan on the first ship that had passenger space. The closer the vessel came to his homeworld, the more confident Tuvok was of his decision, and when he stood before his parents some days later, he was suffused with a sense of clarity and purpose.
“I have fulfilled your wishes, and broadened my experiences. I am no longer a child, and must now determine my own path. I have decided to pursue the study of Kolinahr.”
Tuvok thought he detected an expression of satisfaction on his father’s face, but he was more concerned with his mother’s reaction. He had already determined his plan, regardless of what his parents said, but he would prefer their acquiescence because he didn’t want his mind cluttered with the ragged remnants of their disapproval.
So he was gratified when his mother nodded once, firmly, signaling her compliance. “And where will you pursue this study?” she queried.
“At the Temple of Amonak,” he replied. It was the most rigorous of the Kolinahr temples, the one where he could study with M’Fau. The temple Sophie had attended. He would remain cloistered within its walls for two years before being allowed to emerge into the world again, even for a brief visit. He had no doubt that his parents would have preferred that he choose a less stringent order for his studies. He was their only child, and had been gone from them for ten years. They had probably anticipated some interaction with him once he returned to Vulcan.
“The life of an ascetic is not an easy one,” his father said. “It will test you severely.”
“That is precisely why I have chosen it,” replied Tuvok. “After living among humans, I must be cleansed through denial and struggle. I have become soft, and dependent on creature comforts. I require the disciplines of Kolinahr.”
And so it was that Tuvok, after a month in his parents’ company—a month in which they found they had much to share—entered the temple of Amonak and took the oath of dedication. He was now bound to the disciplines of Kolinahr and he felt, even more than when he had entered his parents’ house a month ago, that he had finally come home.
Tuvok spent six years in the sanctuary of Amonak, a time during which he began to achieve the mastery of his instincts that he had always thought must be possible. He realized how uncontrolled he had been during his first thirty years, when confusion, puzzlement, and uneasiness bubbled so closely to the surface. He vowed to do everything in his power to subdue those treacherous feelings.
He lived in a small cell, barely three meters square, and slept on a pallet on the floor. The walls were Vulcan sandstone, thick and white, effectively blocking both heat and sound. A small table for writing and an isochromatic lamp were the only other furnishings. No adornments graced the walls, no mementos of his prior life cluttered the table. This simplicity was not required by the brothers and sisters of Amonak, and indeed many other penitents had cells that were comfortably furnished and even decorated. The criterion dictated by the priests was “surroundings which provide the least distraction from pursuits of the mind,” as they wisely realized that there were those who would be inattentive to their studies if their minds were on the austerity of their habitats.
Tuvok disdained this indulgence, which he considered luxury. He personally felt that everyone should live in the same way, with the fewest creature comforts, so that all focus would be on cthia. But the choice was not his to make, and he accepted that the priestesses possessed a greater wisdom than he, and undoubtedly had their reasons for this decision.
He rose each day at dawn, and ruminated that his mother would no doubt still consider him a lie-abed. He ate nothing until he had completed two hours of meditation, alone in his stone-quiet cell.
Then he would join his brothers and sisters for a simple meal of bread and fruit, which was followed by a meditative walk in the hills. On those mornings when T’Khut loomed above them, a special invocation would be chanted, an ancient prayer for T’Khut to keep her place in the sky. Of course everyone now realized the astronomical relationship between the two planets, and knew that T’Khut could not descend upon Vulcan at will, but the ancients did not understand that, and believed that fiery, violent T’Khut might at any time plunge from her perch to wield molten destruction to all the inhabitants of Vulcan. The incantations to T’Khut were considered some of the most powerful ever spoken, and even today priestesses extolled their awe and majesty.
The only other meal of the day came in late afternoon, and was as simple as the first: bread and fruit again, accompanied this time by soup. It followed classes in the temple and preceded an evening of communal meditation. Then everyone retired to their rooms to write and study, and finally to sleep.
It was an unvarying routine, broken only a few times a year for the observance of certain hallowed days: the birth of Surak; the consecration of Seleya, the holy mountain; and a few others. These observances were muted and staid, as was appropriate, and characterized primarily by the addition of music, generally the Vulcan harp, to the ceremonies.
Tuvok lived like this for six years, studying Kolinahr, and was more at peace than he had ever been before. The rightness of his choice soothed him, and he vowed to dedicate the rest of his life to the pursuit of mental discipline.
One day he was walking along one of the stone colonnades that ringed the temple, musing over a certain passage in Surak’s writings that seemed to possess a flaw in logic, when he heard the sound of children at play. They were part of the summer program conducted by M’Fau—the same program which Sophie Timmins had once attended—and they had been at the temple every one of the six years he had spent there.
Today, however, the sound was disturbing to him, in a way he couldn’t define. Something vague and uncomfortable began manifesting itself in him, and he was aware of sensations he hadn’t had since his days at the Academy. He determined to identify, analyze, and then eliminate these perfidious sensibilities. To that end, he changed direction and walked to the children’s yard.
There were perhaps thirty of them, ranging in age from five or six up to twelve or so. They were playing dak’lir, a structured game intended to eliminate excess physical energy—often necessary before young and undisciplined minds can be turned toward logic.
The day was a mild one, distant mountains etched against the sky (which was absent T’Khut’s menacing presence), red desert sparkling in the sun. It was on days like this that Tuvok made a point of strolling the colonnades, musing on the Disciplines. Now, as he gazed at the yard of unruly young people—and no mistake about it, they were behaving in a most untoward fashion—he felt a genuine annoyance. They had interrupted his thoughts. Their noisy discordance prevented him from reentering his former reverie.
He moved closer to the yard, seeking the priest or priestess who was in charge, but he saw no adult, just the gaggle of loud children. He was further annoyed to realize that the children were unsupervised. Unthinkable! How could any reasonable person allow this intractable group to create such a clamorous distraction?
He strode toward the children, not consciously aware that his heart rate was elevated, his blood pressure rising. He merely felt justified in taking steps to right a wrong.
“Silence!” he bellowed, and was mildly surprised at the look of amazement he saw on the young faces that instantly turned toward him, eyes widened and mouths agape. He was gratified that they obeyed instantly, as good Vulcan children should, and he decided they should be commended for their swift obedience.
“You were behaving very badly, and you are fortunate that I was present in order to restore order. Your swift response to my command, however, is laudable. I trust this raucous display is now finished.” He gazed at them sternly for a moment, then turned to leave.
M’Fau was standing directly behind him, looking at him curiously. Her face was heavily lined with age and wisdom, but her eyes were a deep ebony that seemed timeless, powerful. “Tuvok?” she queried.
“I have chastised these young people because they were entirely too obstreperous,” he stated. He saw nothing unusual in this statement, but M’Fau’s left eyebrow lifted slightly. “The adult in charge was not present to control them. You may want to determine who should have been here, and to remind them of their responsibilities.”
M’Fau’s voice was glacial. “I am the adult in charge, and I purposely left the children unsupervised. It is a necessary step in their learning to become masters of themselves.”
“I see.” Tuvok tried to keep his voice flat, but there was a strange vehemence to it. Where had it come from? “I regret my statement. I did not understand the situation.”
M’Fau’s expression seemed more curious than ever. She was staring at him, eyes narrowed. “Are you well, Tuvok? You seem feverish.”
Feverish? Tuvok lifted the back of his hand to his forehead and was surprised to find it moist with perspiration. What could have caused it? He was perplexed. “I . . . do not know. I shall retire to my room. If necessary, I will see the physician.”
He turned on his heel and marched away from the priestess, aware now of the hammering of his heart. Perhaps he was ill. He would drink an herb tea and go to bed early, after working the Disciplines with extra diligence.
But by the time of the afternoon meal, he found himself ravenous, and he rose from his pallet to join his brothers and sisters in the spacious meal gallery. He filled his tray, piling on several mugs of soup, half a loaf of nut bread, and several varieties of fruit. He sat and began devouring this feast.
The soup was excellent—both spicy and sweet, crammed with thick chunks of sorda, a vegetable he had enjoyed since childhood. The bread was freshly baked and still warm, and he tore it into thick slabs, which he used to sop up every bit of broth in the bottom of his mugs. The fruit, kuffi, was ripe and juicy, with a few more seeds than he wanted to deal with, but unusually delicious, as well. He wondered how it might taste cooked into bread, a kind of dessert dish. He determined to recommend it to the bakers.
He was in the process of deciding if he wanted to go back for more food when he became aware of a peculiar silence around him. He lifted his head to discover that the entire table of penitents was staring at him, their expressions ranging from the inquisitive to the disdainful. At the same time, he noticed that he had made a frightful mess on his tray. Soup was spilled, sodden hunks of bread had fallen to the table, and kuffi seeds were strewn everywhere. Then he realized that his face was wet with pulp from the fruit, and his hands were stained and dripping.
There was one instant of surprise as he discovered the disarray he had created, but almost immediately another response boiled up in him. He felt the white heat of anger. “What are you staring at?” he snapped at his fellows. “You are violating my privacy.”
A gentle voice behind him caused him to whirl. Teknat, a priest and a friend, was holding a white cloth toward him. “May I offer you a napkin, Tuvok?” he said quietly.
Tuvok’s response was to spring to his feet in a fury. “If I want a napkin, I’ll find one for myself.” Then he ripped the cloth from Teknat’s hand and flung it on the ground. He spun around and marched from the gallery, espying as he did M’Fau’s pale craggy face across the room, dark eyes following his every move.
Back in his room, he found himself pacing frenetically. For the first time, he realized how small and cramped the room was. He moved to the window and flung it open, hoping that the evening breeze might make the space less oppressive.
The heat of the desert flooded in. The room, which had been pleasantly cool, was now even more stifling than ever, making it difficult, somehow, to breathe. With a strangled oath, he slammed shut the window, and the noise it made when it collided with its casing seemed as loud as a tricobalt explosion in the tiny room. His sensitive ears rang painfully, and he swore again.
He flung himself down on his pallet, arm over his eyes, trying desperately to gain control over whatever was happening to him. He took three deep breaths and began the first of the Disciplines, but within seconds, his thoughts had fragmented like shards of broken crystal. He recalled Teknat offering him a napkin, and rage overcame him once more. He clenched his hand into a fist and pounded it against the wall. The pain that resulted was the only slightly soothing sensation he’d had all day.
In the midst of all this, a soft chime announced that someone was outside his door. “Go away!” he called in as loud and strident a voice as he could summon.
But in response, the door opened, and M’Fau was standing there.
Chagrined, he got to his feet. He noticed that his knuckles were gouged, and droplets of blood dripped green on the floor. “I . . . apologize,” he said with difficulty. “I didn’t realize it would be you.”
She made no answer, but entered the room and perched on his chair, hands upon her knees like a scrawny raptor poised to dive for small game. “Sit, Tuvok,” she said, and to his ears her voice seemed to echo as though from the depths of an ancient tomb.
He sat. Irritation and anxiety clawed at him, and he struggled desperately to maintain some measure of control. He envisioned himself putting his hands around M’Fau’s thin neck, skin crepy with folds, and squeezing until her black eyes popped wide and she collapsed in a shuddering death.
“. . . what has happened to you.”
He realized she had been talking to him, but as he had been fantasizing about murdering her, he had no idea what she’d said. He wiped at his face and shook his head, trying to clear it and focus on M’Fau.
“I’m sorry, would you repeat that?”
“I said, I believe I know what has happened to you.”
He stared at her, tryi
ng to make sense of this statement, but unable to make sense of anything. He shook his head again. “Oh?” he replied vaguely.
She leaned toward him. “I believe your time has come.”
This, too, made no sense to him, though he forced his mind to try to assimilate her meaning. His time? What time?
“I do not know . . . what you mean,” he said with effort.
She sighed. He discerned then that she was extremely uncomfortable, and this realization struck at him like an asp. He felt unaccountably fearful.
“Thee hast lapsed into the Pon farr,” she continued, using the formal mode as a kind of shelter from her embarrassment. “What the ancients called the plak-tow. The blood fever.”
“I still . . . do not know what you mean.”
“That is because we do not talk about it. But it comes to every Vulcan male at some point, and every seven years thereafter. The onset can have many forms, but I believe thine hast begun.”
Confusion swam in his brain, and he worked desperately to quell it. “What is ‘it’? What comes every seven years? I don’t understand . . .”
“The mating time. Thee must take a wife.”
At these words, a powerful image burst into Tuvok’s brain: he was walking down a richly appointed corridor, drawn inexorably forward by the siren song of a woman’s voice humming an intoxicating melody. The sound was silken, keening, suggesting indescribable longing. His heart hammered as he drew toward a door, rich with brocades, and extended his hand to open it . . .
M’Fau peered at him, waiting for a response. Tuvok folded his hands together, forcing concentration, and felt his arms shake with the effort. “How do I find a wife?”
She seemed pleased that he could focus on the matter. “Go to thy parents. They will have chosen.”
This struck him as monumentally odd. His parents— would have chosen a mate for him? When? And why had they never mentioned it? Why had they never told him of this incapacitating experience, prepared him for the disruption to his life?
