Pathways

by Jeri Taylor

  But he asked none of these questions. All his rapturous energy, so diffuse and unbridled, had coalesced in an instant to a single goal, which burned within him like the white-hot tip of a tiny needle: he had to find a woman.

  When he arrived at his parents’ home, he was perspiring heavily. His mother took one look at him and seemed to understand what was happening, a fact which angered him but which didn’t detract from his need. “We have chosen a mate for you, Tuvok,” T’Meni announced confidently. “We have given this matter much thought, and have selected carefully. We think you will be satisfied.”

  “Why did you never tell me of this?” he queried, still finding it preposterous that such a monumental event would be concealed from him.

  “We do not discuss it” was his mother’s only reply. “Bathe yourself and put on suitable clothes. We will meet your bride.”

  And so it was that Tuvok found himself standing in the home of people he had never met, staring into the serene and knowing eyes of a young woman named T’Pel. Her skin was as soft and shining as brown velvet, and her hair hung down her back in carefully restrained curls. Her voice was low and keening, and as soon as she spoke, he could imagine her singing to him with a siren lure.

  She evinced no surprise at the introduction to her mate—did everyone know about this except him?—and Tuvok imagined that he saw in her tranquil expression a satisfaction, perhaps even a pleasure, in seeing him.

  A yearning more powerful than anything he could ever have imagined swept over him. He had to touch her, to caress her, run his hands over all her body, taste her skin, press against her, flesh against flesh, must become her, make one of their two.

  The thought came to him: Was this what Lily, and Sophie, and the others had felt? Did humans live in this constant state of arousal? Now he understood the tears.

  Abruptly, he turned away from her, aware that he must be making a spectacle of himself. He could not embarrass his family like this. He removed himself from the group, into a corner, and stood silently there, observing with as much decorum as he could while his parents, and T’Pel’s, made arrangements for their mating ceremony.

  The next day they were standing in the ritual site, Tuvok ruminating that while Vulcans inexplicably kept this powerful experience a carefully cloaked secret, once it began at least they acted with alacrity. He was grateful for this, for he wasn’t sure how he could have endured one more night alone.

  Now T’Pel stood before him, gracious and composed, listening as M’Fau intoned the mating ceremony. Tuvok paid little attention to what was being said; it was all he could do to hold still. The afternoon burned hot from the desert winds, and, prophetically, T’Khut loomed monstrously overhead, volcanoes belching lava. It was, Tuvok thought, an apt representation of the fire within himself, an inferno boiling within that needed eruption.

  At M’Fau’s instruction, he placed his fingers on T’Pel’s luminous face, initiating the mating bond.

  Rapturous images swirled between them. The desert in its shimmering heat became the silvery cold of the mountains became the roiling lava flow became the ecstasy of icy streams became the blistering summer storms became the chill winds of the short season. Ice upon fire, fire upon ice, as T’Pel warmed and Tuvok cooled and their minds entwined with one another, touching, blending, dancing, singing, soaring.

  One. Forever.

  Later, they were alone, standing apart from each other in a room that had been prepared for them with candles and incense, with wine and fruit. They gazed at one another, Tuvok hearing the beating of his heart in his ears, thundering, insisting, louder and more demanding every second until all he could hear was a roaring that propelled him forward.

  His last thought before he touched her was What if I don’t know what to do?

  But he soon realized he needn’t have worried.

  “You have another son, Tuvok,” announced his mother, and Tuvok nodded acknowledgment. His first- and second-born sons, Sek and Varith, sat with him, playing kal-toh, with which Tuvok hoped to quiet their youthful energies and teach them to focus on a mental task. It had proven daunting. Sek showed some promise, but at fourteen his attentions were drawn to more physical and exuberant games, like dak’lir. It was difficult to persuade him to sit quietly even for three or four hours.

  Now he leapt to his feet, snatching the opportunity to dispense with the game. “May I go see Mother and the baby?” he asked politely enough, but Tuvok could see him practically twitching with uncurbed energy, his wayward ringlets—his mother’s hair—spilling over his bronzed forehead.

  “And me!” chirped Varith, who at seven was a true challenge to Tuvok’s skills as a parent. He was a stunning child, his skin the color of mulled tea, eyes large and dark, teeth white as the snows on Seleya. These teeth were frequently visible, as Varith had the unfortunate propensity to smile, no matter how hard Tuvok had labored to teach him restraint.

  “We will all go,” Tuvok announced. “But not until I see that you are truly focused and your emotions under control. I do not want your mother, nor your new brother, to bear witness to this unseemly vigor.”

  He could see the boys doing their best to obey him; both closed their eyes and drew deep breaths, and Sek seemed to gain some measure of constraint, but a telltale tug at Varith’s lips bespoke his incipient mirth. “We will not see your mother, Varith,” Tuvok said firmly, “until you are fully in control of yourself.”

  At this, Varith’s hands tightened into small fists and his lips formed a rigid line. Holding himself like this, he opened his eyes and looked directly at Tuvok, as though to say, I’m in control now, Father.

  Tuvok knew full well that true mastery did not come from a clenching of fists and a forced expression. But at least Varith was making an effort, and perhaps that was all he could expect. He turned away from them. “Come,” he said, and led them into the long gallery that ran from the formal rooms of their home into the living quarters.

  They lived on the periphery of the desert, as close as a habitat could be erected, for Tuvok was most at home near the vast expanse of red sand. He never tired of gazing into its Promethean depths, an occupation he found tranquilizing.

  Now he paused before the great windows of the gallery and turned to his sons. “Look to the desert,” he intoned. “The sight will help to quiet your minds.”

  The boys gazed obediently toward the great flatness, beyond which mountains loomed darkly and distantly. Seleya was beyond them. Tuvok had never seen the sacred mountain, never made the pilgrimage that was so cherished by Vulcans. Someday, he would go there and see the black shape that erupted from the desert floor, climb the ten thousand steps that had been carved in its stone, imbue himself with the power and mysticism of this most holy place.

  “I want to see Mother,” Varith muttered fretfully, and Tuvok drew a breath which some might deem a sigh. This child was taxing.

  “For losing your concentration, we will stand here fifteen minutes more,” Tuvok told them. And they did, Varith’s mounting anxiety, fueled by the occasionally mewling sound of a baby’s crying, notwithstanding.

  When finally they entered T’Pel’s chamber, Varith bounded across the room and flung himself into his mother’s arms. Tuvok was disappointed that T’Pel embraced him, holding him close to her and murmuring gently to him. Such reinforcement of untoward behavior did nothing to ease his task of teaching his children the self-control they must acquire before taking their place in the adult world.

  Sek, at least, was more restrained, and moved with appropriate speed to his mother’s bed. “I hope you are well, Mother,” he said. T’Pel extended her arm to him, as well, and both boys enjoyed an embrace from their clearly exhausted mother.

  “I am well. As is your new brother. Go to him, and see what you were like in the first hours of your birth.”

  The boys moved toward the large cradle that stood near the bed, circling around the nurse who had come to help with the birthing. Tuvok sat next to T’Pel, holding a look in
which their thoughts fled back and forth between each other, calming and reassuring.

  “He is a strong, healthy boy, Tuvok. We are blessed again.”

  “I believe you had hoped for a daughter.”

  “I am grateful for my healthy boys. This one was the largest yet, and he’s already suckling strongly.”

  Varith called out to them. “Look, Father, how tiny he is!” Tuvok turned to see Varith’s teeth showing once again and realized he was smiling. “Close your mouth,” Tuvok said automatically, and the teeth disappeared.

  Tuvok moved to the cradle to inspect his newest son. The baby was lighter-skinned than the other two had been at birth, and his mother’s curly hair lay in loose ringlets on his head. His mouth was moving in sucking motions, rather like a fish, but he wasn’t crying and seemed content for the moment. His diminutive fists waved in the air, and Tuvok was reminded of the orchestra conductors he had witnessed on Terra. Perhaps this child would be musical; neither of the others had shown any propensity for music.

  Varith had managed to insert his finger into the baby’s small grasp and was wiggling his arm back and forth. “We’re going to play dak’lir together,” the child announced solemnly. “I’ll show you how to dodge the runners so you can be the first one through the rings.” Then Varith looked up at Tuvok. “What’s his name? What will we call him?”

  Tuvok looked over at his wife and lifted an eyebrow. They had had a difference of opinion about the baby’s name, Tuvok preferring a name in the Surak tradition and T’Pel preferring to bend that custom and give him a more original name. “The choice is yours,” he told her. The child was healthy; a name was unimportant by comparison.

  She held his look for a long moment, then finally she said, “His name will be Elieth.”

  Though he did not betray it, Tuvok could not have been more surprised. His aunt Elieth, who had been Eldest Mother, had recently died, leaving the mantle to his mother, T’Meni. Conferring the name of an Eldest Mother on a male child was an honor of the highest sort and could only be bestowed by the mother of the child, not the father. It was said to portend extraordinary events in the child’s life.

  Tuvok nodded at his wife to signify his acceptance of her gesture. It was a particularly astute way to have solved their difference of opinion, and he noted to himself that T’Pel was truly remarkable in her ability to achieve these compromises.

  He returned to the cradle where Sek and Varith were both stroking the baby, talking to it, as though it were some kind of small pet, a newborn sehlat. “Children,” he said, “this is your brother Elieth.”

  They found this pronouncement singularly unremarkable, and Tuvok made a mental note to instruct them more fully in the significance of Vulcan names. Varith might be excused for not understanding, but there was no justification for Sek’s not grasping the importance of this designation.

  As he regarded his three sons, grouped together now as though for a family portrait, Tuvok wondered if he was fulfilling his duties as a father satisfactorily. He had determined at Sek’s birth that, unlike his own father, he would take an active role in the upbringing of his children. His father had spent his days at the temple—a worthy endeavor, to be sure—and left Tuvok’s training and education in the hands of his mother. And while Tuvok had nothing but the greatest respect and esteem for T’Meni, he had often wondered if a greater presence by his father might have inculcated better disciplines in him at an earlier age.

  Of course, his own efforts toward that end didn’t seem to be having the desired result. His own sons were woefully lacking, in his opinion, the attributes they should have by now. What was he doing wrong? Surely an adult of his experience should be able to teach two children effectively. Determined to get to the crux of the matter, he sat himself on a chair near T’Pel’s bed.

  “I am concerned,” he began, “with our sons’ behavior. They are lacking in basic disciplines, and at times are unacceptably obstreperous. They lie abed until nearly an hour after sunrise, whereas I was always up before dawn. Their lessons go undone until I insist they be tended to—something unheard of when I was a child. They simply are not achieving appropriate control over their actions or their emotions, and certainly are not embracing the ideals of cthia. What can be done about this?”

  Having concluded his analysis of the problem, Tuvok looked at his wife, and was startled to realize that she was sound asleep. He started to reach out and shake her gently awake, then thought better of it. She had, after all, just given birth.

  He rose with a sense of purpose. “Sek, Varith, come with me.” The boys looked at him with surprise, apparently hearing the determination in his voice. To their credit, they did not hesitate or complain, but followed him out of the chamber, Varith scurrying to keep up with Tuvok’s long strides.

  An hour later they sat before M’Fau in the temple of Amonak, the boys pale and quiet, each clutching one small container into which he had packed a few necessary items of clothing and toilette. M’Fau looked like a richly plumed nestra bird, dressed in a robe of brilliant saffron and orange, and was as intimidating.

  “I commend them into your care,” Tuvok informed M’Fau. “I have failed as a father and I do not want my sons to suffer because of my inadequacies. Instruct them in the proper Vulcan ways so that they may take their place in the adult world properly trained.”

  M’Fau made no response to this, but carefully studied the boys. Sek returned her gaze evenly, but Tuvok thought he detected something behind the boy’s eyes that bespoke pain and uncertainty. And Varith’s apprehension was not concealed; his lips were trembling and he clutched his container so tightly his fingers were pale and splotched.

  These observations seemed to Tuvok affirmation of his decision. Properly trained children would not behave in such a way, so clearly these boys needed the firmer hands of the priests and priestesses. But M’Fau was silent, not confirming his decision. Tuvok waited patiently, sure she was being characteristically deliberate.

  Finally, after a long inspection of the two boys, she turned to Tuvok. She was nearly two decades older than she had been when Tuvok first entered the Pon farr, and her face was even craggier now; but her eyes retained their flinty intensity, and he could feel her probing him with her mind. He obediently allowed the scrutiny.

  Presently she placed her fingertips together and gazed out her window. A pale light remained of the day, yellow and fading, and Tuvok was reminded of the overcast afternoons of San Francisco, when the sun struggled vainly to illuminate the city but could manage only a weak, sallow hue that seemed poisonous.

  Finally M’Fau turned to him. “These boys are not ready for Kolinahr,” she informed him. “I cannot accept them.”

  Tuvok was bewildered. How could she not accept them when they so clearly needed the rigorous disciplines of the order? He opened his mouth to speak, but M’Fau held up a hand, silencing him.

  “When you came to Amonak, it was by your choice. You were ready because of your life experiences. The same is not true of these boys. You cannot accelerate the process, Tuvok. Your haste will create the opposite result from what you intend.”

  “But . . . they are not responding to their present teachers, nor to my attempts to supplement their disciplines. They require a firmer hand.”

  “The raising of children should be an easy task, shouldn’t it? We simply teach them what they should know, and they will dutifully absorb that wisdom, growing to adulthood in precisely the way we want them to.”

  Her eyes flickered to Tuvok’s, who remained impassive, waiting for her to make her point. “It’s a pleasant fantasy,” she continued, “but no more than that—a fantasy. You cannot deny them their own struggle, Tuvok. They need their own life experiences, their own obstacles to overcome. You cannot lecture them into maturity.”

  “But at their ages I was not so unruly—” He was cut off from the sentence as M’Fau rose abruptly and gestured to the boys. “The kitchen undoubtedly has some leftover honey cakes. Tell Cook that I
want you to have some.”

  Sek and Varith rose with more than obedience and hurried to the door. When they had exited, M’Fau turned back to Tuvok.

  “I knew you at their ages, Tuvok, so don’t tell me what you were like. You were exactly as they are, and your mother was as concerned about you as you are about them.”

  Tuvok was stunned. How could this be? He had never been unruly, or undisciplined, and he had always obeyed both his parents instantly and completely.

  Hadn’t he?

  “Had I remained on Vulcan,” he began, “I would have experienced no difficulty in my upbringing. It was my interaction with humans that provided a hindrance in my growth toward self-control.”

  “You are possessed of an even greater proclivity to fantasy than I had realized,” said M’Fau, her voice granite. “But perhaps no greater than many parents who wish to believe they were paragons of good behavior when they were the ages of their children.” She moved to her table and removed one of the kal-toh sticks and replaced it, seemingly idly, but the construction shimmered and achieved its ordered state. “I will not absolve you of the responsibility of raising your children. You will have to struggle with it as does everyone else.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you? I don’t think so, not yet. But eventually, you will.”

  She nodded dismissal and he went to the kitchen, where he found his sons gulping hunks of fragrant honey cakes. “Would you like a piece, Father?” said Varith, his mouth still full of sticky crumbs. Tuvok almost remonstrated him for his manners, but rethought the matter and accepted a square of cake.

  It was sweet on his tongue.

  “What are you doing, Father?”

  Tuvok turned to see the round face of his daughter Asil looking up at him. A chubby hand grabbed at his robe, clenching its plush purple folds possessively. Tuvok brushed away the thought that if it had been one of his sons who had done so, he would have chastised him. He readily acknowledged that he treated this fourth child somewhat differently from the others, but believed it was because of his experiences with the first three, rather than because of the child’s gender.