GUISES OF THE MIND

by Rebecca Neason

  Troi had arrived early so she could be here to greet the nun. While she waited, she thought about last night’s visit from Ensign Marshall. It had been a good session, one of the best they had had. The ensign had finally been ready to talk. He had sat in her quarters for nearly two hours, sipping tea while he told her about his childhood and the home in which he had grown up, his family and the plans they had harbored for his future, plans he had disrupted by joining Starfleet, and the rift that had caused between himself and his father. Marshall had not been home in two years. He had never mended that rift, and now his father was dead.

  Parents too often seem immortal to their children, Troi thought a little sadly. As if there will always be time later to say what needs to be said. Then death comes, and so much is left unresolved. Maybe now that Marshall accepted his pain and brought it out into the open, he can begin the long process of forgiving—his father, and himself.

  Troi heard the door open. She looked up and smiled as Mother Veronica stepped into the room. The nun’s fear filled the small area like the reverberating echo of discordant music. Troi had to force herself not to raise her shields against it. Now, more than ever, she needed all her empathic abilities. She kept her voice soft and her expression welcoming as she greeted the nun.

  “You’re right on time,” she said. “Why don’t you come and sit down. We’ll just relax for a few minutes before we begin.”

  Mother Veronica sat next to Troi, but she did not relax. She held herself rigid, like a rabbit ready to spring at the slightest sound.

  Troi swallowed a sigh. “I thought you might enjoy meeting here instead of my office,” she said, still keeping her voice pleasant and light. “It’s quiet here, and the view is one I like.”

  Mother Veronica looked up and let her eyes scan the windows.“ ‘The heavens declare the glory of the Lord,’ ”she whispered. “ ‘And the firmament showeth his handiwork. . . .’ ”

  “Is that from a poem?”

  Mother Veronica nodded. “In a way,” she said. “It’s from the Psalms, which are a series of prayer-poems.”

  “Do you know all of the Psalms?”

  Again the nun nodded. “I began learning them as a child, shortly after I came to the convent. They comforted me—and have gone on comforting me throughout the years.”

  “Tell me how you came to the convent,” Troi said.

  “I was a small child—I don’t remember much about it.”

  Troi could feel that the nun was lying. She does remember, Troi thought, and it frightens her. Why?

  The counselor turned and faced Mother Veronica. “I think we should get started,” she said. “I know this is very difficult for you, so I want to begin by explaining a bit about telepathy and its uses. As I said last evening, there are many telepathic races throughout the galaxy, and we encounter more all the time. It is a normal condition, a talent, and as with any talent it can be trained and used.”

  Troi could feel the nun’s disbelief. “If it is so normal,” Mother Veronica said, “why am I the only one of my sisters cursed with it?”

  “Although there are many races—many humanoid races—with telepathic abilities, there are just as many, or more, without them. Among the humans of Earth, for example, telepathic communication is rare. But it is also not nonexistent. When it does show up, that person is valued as having a very precious gift—as you do.”

  Troi shifted a little in her seat, trying to find the words to reach through Mother Veronica’s prejudice. “Telepathic communication,” she continued, “can be a source of great good. It can open the way for understanding between peoples. It can break down the walls of mistrust and fear or reveal sentience where none was thought to exist. It has been known to reach across distances and to bring hope in a time of despair or rescue when none seemed possible.”

  Still Troi could feel the nun’s disbelief. But the counselor had the conviction of truth on her side and she pressed on, trying to find one example that might light a spark of interest in Mother Veronica. A single spark was all Troi wanted—from that she could build a beautiful, warming flame.

  “Medicine has its uses for telepathic communications as well,” Troi continued. “Tricorders and diagnostic beds, all of the wonders of medical science, cannot reach a trapped mind. But I can—and so can you.”

  Was that it? Troi wondered. Was that the flicker I’ve been waiting for?

  “Sister Julian told the captain that you have an extraordinary talent for reaching troubled children—”

  “You don’t understand,” Mother Veronica interrupted. “Their thoughts scream in my head until I have to help them. Yes, I want to—but for my sake as well as theirs.”

  “I do understand,” Troi assured her. “I know how difficult and how painful life has been for you. That is why we are here. But,” Troi paused and looked into the nun’s eyes. “Our lessons will require deep mental communication. Will you trust me?”

  Mother Veronica looked away. Her eyes strayed to the viewports and she sat silent for several minutes regarding the stars. Troi felt her inner struggle and said nothing more. Mother Veronica’s agreement to be here today had been an act of desperation; from this point on, if they were to succeed in the short amount of time allotted to them, each act must be one of decision.

  The nun turned back around. “One question,” she said. “There are things within my heart and soul, private things between myself and God. Will they remain private?”

  “I will not force myself into any part of your mind you do not willingly share with me.”

  “All right,” Mother Veronica said. “What must I do?”

  Troi reached out and gently took Mother Veronica’s hands into her own. “Physical contact often strengthens the bond,” she explained, “particularly between student and teacher. Now, close your eyes. Think of nothing. My mind will reach out and touch yours, establishing a link between us. Once that is done, I will guide your thoughts back into my mind and show you how mental shields work. I will do this several times, and each time the link between us will be severed and have to be reestablished. Then I will give you some exercises for concentration. That is all we will do today.”

  Mother Veronica nodded.

  “Then let’s begin.”

  Troi watched the nun close her eyes, and did the same. Softly, trying not to cause her student’s already overburdened mind too much distress, Troi endeavored to establish the link between them. Each time she touched Mother Veronica’s thoughts, chaos erupted, spewing forth pain and fear, and the nun’s mind retreated out of reach. After the eighth such try, Troi opened her eyes. She found she was sweating with exertion.

  “Mother Veronica,” she said. “There is something in your mind that is keeping us from reaching the level of communication that we need. I believe it is something from your past, and that we must deal with it before we go on.”

  Troi paused. She knew what must be done, but would Mother Veronica agree? She chose her next words carefully.

  “I asked you how you came to the convent and you said you don’t remember. I know you do. I believe much of your fear stems from that time and I think we need to examine it.”

  Mother Veronica started. She tried to pull her hands from Troi’s, ready to run away, but the counselor did not let go. She knew she had to get through to the nun.

  “I am not here to judge you,” Troi said, “but to help you. You are not a little child anymore, but somewhere deep inside your mind, the little girl you were is crying to be healed. She cannot be healed while she is hidden and buried. Let’s heal her together.”

  Mother Veronica was no longer trying to pull away. She was sitting quietly; her expression was haunted as her eyes slowly filled with tears.

  “Close your eyes again,” Troi said. “And this time I want you to think about when you came to the convent. Think only about that time. Remember every detail—every voice, every action. It cannot hurt you anymore. It is in the past.”

  Troi spoke softly, letting her vo
ice lull and guide the nun. Again the counselor reached out to touch Mother Veronica’s mind with her own. At first it was the chaos of before, then slowly, the memories emerged . . .

  “Kill her . . . she’s evil . . . a demon-child. . . .”

  Voices split the silence of the night, loud even through the walls of their home. Light from the torches flickered through the window. Pounding—they were pounding on the door, trying to get in.

  In the back of the house, the little girl’s mother picked her up and lifted her toward the bedroom window. The little girl could feel her mother’s hands were shaking. “Their thoughts hurt, Mama,” she said. “Why do they hate me?”

  “I don’t know, baby. Now shh, you must be very quiet. You go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

  The little girl scrambled out the window. Her mother followed and once they were on the ground, again picked the little girl up. From inside the house came the sound of breaking glass. The smell of smoke grew stronger.

  The woods, the little girl heard her mother think. I have to get into the woods, get my baby away.

  The mother began to run, desperate to reach the trees on the other side of their small garden, praying that the darkness of the night would be enough to hide them. The twenty yards seemed like a chasm of miles. Her breath was loud in the little girl’s ear, her fear pounded in the child’s mind.

  “Mama?” she said, uncertain what was happening.

  “Shh, baby. Quiet.”

  They ran until they were under the cool, dark boughs—and they kept on running. I’ve got to get my baby somewhere safe. Where can I go? . . . The convent, the mother thought, changing directions as she ran. The Little Mothers will protect her. . . .

  Through the trees the little girl could see the blaze that had been their home. Her world faded into a haze of dark confusion: the feel of her mother’s arms clutching her, holding her so tightly she could feel the pounding of her mother’s heart, hear each panting breath in her ear; her mother’s feet colliding with the ground as she ran, each step jarring the child in her arms; above all, the echo of her mother’s fear filled the little girl’s mind.

  Up ahead, through the trees, a soft light shone. Relief swept through the mother and she ran faster. They reached the convent steps; the little girl felt herself being lowered.

  “Listen to me, baby,” her mother said as she knelt down in front of the child and looked into her large, frightened eyes. “Listen very carefully. You have to stay here for a while—I’ll be back for you when I can, when it’s safe again. The Little Mothers will be good to you. Will you stay here for Mama?”

  The little girl nodded, her eyes filling with tears. The mother reached up and pulled the bell-rope. From inside the convent a single gong sounded.

  The mother pulled the little girl into her arms. “Promise me, baby—promise me you’ll never again tell anyone you can hear their thoughts.”

  “I . . . I promise.”

  “That’s my good girl. Remember Mama loves you, baby.” Footsteps sounded, coming closer; the mother’s arms tightened. “I’ll always love you.”

  The mother let go. She kissed the child once on the cheek, then stood, and fled into the night, leaving the little girl alone on the convent steps. Behind her, a door opened and a woman dressed in a long brown robe stepped through. She put her hands on the little girl’s shoulders.

  “Come inside, child,” she said. “There’s a home for you here.”

  “She never came back,” the woman who was now Mother Veronica sobbed. “Oh, Mama, I kept my promise—I never told. It was so hard without you.”

  Troi opened her eyes and saw the tears that ran unchecked down the nun’s cheeks, tears that the frightened child had never shed. Troi reached out and put her arms around her companion’s shoulders, silently holding her, silently letting the wounds start to heal.

  After a while, Mother Veronica’s tears ceased. “I didn’t talk for weeks,” she said aloud, finishing the story her mind had shared. “I wouldn’t even tell them my name. But the Little Mothers were patient with me. They loved me, and I grew to love them. I never left the convent—until now.”

  She sat up straight and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Now you know,” she said.

  “Now I know,” Troi repeated softly. “But you’re not that child anymore. It’s time to let the memory go, like a nightmare banished by the daylight. It’s time to come into the light and stay there.”

  Chapter Seven

  THROUGHOUT her afternoon appointments, most of Troi’s thoughts remained with Mother Veronica. Even after the nun had shared those tortured memories from her past, establishing the teaching link with her had not been easy. The child within Mother Veronica still dwelt in a world of self-recrimination and fear. She blamed herself that her mother did not return, fearing that she had been killed for what her child’s mind contained. This fear had festered over the years. Now it was like an improperly cleaned wound that reopened and must drain away the infection of self-hatred.

  The last appointment finally concluded, Troi went to the bridge to talk with the captain. They withdrew to his ready room where she could explain Mother Veronica’s condition to him in private.

  “So you see, Captain,” Troi concluded, “this is going to be a more difficult task than I had anticipated. It is important that Mother Veronica learn to shield her mind. But equally important, perhaps more important, is for her to realize, and accept, that the loss of her home, and perhaps her mother’s life, were not her fault. A part of her knows it, but another deeper part does not. And this pain goes very, very deep.”

  “Is there any way of finding out what happened to her mother?”

  Troi shook her head. “I’ve already checked,” she said. “Perrias VII is not a member of the Federation and the records from them are sketchy at best. Most of what we know comes from the Little Mothers themselves.”

  “And an incident like this one is not likely to show up on an official report,” the captain said with a nod. “Have you learned anything about the planet and its people?”

  Troi sat a little forward, her mind sorting through the reports of the Little Mothers that she had read, narrowing the information down to a few succinct statements.

  “Most areas of Perrias VII are still very primitive. The inhabitants believe in a number of deities and demons that guide, or interfere in the case of the demons, in every aspect of an individual’s life. That which is thought demonic is cleansed from their society. This cleansing is immediate and often brutal. The Little Mothers lost several nuns to such cleansings when they first arrived, until they convinced the population that they were there only to help. Now they seem to have integrated themselves into the society. Their presence may even be having a beneficial and stabilizing effect.”

  “Given this information, its not likely that Mother Veronica’s mother survived the night, is it?”

  Troi shook her head. “No, Captain, it is not. It makes Mother Veronica’s attitude toward her telepathy more understandable, but it does not alleviate her need for training.”

  “I agree,” the captain said with a nod. “Thank you for your report. I realize this is creating a great deal of extra work for you and I want you to know I appreciate it. Mother Veronica could not be in better hands.”

  Troi felt a flush of gratitude. A slow smile spread across her face as she and the captain went to rejoin the others on the bridge.

  When she stepped through the doors of the ready room, Lieutenant Commander Data looked up from his station at Ops. He turned to her. “Counselor,” he said. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly, Data.”

  “It is my understanding that one of the Little Mothers is an untrained telepath whom you have taken on as a student. Is this correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you have been in contact with her mind—how is it different from other minds?”

  “I’m not certain I understand your question, Data. Do you mean as a tel
epath?”

  “No, Counselor. Telepathic communication and other occurrences of psychic abilities have been well documented by many cultures. The writings of the Vulcans are perhaps the most illuminating on the subject. They are certainly the most concise. However, I was referring to Mother Veronica’s mind as a nun. What has made her choose such a life?”

  Leave it to Data, Troi thought. She walked over and sat in her customary seat to the captain’s left, trying to think of a way to answer the android’s question.

  “The question you have asked,” she said after a moment, “could refer to anyone, Data, and to any profession. Why are we”—she waved her hand to indicate the bridge personnel—“in Starfleet? We are here because of the belief that this is the life and work we are meant to do—because of a calling.”

  “I concede that point, Counselor,” Data replied. “Yet outside the parameters of our Starfleet duties, each of us is free to pursue what is frequently termed a normal life. My research indicates that this is not true for nuns.”

  “But then we come to the question of what is normal,” Troi returned. “My mother would not say that my life is normal, because it would not be normal for her—yet, for me it is.”

  “If I may,” Captain Picard interrupted.

  “Certainly, sir,” Troi said, relieved to have someone else take over.

  “While I agree with what Counselor Troi has said,” Picard continued, “I believe the answer to your question, Mr. Data, is much more complex.”

  Troi watched Picard switch into what she considered his teaching mode: legs crossed, elbows on the armrests of his command chair, one hand raised as if to punctuate the points he would soon be making. She thought them a well-matched pair, this android second officer who was constantly seeking to learn and the captain/philosopher who, though he might not admit it, loved to teach.

  “Consider this,” Picard was saying. “In all the myriad cultures we have encountered, every one of them has included a philosophy, a religion, that deals with the questions surrounding the meaning of existence. Are we more than a cosmic accident, and if so, why are we here? Where did we come from? Is there a God? Is death a finality or a transition? Where do we go? These are the questions asked by every sentient civilization—and in every one of them there have been those individuals whose lives are dedicated to striving for the answers.”