Story #8 – FRERE JACQUES

by Delta

 

Day 132

 

The weather had remained cold for ten days, but now a sudden warming temperature melted the remaining snow. The village of New Hope soon found itself sloshing around in a thick mixture of mud and dried dead foliage. Much to their horror – and to their delight – they found that the mixture, when dried, was very solid and almost impossible to break apart. The pessimists in the small population fumed at how difficult it was to clean off items that had not been tended to immediately, while the more optimistic citizens were conjuring up all sorts of uses for the compound.

 

Tuvok appeared to be one of the most industrious employers of the modeling mud, as it was now being called. He had quickly built wooden forms that could be filled with the substance and allowed it to dry into bricks. After he had a sufficient number of the oblong building stones, he used more of the mud to form a mortar, and he carefully constructed a large, curved-topped enclosure. As a finishing touch, he cut a piece of scrap iron into a heavy, hinged door for the small opening in the front. The process had taken over a week of his personal time to complete, but he stood back now, nodding with rare Vulcan satisfaction at the product of his enterprise.

 

The entire village had watched the progress of his work, never questioning the quiet man’s motives. They knew that Tuvok was not one to partake in any frivolous activity, so they remained silent and just observed. Chakotay was the one person around who thought he knew what the older man was doing. However, he was known to have been mistaken before; therefore, he was not surprised when Tuvok came to him with a request for use of his woodworking expertise to build something for him.

 

Tuvok approached his housemate one morning after they had both finished their morning meditations. "Mr. Chakotay, I am not a person who asks favors. But I have seen examples of your excellent craftsmanship in making wooden objects."

 

Chakotay kept a straight face. Come on, man; just get it out! "Yes, Tuvok? Is there something I can do for you?"

 

Tuvok silently signaled Chakotay to wait. He went to his room and came back with a padd. "Indeed there is. On Vulcan, one of the most treasured of the artistic crafts we have is making utilitarian earthen objects. You have seen my prayer lamp – it is an example of this art." The man straightened himself before continuing. "In my youth, I studied this craft. I produced several useful items for my family and colleagues. Even when I was in the monastery, I continued employing this skill. Once I came back to Starfleet, I deemed the activity... unprofessional, and thus have not engaged in pursuing it. However, the consistency of the local soil on this planet is a most excellent medium for a revival of my pastime.

 

“There are two schools of technique used in making these objects – one is to mold the object with one’s hands, allowing the design to take on a rather freeform pattern. The other technique makes use of a wheel upon which you place the molding medium, a wheel which can be moved in a circular motion at differing speeds, allowing one to form objects with more symmetry. These mechanical devices are usually made from wood – and as such were quite rare on Vulcan. However, as we have no dearth of the material here, I would impose upon you..."

 

Chakotay finally spoke up. "You would like me to make you a pottery wheel, is that it, Tuvok?" He grabbed the proffered padd with Tuvok’s design on it. "Yep, that’s what it is. An old fashioned pottery wheel." He looked up at his friend, who left eyebrow was raised to its most quizzical high mark.

 

"You know of this device?" asked the tall Vulcan.

 

"That I do, my friend. Many Terran cultures were talented in this art. In fact, the finding of pottery remnants is one of the oldest indications of civilization on many planets, including Earth. And... I can guess what your mysterious structure is outside... you’ve built a kiln, haven’t you?"

 

Tuvok looked at him, not recognizing the word. "It is a d’qart," he stated. "It is an oven which will reach a very high temperature. When an molded item is placed inside at this high temperature, it will render the object waterproof."

 

Chakotay interrupted once more. "Or... if you apply pigments and a glaze, it will also be unharmed by water or other use. Kiln... oven.... d’qart... all the same thing." His face broke into a conspiratory smile. "Why, Tuvok, I never knew you had an artistic side to you!"

 

"You never inquired," the Vulcan responded dryly. "Would you honor my request?"

"It would be my pleasure," smiled Chakotay, sensing a little bit more of the barrier between him and the Vulcan being chipped away. "Tom and I are going out in the Phoenix today, and I think I know just the place to find the wood for your wheel."

 

Tuvok looked at him without emotion. "Thank you, Mr. Chakotay. I... I owe you one."

Chakotay stifled a laugh as he left their bioshelter. Well... Tuvok expressing gratitude! That was one for the databanks! He knew that the wheel would not be difficult to construct.

 

~*~

 

Day 147

 

True to his word, Chakotay built a potter’s wheel for the Vulcan man. The available wood was not as good as he had wanted, but what he found was well-seasoned and was not difficult to handle. Tuvok seemed pleased with the device and again expressed his understated thanks. Chakotay suggested making a small alcove in their communal living space, but Tuvok deferred.

 

"Artistic endeavors on Vulcan are considered a form of meditation, and I would prefer to work within the confines of my quarters. I would hope that you understand."

 

*All to well, my friend,* thought Chakotay, as the two men silently moved the wheel into Tuvok’s chamber.

 

~*~

 

Day 173

 

In the typical Vulcan manner, Tuvok required little sleep. He used the daily nocturnal sleep period to proceed in his renewed hobby. Although Chakotay usually slept very soundly, every once in a while he would awaken to hear the quiet whirring hum of the wheel echoing into his area. The dim glimmer of a lowered manual illuminator accompanied the rhythmical sounds.

 

Tonight, sleep would not come to him. His mind was jumping from one problem to another. Tonight, the background duet of light and sound tempted him finally to visit his friend. He arose and quietly moved across the large room separating their rooms. Before he could announce his presence, Tuvok’s deep voice pierced the calm night.

 

"Mr. Chakotay… did you wish to see me?"

 

Chakotay opened the door that was almost closed. Tuvok sat straddling bench which housed the wheel, his dark hands and face uncharacteristically smudged with the clay material which he was fashioning. On the wooden horizontal surface rested an almost complete vessel, about thirty centimeters tall. It had a wide base with a deep cavity that narrowed into a shallow neck. The neck flared as it opened its mouth to the space above. The potter, intense in his work, nonetheless spoke without looking up.

 

"You are curious, Commander."

 

The scene became mesmerizing to Chakotay: the calm tone of Tuvok’s voice; the hypnotizing rhythms of sound from the wheel; the pliant shape changing subtly as he watched.

 

"Yes, I am. You have been working almost every night, but I haven’t seen any of your products."

 

"As I stated earlier, Commander, art and meditation are closely correlated in Vulcan tradition. Do I insult your beliefs by inquiry of your meditative experiences?"

 

Chakotay’s face reddened with the deserved rebuff; he had violated Tuvok’s most inner space with his inquisitiveness.

 

"I’m sorry, Tuvok; I’ll leave," he muttered softly, backing out of the room.

 

Tuvok’s response was unexpected. "You are here; you may stay, Commander. My comment was indeed harsh. I should explain the purpose of my current undertaking, for it is an item for the benefit of our entire group."

 

He stopped his efforts, allowing the wheel to come to rest, the moist clay glistening in the flickering photons of light. Tuvok produced a wet cloth from out of the shadowy darkness of the room, and draped it over his work. With practiced ritual, he dipped his hands into a small basin of water, cleansing and drying them before he continued. In a single fluid movement, he produced two large sitting pillows, offering one to Chakotay and assuming a seated position himself on the other.

 

His gaze grasped Chakotay’s, and he began a story.

 

"Thousands of years ago, in the old days of Vulcan, the planet’s surface was even more dry than it is today. Water was a precious commodity, and the strongest of emotions arose in regard to its use and ownership. Conservation of the liquid was practiced, but neighbor would turn on neighbor over the placement and use of a communal collection and storage urn. It has been said that blood flowed more freely than water in those days. The people had yet to know of Surak and learn of his pacified and disciplined ways. Violence and loss was commonplace, and these ancient forebears spent much time in battle followed by grief. Many tears were shed – tears made of precious moisture; moisture that could not be wasted. In order to conserve the moisture from these tears, each household had a br’tal... a ‘container of sorrows’. This vessel was used to collect the tears shed by any in the family. The moisture was purified, and used to cleanse the many wounds which Vulcans saw fit to inflict upon each other. It was said that the vessel, when filled with tears, assumed a soul, and that when the tears were used as a healing emollient that the comfort of that soul was passed along."

 

He paused, allowing a silent passage of time.  "Times changed. We learned the teachings of Surak, and became knowledgeable in the manner of controlling our emotions. Confrontations ceased, and, as we no longer gave in to emotions, there was no need for the br’tals. However, the tradition of keeping the symbolic container remained, and to this day, you will find one in every Vulcan household. Traditionally, a mother will give it to her daughter in honor of her koon-ut-kal, or mating day, as a reminder that all of life and its experiences are precious. All harmful emotions should be contained in the br’tal, to be distilled into needs for daily survival.

 

"It is in this Vulcan tradition that I am now modeling a container for New Hope to use as a br’tal. Many of its inhabitants grieve, but do not know how to find a repository for unnamed sorrows. Some mourn the loss of family and friends; others, for a long-lost life in the Alpha Quadrant; a few, for the loss of a ship. I would like to help our people with a symbol of deliverance from the grief that stunts their growth in our new life."

 

Chakotay nodded in agreement with the Vulcan’s sage suggestion. "Tuvok, you are indeed the wise old man of our community. Once more, in your quiet way, you seem to have found a healing solution to our common problem. I’m behind your plan all the way, and I’m certain that Kathryn will concur."

 

A smile signaled further forthcoming words from the former first officer.  "A story for a story, Tuvok. Your recounting – and your insightful observance – remind me of a strange figure I remember vividly from my youth on Trebus. Trebus was also a dry planet, although not quite as arid or warm as Vulcan. In several places, high rocky hills provided treacherous terrain, and exploration of these areas was almost forbidden. No one dared venture into these areas alone. However, stories abounded about an old man who had gone into such an area about a hundred kilometers from my village. He had left the village nearly twenty years before I was born. When I first heard of him, I was about nine. It was thought by many that he was still alive, for life scans indicated the existence of a single humanoid deep within the rocky fortress, and occasionally, smoke trailed high into the thin air when there was no evidence of fire among the thin brush that covered the area.

 

"On Trebus, when young people reached the age of responsibility, about twelve years old, they were taken in small groups to the base of these mountains for a two day retreat. The purpose of this gathering was to introduce them to survival skills so necessary in a harsh environment such as that of Trebus. For many of the young people, not only was the trip a harsh change in how life had been for them so far, but it was also the first time they had been away from their families. The adult leaders of the experience were well aware of the emotional and psychological discomfort that many of their charges might be encountering, and they prepared themselves for the annual tears and sniffles and silent sobs into the dark, frightening night.

 

"The year that I went on this rite of passage, there were seventeen of us – ten boys and seven girls. As the daylight disappeared and night came on quickly, a violent wind storm rolled in. Although we were sheltered within a permanent building, the winds were of such a force that the walls actually moved, and minute dust particles blew through invisible crevices and became projectile needles. Among the young people, I was next to the oldest, and I knew that the adult leaders were looking to Surtovan – a young woman a couple of months older than I, whom I’d known for many years – and me, to help them in keeping the younger folks from panicking. However, I was just about as scared as they were; I once had seen my father and two other men bring back the bodies of three people who had been caught in a similar storm; they had died of injuries from their exposure to the vicious elements.

 

"Just as I thought that my fear would burst through my skin, there was a loud knock on the door. The screams from the young people reached a howling pitch, as their fright attained its peak. Before anyone could open the door, it flung itself open, and there against the darkest night any of us had ever known stood the tall lean form of what appeared to be a man, his long wispy silver hair swirling like a whirlwind itself around him.

 

He stood straight and firm, as if the winds meant nothing to him. Unbidden, he walked into our shelter, taking large strides to reach our huddled group. "Good evening, his deep voice softly said. I am sorry that you have picked such an unfortunate time to visit and learn of the spirits of the mountains, he continued.

 

By now, we didn’t know if he was real, or if we were having one of those visions that we knew our adults relatives had upon occasion. The open door allowed the wind to circle in and we thought that he would be taken away on its wailing wings.

 

But he remained and reached out his lanky arms towards us, attempting to take all of us into his embrace.  There is nothing to fear; you must learn to listen to what the winds say, and answer them. Be still, and listen and learn. He turned, and closed the door, and bid us to calm our cries and listen to the whines and whistles swirling around us. He rounded us together, like a herd of domesticated bomas, and sat us on floor. As he did this, he started humming, in tune and in rhythm with the wild winds outside. So enthralling was his music that soon all of us had joined in, clapping and singing, and finally, even laughing, as if taunting the spirits of the storm outside. Our adult companions looked at each other in amazement, silent questions being asked by way of furtive glances. Soon, the terrible tempest slowed, and all was silent outside. Only the sounds of our voices and laughter broke the stillness of the night.

 

"The old man sat in the middle of a ring we had made. As the winds ceased, he looked at each of us and asked what the wind had said to us. By this time, our fears had been forgotten, and all we could remember was the music of the mistrial, as if it were a raucous lullaby. The winds tell the stories of who we were and who we are, he said softly. They come to us from their home high atop the mountains, and dance through the rocks to bring you their message. They are not offended if you seek protective shelter from their harshness, but they will always tell you new stories of where they have been and people and things they have seen. All of nature is like this --- everything brings a story with it, whether it is a newborn bird or an ancient stone. Be still, and listen... and know.

 

"He rose from his cross-legged position, and circled behind each person sitting in the room, touching the head of each, as if in a benediction. A sense of calm followed his stroke, draining the remaining fear from us. At the conclusion of this strange ritual, he departed as quickly and silently as he had come, leaving the door wide open and allowing the now still night to enter and embrace us.

 

"No one felt fear anymore. It was as if we were one with the world around us. Sleep came quickly and easily to us, and the following morning, we all awoke, wondering if we had seen an apparition. But our elders assured us that the person we met was real, for he was the Old Man of the Mountain, the Ancient One, who had wandered off so many years ago. He indeed did make himself known upon occasions, usually at times of great distress or fear, and always with a calming demeanor and spirit.

 

"We returned to our village, wide-eyed and full of amazement at our experience. I found out from my father that the man’s name was John Qatam, and before his disappearance, he had been a skittish mouse of a man, jumping at every little noise, almost afraid of his own shadow. Now, I knew him only as the bravest man I had ever met."

 

Chakotay leaned back, obviously lost in the memories of that night over thirty years ago.

"You know, Tuvok, to this day, whenever I feel great fear or sorrow, I think of him. I never saw him again, nor did any of my other friends from that night. In our hushed tones, occasionally we would discuss the magic of that event... remembering the man we called Brother John."

 

Tuvok, who had remained motionless while listening to his friend’s story, now stirred and rose from his position.

 

"You indeed have a profound story, Commander, one that I can tell has had a great impact on your life... and one that is pivotal in your own sense of emotional discipline."

 

He walked over to the almost-finished vessel on his wheel, removing its shape-preserving covering. "This container, although of Vulcan design, will symbolically collect emotions from many cultures and races. I think that, like the receptacles of old, this one will assume a soul also and provide solace and comfort to our comrades. As such, I would propose a name for it, and, based on your story, I would suggest Brother John as an appropriate appellation. With your permission, when I present this to our gathering, I would like for you to explain the name. Would this be agreeable?"

 

"I’m sure that Brother John would be honored in sharing his name with such an venerated tradition. And I’m certain that New Hope will readily embrace your gift." Chakotay was now the one who arose, suddenly aware of how late it was, and realizing that even with the long night of winter, it would soon be dawn.

 

"Thank you, Tuvok, for sharing your story with me – and for allowing me to share with you," he said softly, almost to the door.

 

Tuvok’s voice stopped him. "Commander... I have never thanked you properly for the pottery wheel that you made me. Such a gift of talent is worth another gift in return." He walked over to the darkened wall towards the outside of his room, losing himself in the curtain of shadows. He fumbled with something and turned again, a small earthen container in his hands. He proffered the piece to Chakotay.

 

"You, too, are a man of secret emotion. There is a love buried deep within you that you have kept hidden for a long time from most people... except to someone, such as I, who knows what it is like to contain such feelings. I know what it is to have to inter such emotion. Your eyes remain free from tears, but your soul cries eternally."

 

He placed the receptacle in Chakotay’s hands. The coolness of its surface chilled him.

Tuvok continued. "I would like for you to accept this small vessel as your own personal container of sorrows... in which to store the tears from the hurt you feel for love which you perceive to be futile."

 

Chakotay hoped that the subdued light in the room would not allow his face to betray him. How could Tuvok know what he had felt... and for so long? Tuvok’s words seared through him as surely as any phaser blast, burning him just as deeply. His tongue stammered for a response, one that would allow his friend to accept his thanks for his gift… and his confidentiality.

 

"I stated earlier that you were a wise man, Tuvok. Although I know it isn’t very Vulcan-like to say this, you are also a friend of great compassion. Thank you for your gifts; I shall treasure them both."

 

He walked to the door quickly and was almost out of the room when he turned and again spoke.

 

"Perhaps we are wrong in naming the container Brother John. You are Brother John, Tuvok, for you are the one who knows our innermost joys and fears and bids us to confront them and learn from them."

 

"Indeed," was the silent single word from the stoic Vulcan.