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Are We There Yet?
Rating: PG Note: I liked the word that HopefulRomantic coined: Vulcanesque. So I found a way to use it once in this chapter of my story. Chapter Four It was raining when Trip stepped through the garden door and out into the street. The street shone in the lamplight where small puddles had collected in dimples on the surface of the flat paving stones. He covered Lizi’s face with the blanket and hunched over her tiny form cradled in one arm, football style – then trotted to the camper door and hurried inside. Hanging the wet blanket on a towel rack, he was pulling another blanket from a drawer under the bed as T’Pol entered the camper. “I had no idea it ever rained on Vulcan,” he said as he tucked Lizi into her camper bed and secured the traveling belts. “Not often, but we do have it,” was T’Pol’s reply. “Especially in the mountain areas where clouds with moisture have to rise up to get over the mountains. They drop their loads of moisture first, like birds drop their excreta when they start to fly – it lightens their bodies and aids movement.” Trip smiled wearily. “More than I needed to hear, but that image will certainly stick with me. I’m beat. It’s been a long day. I have some questions about what went on in there, but they can wait.” “We have dinner waiting. That should perk up your mood a little. But I will inform T’Sari that you and the baby need your rest. I will probably not sleep until tomorrow evening as I have much to catch up with T’Sari on. Also I must learn the local relationships – the clan interactions and balances. That will help us navigate the delicate social structure of a small, tightly woven Vulcan community like this one is.” “How will you tell her I need sleep so it doesn’t sound like I am being anti-social?” I will just say “He is Human.” Trip sat heavily in the passenger seat. “Vulcans get a lot of mileage out of that phrase, don’t they?” “I am taking that as a rhetorical question, but of course we do. We are a people who are efficient with words.” The drive to T’Sari’s residence was short but involved many turnings through narrow streets so that Trip would not be able to find his way back to the blind boy’s house if his life depended upon it. He noted with interest, what must be traditional Vulcan architecture. His sister would have been fascinated. That thought woke a pin prick of pain, but he silently mouthed the words, Lizzie, wherever you are now, I hope you are seeing this with me. “Vulcanesque Gothic.” Thy’la, she IS with us . Believe in that, as the Vulcan Science Directorate has determined that there is an afterlife. Having answered Trip’s telepathic thought, T’Pol then answered his verbal one. “There is no such thing as Vulcanesque Gothic style.” Trip shot back with “I don’t hold much faith in Vulcan Science Directorate pronouncements, but I really, really, would like to believe in that one.” Then he gave T’Pol an appreciative smile accompanied by a two fingered touch on her wrist. “What do you call the style of architecture that predominates in this town? It reminds me of that monastery at P’Jem. “It is the only pre-Surak style that we continue to build in. That is because it was designed for places of quiet contemplation. We have always had the quiet contemplation element in our culture, even in the ancient eras of great conflict. This style is called ‘Public Peace Architecture’. “Well, I like that term, whether it is considered logical or not. And whether it is considered efficient or not.” “We have arrived. T’Sari has off-street parking behind her residence in a parking alley.” Because they were tired, Trip and T’Pol were allowed their hot meal alone in the kitchen. Then Trip took Lizi off to bed while T’Pol joined T’Sari for tea in the sitting room. …. The next morning when Trip woke, he moved his arm over to T’Pol’s side of the bed to find it empty. Scratching his head disheveled his hair even more, so when he looked in a small mirror in the bathroom, it made him think that maybe the Vulcans had something with their pasted-to-the-skull hairstyle. It must be the way it was cut because T’Pol’s hair was never one hair out of place, even after a night of wild passion. How did they do that? Lizi was awake, happily investigating the ceiling with her eyes. She smiled when she saw her Daddy, so he picked her up. She needed a change. That accomplished, he walked around the bedroom with her in his arms, investigating the room himself now that it was daylight. Not much of a view out the small window. But it was placed so you could see the street a bit, but not much of the neighboring house. He noticed that Vulcan houses had no windows that lined up with the windows of a neighboring house; more evidence of the Vulcan respect for privacy. Lizi started making discomfort faces. Trip knew what that meant, and he was not the one who could help her now. He was reasonably dressed, so he went out into the hallway and found the stone staircase they had carried their bags up last night. Narrow, but the steps pitched so it would be hard to stumble. The first floor hallway was wider, with several imposing doors. Closed doors were more of a barrier in Vulcan houses than Human ones, and Vulcans did not seem to appreciate the custom of knocking on them. So Trip sat on a bench near the street entrance, bouncing Lizi. It was his daughter who announced their presence. She liked the bouncing but it was not enough. She was hungry and screwed up her face, filled her lungs with thin Vulcan air, and let loose. This brought T’Pol through one of those closed doors, brows closing toward each other with a wrinkle between them at their base. She reached for her daughter and the nursing shawl Trip had thought to bring with him. Baby attached and suitably covered, she motioned to Trip to follow her into the room. Seated at what appeared to be a formal oblong dining table, was the family. It looked more like a tribunal than a meal to Trip. All were in robes of subdued brown, similar in shade but with a decorative edging that varied. Trip wondered if that was rank insignia or just individual esthetic preference. More questions to file away for T’Pol later. The fare looked sparse and unappetizing to a hungry Human. Each person had what looked like a desert plate and a tall interesting blue goblet – a square goblet of semi-transparent glass. “Good Morning, Mate of My Cousin.” Trip looked to see who had said that and a line of bland dark pairs of Vulcan eyes met his own. He would have liked to be looking at the person who spoke to him when he answered, but which was it? With similar dress and hair style, he was not even sure who was male and who was female. It had been a female voice. “Good morning, everyone,” Trip said in Vulcan. Then noting that the chairs on both sides of T’Pol were occupied, he asked “Where may I sit?” There was no immediate answer and he wondered if he should have asked “MAY I sit?” T’Sari rose and gestured to a chair at the other end of the table. Trip had not seen it as it was hidden by the frame of a rather taller-then-usual male whose build was chunkier than the average Vulcan, not portly, but muscular, from what Trip could see with the loose robe. Trip felt self conscious in his blue jeans and plaid shirt. These were his vacation clothes and T’Pol had said nothing about more formal wear for visiting her relatives. Trip sat down and the conversation continued, in Vulcan. Trip followed some of it but was eyeing the serving dishes in the center of the table which were beyond his reach. There was water in his goblet so he took a sip. It had some weak, unidentifiable, but not unpleasant fruity taste. No one noticed, or at least did not acknowledge, his glances at the food. Their faces were either turned to the current speaker or staring straight ahead. T’Pol, has everyone finished eating? Can I ask for someone to pass the food? Trip, no one has eaten yet. The head of clan has not asked for the food to be passed. You are allowed to drink though. It will not be long. And everyone can hear your thoughts here. This is a sub clan of non-touch telepaths. Oops. Sorry. No apology is necessary, Came a chorus of telepathic voices. Then the clan head spoke alone. We do make allowances for guests who are not accustomed to our ways. Please be at ease. Though only used to the nuances of T’Pol’s telepathic voice, the mild amusement in this voice was evident. Start the food dishes circulating. We do not leave our guests hungry. The meal was eaten in silence – both verbal and telepathic. Trip thought the food bland, some kind of hot cereal and a fruit compote. It probably was well balanced for Vulcan and Human nutritional needs. No one hurried, so Trip repressed his usual eat-and-run table manners, only lifting the spoon to his mouth a little after the man to his left did. And he tried to keep his mind thought-free by focusing on daises swaying in the breeze in an image of his Mother’s garden back on earth. The eldest woman at the table finally rose to collect the serving dishes and set them on a sideboard. Then one-by-one, people passed their plates to her and she set those on the sideboard too. A pitcher went round the table, and Trip was glad he was not wearing a robe. There was an elegant way to pour from a pitcher while long sleeves swept up and down and did not knock over any goblets. When the old lady sat down again, there was silence for a minute. Then the interrogation began. |
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