Cathedral
Page 5
As intrigued as he was suspicious, Yevir said, “I must confess that I’m at something of a loss as to what I can do for you.”
Her smile persisted. “It may well be that I can do something for you, Vedek Yevir. I trust you’re aware of the details of my past association with the Pah-wraith sect. It wasn’t the first time I’d explored alternative religions.”
“And I trust that your experiences with Gul Dukat have taught you the error of your ways.”
She laughed at that, a pleasant, crystalline sound. “I have never been completely…satisfied with the orthodox teachings of Bajor, despite my uncle’s best efforts to put me ‘back on the right path.’ My sojourn with Dukat hasn’t changed that.”
Yevir shook his head slowly. “Forgive me, child. But I can’t help but think that Dukat’s attempt on your life couldn’t have been a clearer sign from the Prophets that it was a mistake for you to stray from Their wisdom. Unless, of course, you no longer believe in it.”
It was Mika’s turn to shake her head. “I have faith, Vedek Yevir. Faith in something beyond me and my life. Faith that there’s something larger out there. But I’ve become less certain than ever that this something has anything to do with the so-called Prophets.”
Mika’s sudden irreverence grated on Yevir, though he’d certainly heard such talk many times before. During the dark days of the Cardassian Occupation, and sometimes afterward during his stint in the Bajoran Militia, he’d sometimes heard battle-scarred veterans and anguished civilians question the beneficence of the Prophets. It was to be expected. Now that he served his people as an instrument of the Prophets’ plan for Bajor, Yevir saw it as his sacred obligation to help all such suffering souls come to understand that the Prophets were the true source of all hope. He owed it to all whose pagh was in tumult, to all who stumbled in darkness.
Even those who were bent on turning a dangerously heretical vedek into Bajor’s next kai.
Mika continued, “A few months ago, my husband and I were made aware of the transmission of the prophecies of Ohalu onto the comnet. We read them and started talking to others who had read them as well.”
Yevir tried to keep his upper lip from curling in distaste, without perfect success. “It’s a shame that Ohalu’s heresies have replaced the true Words of the Prophets in the minds of so many misguided souls.”
“Ohalu’s writings didn’t replace the teachings we all grew up with. They merely supplemented them. They—”
“That isn’t so, child,” Yevir interrupted her. “Ohalu argues that the Prophets are not our spiritual guides, but are instead merely powerful, enigmatic beings whom we mistakenly worship. His so-called ‘prophecies’ undermine the very basis of our society. Without our divine Prophets, what are we? Where did we come from? Where will we go?”
She looked at him pointedly. “Since you and several of the other vedeks have already publicly supported the questioning of the old ways, I’m surprised to find your attitude toward Ohalu so inflexible. You have read his work, haven’t you?”
He replied with a curt nod, then said, “Yes, though it pained me to see the verities of the Prophets twisted so.”
“Then you must know how many of Ohalu’s prophecies have come true,” she said resolutely. “The words he wrote millennia ago have become our reality. It is not some vague future he foresaw, but our lives, our present.”
Mika had placed her finger directly on a raw nerve. Yevir had already sought—to little avail—the guidance of several Orbs on one burning question: Why are so many of Ohalu’s accursed prophecies so accurate?
He knew well that Bajor’s major orthodox religious writings abounded with prophecies, some vague and general, others more specific. But many legitimate prophecies had to be justified, interpreted, clarified, to bring them into line with current events. Why did it seem that none of Ohalu’s prophecies required such clarification? Ohalu’s predictions had so far proven to be uncannily accurate. But if the heretical prophecies were true as a whole, then everything the Bajoran religion was built upon stood revealed as a lie; the Prophets could not, therefore, be Bajor’s protectors, but rather were merely an alien species who studied his people like so many bugs under glass, and occasionally deigned to aid them.
Yevir could not reconcile this. In his heart, he knew the Prophets. The Emissary had touched him with Their power. And Yevir’s mission, his future, his every aspiration and ambition, was based upon his own steadfast, unwavering, unquestioning belief in the Prophets and Their plan.
He gathered his thoughts carefully before answering Mika. “You’ve been taught by Solis. And Dukat. And the Prophets only know how many others. So you must know better than most that prophecies may be interpreted in many ways, especially by those eager to bend those prophecies to their own agendas. Gray can be made to resemble black or white, depending on the elements that surround it. So too can heresies seem to offer solace, especially in times of turmoil.”
Her smile bore a trace of sardonic humor. “Why do you immediately say that the gray is black, instead of white? Have you truly opened your heart and mind to the possibilities Ohalu offers Bajor? Yes, our world is in turmoil. It is going through a rebirth, transitioning from the Occupation to freedom, from war to peace, from an independent world to a member of an interstellar coalition…. Isn’t it possible that the faith of the Bajoran people needs to experience a similar rebirth as well?”
“The Bajoran people need their faith in the invariant will of the Prophets,” Yevir said, allowing some steel into his voice. “Particularly in times such as these.” Not for the first time, he wondered if the Emissary had placed him on the path to becoming kai merely to have him preside over his flock’s disintegration. The thought was a lance that pierced the depths of his soul.
“You may be right,” Mika said. “Placing our faith in all-powerful beings who want to take care of us is tempting indeed. It absolves our people of personal responsibility. Everything we do, or whatever is done to us, is the will of the Prophets. And for those who deny Them, there is nothing but shame and censure.”
“The Truth of the Prophets cannot be denied, child.” Yevir recalled the screams of a mortally wounded resistance fighter, a young woman who’d died in his arms some fifteen years ago. With her last breath she had cursed the Prophets, whom she’d accused of having abandoned her, her family, and Bajor. He closed his eyes, trying to banish the horror of the memory. “The Truth of the Prophets cannot be denied,” he repeated, embracing the words like a lifeline.
But Mika wasn’t going to let him off so easily. “Where were the Prophets during the Occupation?” she said, her tone growing accusatory. “Why have they not aided us in the rebuilding of our world? Why have those who claim to most strongly represent the will of the Prophets been unable to establish a lasting peace with the Cardassians?”
Feeling a frustration he’d not experienced since the Occupation beginning to steep within his soul, Yevir turned his back to her, his hands clenching and unclenching out of her view. He swallowed his distress and mounting rage quickly—Let the Prophets’ love flow through me—and turned back to her. “Is this why you came to see me today? To spout the polemical blasphemies of Ohalu?”
“No,” she said, her eyes clear and placid. “I am not here to convince you to bless the Ohalavaru.”
Yevir recalled having heard that name bandied about in derogatory fashion by some of his fellow vedeks. The translation of the ancient High Bajoran word struck him as ironic. “‘Ohalu’s truthseekers’?”
“Yes. That is the name of our sect.” She paused, holding her hand palm outward in a placating gesture. “As I said, I’m not here to debate theologies, or even to convince you to respect our faith. But I have come to you to ask for your help.”
Yevir sat down in his chair, looking past the jevonite statue at the woman. “With what?”
“I believe—we believe that Colonel Kira Nerys has been done a great injustice by the Vedek Assembly. In your own address to the Bajoran pe
ople, you said that we needed to reevaluate the old ways and seek new answers to old questions. To keep our minds open. Kira is guilty of nothing but allowing the Bajoran people the chance to question their faith. To decide on their own which answers they will accept…whether those answers come from the Prophets or from themselves.”
Yevir was sorely tempted to interrupt her again, but forced himself to sit quietly and allow her to continue. “As you may recall, it was Kira who saved my life, my husband’s life, and the life of my child. And all the others who had followed Gul Dukat to Empok Nor. Afterward she provided us with more knowledge—and helped us all reevaluate our decisions of faith. Now she has merely done the same thing for Bajor as a whole.”
“Comparing your decision to abandon the Pahwraiths to the questioning of the Prophets isn’t likely to win me over,” Yevir said, unable to keep the frost from his tone.
“One learns only by asking questions,” Mika said, almost serene. Yevir recognized the words as one of Solis’s most oft-quoted aphorisms. “One only grows by seeking answers. Some of those who have read the prophecies of Ohalu have rejected them; Ohalu’s answers did not suit them, and their faith in the Prophets became stronger as a result. But others have found that they want to continue their spiritual explorations.” She paused for a moment, appearing to search for the right words. “Even the Emissary questioned openly who and what the Prophets are, and what Their role in Bajor’s past, present, and future really might be.”
Wearying of the debate, Yevir rubbed his forefinger and thumb over his nose ridge, closing his eyes for a moment. Finally, he said, “I will not rescind Kira’s Attainder. Whether or not the questions Ohalu poses are valid is not a factor in the Assembly’s decision. And Kira’s decision to disseminate Ohalu’s heresies without regard to their effect on Bajor’s religious community—especially now—is unforgivable.”
Mika frowned. “You must hate her very much, Vedek Yevir. I am disappointed.”
“No, child,” he said. Ever since Kira’s act of betrayal, Yevir had searched his soul carefully for such unworthy motivations. He had found none. Indeed, he had agonized over the Attainder decision. “Though I can understand how it might appear that way. I know the Attainder must be personally devastating to her.”
“Then surely you can find it in your heart to forgive her.”
“Actions such as hers are beyond my authority to forgive. Kira has taken it upon herself to affect Bajor’s spiritual well-being—without training, without warning, and without official sanction. To be blunt, this makes her simply too dangerous to keep within the faith.”
He expected Mika to react angrily to his plainspoken argument, as the Emissary’s wife had done when he had rebuffed her attempt to discuss lifting Kira’s Attainder. But instead, Mika merely seemed more resolute. “I understand,” she said. “I had to try. Still, there are others in the Assembly who may be less…inflexible about their Attainder votes.” She stood, readying herself and her sleeping child to leave. “Vedek Yevir, I hope that one day the Prophets will lead you to the forgiveness of Kira, and to Ohalu’s truth.”
Before he could react, Mika’s child began to fuss, pushing a small hand out of the robes in which it had been wrapped. The hand was chubby and slightly gray in color, its skin rough and leathery. From where Yevir sat, an absurd juxtaposition of the jevonite figure with the child made the baby’s arm appear to be growing out of the statue’s side.
Yevir stood bolt upright. “May I see your child, Mika?”
Mika’s eyes narrowed in response to his swift action, but she obliged him by stepping closer and sweeping the robes away from the child’s sleep-crinkled face. Yevir could see that the boy seemed larger than before, a toddler who looked to be about a year old, rather than an infant.
Yevir stepped to the side of his desk and reached out to touch the boy’s face. His skin had the same grayish cast as his limbs, as well as another, somewhat unexpected trait. On the slumbering boy’s nose was a fully developed set of Bajoran ridges, while his brow and forehead were framed by the raised scales of a Cardassian. An elevated oval on his forehead held a depression in its center, in the shape of an elegantly crafted spoon. The boy’s eyes, which had just opened, were of a crystalline black and seemed to watch the vedek with an intensity that matched Yevir’s own.
The vedek’s hand traced the ridges on the child’s forehead, and the boy grasped his finger, chattering happily. Yevir found himself smiling in wonder. Looking up, he saw that Mika was smiling as well.
The child is at peace. He has erased the tension we both felt, bridged our two worlds.
Yevir’s mind raced. He stepped back, gesturing toward the door. “Thank you, Mika. Your son is beautiful. I will consider your words. If you will consider mine as well.”
As the young woman turned to leave, she said, “I consider the words of many, Vedek Yevir. Wisdom and freedom can be fully gained only by opening one’s mind.”
She was quoting her uncle again. He smiled. “Walk with the Prophets.”
“And you,” she said. And then she was gone.
Yevir sat down behind his desk and immediately reached for the gold-hued jevonite statue. The figurine had come from the ongoing excavations at B’hala, brought to the Emissary’s wife by one of the prylars working at the site. Yevir wasn’t sure why he felt so strongly connected to the artifact. The figure was peculiar, bearing little resemblance to the more primitive art found elsewhere at the dig. It was a humanoid shape swathed in robes. Its eyes, though mere carvings, still managed to appear as though they watched anything in view. Its nose was ridged like a Bajoran’s, but its forehead also bore raised, scaly scar patterns. Its neck was long and gracefully sloping, held up in pride and unbowed by adversity. When Yevir had first laid eyes on the figure, he had wondered if it represented some millennia-dead Bajoran martyr or holy man, whose facial disfigurements bore testament to the trials he had endured in the name of the Prophets. But almost immediately he saw that it held a deeper, subtler meaning.
Using the same hand with which he had touched Mika’s child, Yevir now caressed the face of the small statue, and he became utterly certain, at last, what the object represented—the melding of a Bajoran and a Cardassian. The blending of the Bajoran nose ridge with the forehead scales of a Cardassian was unmistakable. And why hadn’t he noticed the subtle ridges running down both sides of the figure’s neck before? The statue was obviously the image of a mixed-heritage child like Mika’s, though it was carved millennia before the two planets could possibly have produced such a union. Before, in fact, either people had met or even known of one another’s existence.
Like the hybrid child he had just touched—and like Tora Ziyal, whose memory the Cardassians had resurrected in their overtures of peace—the statue represented a commingling of related species.
It is a symbol of unity.
Hope surged within Yevir’s breast, and his earlier feelings of despair vanished like mist over the fire caves. Replacing them were a cacophony of thoughts and plans, an epiphany of what he must now do.
He tapped at his comm panel, then remembered that Flin had gone for the day. That was fine. What he had to do was perhaps better done alone. Yevir called the spaceport most regularly used by the Vedek Assembly; although it mainly transported civilians, a few of its ships were always at the preferential disposal of the clergy. Using the after-hours automated system, he booked passage to Deep Space 9 on the next available transport, three hours hence.
Finished with the first step, Yevir reviewed his mental checklist of the probable whereabouts of his closest Vedek Assembly colleagues. Vedeks Eran and Scio would be in services now, ministering to the faithful. Kyli and Bellis would most likely already be in private meditation. That left Vedeks Frelan and Sinchante as the two among his inmost circle whom he was likeliest to reach on the first attempt. Yevir keyed both names into his comm panel, and swiveled to face the screen. He reached out with his other hand to touch the jevonite statue on his desk.
“Something has happened,” he said after exchanging perfunctory pleasantries with his two old friends. “I have been seized by a notion so…radical that I can scarcely defend my thinking. And yet, I am experiencing a clarity of mind that tells me this notion can only be the truth.”
As both women simultaneously raised their eyebrows, Yevir began to outline his plan.
6
Ezri was gratified to note that none of the shuttlecraft Sagan’ s critical systems had sustained mortal damage during the encounter with the enigmatic alien artifact. But because the little vessel was limited to impulse power during the trip back from the depths of System GQ-12475’s Oort cloud, the return flight to the Defiant took nearly forty minutes. While they were en route, Commander Vaughn supplied a quick briefing about the Defiant’ s intervention in the fight between the two local space vessels, as well as a summary of the gravest injuries sustained by the crew of the less well armed—and currently crippled—ship. With the help of several hastily dragooned corpsmen, Nurse Krissten Richter was struggling to keep up with the very worst trauma cases.
Ezri hoped that Krissten wasn’t fighting a losing battle. Although she was better than competent, Julian’s assistant was only a medical technician, after all, not a doctor. Julian’s obvious anxiety was perfectly understandable.