Homecoming - Christie Golden [33]
The key turned. Logt pushed, and the door groaned as it opened. The room inside was larger than Torres had expected. It was lined with row after row of shelves, from the floor to the ceiling, which was high [94] indeed. The only light came from several small windows at the very top. Torres understood the need for the torch.
The shelves were filled with clothing, amulets, armor, weapons—all the intimate, personal belongings of those who had gone out on the Challenge of Spirit and who had never returned. There was so much, all of it deeply private. B’Elanna felt like a voyeur.
“How many are on this quest?” B’Elanna asked.
“Right now, over two thousand.”
“And how many make it back?”
Logt perused her for a moment. “Fewer than a third. Boreth’s wilderness is a dangerous place. Otherwise, there would be no purpose to the Challenge.”
Logt unhooked a ladder from behind the door and propped it up. She climbed nimbly up several shelves, searched quickly, found what she was looking for, and swiftly descended. Without a word, she handed a neatly tied bundle to B’Elanna.
“May I ... is there ...”
“Outside there is a chair. You may sit in private and examine the belongings. Keep what you wish. The rest you may leave in a pile by the door and it will be ceremonially burned.”
In a pile by the door. Her mother’s things. It seemed so heartless, but B’Elanna recalled how Klingons viewed a dead body. It meant nothing to them, after they had uttered the loud, piercing scream to alert those in Sto-Vo-Kor that a warrior was on the way to join them. Clothing and other items certainly would have no value once she who owned them had died.
[95] “Take your time. When you are done, come back the way you came. A priest will be waiting for you and will contact your ship.”
Torres nodded. “Thank you. I would have hated to have been too late.”
Logt’s harsh mien gentled somewhat, and she nodded once. Then, briskly, she strode down the stone corridor, the sound of her boots echoing in the stillness. B’Elanna heard her quick steps ascend, then fade into silence.
She stared at the bundle, then sat and cradled it in her lap. Taking a deep breath, she untied the complex knot and the bundle fell open.
A wooden hairbrush, its bristles thick and coarse to manage tough Klingon hair. A few strands were still entwined in them. A head covering of gold and red material shot through with black. B’Elanna supposed it was for some of the more elaborate rituals. One probably had to cover one’s face or something. A robe that B’Elanna remembered from her childhood. She ran her fingers over the thick folds, recalling tugging impatiently on her mother’s sleeves for something or other. A pair of slippers—odd for Klingons, who almost always wore boots. Again, probably demanded for some ritual.
And that was it. It was difficult to believe that the ferocity and passion of Miral had been reduced to a handful of clothing. Impulsively, B’Elanna decided to try on the robe. She slipped it over her head and to her surprise it fit, although a bit loosely. It was even a little short on her. Her mother had always seemed so big, so imposing. Now B’Elanna fit easily into her clothes.
She moved, and something crinkled. Puzzled, B’Elanna [96] reached into one of the pockets and pulled forth a small, folded piece of paper.
It was a note from Miral, reaching across the distance, the years, even from death into life. B’Elanna began to shake as she read, and by the time she was done, tears had filled her eyes. She wriggled out of the robe and folded it carelessly, trying to gather up the rest of the items quickly and dropping them as fast as she picked them up. Her fingers were nerveless, her body taut as the ancient bowstring. Finally, uttering a very Klingon grunt of annoyance, she scooped everything up into a chaotic bundle and raced for the stairs.
It was a long and demanding ascent, and by the time Torres reached the top she was gasping for breath, her heart pounding from more than simple exertion. The priest