Pathways - Jeri Taylor [217]
His last thought before he touched her was What if I don’t know what to do?
But he soon realized he needn’t have worried.
“You have another son, Tuvok,” announced his mother, and Tuvok nodded acknowledgment. His first- and second-born sons, Sek and Varith, sat with him, playing kal-toh, with which Tuvok hoped to quiet their youthful energies and teach them to focus on a mental task. It had proven daunting. Sek showed some promise, but at fourteen his attentions were drawn to more physical and exuberant games, like dak’lir. It was difficult to persuade him to sit quietly even for three or four hours.
Now he leapt to his feet, snatching the opportunity to dispense with the game. “May I go see Mother and the baby?” he asked politely enough, but Tuvok could see him practically twitching with uncurbed energy, his wayward ringlets—his mother’s hair—spilling over his bronzed forehead.
“And me!” chirped Varith, who at seven was a true challenge to Tuvok’s skills as a parent. He was a stunning child, his skin the color of mulled tea, eyes large and dark, teeth white as the snows on Seleya. These teeth were frequently visible, as Varith had the unfortunate propensity to smile, no matter how hard Tuvok had labored to teach him restraint.
“We will all go,” Tuvok announced. “But not until I see that you are truly focused and your emotions under control. I do not want your mother, nor your new brother, to bear witness to this unseemly vigor.”
He could see the boys doing their best to obey him; both closed their eyes and drew deep breaths, and Sek seemed to gain some measure of constraint, but a telltale tug at Varith’s lips bespoke his incipient mirth. “We will not see your mother, Varith,” Tuvok said firmly, “until you are fully in control of yourself.”
At this, Varith’s hands tightened into small fists and his lips formed a rigid line. Holding himself like this, he opened his eyes and looked directly at Tuvok, as though to say, I’m in control now, Father.
Tuvok knew full well that true mastery did not come from a clenching of fists and a forced expression. But at least Varith was making an effort, and perhaps that was all he could expect. He turned away from them. “Come,” he said, and led them into the long gallery that ran from the formal rooms of their home into the living quarters.
They lived on the periphery of the desert, as close as a habitat could be erected, for Tuvok was most at home near the vast expanse of red sand. He never tired of gazing into its Promethean depths, an occupation he found tranquilizing.
Now he paused before the great windows of the gallery and turned to his sons. “Look to the desert,” he intoned. “The sight will help to quiet your minds.”
The boys gazed obediently toward the great flatness, beyond which mountains loomed darkly and distantly. Seleya was beyond them. Tuvok had never seen the sacred mountain, never made the pilgrimage that was so cherished by Vulcans. Someday, he would go there and see the black shape that erupted from the desert floor, climb the ten thousand steps that had been carved in its stone, imbue himself with the power and mysticism of this most holy place.
“I want to see Mother,” Varith muttered fretfully, and Tuvok drew a breath which some might deem a sigh. This child was taxing.
“For losing your concentration, we will stand here fifteen minutes more,” Tuvok told them. And they did, Varith’s mounting anxiety, fueled by the occasionally mewling sound of a baby’s crying, notwithstanding.
When finally they entered T’Pel’s chamber, Varith bounded across the room and flung himself into his mother’s arms. Tuvok was disappointed that T’Pel embraced him, holding him close to her and murmuring gently to him. Such reinforcement of untoward behavior did nothing to ease his task of teaching his children the self-control they must acquire