Pathways - Jeri Taylor [72]
No one was better at Pre-Squares than B’Elanna. It had come naturally to her, an unlearned ability that had allowed her to conquer effortlessly the intricate patterns of ball-handling that took the others hours of practice. She would fly down the field, hair streaming behind her, Squares ball hovering low to the ground, completely under her control. A giddy feeling of freedom rushed over her every time she broke away from the pack.
Her teachers praised her.
Her classmates ignored her.
That afternoon, she had stood on the sidelines, hoping to be invited into the practice game, certain someone would want her skills on their side. But no invitation came. She stood there, by herself, gazing longingly at the group of spirited children, for almost an hour.
Finally, just about at the time she’d decided to give up and go home, the antigrav ball came skimming in her direction, out of control of either of the teams. She caught it on an ankle, then the opposite knee, and before she knew it, she was off and running, deftly maneuvering the ball, driving it with total command down the field. The familiar exhilaration consumed her and she focused on her goal, keeping the lively ball zipping from knee to elbow to ankle, using her arms to guard against defenders, for surely the others would be after her, trying to maneuver the ball away from her.
She had taken the ball the full length of the field before she realized no one was coming after her. She crossed into the Square, then turned and looked behind her.
The others were standing where they’d been when they lost the ball, forty meters away, staring after her but making no move to follow.
They were just ignoring her. She was nobody. She didn’t even exist.
She felt the ridges in her forehead begin to flush—she hated that, they always looked worse when they reddened—and she dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to calm herself and alleviate her mortification. As casually as she could, she carried the ball back down the field, stretching herself erect, walking with as much dignity as she could muster.
As she approached, the girls looked at her with no visible emotion. She tossed the ball toward them. “Guess somebody lost control of it,” she said flatly, and watched as one, then another, of the girls tried to rein in the errant sphere. Then she turned and walked away from them.
She was only a few meters away when she heard the whisper. “I hate those bones in her head,” someone said, obviously thinking she was speaking too softly to be heard but unaware that B’Elanna, as part Klingon, had keener hearing than humans.
Now, at home, her mother’s voice was still droning on, but from its rising inflections she knew the story was coming to its conclusion. “And so Kahless came out of the wilderness, and entered the world once more, choosing to live among the people he was dedicated to lead, even if it meant suffering the pain that others inevitably bestow. That was the lesson he learned from the serpent of Shrika.”
She looked up to see her mother gazing down at her quizzically, apparently trying to judge the effect of this fable. Then Prabsa knelt down, and her ridged face was suddenly level with B’Elanna’s, dark eyes peering at her, pointed teeth all but overflowing her mouth. B’Elanna recoiled.
“Do you understand what Kahless learned?” her mother asked. “That a Klingon can’t hide from his destiny. That confronting your fears will conquer them, but flying from them gives them power. Do you understand that?”
These were all just so many words to B’Elanna, but she nodded solemnly, hoping her mother would accept this acknowledgment. Her mother’s eyes probed her for a minute more, then she took hold of B’Elanna’s shoulders. “I won’t let you be weak, B’Elanna. All I can give you is a sense of your own strength, and I will do that.”
Her mother didn’t understand. B’Elanna didn’t want to find her Klingon strength. She wanted to be consoled, and reassured. She was only a little girl, after all.