The Farther Shore - Christie Golden [69]
They walked the short distance, talking as they went, and when they reached the site B’Elanna had to admit she was impressed. Miral had found an excellent spot. It was a cave, well sheltered from wind and rain. There was fresh water from a nearby stream that Miral said never went dry. Torres recognized several trees that bore edible fruits, and Miral assured her there were roots aplenty to be had as well.
“Healing plants, too,” she said, as she forced her daughter to sit on a flat stone with a none-too-gentle [206] hand on her shoulder. “You have been injured. I will treat your wounds.”
There was really no response to that statement other than tacit agreement, and B’Elanna had to admit the wounds sustained from her fight with the juvenile grikshak had not healed as cleanly as she might like. So she said nothing, disrobing in silence while her mother, despite her previous admonition against it, built up a fire so she might better see to clean the wounds.
Using a hollowed-out gourd of some kind, Miral mashed a few roots with a round stone, mixed them with some berries, and made a thick paste. It smelled pleasant.
“Good enough to eat,” B’Elanna joked.
“Yes,” Miral said, seriously. “Cooked on a hot stone, the paste is delicious and has much nutrition. I will miss it, I think, when we return.”
The words made B’Elanna feel warm, and she hid a smile. The smile turned into a grimace when Miral began scrubbing the long, deep scratches with water and a sturdy leaf.
“We must open them and wash out any infection before we apply the paste,” Miral explained as her daughter hissed in pain. “These are very deep. They will leave scars. Good.”
“I plan on having the Doctor remove them with a dermal regenerator,” Torres said.
“Why? These are hard-won badges of honor, my daughter. You should boast of them. You should wear garments designed to reveal them. Then all will know of your courage.”
Torres didn’t argue. Maybe she would keep the scars, after all. But she wasn’t about to show up at a formal [207] function in a backless dress, brandishing them like trophies, either. Time enough to decide what to do about them when they returned home.
After liberally coating Torres’s wounds with the healing paste, Miral plopped the rest of the goo onto a flat stone and with a stick shoved it deep into the fire. Sure enough, within moments, a delicious scent wafted forth.
“It seems the Challenge of Spirit truly does change one,” Torres said. “You’ve turned into a cook.”
Miral laughed delightedly at that. “You should taste the stew I make from itkrik,” she said. “Their flesh is too rank when it is raw. Even cooking doesn’t help much. But with the right seasonings, it is a feast fit for a king.”
“Sounds great. Is it on the menu for tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, we head back.”
B’Elanna was puzzled and, oddly, a bit frantic. “But I undertook the Challenge of Spirit to find you. If I return after only a few weeks—”
“You will have honor enough, child. Especially when you tell the priests you have an infant who needs you. I think you would be sorry if she were six months old before you saw her again, yes?”
Pain made Torres’s heart contract. In her mind’s eye she saw her daughter’s tiny face.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I would be sorry.”
“Then it is settled. The paste will fall off as it dries. Tomorrow, we will gather up our supplies and return.”
Torres hadn’t intended to talk about it, but the words came out. “Will you see Dad when you get back?”
“Yes,” said Miral, without having to pause to think about it. B’Elanna was startled by the swift response.
[208] “Enough time has passed so that there should not be pain. And if there is then we will simply have to push through it. The child you and your husband have borne carries both our blood. It is foolish to let years of personal resentment deny the girl our wisdom.”
Torres stared. Sometimes, when you least expected it, Klingons could be so very practical.
Seven of Nine winced and touched her forehead.
“Pain?” asked Kaz, solicitously. They were in sickbay,