A Horse With No Name
It seemed strange to him, sometimes. That he could be incomplete without another. After all, it had not been so for the first three decades of his life. True, he had always felt that he was missing something, even aside from the most basic fact of his origin and existence--that of being physically and mentally halved. But until he came to the Enterprise, and met Jim, he had not known what it was he was missing. The ship gave him belonging, the man gave him love. Spock's two halves at last began to become a whole, and so did he.
That day...that wonderful day--though it seemed terrible at first...when everything changed. When he met another, the one other, without whom he could never again be truly complete. And after more than three decades of their connection...was it any wonder that now, their Bond broken, he felt incomplete? No, it was not. Though, as a Bonded Vulcan, he retained all the memories of their whole, he was now a half. And if this search was unsuccessful, he knew that until his death, he always would be.
His own words came back to haunt him, though this time they brought more comfort than mockery. "It is not logical, but it is often true." He found himself thinking of Dickens' A Tale Of Two Cities, which he had first read at Starfleet Academy. It seemed so long ago and far away that he had given it to Jim for his birthday...
//
"'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...' Message, Spock?"
"None of which I am consciously aware--except, of course, happy birthday. Surely, the best of times."
//
Almost as long and far away, the first and last time they had been parted like this. Parting and never parted...
//
"'It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done before. A far better resting place that I go to than I have ever known.'"
"Is that a poem?"
"No. Something Spock was trying to tell me. On my birthday."
//
And yet another passage came to Spock's mind now... Very sentimental, but very beautiful; which summed up much of Dickens--the man and his work. Melodramatic, too...but always with a touch of humor. Like Jim, Spock thought wistfully. Like my Jim...
Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree."You are happy, my dear father?"
"Quite, my child."
They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.
"And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the love that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--"
Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and its going.
"Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite, quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will ever interpose between us? I know it well, but do you know it? In your own heart, do you feel quite certain?"
Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could scarcely have assumed, "Quite sure, my darling! More than that," he added, as he tenderly kissed her: "my future is far brighter, Lucie, seen through your marriage, than it could have been-- nay, than it ever was--without it."
"If I could hope that, my father!--"
"Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be wasted--"
She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated the word.
"--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the natural order of things-- for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself, how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?"
"If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy with you."
He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy without Charles, having seen him; and replied:
"My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you."
It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long afterwards.
There it was. He could have been...happy, in his way, if he had never seen Jim. Had never met him. But once having seen him...oh. Spock would never forget the way Jim had looked that first day. That first time. Every time. The way he felt. The way he did everything. Everything about him. Everything about all of it... he wouldn't forget, and he couldn't. He would remember all of it forever. It was the blessing and the curse of being Vulcan...how much more so, of being a hybrid-the sentiment he attached to his memories made them all the stronger. His memories that were originally Jim's, doubly so.
Jim would have appreciated this...and then, laughed about it. And made Spock smile about it, by imagining Spock and Sarek quite literally in the Dickensian scene-costumes and all, playing their respective roles. Quick study that he was, Jim could have done it not only in words--by voice and meld--but pictures as well. Spock would not have smiled at first, no. Never. That was one of the little games they still played. At first Spock would pretend to be puzzled. Then, offended. But eventually, he would be amused.
Great Surak, did he miss him. He missed him so much. On good days, he thought that that was the only thing that kept him alive...on bad ones, he knew that it was only his hope that Jim still was. Or was it because, whether he found Jim or not, he had passed the point of no return? The point past which, in either case, there would be nothing for him to return to? If he--if they--did not return...he only hoped it would be for the latter reason. That they would find Jim. With a great effort, Spock stopped thinking. He resumed his cursory search for a place to rest and soon found one. He seated himself, gracefully but wearily, upon a large rock that seemed stable. His traveling companion stood facing him, watching him, politely though intently. He wasn't surprised that she didn't sit. Though a Terran female, she was much younger than he, and tired much less easily. It was one of the reasons he had chosen her as his companion on this journey.
The logical choice would have been Saavik. He knew that, had long known it. It was true for many reasons, not the least of which was the role she had played in Jim's search and rescue mission of himself, and the friend--more like family--she had been to them since. Yet for all the same reasons, he had been hesistant to ask her, and had eventually decided against it. He did not want to again involve her, willingly or not, in something like this. Even by telling her of his intentions, his plans to start the search. It was not the sort of thing you told anyone who was not going to be involved. He only hoped that she, and the others, would understand. After they learned he was missing. After they realized why.
Oh...it was all so hard to explain. To anyone. Including, sometimes, to himself. The way he had been feeling, the way Jim's death had affected him. The choices he had made. And he was so tired of trying. Perhaps he was losing his logic, or at least letting go of some of it. Not as his father had done in his old age and illness. But as part of something they shared--a recognition, begun when they each met their mates, that when it came to love, no one could--or should--be entirely logical.
And so it was again, that with the logic of love Spock had chosen a companion. For this, his search for his true companion, which might well be his final journey in life. Reasoning more with his heart than with his head, he had settled at last on...of all beings, Antonia. The one female who had turned Jim's head, and captured his heart, since he had been with Spock. The only other one he could live with, and could not live without. The only one, probably, who not only knew but understood him as well as Spock did. They certainly, Spock even now reflected without bitterness, had spent a great deal of time together.
And yet, she and Spock were almost strangers. Indeed, further than her acceptance of this mission, if they could even call it that, Spock had not been sure what to expect of her. That she would assist him to the best of her considerable abilities, complimenting his and supplementing his strengths; helping him in times of weakness, if need be. That she would be quiet, and respectful. And she had met, and indeed exceeded, those expectations.
What he had not expected was to wish to speak to her, much less to attempt it. What would be the purpose? What would he say? What would she say? Aside from their shared love of and relationships with Jim, they had very little in common. They weren't even, he thought without prejudice, similar species, and they had led very different lives. Now that thought almost bemused him. Wasn't it what he had said to himself about Jim? Yes, many times, in those early days. And many people had said it of-even to-them both. He had been wrong about that. Wonderfully wrong. They all had. Perhaps he would be wrong about this. He cleared his throat and began to speak...for once, not even knowing what he intended to say.
Antonia looked up from the patch of ground near her feet, which he noted-again with something like bemusement-that she had been studying in a manner very similar to his own scientific observation. She was probably, he reflected, searching for food. Though there was no obvious source of nutrition in sight, she knew as he did that an ecosystem such as this was rarely as barren as it appeared, and needed to be carefully studied for signs of life. He found her earnestness oddly endearing, not only because her searching reminded him of himself in many ways, but because it was also for him. For them--that, he realized was another commonality: they were both vegetarians.
"Antonia? I...I thought that I might speak with you. To you. I hope I am not...disturbing you. Well--you will let me know, of course.
I wanted to thank you, for accompanying me on this journey. I deeply appreciate your assistance...and I am beginning to appreciate your companionship, as well. You have been very helpful thus far, and I am sure you will continue to be. I do not know how much further we have to go. I wish that I did...
I am not sure what else I want to say...or what you need to hear. I know we have traveled almost entirely in silence, and I am sorry if that has made you uncomfortable. You must forgive me for that--I am simply unused to such situations. Indeed, in many ways our present situation is a first for me. In some ways I expect it is for you as well.
Being here, being with you, the silence...it has all given me an opportunity to reflect. For instance, just now I have been thinking of the time before I left to come...here. When I was preparing for this journey, with you. I could not tell most people that I was leaving, or when. And those that knew I was traveling could not know where. Or, of course, why.
The last person I saw was Doctor McCoy. We had dinner together the night before I left. I believe he knew that something had changed, with me--that I had made a decision, and was about to take action. But he also knew enough not to ask me about it. Not to "pry", as he would say.
We did speak of Jim's death, and my life since. As we did every time we were alone together. It was only...logical. Although we had continued to maintain a professional and personal relationship of our own, Jim remained our true link. The one thing that had always bound us together. Difficult as it was for me to share my feelings with the Doctor, still so different from me even after so many years--and despite my best efforts...difficult as that was, it was good to have someone who truly understood. Who Jim was. My feelings for him. My reaction to his death. How well the good Doctor understood, I didn't know until that last night.
He said something to me then that was unusually perceptive, and I have thought of it many times since. Many times just on this journey of mine...of ours. He said that I-that I had--"
He paused, temporarily overcome by emotion. It was a sensation he would never become fully accustomed to. A reaction he allowed only Jim, and their sehlat, to see. He bowed his head, embarrassed-then, in a few minutes, recovered himself enough to look up at her again. But Antonia's long, open face displayed if anything even more gentleness and kindness then when he had begun. And her large brown eyes showed her understanding. She didn't speak. She merely nodded at him, encouragingly.
"Thank you. Forgive me again. As I was saying... He said, 'I understand, Spock. Of course you feel like that...lost. You're gonna feel that way for a long time...maybe forever. You've lost your center. The center of your life.' And I had. I have. I think that perhaps you have, too, Antonia. Jim was central to both of us, both our lives. In more ways than I can name. I know that you...loved him, much as I did. As I do. I...I don't know. I wanted to share that with you. What McCoy said. What I thought...and how I felt. I thought you might find it helpful as well. I...hope so."
He stopped speaking, feeling that there was no more to say, at least for the time being. She seemed to agree. He felt that she had comprehended what he had said, and had taken something of value from it; and that they had somehow started to move towards an understanding. He was glad he had spoken, and knew that they would both feel more comfortable communicating in the future. Whatever their seemingly joint future now held. The wind picked up, blowing her hair across her face, and she shook her head to free it. Their eyes met again, and a few moments passed while they gazed at each other.
And then, on an impulse-stemming from his own desire as well as the part of him that was still Jim-he reached out to her. Physically, this time. He leant forward until their faces were less than half a meter apart, extended his arm and hand towards her, let his fingers touch her face...and then, slowly and carefully, stroked her nose. As he did so, he finally understood why Humans-and Terrans of many species-found the act so soothing. It was another example of a surface and what lay beneath it...but in this case, it was harmonious, not in conflict. They were, the above and the below, melded, in a sense. The surface was her warm skin, velvety, pleasurable to touch and have touched. Beneath it lay her thoughts and feelings, humming away in a manner that was much simpler and more peaceful than his own. Both sensations, flowing quietly through his fingers into and throughout the rest of him, were not only calming but healing.
The horse, slightly surprised but very pleased by the sudden contact, leaned forward into the man's touch, then began to nuzzle his hands as her way of giving thanks.
Spock was tempted to meld with her-to take comfort in their shared and separate memories of Jim. Perhaps she would find it comforting, too. She must miss Jim almost as much as he did; that he knew logically and by observation, as well as from having vaguely sensed it during their time together. But it was too soon. Too painful for him. He would wait. There would probably be time enough later. As far as he knew, they had quite a way to go. And time didn't seem to mean much here. He adjusted her saddle, then swiftly and surely mounted the horse, prompting her to walk in the same direction they had been heading when he stopped to rest.
Antonia whinnied as they set off again together. It sounded much like the sound she used to call to a horse she knew, or another friend. It echoed across the wide, flat expanse, blown before them by the wind. For Spock, it was the sound of hope.
Mycroft Holmes
October 2005 / Tishrei 5766
Boston
"This novel is dedicated to the Paul Simon album One Trick Pony, which I played incessantly during the writing of this novel. Three years is too long."
~ Douglas Adams
"Amen. Except in my case it was the America single 'A Horse With No Name'."
~ Mycroft Holmes
A Horse With No Name
On the first part of the journey
I was looking at all the life
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz
And the sky with no clouds
The heat was hot and the ground was dry
But the air was full of sound
I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain <
After two days in the desert sun
My skin began to turn red
After three days in the desert fun
I was looking at a river bed
And the story it told of a river that flowed
Made me sad to think it was dead
You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain
After nine days I let the horse run free
'Cause the desert had turned to sea
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The ocean is a desert with it's life underground
And a perfect disguise above
Under the cities lies a heart made of ground
But the humans will give no love
You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain
~ Dewey Bunnell (1971)