Chapter Text
Some days later, when the storytelling circle met for the week, Tuvok arrived with his Talking Stick. It elicited much comment; I could only hope it did not elicit equal envy. When near the end, Tuvok rose, stick in hand, I can't say that I was surprised. I had been expecting it since he had shown up.
For almost a year, Tuvok had sat on the circle fringe, listening only. Now, realizing that he was finally going to tell a story himself, the circle's between-story chatter faded with astonishing alacrity. Looking at me, he said, "On several occasions, Commander, you have asked me for a story about the Vulcan seas. Originally, I meant to tell a story which dated from the time before the Reformation of Surak. There are many tales—historical and fictional—of pirates, or battles, or...I believe you would call them 'sirens'. But I choose to tell about none of these things. Something you said, some months ago now, decided me against them."
He switched the Talking Stick to the crook of his other arm. "This story takes place exactly one hundred standard years ago, and involves two brothers. Because the Vulcan life-span is longer, differences between siblings is often generational. We rarely 'grow up together,' as do humans. So one of these two brothers was twenty-seven years old. The other was six. The elder was caring for the younger while their parents were...elsewhere.
"Their family lived in a harbor town on a sea. The younger brother had...desired...to be taken sailing for some time. He had been 'nagging.' To please him, the older brother finally agreed and they took out the family boat some way on the water. Yet the younger brother discovered he suffered from sea-sickness, so his older brother had him sit above-deck and look at the horizon while the older brother shifted the sail to go back in. It was a windy day and the sail boom snapped out of the older brother's hand. He grabbed for it, afraid it might strike his younger brother. Instead, it struck him on the side of the head, and unconscious, he fell overboard.
"The younger brother was still ill from sea-sickness, and had only begun to learn to swim. And his older brother was much heavier. He could not lift him onto the boat, nor did he know to turn him onto his back to keep his head above water. The boy panicked. His brother slipped away from him, and drowned."
I glanced around the circle. It was utterly silent. I knew where this story was going and suspected they did, too. My throat felt dry and I wanted to weep for the six-year-old who had lost his brother, and for the man who stood here now, a century later, forbidden by his culture to shed any tears. I wondered if he had ever cried.
Tuvok went on. "The boy did manage to get back into the boat and secure the boom, contact our Vulcan equivalent of the coast guard. A shuttle came to retrieve him. The body of his brother was found later that day.
"No one blamed the child. He was young, and his brother should not have taken him out alone. Yet the child also knew that, had he not panicked, had he thought logically about the situation, his brother might not have died. Some years later, when it came time for that boy to chose his occupation, he decided to pursue one in which he could learn how to deal more efficiently with crises. He became a police officer. Vulcan does, indeed, have police." Tuvok paused and tilted his head. "He also learned how to swim—quite well, in fact. But he has not set foot on a boat since that day, and has no wish ever to do so. This is not logical, but it is true, nonetheless."
He shifted the Talking Stick again, held it out slightly and focused his eyes on the announcer on top. He did not look at the circle. "I was that child." Then he sat down.
***
Stories are sacred. Stories remind us of who we are. So long as we remember our stories, we will not forget our ancestors or where we come from. We will not forget ourselves.
He-d'ho!