Title: The Desert Children (5/6)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Summary: Abandoned to a dire fate into the wilds, McCoy learns that every tale has a dark origin.
Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Part Five

eight days prior – the beginning of the desert journey

It almost seemed democratic. The colonists were allowed to vote, so the Commander said. They could choose as their hearts bade them to, and no neighbor would fault them for their decision.

Yet no one dared raise his hand or speak out against the proposal. In the end, Leonard’s fate was unanimous, whether out of choice or fear. They had bound him so he couldn’t run and covered his mouth so he couldn’t speak. Otherwise there would have been one protestor, one vote against it—his.

~~~

None of the adults at the meeting hall will look Leonard in the face as he is escorted outside to a waiting vehicle. No one cares about the blood soaking his pants leg where a guard had cut into him with a crudely made knife—iron-wrought, he thinks, but badly forged, mayhap because nobody on the colony has the skills of a blacksmith.

~~~

“Tell us, Storykeeper,” the Commander had demanded only moments ago, before he took the vote, speaking with authority that rang louder than a shout. “How many years will this man buy our people?“

An old woman, eyes dark in a weathered face, had looked upon Leonard from the side of the crowd, seated in a wooden chair that rocked slightly as she moved. McCoy had been forced to kneel and keep his head down but he had snuck glances at her, seeing the moment she had passed some secretive judgment upon him. “This man will pay a full tithe,” she had pronounced. “Seven years.”

People had gasped then and murmured amongst themselves. That, it seemed, was all they needed to hear in order to decide Leonard should be dumped into the desert and left to fend for himself.

~~~

Woozy from pain and blood loss but full of hot anger too, Leonard refuses to bow under the Commander’s hard gaze as he is shoved into a craft used for transporting of crops, akin to a open-sided wagon. They tie his bindings to a side railing so he cannot escape over the edge or fight the men accompanying him to his destination. The Commander comes to stand beside the craft and gives Leonard a long, unreadable look. “Your sacrifice shall not be forgotten, Doctor McCoy,” he says at last. “For seven years, our families will be grateful to you.” He adds as a careless afterthought, “The children especially.”

Maybe that thought makes the Commander feel better about whatever atrocity the colony has decided to commit against Leonard McCoy. It only infuriates Leonard further, however. He makes certain that the man can see the contempt and the lack of forgiveness in his eyes.

Without another word, the Commander slaps the side of the craft. Someone places a sack over Leonard’s head, and the craft lurches forward under a silent guidance. Leonard feels it rolling down a street, destined for somewhere far beyond the settlement. He is almost grateful he cannot watch the colony become a hazy point on the horizon, but even if he could it wouldn’t add to his already raw and deep sense of betrayal.

present

No one challenges their crossing of the bridge, for which Leonard is both grateful and slightly surprised. He had expected someone—or a creature, rather—to jump out of the darkness beneath it, perhaps to demand the payment of a toll before they were allowed to pass, or something equally ridiculous wherein Leonard was in danger of being eaten. Instead, only the quiet noise of the desert night greeted them as they strode across the bridge’s uneven grey stones, leaving Leonard’s wild imaginings to flicker and die out like an unfed flame.

The encounters thus far have not been entirely benign, Leonard muses, not even when he sat beneath the Tree while time spun away from him and a troll tasted the wisps of his dreams. Despite that they make it to the opposite side of the river unscathed, he should never let down his guard. Expect the unexpected and, above all else, figure out a way—

His thoughts abruptly end as the fog waiting at the foot of the bridge clears and Leonard has his first glimpse of the land. It’s changed, as if he has stepped into an entirely different place. In astonishment, McCoy glances over his shoulder at the landscape behind him. Beyond the outline of the bridge, he can see the twilight backdrop of the desert from whence they had come; yet before him is a picturesque world made of vivid green hills dotted with forest, soft light, and sweet-smelling foliage. The difference between two (why wasn’t this visible from the other side of the river?) is so striking to Leonard that he supposes, like in a fairy tale, he has crossed some perilous land to find a kingdom.

“What happened to the desert?” he asks Gram, unable to think of a better question.

She studies the open wonder in his face. “We have farther yet to go, Leonard.”

He bites his lip. “If I said I wanted to go back?” Which is better: this complete unknown or the mysteries he had grown used to in the desert?

Gram touches his shoulder lightly, capturing his attention, and points to the bridge, which is suddenly much more distant than it had been a moment ago, as if it’s fading. “The borderlands are closed to us now.”

His heart pounds and he spins around, only to find that all sense of the path is gone. “Gram!”

Perhaps the alarm in his voice is enough to move her to sympathy. “Leonard,” she says his name gently, gravely. “Holding on to what has passed while not prepare you for what is to come.”

“But this isn’t—isn’t the desert! My friends will look for me in the desert!” He feels panic rising and closes his eyes, thinking frantically of how he might keep it at bay.

What the heck does Spock do? Probably use some meditative mind-trick. Then, after a short burst of unsteady laughter, Damn it, you’re a doctor, Leonard, not a Vulcan. Get a grip!

So he does what he would make any patient on the verge of hyperventilation do. He squats and puts his head between his knees. But while his breathing evens out after some minutes but the questions don’t stop flooding his mind.

How can I be on the same planet as the colony?

How am I going to get back?

What if I can’t?

What happens to me now?

Standing next to him, Gram’s silence is as unpromising as his future. No one can provide him with the answers, Leonard realizes. He is completely, utterly on his own.

The search party is on its third rotation of officers, several of them volunteers. One of McCoy’s nurses from Medical had wanted to come down to be available when they found McCoy, and since then there has always been one medical officer with the search party at all times. Yet even the CMO’s brilliantly trained, hard-headed staff cannot endure the heat of the desert overly long.

Jim wipes at the sweat on his forehead and accepts a canteen of water from a young security lieutenant. He grimaces when a nurse approaches him, a hypospray in hand, but makes no protest as she injects him with a cocktail of nutrients and vitamins to replenish his tired body. Several times he has thought of how McCoy would bully him into going back to the ship, or at least into finding some shade to rest every hour or so.

No one dares mention the suggestion to him.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Spock, who has no doubt a good idea of his Captain’s endurance, has been eyeing him for the last quarter-hour. Soon enough, the First Officer is going to call Jim out on his refusal to quit the search and return to the Enterprise, if only to have his sunburned skin treated. They both know Spock need only say the word, assume command, and Jim wouldn’t have a leg to stand on to stop him.

Spock turns away, perhaps to pretend he isn’t aware of Jim’s gaze, and looks at his tricorder. Of all the men and women involved in the search, Spock is the only one who seems unaffected by the glaring sun and the occasional stinging, sand-laden wind. Then again, considering his home world, Jim knows he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s possible Spock even thinks this is pleasant weather.

An officer looks at Jim askance when he chuckles so Jim suppresses any other humorous thoughts. Truly, there is no place for amusement right now. McCoy has yet to be found—which is only causing Jim to grow more agitated—and they have barely covered one-sixth of the land. The sun is ready to set and though they can still search by night, it means Leonard has been in the desert for ten days.

Bones, Jim sends out his wish, his hope, don’t give up. We will find you.

He releases a breath and washes his face clear of the hardships of their first day’s trek with the water from the small canteen. Buoyed by a fresh wave of resolve, Jim feels ready to resume the hunt.

Their destination, Leonard can now see, is a massive structure set far back in a sea of trees. When he asks Gram what it is, she names it as the Hall. No other title precedes it, or explains it, or indicates ownership. The Hall is, like everything else around them, simply another fixture of the land. What he will find there to explain this journey, Leonard cannot imagine.

Leonard stops walking and turns to his right, observing the trees looming closest to him. Not for the first time, his eyes catch a rushed movement, like the dart of a small animal, through the greenery. Between one heartbeat and the next, a shadow lingering about two entangled bushes coalesces into a fox-shaped face with large, serious eyes. But the face quickly dissolves into shadow again, and Leonard cannot be certain of what he has seen.

He and Gram follow a well-trodden road of dirt and loose leaves curving through a quiet forest. He is mindful not to step into the trees around them; it would be easy to become as lost in the pathless trees as he had been in stretches of open desert.

Soon, the tall forest gives way to a small grove of birches, crowded closely together. As they enter the grove, Leonard’s eyes seem to develop a different kind of perception, so sharp and clear, focused enough that the swaying birch limbs appear to be greeting him. At his temples, a pressure forms but no ache.

He glances at Gram, intending to ask her if he alone feels strange, and is taken aback by the change in her appearance. In this world of leaf and light, she seems shriveled and old, misplaced. Her fingers are like twigs, knobby, but still clawed. Perhaps it is the clarity of day that lifts some of the mystery from her, but a part of Leonard whispers knowingly this is not her place, her home. Of course it would be no kinder to her than it would be to him. She is of the desert and he, of another realm entirely.

Then Gram turns fathomless eyes to Leonard, and his worry slips away. There is still power within her, as subdued as it may seem. How strange—he never thought he would be take comfort in knowing that. But the truth is she remains his only protection as well as his only guide.

The wind whistles by his ear suddenly, carrying a giggle, just as they reach the center of the grove. Within the circle of trees, something moves.

No, not simply something, Leonard realizes, but the forest itself, shifting to wakefulness. Leaves and bark turn into faces, hands, hair. They open earthen eyes within a green-brown canopy and stare at him. Though their tall, swooping forms mimic the ancientness of the land, Leonard recognizes the youth trapped in their eyes.

He swallows against a knot of surprise, knowing instinctively without asking who the tree spirits are. “The lost children,” he names them, listening to the curious rustling of leaves.

“Yes.” Gram watches them too, but with a reserved interest.

Suddenly anger burns hot in Leonard’s belly. “Why are they here, Gram?” he asks darkly.

“They came to us. Gifts from the settlers.”

“Parents don’t just give up their children!”

Her eyes are steady upon him, not chastening but neither do they hint at remorse. He finds himself once again loathing her silence and the easy way it slips beneath his skin to nettle at him. Gently, carefully, Leonard turns aside a precious memory before it can blossom, the reminder of someone else who wields silence with a double edge.

As quickly as it comes, his anger is spent. His head gives a slow, tired shake of denial. “You didn’t bring me all the way here to show me this, Gram. You don’t expect me to help them, either,” he adds more quietly. That latter knowledge is bitter on his tongue, like a sour berry he might have plucked from a nearby bush.

I don’t want to see this if I can’t save them, the doctor realizes. It’s a horrible thought, but also true.

The tree children watch him wonderingly, sleepily, for a long time. Finally their hands settle back into leaves, their eyes close, faces fading into lines of bark, and the children return to their dreaming. Something wet falls onto the back of Leonard’s hand, a raindrop or a tear, and he watches it slide to the ground. The earth soaks it up greedily.

“Leonard,” Gram murmurs, her desert’s voice reduced to a sigh of wind.

Wiping his cheek, he turns and sees that she is holding a plain, un-engraved cup. The metal of it—silver, he thinks—is cold against his hands. The liquid inside is clear. Water? He lifts it with an unspoken question.

Her eyes are carefully blank.

Rather than giving in to the temptation for a swallow, he carries the cup to one of the birches and feeds its roots, thinking of how this is the least he can do—even if it is a futile gesture—to keep the children alive. Turning back, he spies Gram already weaving her way through an open passage in the grove. Leonard, after a moment’s thought, sets the cup on the ground and follows her.

“Captain.”

The tone of voice is subtly pitched in a way that sends a shiver down Jim’s spine. He unerringly goes to his first officer’s side, a demand to know what is going happening alight in his face. “Spock?”

Spock lowers his communicator. “Lt. Chekov has identified what he believes to be a… mass in approximate size to McCoy.”

A mass? A mass? There is only one reason the Vulcan would phrase the information so cautiously.

He cannot bring himself to ask the question on the tip of his tongue. Instead Jim orders “Transport us to the coordinates.”

“Yes, Captain,” the Vulcan says, face unnervingly schooled against emotion.

Jim attempts to school his own face in a similar manner, never mind that his heart is pounding unhappily in his chest and a terrible feeling is waiting to expand, to consume him. Within seconds, the familiar skittering along his skin says they are dissolving into particles, moving with amazing speed and accuracy to a new destination. It’s amazing how, in that one moment, he doesn’t have to think, to feel or, more importantly, to grieve. But then that second is over.

Gram leads McCoy into an outer garden belonging to the Hall hidden behind hedges that have grown into massive pillars. Flowerbeds lay unkempt, weeds playing neighbor to an assortment of lilies and delicate, white blooms. Beneath the sweet scents, Leonard picks out an underlying rot of wood and leaves. He passes by a statue holding a long curved horn, thinking it might be feminine in form beneath the entrapment of vines.

The Hall itself is wild without a keeper. As its garden is heavy with thorns, the building, crosshatched by high walls and climbing roofs, wards off visitors with an unwelcoming presence—not so derelict to be ramshackle but full of visible snares. There is a stirring close by, and for a brief moment Leonard catches sight of the narrow face from the forest, shadowed and unsmiling, through a spray of nodding rose heads.

“Leonard,” Gram calls softly. She lifts a cup, this time golden rather than moon-silver, and places it on a flat stone which an endless flow of centuries has naturally weathered into a seat. “If you wish to see” is all she explains of its purpose.

Leonard smells the richness of earth just before he takes the cup. A feeling strikes him: the cold, dark, swift plunge into memory, a heaviness seeping into his limbs. All that is colorful and vibrant, saturated with life, suddenly becomes worthless, pointless, nothing he could want.

He closes his eyes with a shuddering “No, thanks.”

Gram’s silence could have a chill of meaning or no meaning at all; Leonard endures it, wanting not simply to be far away but out of this otherworld and returned to his own.

He hears an odd sound, the clink of cup against stone, or perhaps a surprised word turning metallic before it falls to the ground. When Leonard opens his eyes, the golden cup is gone and, for the first time since their meeting, so is Gram.

Finger bones, picked clean, are a stark white contrast in a background of red. Jim notices them first.

A carrion-eater, fat and feathered, gives the search party a long look before it lumbers into the sky, letting loose an aggravated cry for a meal interrupted. A torn strip of a cloth flaps lazily in a breeze before the wind’s insistent tugging frees it from a shrub’s thorns and sends it drifting away.

Jim’s legs are frozen. It takes two tries before they carry him forward. The closer he gets to the body, the more gruesome the sight. And the smell of dead flesh baked by the sun is overwhelming. Jim’s stomach gives one nauseous turn.

Spock circles in the opposite direction. The Vulcan’s hands are bloodless where they grip his tricorder. He silently gleans what information he can from his instrument.

The medical officer currently teamed with their search party turns his face away from everyone, a hand to his mouth and nose; he doesn’t approach the body. Jim finds he cannot blame the young man in the least, wishing he could do the same. Instead, knowing his duty, the Captain of the Enterprise walks to the opposite side of the corpse and kneels by its head. A grin, unpleasantly rictus, greets him like the dead man would be laughing at Jim if he could.

“Captain.” Spock has finally circled around to stand by him.

“Is it…?” he asks softly, without defining the full question. Between them, he doesn’t need to.

Spock’s answer surprises him. “It is not human, Jim.”

He rocks back on his heels, glancing up at the Vulcan before settling a scrutinizing gaze on the body again. “Then why,” Kirk wants to know, pointing at a stained emblem on the shirt stretched over a prominent ribcage, “is he dressed like a Starfleet officer?”

Next Part

Related Posts:

• The Desert Children (6/6) – from May 21, 2012
• The Desert Children (4/6) – from May 10, 2012
• The Desert Children (3/5) – from May 4, 2012
• The Desert Children (2/5) – from May 2, 2012
• The Desert Children (1/?) – from April 30, 2012