By M. C. Pehrson
Word Count: 58,880 (total)
Rating: PG-13 for disturbing imagery reminiscent of Jesus’ Crucifixion
Summary: When a Christ-like Savior comes to the planet Vulcan, Spock and his uncle Sparn must decide how to react, and how these unfolding events might affect Spock’s complex and often troubled family life.
An argument had broken out among Sparn’s guests. It began when Spock voiced his decision to leave Vulcan and begin the process of legal protest. The vehemence of Sorel’s objection took Spock by surprise.
“No,” the young Vulcan insisted. “Somehow we were all led to this place. It must be that we are meant to stay together. Perhaps Yanash will return, as he said.”
Standing in their midst, Spock confronted the man Yanash had chosen to succeed him. “Sorel, by now there is nothing left of him but bones. Yanash returned my own son from the dead, but in that case there was an intact body for him to raise. Granted, Yanash displayed unusual powers, but can a man who is dead raise himself?”
Sorel replied, “Yanash taught that all things are possible with a God of love. He foretold his death and it happened even as he said. And he also foretold his return.”
As patiently as possible Spock reasoned, “If Yanash is to return, why did he appoint a leader in his place?”
“That I cannot tell you,” Sorel admitted. “Nevertheless he did appoint me, and though your role has always been that of an observer, I strongly feel that you should remain here.”
Feel? So it was as Spock had thought; Sorel was responding on an emotional level. With the eyes of the others upon him, Spock thought it best to defuse the situation. “I am accomplishing nothing here, but for your sake I will remain until tomorrow.”
The disciple named Relan raised his voice. “For Sorel’s sake? I should think it would be for the sake of Yanash.”
Spock turned and looked at him. “Yanash deserves justice…and it is for that reason that I must return to Earth. It is a simple matter of logic.”
The young man replied, “Spock, I am not speaking here of logic. Yanash taught that logic is inferior to love, yet you continue to practice logic without any indication of love.”
Spock held back a sharp retort. He would not stand here and argue love with a child who had only just discovered the word a few months ago.
To his chagrin, T’Naisa Brandt rose up, her eyes flashing with anger as she cried, “Relan, you have no right to accuse Spock! You do not know what you are talking about!”
Relan remained calm. “It is about you that I was thinking, T’Naisa. We have all seen how unkindly Spock treats you.”
“That is a matter between the two of us,” T’Naisa declared. “If you knew everything I have done to him, you would understand.”
Fearing she might actually reveal the ways in which she had humiliated him, Spock quickly said, “Miss Brandt, be silent! I will not have you defending me.”
T’Naisa blushed deeply and lowering her eyes, sat down.
Relan gave Spock a cold look. “Yes, his ‘kindness’ is most evident.”
T’Naisa put her hands over her face and began to sob. “Leave him alone,” she said in an anguished whine that grated Spock’s nerves.
For the first time Sparn spoke, his voice quiet but very clear. “Yanash advised us not to judge one another. Did he not? Spock has offered to remain until tomorrow. Surely that time would be better spent in peace than in discord.”
Sorel nodded. “Let us open ourselves to the Father in the way that Yanash taught us.”
T’Naisa sniffled and wiped away her tears.
Spock remained on his feet as the others assumed the classic posture of Vulcan meditation and closed their eyes. Instead of resting their palms on their thighs, they turned their hands so that their palms lay open and receptive. Spock would not pretend to pray or open himself to a mythical deity. His time would be better spent arranging the transportation he would need tomorrow.
Turning toward the hallway, he took one step…and his heart lurched.
There before him stood a man. The Vulcan was tall, his features shrouded by the hood of a desert robe, his hands deeply wounded.
Spock stared in shock. But rather than run, fascination held him. Slowly he moved toward the person and his hand seemed to rise of its own accord, fingers outstretched, seeking…
And he whispered, “Qual se tu?” Is it thou?
The Vulcan drew back his hood. Yanash looked upon him with love, grasped his hand solidly, and Spock felt the rapturous touch of his Creator soul-deep. Yes. He had an eternal soul. And there was a Creator. With that sudden comprehension, the barriers of Spock’s universe expanded to infinity. All was clear now. And logical. How had he not seen it before? God was real!
By now the others had become aware of what was happening. Oblivious to the commotion erupting around him, Spock sank onto his knees, and for a time he knew nothing else.
In a hospital bed, Grand Master Marek awoke suddenly. For a moment he lay quite still, his mind consumed by the strange and marvelous images imprinted upon it. Somehow, he had been standing with the prisoner Yanash beside a great fountain cascading from a mountain cleft.
“Your heart has been like this stone,” Yanash had told him, “but now the stone has been torn asunder. Into your hands I give the Water of Life.” Then, “Find the healer T’Annel. Go with her to Mount Seleya.”
Gone was the brittle, unfeeling vacuum of kolinahr. Sweet emotions burst from Marek’s heart, like water surging from the broken rock in the vision. He felt as if he had been freed from a dark prison. He felt as if he understood logic’s role for the first time, clearly—a beloved servant of Vulcan, not its master.
He knew that he must find T’Annel at once. He must waste no time locating this life-giving water that had been put into his keeping.
Marek rose and found his clothes in a closet beside the bed. Dressing quickly, he stepped out into the corridor.
A patient deep in healing trance was being moved on a gurney. Despite extensive bruising, Marek immediately recognized the Seleyan guard. He turned to question one of the medical attendants and came face to face with T’Annel.
The lovely, auburn-haired Vulcan stopped in her tracks.
“Marek!” she exclaimed with a depth of surprise that clearly equaled his own. “I looked in upon you only a few moments ago.”
“I am recovered,” he said simply, and gestured at the injured guard being rolled into a turbolift. “What has happened?”
“I have much to tell you,” replied the healer, her eyes sparkling with unmistakable excitement.
She drew him into the privacy of a meditation cubicle. Without preamble, she disclosed, “Yanash lives.”
Marek had not expected to hear the name of Yanash from her lips; though startled, he was careful to conceal any sign of his newfound emotion. “I have no doubt that Yanash lives. Did the High Council exile him?”
T’Annel’s eyes dulled with pain. Softly she said, “Of course, you would not know. He was sentenced to death and executed.”
“Executed!” Marek could not hide his dismay. “How can that be?”
In a hushed, halting voice T’Annel described everything that had transpired since Marek collapsed in the council chamber. She came at last to the earthquake. “T’Lar had left me to die, but instead she was the one who was taken—crushed when the priests’ compound gave way.” Her eyes glowed and her manner grew animated as she said, “When the shaking stopped, I saw light in the tunnel. The tomb of Yanash had broken open. It was empty, save for the blanket in which his bones had been wrapped. Then Yanash himself stood before me, even as you stand now—healthy and whole, his body diffused with a wonderful glow. He guided me out of the tunnel and warned me to tell no one but you. That is why I came to the hospital.” And then she smiled.
Marek absorbed the information in silence. Incredible as her story seemed, he did not think to doubt it. “I, too, have seen Yanash,” he confessed. “In a vision he showed me a fountain of water. He told me to seek you out and go with you to Mount Seleya.”
For a second time T’Annel smiled. “Marek—the fountain you seek is there!”