A Klingon Tragedy (2002)
amantari@netzero.net
NOTES: Based on the STAR TREK universe. Though canon elements and characters may be referred to, the people depicted here are of my own invention. This story is a work of fanfiction, no copyright infringement is intended.
Credit Goes To: A Harlem Tragedy-- from The Best Short Stories of O.Henry (c.1994, The Modern Library, New York)
K'Tesh's Klingon Recipe Pages (http://www.klingonfood.com)
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Early one afternoon, B'Lorna banged on the door of her friend, Mevhlar. Once inside, the young woman quickly pushed the hood of her cloak back.
"Impressive, is it not?"
She turned her face proudly towards the light. Her left eye was bruised and swollen completely shut. Dried blood caked at the corner of her lips and there were welts in the shape of fingers along the sides of her neck.
"Your mate did this to you?" Mevhlar gasped.
"Of course," declared B'Lorna, "I challenged Torkar this morning, and he promptly responded. I would not have it any other way."
"But why?" Mevhlar asked.
"It proves he still holds me in high regard. The face he struck hours before will be the one he thinks of in the midst of battle. It is my name which he will sing songs of, and my honor which he will defend!"
Mevhlar let out a sigh. "Korveth would never raise his hand against me. He prefers to sit quietly and drink his blood wine."
B'Lorna let out a laugh, "Then he is NOT a true Klingon."
Mevhlar's eyes widened, and her voice rose. "My husband is worthy of his race! Many an enemy has fallen at his feet."
She seemed quite satisfied with her defense, until B'Lorna pulled up the sleeves of her tunic. Her arms were covered with bruises ranging from reddish-black to faded purple. She wore them all like badges of honor.
At that moment, Mevhlar's proud defiance gave way to rising jealousy. Though she and B'Lorna saw themselves as blood sisters, there remained between them an odd sort of competitiveness. One was never allowed to surpass the other. When B'Lorna married her warrior, Mevhlar quickly followed suit. When Mevhlar's husband set up house in the southern province, B'Lorna schemed and prodded until her husband moved within neighboring distance. For every child B'Lorna bore, Mevhlar matched it down to the gender.
"Tell me how it happens," Mevhlar insisted. "In what way do you challenge your mate?"
"There's no one way to do it," B'Lorna casually replied. "Sometimes I insult Torkar, other times I leave for hours without so much as a word. His anger truly burns if I fail to check in on his elderly mother. I usually challenge him every other week, but if I think he is growing weary of me, I provoke him even more. I'd like to catch him just once striking some other wench!"
Mevhlar paused a long moment to think.
"Korveth has never struck me in his entire life. Sometimes he is gone for months, and when he returns home he takes his wine without a single word. He no longer tells me of glorious battles or of the number of enemies he's slain. True, he brings me many trophies, but there is no pride in his eyes when he presents them. There is no way I can truly appreciate them."
B'Lorna took her friend by the arm.
"It is a pity," she said. "But every woman cannot have a mate such as Torkar. There would be no such thing as divorce if they were all like him. The discontented wives you hear of -- they fear putting themselves to the test. What I want is a man with a quick temper and a firm hand. May the demons devour those empty shells who lack both!
Mevhlar's eyes filled with despair.
Suddenly, the sound of heavy boot-steps could be heard coming up the walkway. The door flew open, and there stood Torkar with a freshly killed targ. B'Lorna rushed to his side, her battered face beaming with affection.
"My wife!" shouted Torkar. He flung the carcass on a nearby table and lifted her from the ground in a mighty embrace. "Tonight you shall prepare a feast. Then, you and I will venture to the Hall of Victors. There will be a concert in honor of the Chancellor, and I have secured two seats in the first row. It took many favors to -- why, good evening, B'Lorna -- I did not see you at first. I trust that your husband is well?"
"Korveth is quite well, thank you," said Mevhlar. "I must be going now. He will be home for supper soon. May you both have a pleasant evening."
Mevhlar returned home and had a little cry. It was a meaningless cry, the kind of cry that only a woman knows about, a cry for no particular cause, altogether an absurd cry; the most transient and the most hopeless cry in the repertory of grief. Why had Korveth never struck her? He was larger than Torkar, and stronger. Did he not have any honor at all? They never quarreled; he came home and lounged about silent, glum, and idle. He was a fine provider, but certainly no Bird of Prey.
Indeed, Mevhlar was trapped on a ship of peace. What would make her captain pursue?
Korveth promptly returned home at sundown. Bottle in hand, he took his usual place at the meal table. Mevhlar quickly set the gagh before him.
"Are you pleased?" she asked as he shoved a wriggling handful in his mouth.
A slight grunt was his reply.
After dinner, Korveth retired to the bedchamber. As he dozed off, Mevhlar was left alone to clear the table. As she scraped the dishes, a dark cloud of anger came over her. "Is B'Lorna to possess all the happiness? Am I to go though life unmarked and unloved?" Suddenly, a trail of fire blazed though her brain.
After filling the washtub, Mevhlar marched from the kitchen into the bedchamber. Korveth was reclined on the bed, pointed boots and all, eyes closed. This was his version of paradise -- lying in drunken slumber as imaginary wars played through his mind.
Rage surged in Mevhlar's heart and higher still surged an audacious resolve. Since her mate would not readily act, he had to be encouraged. With a quick leap, she pounced upon his torso.
"You worthless p'tak!" she screamed. "Must I work my arms off cooking and washing and toiling for the ugly likes of you?"
Korveth jerked awake with surprise. In a flash, he grabbed her by the shoulders, tossing her to the cold, hard floor. She feared that he would go no further -- perhaps the provocation had been insufficient. She then leapt up and slapped him fiercely across the face with her clenched hand. As she drew his blood, she felt a thrill of love for him such as she had not felt for many a day. "Rise up, noble warrior, and claim that which is rightfully yours!" Oh, how she longed to feel the weight of his hand!
Korveth sprang to his feet -- and Mevhlar caught him again on the jaw with a wide swing of her other hand. She braced herself for that fearful, blissful moment before his blow should come -- she whispered his name to herself -- she awaited the expected shock, hungry for it.
Meanwhile, B'Lorna stood before a mirror, powdering her eye in preparation for her evening out. As she smiled at the results, the sound of anguished cries floated in from outside. She took one look out the window, and flew down the stairs. When she opened the door, Mevhlar raced in, flinging herself upon her friend's shoulder.
"So, it has happened," B'Lorna said. "How well did he do?"
Mevhlar wailed uncontrollably. B'Lorna raised her face to the light. Though tear-stained, its light brown surface remained unscratched, unbruised, unmarked by the sizable hand of Korveth.
"Tell me what happened," said B'Lorna, "Or I'll go there and find out myself. What did he do to you?"
Mevhlar put her hands over her face despairingly. "You must not look," she said. "And you must never tell anyone of this -- my dishonor is too great! He -- he never touched me. He's in our kitchen as we speak. And he's -- washing the dishes!"
THE END