A High Honor
The sable-colored Eylordene was at her elbow, her robe highly agitated. "You are to be a part of the ceremonies," her robe waved with excitement.
"A part of the ceremonies," T'Pol repeated, focusing on the alien as a means of tamping out the sounds of the waves crashing all around. Most of the ground was level with the seas and another water barrier of uncertain engineering soundness stood as the only protection from the ocean. "Aren't we going back to the ceremonial hall?" she asked, then mentally chided herself. The question was prompted by emotion, not logic. Her control was slipping.
Fortunately the alien did not react to the offense, perhaps did not perceive it. "The Joining will be witnessed there, but first the milking seacow must cross over the sacred grounds to the poled fisherman," the Eylordene explained, mindful that the Vulcan alien did not know the sacred story. "You will be among those escorting her!" she added, gurggling with excitement, unaware she was stamping out the small illogical hope that the throngs of dignitaries would turn around and go back to the ceremonial grounds, still without shedding light on the upcoming events.
T'Pol looked at the alien without replying. This was neither an expected nor welcome development. Based on what she had seen in the hemicycle, honorific roles involved a sizeable amount of physical exertion. Physical exertion led to an increased rate of respiration. Increased respiration used the breathing crystals faster. She glanced at her wrist monitor, quickly calculating the rate of crystal consumption against the expected time of Lieutenant Reed's return. The margin for Lieutenant Reed's safe return was already negative, in spite of her sustained efforts at modulating her breath. He would not be back before the last canister was exhausted. The question now was how much time would elapse between that and his return.
The Eylordene interpreted her silence as being awe-inspired. "It is a huge honor," she agreed, "and a sign of our pleasure at joining the Federation of Planets." She was making no attempt to hide her happiness.
T'Pol looked around at the hundreds of Eylordenes standing on a large flat platform at the foot of the half-moon of cliffs. It made the island look larger, an optical illusion, though welcome. She brought her attention back to the alien. "When is the crossing of the sacred grounds to happen?" she asked, an oblique approach to finding out what the ceremony consisted of and her role in it. If the Federation had spent more time studying Eylordene culture, she would have more information on the identity of the milking cow and the poled fisherman or what they stood for.
The sable-colored alien shuddered in delight, "The milking seacow is already being taken out of her niche in the cliff!" she replied excitedly.
As usual, the Eylordene's reply did not answer the question. "And the poled fisherman?" T'Pol asked, wondering if the milking seacow went all the way to the fisherman or if both met at some equidistant or predetermined point.
"He is being made ready also," the alien replied, once again not providing much enlightenment.
T'Pol considered. Unless the UT's translation was inaccurate, a niche would tend to indicate a smaller-sized object. Smaller objects could be carried. The Eylordene had said she would be among those escorting the milking seacow. If so, her participation may involve carrying the milking seacow. It would not be an optimal development but if the weight was spread across several participants it should be within acceptable range for a Vulcan, not overly impact her respiration rate. "Is the poled fisherman also being carried to the milking seacow?" she asked.
"Of course not!" the alien brought all her digits up as if to ward off the idea, "They cannot be carried."
That was a positive news. Perhaps then these were immaterial objects, and the ceremonies essentially a virtual proceeding.
Before she could prompt further information, the alien spoke up again, "No more than the ones in the sky!" she added.
T'Pol's eyebrow rose slightly. So the poled fisherman and milking seacow were references to celestial matters, with physical representations held in niches in the cliffs. Possibly deities. "Can the ones in the sky be seen?" she prodded, trying to ascertain the nature of the matter without being sacrilegious.
"Of course not, not outside of the Joining!" the alien shimmered in reply.
So they could be seen during the Joining. These were not deities, then, most probably cosmological configurations.
Her train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the Eylordene. "There it is!" the small alien exclaimed, prompting T'Pol to look where she was pointing.
Both eyebrows leapt to her bangs. What was slowly being revealed at the other end of the cliffs was a towering figure, at least eighteen point three feet tall. From where she was, she could only see the back of it. In a single glance, she noted the sled-like structure under it, the lack of any visible motorized equipment. That explained the alien's exclamation that the statues could not be carried. She mentally revised her projections about physical exertion and empty canisters to align with the unwelcome possibility that the propelling power was to be provided by the escort, while making a mental note to have Hoshi review the definition of 'niche' in the UT, as she turned to the alien and asked, "How is the milking seacow being propelled?"
The Eylordene's robe took on the blue tone of puzzlement, "By the Anointed, of course!" The alien seemed to suddenly realize the reason for T'Pol's question, "Do not worry, gentlebeing," she smiled with undulating white caps, "once the milking seacow is positioned at the base of the platform, you will join the Anointed for the glorious crossing!"
T'Pol didn't say anything. She could not decline the honor made without risking the induction of A'Er'Orl, and Lieutenant Reed was not here to stand for her. Kaiidth. What was, was. Nothing could be done about it. Now that the least favorable development had been confirmed, her mind was going over the information provided by Doctor Phlox. The atmosphere of A'Er'Orl was toxic, not poisonous; there would be time before the effects became damaging; how much time, the doctor did not say, there was no information in the database. She would find out how much time when the canister ran out.
xxx
Reed
Reed looked down at the drenching clouds crowding the horizon, the almost-horizontal sheets of rain that seemed to be hitting the water sideway. Of course, they had to be looking for the shuttle in the middle of the mother of all storms. What else could be expected?
The aircraft lurched and his stomach churned. His mind went straight to Dr. Phlox's pills. Perhaps he should... but he really didn't want to take more, he had planned precisely around his return to the ceremonial grounds.
He looked at the rain again. He was not afraid of rain, only water in huge life-choking proportions, right? Of course he wasn't afraid to take showers. How about large amounts of rain water? To test the idea, he mentally conjured a picture of buckets of rain, thunderstorms as bad as this one. Nothing. No sign of fear. A pool? That brought a vague tickle at the back of his mind. A lake? Oops, better not go there. He could feel the current of fear coiling and uncoiling within him.
The shuttle abruptly dipped at an angle and his stomach churned again. A wave of relief washed over him. He was simply reacting to the roller coaster ride, that's all! He hazarded a look at the churning waters below, found that the sight was not filling him with dread. So the pills were still working. He could relax.
That set his mind to other things. He looked at the storage compartment with the canisters of breathing crystals he'd picked up during the shift change. It was well secured, no worry there. He glanced at the chron, checked there was plenty of time before he had to bring the canisters back to T'Pol.
He'd better get back to the search. Storm or no storm he still had a shuttle to find. Even if the storm was impeding their progress. He braced himself against the shuttle's erratic motions with his legs, keeping his gaze glued to the sonar screen.
xxx
T'Pol
The number of Anointed seemed insufficient in light of the weight being pulled. It had been one hour and thirty-two point three minutes already and the statues were had barely reached what T'Pol understood to be the crossing ground. The Anointed were standing, catching their breath. Soon she would be brought down to participate in the effort.
The sable-colored Eylordene had left her side and she had used the time to slow down her metabolism and extend the life of the breathing crystals. Now she felt chilled to the bone even though the temperature was comfortable by Vulcan standards. She stood immobile as blood slowly returned to her hands and feet. And ears.
"It is time!" The exclamation rang loudly against her sensitized ears but she'd heard the small Eylordene feet brushing against the stone and she did not startle. She nodded her acknowledgement, letting the Eylordene attach the emotional meaning of her choosing to the gesture.
"Come, I will take you down to the Anointed!" The small alien beaconed with all hands and digits.
T'Pol followed, keeping her step as slow and steady as the rhythm of her breathing. They cut through the throngs of officials until they reached the head of the ramp that extended from the platform to the crossing grounds. The full statue finally came into view. And T'Pol's eyebrows flew to her bangs again.
Her first thought was that the UT needed to be entirely recalibrated for Eylordene etymology. Her second thought was that the UT was not so far off in respect of the poled fisherman, there were many cultures on Earth that used the term as a rude equivalent to the sexual male organ. Her third thought was that it was a good thing that Captain Archer and Trip were not present as she wouldn't quite trust the two of them to maintain the required level of seriousness. Perhaps not Archer, but definitely her husband who appreciated humor best reserved for teenage boys. Human boys. Vulcans had no such qualms about the body and its shapes and attributes. Nor Denobulans. None would not be offended, titillated or otherwise made uneasy by what was facing her. Her fourth thought was that the burning sensation in the tips of her ears must be due to the increase in metabolic activity. The fifth, sixth, and seventh thoughts came on the heels of one another. The parallels between the Vulcan's seven-year reproductive cycle and the Eylordene's eight-year Joining; the overly grossely disproportionate mammary appendages on the 'milking seacow', which she now suspected was not the correct translation; the actual anatomical function of the oversize clam-like shape in the center of its torso. A quick glance to the poled fisherman redundantly showed that its own grossly anatomically incorrect pole aligned perfectly with said shape. Eighth came that many cultures across the universe had fertility-related rites...
"Let us through!" the Eylordene at her side shouted over the crowd.
T'Pol was grateful for the interruption. This was neither the place nor time to speculate or enquire about the roots and meaning of the ceremony. All questions would be answered through her participation and the propagation and diffusion of her notes would in turn inform the Federation. If the knowledge did not disappear with her. She needed to start on the notes as soon as they were back in the ceremonial hall.
She followed the small Eylordene down the ramp.
xxx