REP: Oasis 5/8 [PG-13] (TNG, Q)
Laura Taylor
That I am weak, yet not unblest,
Since in me, round me, every where
Eternal strength and wisdom are
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
"The Pains of Sleep"
Q opened his eyes slowly, cautiously, and peered around at his
surroundings. He ached all over, and his throat was parched. Ever so
gently he raised himself up on his elbows and looked around. Nothing
looked familiar. He could tell that he was in a large canvas structure,
resting on a bed of soft plump cushions. An oil lamp burned on a low
table near his head and a fire smoldered in the center of the tent. A
feathery thin wisp of smoke curled upwards and exited the tent through a
small opening in the roof that revealed a blindingly white sky. Colorful
carpets covered the ground around the makeshift hearth in overlapping
layers. Q noticed that the ground, though not soft, gave way when he
pressed on it.
Q sat up at a rustling noise against the far wall of the tent and swung
his legs off the bed. The tent wall appeared to draw away, and the
bright sunlight streaming in momentarily blinded him. When the wall fell
back into place and Q's eyes cleared, he noticed a young woman standing
before him. He jumped in surprise.
"Good morning," she said, taking a step closer to him. "I'm glad to see
that you are finally awake."
Q stared at her, uncharacteristically speechless. The woman looked to be
no more than thirty, and Q could tell from his seated position that she
was tiny in comparison to his imposing stature. Her skin, burnished by
the sun, was a dusky olive hue, and her almond-shaped eyes were as dark
and intoxicating as coffee. Her lips, rich and full like ripe
pomegranates, parted to reveal two even rows of teeth that shone like
pearls. She was dressed in a costume of robes in varying shades of
green. Her trousers, an almost-yellow chartreuse, cascaded down her legs
until they gathered tightly about her ankles in a band of gold filament.
Over her torso she wore a long-sleeved tunic, likewise trimmed in gold,
with a modestly curved neckline in a shade of avocado that on anyone
with paler skin would reflect a hideous glow. The tunic, which fell to
mid-thigh, was cinched with a sash identical to her trousers. A pale
olive green scarf decorated with intricate patterns of green and gold
covered her plaited dark hair.
She was Beauty incarnate.
She took another step toward Q, extending a wooden platter with fruit on
it. "Please, help yourself," she urged in a low, melodious voice. "You
must be starving, you haven't eaten for days."
Q pressed himself against the cushions with distrust. "Who are you?" he
rasped hoarsely. "Where am I and how did I get here?"
"I'll answer your questions if you eat something first," she insisted.
She placed the plate on the table. Q eyed the fruit warily. "There are
some dates, a few figs and a handful of betel nuts," she said.
"I'm thirsty. May I have some water?"
"Eat the fruit. They will replenish your fluids." Q obeyed grudgingly
and bit into a fig. Juice dribbled down his chin. "Be careful," she
cautioned. "Don't waste those juices. Fluid is a rare commodity in the desert."
Q's eyes widened as he wiped his sleeve across his mouth. "Desert? What
desert? You promised to answer my questions if I ate some fruit, well,
here's the evidence," he said, extending fingers stained red by the
betel nuts.
"Do you remember who you are?"
"What sort of a stupid question is that?" Q retorted haughtily. "Of
course I know who I am. I--" he paused, confused. "My name is Q, I know
that much," he continued, chagrined when he realized that he did not
remember who he was. "The rest seems to be somewhat hazy. I think I
remember something about a party..."
"We found you in the desert, naked, alone, without provisions and
unconscious. We don't know how you got there. You've been with us for
three days, delirious for most of that time."
"Who's 'we'?" Q asked. "For that matter, perhaps you'd better tell me
who you are."
"My name is Fatima al-Ghazali. I am accompanied by my father-in-law,
Abu Primus."
"What are you doing in the middle of the desert?"
"We're Bedouins. The desert is our home." Fatima paused, and a shadow of
melancholy fell across her face. "We're on our way to a shrine near the
River of Life, where Abu plans to commemorate the anniversary of my
husband's death. You are welcome to accompany us as far as you wish, but
I urge you to go with us to the shrine. The Saint may be able to help you."
Q shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Since I don't know how I got here, I
don't know how or where to go, so you're probably my only hope, unless I
care to become food for sand worms. These figs are delicious, by the way."
Fatima smiled again, her face as enigmatic as a sphinx as she kneeled on
the floor beside Q's bed. "Good. You need to eat everything on the
plate; it's important to build up your strength before we can continue.
Do you have any recollection of how you ended up in the middle of the desert?"
"No idea whatsoever. You said I was naked when you found me?" Fatima
nodded. "That would explain how I came to be wearing this --" he said,
indicating the light blue caftan he was wearing, "I have a vague memory
of a red and black uniform." Q looked down at the remaining dates on his
plate and scowled. "Do I have to eat these?" he complained. "They look
like burned locusts."
"Yes, you do," she insisted. "You were very badly sunburned when we
found you, and the protein in the dates will help your skin heal and
regenerate. Now if you will please excuse me, I have other matters to
attend to," she said, rising.
Q snorted in disgust and reluctantly bit into a date to appease her, but
as soon as she left the tent he spat the unchewed morsel on his plate
and put it back on the table. He stood and stretched his arms stiffly
above his head, feeling the tautness of his burned flesh and wincing at
the sharp stings caused by the movement. As long as I'm stuck here, he
thought, I might as well get to know the place.
The tent was quite large, about sixteen square meters around and three
meters in height, supported at the four corners by sturdy wooden poles
driven deep into the sand. One corner of the tent was separated from the
main chamber by a canvas panel. That must be where Fatima sleeps, Q
realized, and stepped inside, oblivious to any need she might have for
privacy. Finding no clues to reveal more about his mysterious hostess,
nothing besides a simple bed, a few garments and a copy of the Qur'an
under her pillow, he resumed exploring the main chamber. On the opposite
side of the fire from his bed was a low pallet resting on a bed of straw
where, Q guessed, Abu — what had Fatima called him? Primus? — slept. He
thought Primus was an odd name for a Bedouin. But then, he thought
sardonically, what sort of a name is Q?
Having thoroughly examined the tent, Q decided to step outside and view
his surroundings. He yelped with pain as his tender bare feet came into
contact with the scorching sand and beat a hasty retreat into the cool
shade of the tent. His eyes scanned the chamber and fell upon a pair of
sandals at the foot of his bed. His soles, which Q realized were
sunburned from his ordeal, shrank back from contact with the unyielding
leather, but he gritted his teeth and forced his feet down onto the
sandals and tied the thongs tightly around his ankles. Only when he felt
certain the sandals were secure on his feet did Q dare venture outside again.
The first thing Q noticed when he stepped outside was the unending
expanse of the desert. Everywhere he looked, every way he turned, he saw
nothing but sand, a great expansive sea of sand. And, like the sea, the
desert was continually changing its appearance, as winds stirred loose
granules from the surface and drove them into Q's face, stinging his
tender skin with thousands of tiny arrows. He remained motionless,
mesmerized by the eternal and infinite continuum of the desert.
Continuum?
Where had he heard that word before? Deep within Q's subconscious, a
slumbering memory stirred, and he felt a profound yearning, an
unquenchable thirst, a powerful homesickness. But where was home?
Judging from the sun's position in the sky, Q estimated it to be
mid-morning, and realized that he had yet to face the full power of the
desert heat. He wondered that he had survived at all before Fatima and
her father-in-law discovered him; he was obviously not a desert native.
The second thing Q noticed was a herd of about twenty camels gathered
behind the tent, most of them resting on their haunches, placidly
chewing cud. In fact, Q heard them before he saw them, when one of the
animals emitted a hair-raising noise that was half bellow, half belch,
and Q nearly jumped out of his skin. When he peered nervously around the
tent to determine the source of the noise, the odor emanating from the
camels caused him to wrinkle his nose in disgust before the herd even
came into view. Q momentarily wondered if he might not be better off
braving the desert alone. Then he spotted the old man resting against
one of the camels, and realized that he must be Abu Primus.
Something about the old man looked very familiar to Q, but he could not
put his finger on what or why. His hair, which bristled in countless
directions from underneath a white skullcap, was brittle and yellow with
age. His sun-blackened face, which gave the unique appearance of
arrogance and compassion and innocence and ancient wisdom in equal
measure, was lined with deep creases. His coal-black eyes glittered
beneath bushy yellow eyebrows. He was dressed in a simple white caftan
that appeared to be stitched from a single piece of cloth. In one hand
he held a stick, with which he beat an endless rhythm on the desert
floor. Q noticed his lips moving, and thought the obviously crazy old
man was talking to the camel. As he approached, however, Q realized that
the man was speaking a litany of sorts, chanting in a language Q could
not fathom. The man looked up as Q's shadow fell upon him and leaped to
his feet with a spryness Q would never have thought possible in a man of
Abu's apparent, but indeterminate, age.
"My child!" he cried, embracing Q tightly. "You have at last returned to
us from the land of the djinn! Allah be praised!"
Q was startled by the old man's enthusiasm for his well-being and
disturbed by the compassionate embrace. On the surface, Abu Primus
seemed to be nothing more than a typically superstitious old man, but
the emotion apparent in his voice and the fervor of his embrace
suggested a far greater concern than mere superstition would suggest.
Somewhat embarrassed, Q carefully extracted himself from Abu's arms.
"'Land of the djinn'?" he asked, hoping for clues about the old man,
about himself, about Fatima.
"That place between life and death where spirits try to seduce us away
from the Noble Path of Light. I had feared that you would never return
to us, that your death was sealed by those airy tongues and beckoning
shadows," Abu replied, grinning toothlessly.
Q was beginning to suspect that he was not the only mystery around here,
and he doubted he would ever get a straight answer from Fatima or her
father-in-law. Fatima had said they found Q in the desert several days
ago, yet Abu seemed to suggest that Q had been with them before, or
perhaps had been with them all along. It did seem odd that they adapted
so well to his assuredly disruptive presence. Q considered asking the
old man how much he knew about Q and who he was, but almost immediately
decided against it, thinking that perhaps Abu's answers would only
generate more questions. In any case, the old man's emotion made Q
uncomfortable. "Where's Fatima?" he asked.
Abu Primus pointed to a dark spot in the distance. "It is mid-morning.
She's at prayer."
Curious, Q headed toward the dark spot, which, as he came closer, he
realized was Fatima. From a distance he watched, fascinated, as she
arranged several rocks in a large circle. She then knelt outside the
circle and removed her sandals and scarf. With her right hand she picked
up a handful of sand and began methodically scrubbing her face and head,
then her left arm up to the elbow, and finally, with her left hand, she
likewise scrubbed her right arm. Her ritual ablutions complete, Fatima
began tracing lines in the sand within the circle of stones in such a
pattern that four straight lines connected stones opposite each other in
the circle and converged on a single point in the exact center of the
circle. Fatima then stepped to the central point and, facing east,
raised her arms to the sky and in her throaty contralto intoned the
creed of her people, "La ilaha illa Allah. Muhammad rasul Allah."
Ignoring the thought that he might be committing some horrendous taboo,
Q stepped closer. He had a vague sensation, like an indefinable memory,
that he was familiar with many forms of human (human?) prayer (why?),
including the shahada, but as he watched, Fatima's prayer took on a form
he was quite certain he had never seen before.
As Fatima began chanting Allah's glorious names and praising his great
deeds, her feet began to stamp the ground in an even, controlled rhythm,
her arms outstretched, her head thrown back. When she had established
the correct tempo, she began to turn clockwise, so that as her right
foot touched down, she was facing one of the four cardinal points on her
sacred circle, exclaiming at each point "Allahu akbar!"
Slowly the tempo of Fatima's ritual dance increased, and Q felt the
blood pounding in his head to the same driving rhythm. It was as if her
mystical dance had itself become the earth's heartbeat, sending life
coursing through Q's veins. As her whirling became faster, more
frenzied, Q saw the cosmos whirling around him...
...Allahu akbar...
...the earth rumbling in humble obedience...
whirling faster, ever faster...
...stars moving through his vision blurred by wind and sand and tears...
...Allahu akbar...
...millions of voices praising in unison...
whirling, whirling, in tandem with the spinning of the galaxy...
...faces, his face...
...Ora pro nobis...
...the reverberation of a cosmic heartbeat...
whirling, whirling, whirling...
...a ship traveling through the stars...
...God is most great...
...Kyrie eleison...
whirling out of control...
...at the center of an endless ocean of fire...
...hearing darkness, seeing silence...
*************************
The pungent, heady fragrance of myrrh wafted into Q's nose, triggering a
powerful sneeze and arousing him from unconsciousness. The sudden
movement precipitated by the sneeze sent daggers of pain coursing
through his body, causing him to cry out and struggle. A pair of soft,
strong hands pressed on his shoulder blades and Fatima's low voice
ordered him to relax and lie down. Q fought her, briefly, but her
soothing words soon outmatched his fear and distrust and he pressed his
face into the pillow. He was back in the tent, lying on his stomach. The
scent of myrrh, he discovered when he turned his head to the right, was
coming from a jar sitting on the table beside his bed. Fatima was
rubbing the fragrant ointment into his aching back with delicate but
deliberate strokes. Q then realized that he was naked to the waist, and
Fatima's nearness to him awakened conflicting and unfamiliar feelings of
discomfort and desire. The pleasure engendered by her touch, however,
masked more potent sensations of pain radiating throughout his body.
"What are you doing?" he asked, the edge in his voice muffled by the pillow.
"You should not have followed me," she scolded, irritation evident in
the tone of her voice. "Worship is not a matter to be taken lightly, and
you have no business imitating that which you do not respect or
understand. Because of your arrogant foolishness, your wounds have reopened."
"What, you mean the sunburn?" Q asked, perplexed.
"No," Fatima sighed in exasperation. "When we found you, you were so
close to death that a vulture was circling your body, occasionally
swooping down and gouging your back. You've got some pretty nasty
scratches, and your disrespect for the customs of my people reopened the
wounds and caused you to start bleeding again. Look at this," she
ordered, pulling down her tunic to show a network of jagged red and
purple lines extending from her collarbone back to her shoulder blade.
"This is what the vulture did to me when I tried to pull you away." She
lifted the caftan Q had been wearing earlier, which was lying on the
ground beside his bed. It was soaked with blood. "This is what you did
to yourself. Now don't move while I finish wrapping these wounds," she ordered.
Q resented her manner, but acquiesced. He could not shake the feeling
that she knew much more about him than she was telling, and wondered how
he could draw her out into the open. A voice told him there was a reason
she was holding back, that she distrusted him as much as he distrusted
her. "Tell me about your husband," he asked cautiously.
He heard a sharp intake of breath, then silence. He craned his neck to
look at Fatima, who was biting her lip in a vain struggle to prevent the
single tear that had collected in her left eye from falling. Unable to
control her reaction, and sensing Q's eyes searching her face, Fatima
looked down at her feet. "Ali was the best, the very best of men," she
whispered. "He died, several years ago, far from the desert, in the line
of duty."
"What happened?" Q asked. Fatima carefully related the circumstances of
Ali's death, omitting any direct reference to Q's role in that
unpleasant event. At the mention of the Enterprise, however, Q's eyes
widened. He had heard that name before, had seen that ship before, in
his mind, in the impenetrable fog of his memory. He debated asking
Fatima about the Enterprise, hoping to unravel the mystery of his past,
but an inner voice urged him to wait. Part of him distrusted her, but an
equal part of him believed that she would tell him what he needed to
know — what he longed to know — at the appropriate time. For now,
however, he wanted to know more about her and her strange father-in-law.
For her part, Fatima could tell that Q was uneasy, and secretly reveled
in the power she had over him. Q had deservedly earned a reputation for
being arrogant, condescending and presumptuous, lording over the mortals
he confronted and flaunting his immortality and omnipotence. This Q,
although he was, essentially, the same Q, was neither immortal nor
omnipotent, and did not realize that he was supposed to be so. Holding
the knowledge of who and what Q was, and being the means of restoring
him to his natural state, Fatima felt...omnipotent. Traversing space in
the years following Ali's death, she had wondered if she were immortal,
because death remained perpetually elusive, no matter how hard she tried
to seduce it. Now the being responsible for Ali's death was at her
mercy, entirely dependent on her for his life and his identity.
If Ali could see me now, she thought to herself. He would know how to
resolve the conflict that raged within her heart.
Ali. He was the reason why she volunteered for this 'suicide' mission.
He had also volunteered his life, believing, she knew, that his action
was for the greater good, but she lacked his fortitude and his faith.
Yet something told her that helping Q was for the best, and that Ali
would be proud. Ali would have made the same choice, without hesitation,
were he in her place. She knew, with a twinge of regret at her
selfishness, that her ultimate reward, reuniting with her dead husband,
was her primary motivation, and resolutely steeled herself against the
challenge that lay ahead. Shaking herself out of her reverie, she looked
at Q. He was equally lost in thought.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
"What?" Q stirred, shaking the cobwebs from his mind. "Oh — yes, I'm
starved. You're not going to make me eat any more dates are you?" He
injected a note of pleading into his voice.
"No, we can't afford to waste them. It will take us a week to cross the
desert, and our provisions have to last." She rose from the floor beside
his bed. "You're welcome to join me. I could use your help."
Q groaned as he pushed himself to his hands and knees, then carefully
turned over into a sitting position. He was grateful to discover that he
was wearing trousers, in the same loose-fitting style as what Fatima was
wearing, underneath the blanket. A matching sleeveless tunic was folded
neatly at the foot of the bed, and he carefully eased it over his
shoulders and fastened it. He walked over to the fire, where Fatima was
grinding chickpeas in a large bowl. "What do you want me to do?" he
asked solicitously.
She pointed to a strange brew bubbling over the coals. "Stir that," she
commanded. "Don't let it boil over or get too thick."
"What is it?"
He immediately regretted asking. "A blend of fermented camel's milk,
honey and olive oil." She looked at him and smiled at the look of utter
nausea on his face. "Don't worry, it tastes better than it sounds."
"An amazing and impossible feat, I'm sure."
Fatima finished grinding the chickpeas and emptied the contents of her
bowl into the mixture, which quickly assumed the consistency and texture
of porridge. Q's already churning stomach took a back flip at the sight.
As he struggled to regain his composure, she took a pair of tongs and
pulled a flat brown lump out from the ashes at the edge of the hearth
and dusted it off. Q realized it was a loaf of bread, and sighed audibly
as he realized, gratefully, that there would be at least one edible item
on tonight's menu. By now, the stew was cooked to Fatima's satisfaction,
and she removed the pot from the fire. She ladled it into two bowls and
handed one to Q. From a pouch she removed a handful of olives, which she
arranged on a wooden platter with the bread and a hunk of cheese. From a
water skin she carefully poured two cups of the priceless clear liquid
and gave one to Q. "Eat," she ordered.
Q grimaced at the sight of the stew, but he was very hungry, so he
closed his eyes and prayed for strength before attempting to eat. Much
to his surprise, it was quite good, and he greedily ate every bite,
scraping his bowl clean with a hunk of bread. He also ate his fill of
olives and cheese, and was careful not to spill any water. In a matter
of minutes, he was finished, feeling fat and happy. He belched
appreciatively. "Where's Abu?" he asked, having finally noticed that
they were alone.
"He is fasting in preparation for the pilgrimage. He will only eat after
the sun sets."
"Ah, well, more for us, then," Q said, reaching for another hunk of bread.
*************************
The serpent undulated her way across the cool dunes, stopping briefly to
flick her forked tongue in search of prey. In the distance, she could
see a small camp bathed in the light of a full moon. Sensing the
proximity of her quarry, she unfurled her hood and hissed in
anticipation. It would be a good night for hunting.
TBC...
--
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"This city of monuments [Washington, D.C.] is itself a monument to
blunders, bungles and boondoggles. Part of what makes this country great
is it can survive Washington year after year."
Tom Shales