Jubilation on the Steppes
Posted on March 25th, 2002 by Tempest Rainbird

an Admiral’s story

As told by Tempest Rainbird

It all began with a horse.

White, like the clouds it raced on; fleet, like the wind it surpassed; mythical as any object transfixed in a child’s memory.

The name of the horse was Molly which, it could be supposed, had been the origin of the obsession with all things Irish. The knowledge of rudimentary Celtic had been one of its products and, less well known, a certain ability to imitate the stiff-kneed rapping steps of Irish dance.

Molly the horse, of course, was a genetically engineered specimen grown from undefined stock. But her white coat and auburn mane had predisposed some soul with a sense of humor to give her a name better befitting a young, joyous lass than an equine.

Perhaps names do have a prophetic value after all, for this dignified white mare was possessed of a sweet temperament, a like for children and a revelry in nature that matched a little boy’s. Small wonder then that she found her way to an affluent Russian private stable where a dark-eyed laddie met and matched the spirit of an Irish lass in horse form.

An artist friend of the family, languishing in a lapse of inspiration, behooved himself of their hospitality in the guest house on their estate. On the terrace, with a wide-brimmed hat to shade the sun, he sat through the mornings and early afternoons contemplating the deeper truths of existence as he stared at the endless, desolate expanse of the Russian Steppes. When the shadows stretched past noon’s demise, creating vast chasms of dark red and brown where shallow dunes pocked the planes, a boy and a horse would ride past, laughing and cavorting, unaware their playground was a wasteland. Once past the crest of youthful timidity, the boy and the horse would ride daily to the porch, jubilantly yelling salutations to “Mister Yellow Hat” who offered shade, cool refreshment, and, eventually, a wellspring of anecdotes and proverbs that puzzled and delighted the boy.

As the cold of winter closed its harsh embrace on the plains, the artist announced himself refreshed and collected his things to travel onward, headed wherever his renewed inspiration guided him. During the bustle of his departure, he presented the boy with a small tissue-wrapped item; nestled within lay a carved horse, limbs outstretched, head held high, mane streaming in her wake. “Jubilation on the Steppes” it was labeled in the artists’ scrawling hand.

The boy grew, and the horse died late in the winter of her fourteenth year when a fever wracked her aged body. She was buried in a corner of the family plot, site unmarked save a few violet blooms which rapidly withered.

And eventually it came time for the boy too to leave the Steppes, though adulthood not death heralded his departure. His mother grew a baleful look as the season approached when he would leave, and she stood by the sub-orbital transport that would whisk him away to the academy with a stricken expression. The boy slipped something into her hand as he leaned in to kiss her farewell; when she unfolded her fingers she found the artist’s carving against her palm, nearly forgotten, filled with sweet memories of her son’s joyous youth.

She fitted the carving with a silver chain and wore it around her neck long after the ache of separation had disappeared. She fingered it with pride every time news of his success came from Starfleet Headquarters. She showed it proudly to powerful personages at soirees, repeating again and again her son’s experience with the artist “Mister Yellow Hat” and the tales of his military successes.

When Alexi went through her things after the tragedy, he found the necklace lying alone in the top chamber of her jewelry box, chain stretched taut to prevent the slightest tangle. Overwrought and unwilling to face the magnitude of its symbolism, he’d taken the box intact and hidden it in a dark, remote drawer in an abandoned room of the now disused family manse. There it hard remained, more or less unregarded, for further years.

The only time it had been brought out was when, as the Atlantis enjoyed a brief respite in the vicinity of Earth, it had been forced into Zuriyev’s recollection by a communication from Emile Juandivre, Mister Yellow Hat, whose recent series of sculptures was on prominent display outside the Louvre.

Surreptitiously, Alexi had stolen one night into the mansion, bringing his fiancee as a support, a kind of shadow from the real world pacing the chambers laden with memory. From the recesses of that remote, dark drawer, he pulled the jewelry box, and showed his fiancee the contents therein as he recited the story of Mister Yellow Hat and his academy departure, as it had not been recited since the war had forced Madame Zuriyev to stop attending prominent events. The phantoms spoken of in the isolated room, apart from his Starfleet persona, expiated the guilt that had tainted his mother’s affects, and when Zuriyev returned to his quarters, he took the box too, and set it on his dresser. It gathered dust, but was comforting for its familiar presence. He did not open it again.

And now the pendant swung from Brooke’s neck.

“It must be worth a fortune!” Tempest enthused, admiring the piece. “I’ve only seen one like it – it was a piece of Zuriyev’s mother’s. Hers was carved by Juandivre – yours must have been too – look at the spiraling of the mane, the leaves woven into the pattern of the coat – unmistakably his signatures.”

Brooke clutched at it self-consciously, but smiled. “I’m not sure where I got it. I don’t remember. But I found it among my things the other day and – don’t think I’m ridiculous – but it makes me feel- safe.”

“It’s very lovely,” Tempest said. She twisted the engagement ring on her finger. “Things that make you feel safe – they’re rare. Cling to them.”

Tempest was quiet, otherwise, suspicion-less. Her part-Betazoid perceptions had warned her of no subterfuge; in fact, for the first time since Brooke’s return to the Atlantis, she felt simple, unadulterated good will from the Commander. Still, no large part of her would have been surprised by the sight of the polished wood jewelry box, layered with dust, boasting an undisturbed, empty top drawer. How many Irish spirited horses could Juandivre have captured in silver in one Russian summer?