PART SEVEN: TO THE DEEPEST SPRINGS OF LIFE
"The creative process, so far as we are able to follow it at all, consists in the unconscious activation of an archetypal image and elaborating and shaping the image into the finished work. By giving it shape, the artist translates it into the language of the present and so makes it possible for us to find our way back to the deepest springs of life."
- Carl Jung
"Are you coming?" Kathryn asked Ethan as he lifted the cello and carried it inside where it had its place in the corner, just in front of the French window.
He had been sunk in Bach's Cello Sonata, and after the last notes had drifted away, he had stared into the distance, as if there were no trees to block his view. Ethan never spoke while he exalted the most beautiful notes to heaven. Naturally, years of being alone up here in the mountains had left him with no one whom he could talk to, anyway. But she'd sensed early on that he never liked being disturbed. A frown would mar his already lined face the moment her footsteps hit the deck. Lately, the frown would change and she'd be graced, as an apology, by a glimmer of a smile. She heard him early in the morning when she opened her eyes and in the late afternoon.
Now she was in a hurry to get moving.
"Ethan…"
Ethan looked up.
"You're in a hurry, Admiral Janeway. Too eager to get away from Beaver's Lodge."
"I'll shall have you know that I love Beaver's Lodge. Maybe I'm in a hurry to return here."
"Now that warms my aching heart," he countered, and his smile lit up a face that was sometimes bland, cynical.
She had her duffel packed, intending to travel light back to Indiana. She hadn't seen her home in a month and it was time she dusted the furniture, collected some of her own books, got her vid-com, her paints. Ethan had wanted to see her home and she had happily invited him along. Now it seemed he was dragging his feet.
"Come along, then," she coaxed. "Your shuttle awaits."
He stood still. The stand with its sheet music, the cello, the man standing next to the instrument gave her a sense of the completeness that was Ethan Bellamy. She could no longer be embarrassed in his presence. He had seen her at her absolute worst and most vulnerable. For some reason, perhaps an instinctive awareness that she could trust him, she was glad he was the one who had found her. Now, after six weeks, she had healed physically and the total debilitation had gone, thanks to his ministrations. They had sailed on Deer Lake, scaled the cliffs twice, walked halfway up the mountain until she became too tired and they rested before making their way down again. There had been a few nights when she struggled with her demons and she'd wake to find him holding her hand, his voice soothing. His face had become a familiarity she looked forward to when waking up in the morning, or whenever she sat reading and looked up at him. His white hair was more silver than white and it gave him a different kind of attractiveness. His face appeared weathered, gaunt, but that was just a façade, because he was in such excellent physical condition. Who wouldn't be, living in this part of Oregon, so close to the mountains?
She enjoyed Beaver's Lodge. She enjoyed his company. They had spent evenings discussing literary masters, their works, or his own Songs of a Wayfarer, and the merits of that work as a debut novel. She listened to his music. She wrote short poems, mostly about her mother who had died before she could see her daughter return. There were so many things, so many, many things that had plagued her on top of the harsh debriefings, the even harsher court-martial. Gradually she was beginning to find her centre, beginning to ease the demons from her mind. She was finally beginning to see things in perspective and the terrible torment of her mind was silently receding. Ethan had done much in her rehabilitation.
"Are you going to keep staring at me?"
She shook her head, picked up her duffel and quickly moved to the back of the cabin. She heard his hurried footsteps behind her and smiled to herself. From the moment she was able to move around more comfortably, there was no stopping her and she had visited every inch of the cabin and its surrounds available to her. Every inch except his bedroom on the upper level. A short flight of stairs leading from the small passage off the door of her own bedroom rose to the upper level, but though she had been curious, she respected his privacy.
Ethan was piloting and she was glad because it gave her time to reflect on the six weeks she had been in his home. When they took off, he glanced at her and grinned as he touched her cheek lightly. Then he concentrated on the controls, not looking at her again. He too, was pondering on something. He had been quiet the last two days and she had wondered if it was because she was ready to leave.
"I'd like to come back and visit again, Ethan," she said softly, watching how the strained lines became a little softer at her words.
"Good."
With that response she had to be satisfied. Not a man of many words, she'd learned. His reclusive lifestyle was exactly that because he avoided the human race, she thought without rancour. She didn't know more about him than she had told him the day she discovered he was the famous writer, Henry F. Marchand. Again, out of respect for his privacy, she hadn't made any further investigations into his life. When he promised that he'd tell her one day, she took comfort that it came as a promise, a commitment that he would share that part of his life with her.
They were returning later that evening to Beaver's Lodge. She still had another month of her enforced leave of absence and she could take an extra month after that if she felt she needed more time. After that, she would leave Beaver's Lodge forever.
If she chose.
Sighing deeply, she settled back in her seat, content to let Ethan take the conn.
Kathryn remembered very little about the first days after she arrived on his property. She had entered a deep, dark world that imprisoned her and kept her mind in a state of silent sorrow. Everything - the debriefings, the trials, her own sense of loss and betrayal - everything became a haze, a misty world in which she moved like an automaton. She hadn't known in what a bad state she was until she tried to open her eyes, to respond to a concerned voice that called her name.
A voice - Ethan's voice.
One of her last, misty recollections had been kneeling by her mother's grave, then prostrating herself over it. Then her world finally collapsed about her. The darkness had begun to swallow her when she went up in her shuttle and only an instinctive reaction, honed by her long years on Voyager, kept her from plunging with the shuttle over the cliff. Ethan had taken her later to show her just where he found the shuttle. By his description, the craft must have teetered on the edge of the cliff. It shocked her that she had been that self-destructive. Though, when she broached this to him, he had been firm that she was beyond herself and had never been set set on destroying herself. It had taken many conversations until late into the night to convince her that what happened to her, could happen to the strongest of men and women. She still had to accept that, because here was still too much disbelief within herself that she could have foundered like that.
She had almost gone mad. She shook her head slightly to dispel those horrid images.
"You're okay?" she heard Ethan's voice.
"Yes. Yes, I am."
"I'm glad."
"Thank you..."
"Another fifteen minutes and we're there."
Ethan was a man of opposites. She was pulled back from the abyss by his voice, a deep voice that coaxed, that breathed life into the words he read to her. On the other hand he was sometimes grim, not given to communicate, and then she left him alone. He'd play his cello until he got tired, then went to bed, just giving her a cursory goodnight.
When she lay in her bed, she thought of Chakotay often and wondered what they were doing now, how they were progressing with the reconstruction of Dorvan V. When she became fully aware again, thoughts of him had begun to take over. She missed him, missed their easy camaraderie that they'd had on Voyager, missed not having him beside her.
She wondered often in the last weeks whether she had made a mistake, but then she berated herself. Chakotay had fallen for Seven of Nine, perhaps much against his instincts, feelings that would have surprised him totally. Had she married him, he would not have been happy. Content, maybe, but happy? She had accused him of not understanding her. At the time, she had formed those ideas solely on the basis of her knowledge of him and the nature of their great friendship. She had, in the days following his declaration of his love for Annika Hansen, often wondered whether her summation of how he felt towards her, or how he understood her, had been a mistake on her part.
Now, having met Ethan, she knew that she had been right in turning Chakotay down, however much it pained her to do so. Ethan had homed in on what made her vulnerable, on what had been her deepest fears, without much trouble and, she supposed, with a natural insight, one honed by his writing, his acute and deep observation of people and their motives.
But she still missed Chakotay, missed him like her very breath. She gave a deep sigh as she felt Ethan's hand on her arm.
"You miss him..." he said, a gruffness in his voice.
"Life goes on, Ethan."
"Yes," he agreed, "life goes on."
****************
In the small alcove just off the dining room where she kept her vid-com, Kathryn stared at Chakotay's face. He beamed and she thought how she had never seen him look like that.
"In a month's time?" he asked.
"Only then I'll be able to get away. But I'm looking forward to seeing you and Seven of Nine. How is she holding up?"
"Very well, I must say. Dorvan wants her to remain here to oversee all other technical advancements in the areas of planetary security grids. We're preparing better this time, Kathryn."
"I'm very happy for you. Seems then I'll have to give Voyager to another captain..."
"You're a hard act to follow, Kathryn."
"Well, I'm not so sure about that. But Voyager is yours, if you're interested..."
Her voice trailed. Her heartbeats increased. Chakotay would be nearer then, and under her direct command again. That way she could... She shook her head mentally, dispelling the illicit thoughts that crept into her mind. For a moment, Seven of Nine didn't exist.
"Let's put that on the backburner for a while, Admiral," Chakotay said, his smile breaking the frostiness of the moment.
"Does that mean you're willing to take command of a Federation vessel in the future?"
"Seems like it - "
"Kathryn, there's something you must see," Ethan's voice rang behind her.
She didn't look back, but Chakotay frowned heavily.
"Is there someone with you, Kathryn?" he asked quietly, the smile leaving his face.
"Ethan Bellamy, a former Starfleet officer."
"You're friends?"
"Why not?" she asked quietly, the sudden change in Chakotay's demeanour a little disconcerting.
"I contacted Headquarters two weeks ago when I couldn't hail you on your vid-com, Kathryn. Admiral Paris said you're on vacation and not to be disturbed."
"Yes. I'm taking a well-earned break."
"And this Ethan? You met him on your vacation? You were with him?"
Kathryn thought how she'd heard Ethan's voice through the thick mists; how she had sunk deeper and deeper into the abyss of darkness and how Ethan pulled her back from the shadows of her tormented mind. She thought how, if he hadn't found her, she would surely have died. She thought how completely helpless she had been and how he'd fed her, bathed her, brushed her hair, her teeth, how he dressed her in warm pyjamas and how he ignored her cries of embarrassment. She thought how she'd fought him, locking the bathroom door and only coming out when the feelings of humiliation and shame had to take second place to sheer necessity of her survival. She thought how he'd read to her chapters from Warrior Mine when his voice was the only thing she could cling to that kept her connected to her reality. She thought how he'd sat with her through the night and how, when she opened her eyes on the third morning, found him sleeping, his head resting against the bed, her hand still held in his.
Of course she was with Ethan.
"I met him on vacation," she replied finally, lightly.
"He is with you now, Kathryn?" The question was redundant but she knew he wanted confirmation, as if he couldn't believe that she could have other male friends.
"Chakotay..."
"Okay, okay," he said, the rejoinder a little too hasty. "I'm just...surprised, that's all."
She wasn't going to justify her friendship, whatever the tone and colour of it, to Chakotay. But the crestfallen look on his face was enough to make her heart swell to sudden heat again and a great welling of love overcame her.
"Don't worry, so, my friend. Now, I'll see you in about six weeks..."
"Thank you. We can't wait for your arrival..."
When Chakotay's face was replaced by the Federation insignia, Kathryn gave a deep sigh and covered her face with hands that trembled.
"So that was your Chakotay."
She rocked up, swivelling the chair to face him. Ethan stood about three metres away from her but his eyes were inscrutable.
"Yes, that was Chakotay."
"A married man."
"Yes."
"Who lives on Dorvan."
"Yes."
"And in six weeks you're going to visit him."
"Of course. We're friends, Ethan. I promised them before the debriefings ended."
"Sure. You're friends," he said dismissively.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Kathryn, you happened on my doorstep and I helped you. That's all. Your life is your life."
She rose from the chair and walked up to him. Although he wasn't as tall as Chakotay or Tom, she still had to stand on tiptoe to reach up and leave an imprint of her lips on his cheek. Ethan touched the spot she had just kissed.
"Ethan, let this part of my life die a natural death," she said softly, her voice pleading with him.
"However long it takes?"
A lump formed in her throat and her eyes felt moist. She could only nod as she took his hand and led him up the stairs to Phoebe's studio. She had mentioned in passing that she painted for relaxation and fun, nothing earth-shattering, and he had expressed a desire to see what she had done.
The room was airy, with maximum light streaming in from the great window that covered almost the entire wall. She stepped inside, with Ethan just behind her, and then stood stock still. She gasped. Her easel stood near the window, but the palette and paints and brushes lay strewn around the room, like someone had gone mad. It was the work of a madman, the destruction that could only have been the result of a deranged individual.
She had no recollection of painting in this room, yet she knew that she had done what was on display. On the easel was a painting and two were stacked against the wall. She had a vague, very vague memory of a person in this room flailing about, her movements jerky, tormented. Shadows mainly, shadows without any discernable delineation that swept the canvas.
Ethan had moved past her and lifted a painting that stood against the wall, then walking to the easel, removed the one on there and place the one he picked up gently on the stand. Then he stood away and studied the painting.
"This is the first one you did, Kathryn. The one I took off here was the last and that one over there, you painted second."
"Now you know," she said, her voice sounding emotionless.
"What am I supposed to know? That Kathryn painted three canvases in a given order? No, it's not that easy, though the way they were stacked might have helped in making a decision about their order."
"It's nothing earth-shattering - "
"So you keep telling me, Janeway."
"Now, it's Janeway."
"Fine then: Kathryn. So you keep telling me."
"Phoebe, my sister... She is gifted."
"I know. Saw her work at an exhibition in Paris three years ago. She is truly gifted."
"So why the interest in mine, Ethan?"
Ethan turned away from the painting and walked slowly back to her.
"I don't think you ever had the chance to look properly at your work. I understand you were not yourself and on the point of a nervous collapse. You don't remember much of what you did here, do you?"
She shook her head, too mute to answer him, not wanting to look him in the eyes. Why, oh, why did she admit him to her own little sanctuary?
Eyes green like pines. That's what she called the colour back at Beaver's Lodge. Fingers pressed under her chin and urged her to look up at him. She was shocked at the sharp glint of the green. Piercing, unnatural, she was forced to look.
"It's nothing, Ethan."
The fingers released her chin and he turned away from her, this time pulling her along to stand in front of the painting.
"This one, Kathryn, you aptly named Stranger in a strange land..."
"I - I didn't give the painting a title..."
"No, but it's uncanny. You thought about naming it like that. It's so full of darkness, so much torment, that it's hard to look at it really intently and see what there is under the black and grey shades. Now, it's very three-dimensional. Look, cross-eyed, if you must, but pull your gaze back and pretend you're looking at a blurred image."
She tried and tried and finally, her eye-sockets aching, the image lifted, rising from the depths of the deep right into her conscious. Chakotay, staring straight at her, his eyes dark and brooding.
"I - I don't know what to say. I never meant for this to come out like it did."
"An artist is rarely prepared for the stunning results of his product, Kathryn. Shocking, isn't it? What was it I said downstairs about Chakotay?"
She closed her eyes and felt the prick of tears again.
"However long it takes..."
"The man is embedded in your deepest sorrow. If you ever want to purge him, not as the friend, but the lover he used to be, I can't take you down that road, Kathryn."
"Ethan, I can't help what I feel..."
"I had a wife once and I stopped loving her, Kathryn. Believe me, I have yet to free myself of the guilt of losing her. I know you can't help what you feel. Look at the painting... He's there, as clear as the spirits in the skies. Even the lines of his tattoo are clear, if you know how to look..."
"Let's go, please. This is killing me, Ethan."
"Don’t you understand, Kathryn, that this was the beginning of the process of your grieving? Look at the second painting and the third. There's progression. The shades have gone from black and dark tones and there's more light, just a sliver... I believe that in those moments, you experienced clarity, of your path forward. This is how you will express yourself and how you will see that you have grown and one day, maybe, you can tell me all of it was part of the process of closure."
She couldn't speak again and felt herself pulled against his chest, a comfort, a welcome home against which she had rested many times in the last month. Chakotay was still so much part of her... And Ethan had shown her just how much. Ethan, who had just told her something of his past life. Whatever the trauma he suffered, it had ended with him being assimilated and the doctors of Starfleet Medical successfully severing him from the Borg Collective and restoring him to humanity again. But with it must have come all the memories and the pain of reliving his past.
While her head accepted Chakotay and Seven as a happily married couple, her heart wanted him, even if only for a moment. There was an awful reality somewhere, and going to Dorvan V might reveal that truth for her, an irrevocable acceptance that they would never have been happy together. Contented, yes. But happy? She knew Chakotay would have missed seeing what Ethan saw in her paintings. If truth be told, she had missed those things too, but Ethan was right. The viewer often saw something the artist never intended, that just happened to be there in the absolute correct context, time and tone. It took someone like Ethan Bellamy to see into her heart.
It scared her and it thrilled her. Ethan held her gently away from him. In his eyes was only empathy, a great deal of caring. In his eyes, there was the knowledge that she had not healed completely, that she still needed more time, and the affirmation of his support for her. Like a drowning sailor she held on to him, her lifeline.
"Ethan...help me, please..."
"Come, Kathryn," he said, "come home with me..."
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END PART SEVEN