Althaea... Rose of Sharon, flower that could exist in harsh conditions. Entirely from memory, Chakotay sculpted the deep red bloom with its yellow stamens, soft green sepals and stem. If he just breathed close to the sculpture, it seemed as if the petals trembled in the breeze. He was satisfied with his work, glad that it was finished, for he already had another idea for a small flower head that consisted of ten individual purplish-blue flowers.

It was quiet, for evening had begun. The caverns were bathed in a soft orange-yellow glow. He was tired, having almost passed out twice during the day thinking of Kathryn; now he wanted to speak with some of the men who had become unconscious this afternoon. One of them was Kraf. He could understand that Kraf would succumb. The Naïdan was already an old man who missed his wife and children and grandchildren. Kraf and the others needed his counsel; to them he was their leader, their Maestro. He could talk with them and they'd find the strength to carry on another day, even brave Mirah's torture

During the night, Mirah vanished as stealthily as she appeared during the day. The central control room was some distance away from them, with invisible threads that tripped the security systems the second they came to within a metre of it. They had tried many times to breach the security, with no luck. Most evenings, the artists suffered from residual pain caused by the enhancers, and it took a while before the pain left them completely. The steel devices couldn't be removed. The very contemplation of that action, and the touch of fingers on the cold steel caused excruciating pain.

Chakotay took one last look at the Althaea before he walked to his sleeping quarters to shower and get ready for bed. He was in no mood for the entertainment Mirah offered during the evenings for them. He remembered Ocampa, and how the Ocampans could look at images on a giant viewscreen that were soothing, winding-down images. Here Mirah had produced something similar and some evenings, when he couldn't sleep, he would sit in the large room and view the images of clouds, sunsets, trees.

They had no reading material. He had not read anything in three years or listened to any music either. Little bits of poetry came to him, but he couldn't pen a single line, as he always told Kathryn. Only one poem he'd committed to memory. Soon after he married Kathryn, he had searched the database for a poem that he liked and that suited him. He remembered those words as clearly as if they were written on his brain...

It was always dear to me, this solitary hill,

and this hedgerow here, that closes out my view,

from so much of the ultimate horizon.

But sitting here, and watching here, in thought,

I create interminable spaces,

greater than human silences, and deepest

quiet, where the heart barely fails to terrify.

When I hear the wind, blowing among these leaves,

I go on to compare that infinite silence

with this voice, and I remember the eternal

and the dead seasons, and the living present,

and its sound, so that in this immensity

my thoughts are drowned, and shipwreck seems sweet

to me in this sea.

They were isolated inside the mountain, closed off from the rest of the universe. Sometimes, he felt stifled by the claustrophobic atmosphere. Then on some nights, he would recite the words of the poem, or think about the words. It was always true, the thought came to him. No matter where he found himself, he could create the interminable spaces the poet spoke of. Then he could hear the wind, or hear the noise of the great oceans, the sound of rain. He could stand on Vulcan and admire its beautiful sunsets, or watch the lava flow of Kronos's underground caverns.

He sighed. He was not a poet, but admired the works of others. He was already imbued with the enhanced gift of creating the most beautiful flowers. Lately, he had tried to make a shebre, and although it was good, the late Raël was the real master.

He stopped abruptly as he reached the entrance to his small abode. A man sat on one of the stools, his stance one of dejection. He was also clutching the sides of his head.

"Kraf, what are you doing here?" Chakotay asked as he entered his cavern.

"I wish to talk with you, Maestro. I cannot endure it any longer. I have no strength..."

Kraf had been sitting in semi-dark and when Chakotay pressed a panel, the entire cave, partitioned into two rooms, lit up. Only now could he  see the wildness in Kraf's eyes, the perspiration, the trembling hands, the sign of extreme pain.

"It is only your residual pain now. It will ease off in an hour..." he replied, as he pulled up a stool and seated himself opposite Kraf.

"I know that, Maestro..."

"You are much older, Kraf. Do not call me Maestro." Chakotay smiled as he said the words, reaching to hold Kraf's hands.

"That may be so. But without you, many would have died. We recognise your leadership, Maestro."

"But...Maestro?"

"Ah, that is because you are the highest of the high here. Do not take away from any of your own abilities, or speak so little of them."

Chakotay felt chastised by Kraf's words, but he did not resent it. He had thought many times how Kathryn also encouraged him, even when he felt he couldn't ever be good at what he was doing. She always said that no person who could draw, or paint, or make music, should demean what they had.

"I understand, Kraf. Now, you wished to speak with me..."

Kraf looked really ill. Chakotay sensed what Kraf would say. This afternoon he had stayed with the Naïdan an hour after he had regained consciousness. Kraf had been distraught and Chakotay had tried to control his anger, for Mirah had just watched them and curled her lips in derision. He remembered thinking that Mirah was up to something. Kraf pulled his hands away and began wringing them. His knuckles were knotted; the kind of stonework Kraf he was doing became increasingly demanding. Chakotay, his anger abating as his concern for Kraf grew, waited for the old man to speak.

"My life is nearing its ending, Maestro," he began. "I do not know how much longer I will be able to come back every time I have lost consciousness... My body is weakening..."

"Kraf, what are you saying? No one has been ill all this time, except for the - "

"Yes, I know that. But I feel it here..." Kraf pointed to his chest. "I have not much time left. I wish to be buried on my homeworld - "

"Listen to me. One day, we will be rescued. I am convinced of that."

"H-how?" Kraf asked, his eyes a little more alive than they had been when Chakotay had come in. Chakotay cursed inwardly. So little was needed to let hope flare. "Do you know of some way?"

"One who died - "

"Raël of Megiddo..."

"Yes," replied Chakotay, unable to keep himself from smiling at Kraf's designation for young Raël. It sounded like Periander of Corinth, Simon of Cyrene, Anne of Cleves... "Yes...Raël of Megiddo. He had been punished severely. He missed his parents too much for he loved them beyond his life. You know the many times he defied Empress Mirah..."

"What about Raël, then?" asked Kraf.

"When he died, I was the only one allowed by his bedside, do you remember?"

"Yes, I remember. Empress Mirah allowed no one else near the sick man."

"I smuggled out one of my pieces, sewn into Raël's body..."

"Maestro?"

"I am sorry that I did not tell you of this sooner. It was best not to tell anyone, for not knowing was also a way in which I protected you all. Do you understand that, Kraf?"

"Yes...yes, I...understand, Maestro. I do not wish to know how you managed to get it past Mirah. But now I feel weak. My body will be - "

"You will not die, Kraf. Listen to me. I entered flaws - messages - on my stone flower, hoping that it would lead to my homeworld or people from my homeworld. They will come..." Kraf's eyes widened at his words and he stared open-mouthed at Chakotay. Chakotay frowned. Kraf was extraordinarily surprised at his revelation. "Why, are you surprised that I could smuggle a stone flower out of here?"

"You deliberately flawed your stone flower?"

He had surmised wrong... Chakotay shook his head and smiled.

"Didn't I once say that an insignificant little flaw can increase the value of a sculpture?"

Chakotay thought how paradoxical it sounded. Never was a stone flower or anything that he created as important as the one he'd smuggled out of the caves. The words that had come to him in those days... It felt as if a higher power had put them in his heart and mind, that confident fingers could relay the poetic beauty of them. Even if he wanted to write a straight message, it was not to be. Something had taken hold of him... In the end, he could not even remember what he had written, except that he knew it was a distress signal and that eventually, it would be discovered.

He didn’t want to tell Kraf that he had already been declared dead, or missing in action, presumed dead by the Federation. It was a procedure that was followed. He had been gone three years. Some of the inmates had been in the mountain for longer than that. He prayed that his stone flower, flawed in its flawlessness, would reach Kathryn. If no one else could find him, she would. Chakotay closed his eyes briefly. His flower had gone out almost two years ago... If someone didn't come, they'd be here forever in an eternal cycle of creation with no one to see them or their work; Kraf would be dead by then...

He hoped. He felt it in his bones. They would come. Mirah's prisoners would be rescued.

"They will rescue us? I will then be able to go home? See my children and all my grandchildren?"

Chakotay bit his lower lip to stifle the angry expletive at Mirah's treatment of them. Kraf's resurging hope was so palpable, so infectious, so easy to destroy. All he wanted was to be back with his family again. Chakotay thought how no one could know where they were, even if their families searched high and low. They would never find this place.  All of them had been transported, whisked to this mountain the same way the Caretaker had done with the crew of Voyager and the Liberty. 

"Kraf, you will survive this. Bear with me, hope with me. I know it is very difficult during the day. I will be near you whenever you fall."

Kraf smiled for the first time. The last vestiges of residual pain had gone. His eyes were clear now, a little more alive.

"Maestro! You are truly great. I live in the hope that I’ll see my people again one day."

Chakotay nodded. He felt humbled by Kraf's faith in him. He was pensive as he watched Kraf leave.  Their time here had taught him many things. Family ties were of paramount importance to all the prisoners. None of them had stopped longing to see their people again. That was clear by the number of craftsmen who lost consciousness as a result of the intense pain, on an almost daily basis. He himself had given in a few times.

He drew in his breath and expelled it slowly. Something had to happen, and soon. Kraf was nearing the end of his endurance, and one or two of the older women were also showing signs of breaking.

"Kathryn... I'm waiting for you..." he whispered to himself, as he turned  and walked into his abode. In his bedroom against the wall, he had made a drawing of Kathryn. He didn't think it looked like Kathryn, but it was good enough. As long as he thought of the face in the drawing as Kathryn, he could talk to her, even touch her. He touched the drawing reverently.

"I know you'll come..."

***

It was early morning in the Mountain of the Caves, as Chakotay and the rest of the prisoners had come to call it. Most were already busy at their work stations. He had gone to Kraf and made sure the old man was settled in. A short session, in which he trained Kraf to channel his thoughts away from home and family, had left the Naïdan looking well, with clear eyes.

Back at his own station, he studied the Althaea again, contemplating whether he should make any changes. He touched a petal gently, careful not to cause breakage. It was fragile, at odds with the fact that it was such a hardy flower that could survive adverse conditions. It was Tuvok who had told him it was called the Rose of Sharon.

"But it's commonly called a hibiscus," he remembered the Vulcan's words.

"Hibiscus? But that has the appearance of an orchid."

"You may be forgiven for thinking that," the Vulcan had replied, "but no, an orchid it is not. This is an Althaea, or 'The Rose of Sharon'."

Tuvok studied and cultivated orchids. He would know. It was that conversation that inspired the

creation of the Althaea. Now, the flower was completed and he had chosen a petrified wood vase. The vase shone darkly, almost black and Chakotay made a little sound of satisfaction. This was good, but not better than the first peace rose he'd smuggled out of the caves. He gave a wry smile. That would always be his standard.

"You are thinking that you could not better your first stone flower," the voice of Empress Mirah intruded on his thoughts. He sighed.

"Yes, that will always be the benchmark for everything I've done after that," he said without looking at her.

"Your flower trembles in the breeze..."

"I strive for perfection, Empress."

Only then he looked up. She was tall, her skin tone almost the same as his. Her eyes glowed dark green. Her headgear, resembling something queenly, looked like the traditional headgear of ancient oriental women. She was extremely slender and the long gown she wore was tied at the waist by an ornate gold cord with tassels at the ends. Funny how he thought of the gown as ancient Greek. Along the bottom edge was a design that appeared familiar. On all her fingers she wore ornate rings. She pointed a finger at him.

His heart sank. He was about to be accused of something. He had seen her gesture like that at many of the others, who subsequently fell to the ground and writhed in pain.

"Perfection, Danila?"

"My name is Chakotay," he emphasized. Where, he wondered, did she get the name of Danila?

"Chakotay, then. Your stone flower...the first one you smuggled out of my kingdom, was flawed."

He drew in his breath sharply, turning cold at her words. Mirah knew about the sculpture. The one he had made secretly hadn't thrown her off the scent. He should have known he couldn't get away with it.

"Then I am not so perfect after all."

"Why did you use Raël, Chakotay? Did you think that I would not know?"

"Forgive me, Empress. I wished to send something for his grieving family."

"Then you would have sent them a shebre. You do not fool me. You sent a message, or you hoped that your sculpture itself would be a sign..."

Chakotay rose to his feet and faced Mirah. Already, he could feel the soft whirr of pain lances in his head. Why Mirah only confronted him with it now, or let him harbour the illusion that he had successfully foiled her, he couldn't understand. Was he right last night when he thought that Mirah was up to something?

"I can assure you - "

"What was the message you sent, Chakotay?"  Mirah's voice became soft and steely, her eyes turning from green to yellow. They bore into his brain. He sagged to his chair, using his hands to stabilise himself. He refused to cry out.

"I know nothing of a message. I tell you that I don't know."

"You do not know, or you do not remember?" Another blink of her eye, and it felt as if something exploded inside his head. He couldn't understand Mirah's vindictiveness this morning. She had never tortured him directly like he had seen her do with some of the others. He was appointed by her to keep a watchful eye over the others, to counsel where necessary. Why was she targeting him suddenly? Another spear of her eyes and this time he cried out in agony. "Do you remember a message?"

Then the pain stopped abruptly. He looked at her with dazed eyes.

"I don't remember, I swear. Do you hear me!" He couldn't remember. What he'd wanted to write in his message was something else - his own, plain, unvarnished words. But he had been overtaken by a power that he couldn't, for the life him, describe. It was a feeling of being filled with heaven for a fleeting moment, and that moment had been so fleeting that it was gone before he could harness it. No, the exact words he engraved into his stone flower were lost from his memory.

Another probing spear, and the world started spinning as the pain boiled inside his head. He sank to his knees, groaning. The enhancer whirred incessantly. Then it stopped again suddenly. He was pulled to his feet. On the fringes of his consciousness he could hear the other artists' voices, moving in their direction. Mirah stood about a metre away from him, her arm outstretched, the pointing finger about to poke his eye out.

"You do not know," she said accusingly.

"I told you I don't know!" he bit out. He wanted to add "witch", but knew another salvo of pain would cripple him. "What did you think, Empress Mirah?"

"I wanted to establish that you did not know the contents of the message you engraved into your stone flower. How you could not know that, is impossible...impossible... I am the only power..."

He sighed, turning cold at her words. She knew he'd  managed to get a message out. Something was afoot. Something serious enough that Mirah would want to torture him now, two years after the incident. Why did she wait so long?

"Why? You have kept us all here against our will. You got what you wanted. Do you think any of us wanted to be here? Why, Mirah? Men and women express wishes, maybe because they are hidden desires, but not with any kind of regret about them. I have always known my worth, same as everyone here, and we have learnt to deal with our limitations. I guess you can't understand that."

"But you  have all benefited from the enhanced abilities I have given you. You have all transcended your own capabilities. All that you have dreamed of, to be the best in your field, to be the most gifted...that is now part of you. You cannot say or deny that what you have achieved here, was not to your liking or to the highest demands you have set yourself. You can see the hairs of the shebre lifting as your very breath touches it. Your own stone flowers... they have become the embodiment of all the truth and beauty that man has always deemed to be unattainable..."

"But they are false expectations, false realisations, don't you understand?  When we leave here, we leave with what we came."

It seemed Mirah was about to shoot another salvo of pain darts at him. Her eyes sparked dangerously.

"I gave you what you desired!"

"Wrong, Mirah! You kept us here to fulfil your own fantasies. You wished to see the highest expression of art and keep it to yourself, to serve your own selfish needs - "

"How dare you!" He didn't care anymore. Something exploded in his head. He sank again to the ground, but Mirah pulled him to his feet. He saw her through glazed eyes. He struggled to focus and as the pain receded, her face came into sharp relief again.

"Something's happening, Mirah. What is happening?"

Even through the pain, he didn't want to alert her to the fact that help could be on its way for them. It would give her an advantage and let her prepare for it. Mirah pushed him away from her with such force that in his weakened state, he was unable to prevent himself from falling. His head hit the table. A sharp pain and then everything went black.

*

He groaned as he came to, rubbing the back of his head. Mirah stood over him. The water that splashed him was ice-cold and he gave a sudden gasp before sputtering. Chakotay heard the others. They were in pain. The enhancers were on high red at full power. He closed his eyes again. Kraf wasn't going to make it. The two older women...

"Switch it off, Mirah..."

"No. Not until you tell me whom you called for help."

"So  help is on its way." Despite the pain, his heart lurched with a wild joy. Someone was coming...

"The entire planet is surrounded by a security grid. This mountain is protected."

He didn't want to tell her that if Kathryn Janeway was in orbit of the planet, there would be nothing that could prevent her from breaching the planet and the mountain's security. The control room would be Kathryn's target. That is, if it was Kathryn lurking outside...

"Believe me, Mirah, it's going to happen. They will breach security, whoever it is. I called no one. Whoever found the stone flower, was supposed to admire its beauty."

"Fool! You will all die now!"

Mirah turned and disappeared. Chakotay knew that the only natural power she had was telepathic, and only in so far as she could sense a person's personal desire for increased artistic creativity. And that, only when the individual was standing near any work of art. That was the one thing all the artists had in common. He sighed. It was human nature to want to be good, or better than good or to dream of a talent if he didn't have one. Talent and artistry were always admired and proficiency, the natural and instinctive ability to synchronise eye and line and movement into symmetry, was what many wished for, but most made peace with themselves. Mirah had the ability to sense that, and to empower them with more. Then, she could also transport at will those she didn't need. Like Raël...

Mirah had left them alone for the moment at least. Chakotay virtually crawled his way towards Kraf's workstation. Kraf lay on his side, writhing with pain.

"Kraf..."

"Maestro... I - am - dying..." the man gasped haltingly.

"No, Kraf. Help is on its way. Mirah cannot fool me. I know her. She is annoyed that someone or a search party has found this place. Her sensors must have picked up the presence of a vessel or vessels..."

Kraf turned his head slowly. His normally dark features were even darker, and his face appeared swollen. Chakotay's heart sank at the way Kraf clutched his chest.

"I cannot anymore..."

"Kraf, listen to me. I know who is coming to help us. Don't worry - "

"You - you...know?"

"Yes. Her name is Kathryn Janeway and she is on her way here.... Just bear the pain a little longer..."

Chakotay sighed with relief when the intensity of the enhancer lessened considerably. Mirah was probably too busy figuring out who was about to breach the planet's firewall. Kraf relaxed a little, and Chakotay helped him to his feet.

"I will try, Maestro... I will think of my mate and my children who are all waiting for me. I will endure the pain..."

Kraf touched the enhancer, then his hand slackened. Chakotay took a deep breath. His own pain had lessened too. He made his way to the next workstation. Amrah lay on the floor. He always thought she looked Cardassian.

"How are you doing?" he asked as he lifted her to her feet. She gave a little moan before sitting down on her chair. She worked in a medium using a form of clay, endemic to her homeworld. Clay figures representing life-like images of children lined her counter.

"Do you know, Maestro," she said heavily as pain ravaged her features, "that I was never as good at making figures of children and the expressions on their faces as I am now?"

"You were always good, Amrah. You just didn't believe in yourself."

Chakotay thought of that day when it was Kathryn's birthday and of the peace rose he'd destroyed. He hadn't believed in himself either. Amrah was gifted. One face looked as if heartache emanated from the core of the clay.

"These," she pointed to three clay figures, "are my children..."

"And you shall see them soon."

"Maestro?"

"Help is on its way. I know it in my heart."

"I do not mind if I lose my abilities. It means nothing to me if I cannot see my family again. And you, Maestro?"

He was pensive for a moment, thinking about Kathryn and ignoring the heat in his brain.

"I did not have family for a long time, Amrah.  On my homeworld, everyone was murdered. I lost my whole family..."

"There was war?" Amrah asked.

"Aye. Then I met someone. She became my life. Her family became mine..."

"You miss her..."

"She is the breath of my life. For her, I will endure torture until I am dead."

*************

END PART SIX

PART SEVEN