Jacob shook his head, then seemed to reconsider the question. “Well, sure, there are ruins. Mostly temples or public buildings like the Parthenon or the Colosseum in Rome. I’m sorry—I know you don’t know what these places are—but they’re a few thousand years old at most and many of them aren’t much better than piles of rubble compared with this place. There have been a lot of wars on Earth and, compared with you, we only recently learned the value of preserving the past.” He took a step backward, as if one more step would give him the perspective he needed, then stood transfixed by the edifice before him.
The site—the archeologists called it Yyn—was open to the public only a few days every year, but despite this fact attendance was sparse so early in the morning. Rena assured him that within a few hours the place would be packed with tourists, making it more than worth their time to visit early, though they hadn’t been able to convince Parsh and Halar to leave their beds and join them.
Yesterday’s ten-kilometer hike to the site had flown by—much sharing of personal stories, discussion about Jacob’s new project reworking old Bajoran legends into modern contexts, Halar’s religious studies, and Parsh’s confession that after university he hoped to open an inn on the coast near Mylea. Kail—or his absence from this trip—hadn’t been discussed, thank the Prophets. To placate Halar’s curiosity, Jacob had gamely offered insights into Benjamin Sisko and had appeared amused at her gleeful reception of each tidbit. She had been amazed at how little she seemed to know about her friends. Having shared their growing-up years together had presumably created deep connections between them, though Rena wondered, perhaps, if she had assumed much where she had truly only seen the surface. Only Jacob’s presence could explain these new insights. He had a steady, kind way about him that allowed people to feel comfortable peeling away their layers to reveal themselves. Take Parsh, for example, who had been the pale, skinny boy who had a crush on her as long as she could remember. Listening to him articulate his future plans to Jacob, she sensed a passion and depth in Parsh she didn’t know existed.
Now, though, watching Jacob’s face as he studied the cliff face, she wondered what he saw. Did he see rock with faces carved into it or stories coming to life or history? Could he coax them into revealing their secrets the way he had with Parsh? And yes, she had to confess, even her.
Though she had lived within a day’s travel of Yyn, had heard about the place her entire life, she had never taken the time to come here. Now, though, seeing it through this foreigner’s eyes, she began to wonder why. In and around the low buildings, narrow pillars, and roped-off sections of engraved paving stones walked small groups of tourists, including one or two families, but mostly pairs like her and Jacob, though few were studying the carved wall as intently as her friend. As was usually the case, most of the other tourists were either dividing their attention between reference padds or listening to interactive tour guides through small earplugs as they slowly ambled along.
The cliff they stood before was over fifty meters high, and despite the stone’s age and proximity to the sea, the carvings were remarkably unweathered. Perhaps it was some secret of the carver’s art that Rena did not know, but the expressions on the faces of the twenty or twenty-five tall, narrow individuals were as distinctive as those on the men and women who wandered through the ruins at the cliff’s foot. One—the woman whose feet they stood at—was obviously a pretty but vain young maiden, and another, the slumped figure to her right, was clearly an avaricious merchant who saw none of the wonders around him, not even the pretty maiden. Rena wondered if the artists who had created these works had modeled these characters after individuals, men and women of their acquaintance, or if they were all conjured up out of someone’s imagination. There could be no denying that the design of all the figures had been the result of a single guiding individual; though each face was different, they were all the product of one remarkable mind with a compelling vision.
“Do you have anything like this on Earth?”
“I don’t think so,” Jacob said. “I’ve heard of large relief sculptures carved into cliff walls, though I can’t claim to have seen them with my own eyes, but something like this right in the middle of a town? This was supposed to have been the town center, right?”
“Right.”
“Then, no, never anything like this.” He inhaled deeply, then let the breath out slowly. When he was finished, his eyes shined brightly. “Does anyone know who did it? Does it have religious significance?”
“Culturally, Yyn is primarily known for the Legend of Astur, the pageant we’ll see later. But there’s probably some religious meaning too that’s been lost over time.”
“And Bajor was aware of the Prophets this far back?”
“Sure,” Rena said. Recalling her readings from art history, she said, “One theory is that the artists wanted to create something that the Prophets could see from their home in the Celestial Temple.”
Jacob smiled, but he didn’t take his eyes off the carvings. As they talked, he continued to step backward, to try to take in the whole work. “Well, that’s one argument for working on a large scale.”
“Yes. The other theory is that these are the Prophets.”
This made Jacob look at her. “Really? That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of anyone on Bajor attempting to personalize them. I mean, on Earth most gods and goddesses have some kind of form. Not all of them, mind you. I can think of at least one religion where the believers are prohibited from attempting to visualize the primary god, but for most of the others there’s some generally acknowledged avatar. But I can’t remember ever seeing a depiction of the Prophets.”
“I don’t know of any others,” Rena said. “It kind of makes you wonder, though. Look at those faces: it’s like every one of them was someone the artists were intimately familiar with, like they were people who lived here. Why would someone decide that the Prophets looked like someone who lived down the street?”
Rena looked over at Jacob and saw that though he was still staring at the cliff face, he was no longer really seeing what was before his eyes. “I can’t imagine,” he said softly. Then he seemed to sense her gaze and looked over at her and smiled. “Maybe the Prophets came down to meet the artist and she said, ‘Hey, you look just like my cousin Fila.’ ”
“You think the artist was a woman?”
“Is there any reason why that couldn’t be?”
“None that I know,” Rena said. “Which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to show you.” Slipping her backpack off her shoulders, she unlaced the flap and rooted around inside for her new drawing pad. Flipping open its cover, she held up the sketch, a charcoal and pastel piece.
“Topa’s memorial,” Jake said. “It’s beautiful.”
Rena watched as his eyes took in the drawing. “I couldn’t sleep last night so I stayed up and worked.”
“Is this the final draft?”
“I think so. Putting aside all the baggage of what I thought I should do, I tried to remember how I saw Topa. I mean, I knowall the facts, and I think creatively, I was stumbling over them.”
“I’m impressed.” And she could tell from his voice that he was not delivering an idle compliment. Leaning in closer to study the drawing more carefully in the morning light, Jacob reached out, but stopped a millimeter short of touching the page, then traced the outline of the arch, studied the runes and pictographs Rena had incorporated into this latest design. “Will you explain it to me?”
They found a bench across from the stone faces. Jacob kept the notebook on his lap while Rena explained the drawing to him. “I’m working in a few gemstones that are native to Mylea,” she began. “Then I chose the style of runes used here at Yyn.” Pointing to a row of writing, Rena said, “The text reads, ‘I know the light is there. When it finally breaks through the mist, I will be ready.’ ” And then she explained her memories of Topa from when she was a little girl, of how he would stand in the street and wait for the sun. “It isn’t dramatic. No recitations of his exploits in the resistance. But to me, this is Topa. I hope it’s enough.”