Disclaimer: The Star Wars universe belongs to George Lucas. I merely
play with it when he's not looking.
All Our Scattered Leaves
*** *** ********* ******
Part Two:
Pain was nothing new. The old man had lived with it for most of his
life. Pain now told him that he was alive and awake. He lifted a
shaking hand to his head, feeling a matted, crusted mass where he had
been struck. He sat up slowly, noting with dull detachment how weak he
felt. He no longer commanded the same physical resilience that had
once allowed him to touch death and come back fighting.
Even so, the old man would once have made light of his weakness: once,
when his spirit was still young. Now he was the last of the old
heroes, the ones who had fought to create this bright new galaxy, and
each death had eaten a little more from his soul. The loss of his wife
had left an emptiness that even the Light could not fill. Now his
sister- his twin, the last of his blood- was also gone, and he was
alone.
Names ran through his head in a litany, people once famous throughout
the known worlds, friends who were also living, breathing legends. Now
they were merely records in the archives. The smell of blood, the
screams of the wounded, the confusion and terror of combat, the
stifling heat and bone-numbing chill of the battlefields on which
soldiers had fought: they were all nothing more now than a few lines
on a datascreen. The galaxy was looking towards the future, and it had
left him behind with the ghosts of the past.
Tiredly, the old man got to his feet. His three assailants had left
him lying at the end of the alley amongst the debris of the street,
and his clothing was now soaked and stinking. His tunic felt loose,
and when he felt at his waist he found his belt was missing. He had
been left without any ID, credits, or weapon. He was surprised at how
little he regretted their absence.
He did not know what time of day it was, only that it was daylight and
the cantina appeared to be closed. He leant on the wall at the
entrance to the alley, watching the few passers-by in the street
beyond and feeling a little light-headed. Most pedestrians who spotted
him seemed eager to avoid him. He supposed he wasn't much of a sight
to look at right then, an ageing figure with filthy clothes and matted
hair.
"Oh you poor man! What happened?"
It was a rotund, homely-looking alien who spoke, a female humanoid
with a kindly face and a worried expression.
"I was attacked," the old man replied. "Last night, when I was leaving
the cantina. I think it was last night."
The woman tut-tutted and peered at the wound on the old man's head.
"It's not safe around here after dark. Did they steal much?"
"Everything," the old man replied, somewhat muzzily. "I suppose I
should
feel grateful that they left me some clothes."
The woman wrinkled her nose, clearly not thinking much of the state of
those clothes. "You poor dear. You'd better come along with me, we'll
get you tidied up in no time." She took the old man's arm, and he did
not protest as she led him away from the alley. "I'm Mycuogulu, but
most folks call me Tanta Gulu."
"Skywalker. Master Luke Skywalker."
The woman did not give the slightest visible flicker of recognition,
although he picked up her aura of surprised and pity. She didn't
believe him, she thought he was delusional or suffering from that bump
on his head. Perhaps oddly, he found it something of a relief. Fame
had often proved a heavy burden to bear, and of late he had found
himself avoiding public appearances.
"Just call me Luke," he added on an impulse, and smiled wistfully. So
few had known him as 'just Luke'.
"Well then, Luke my dear, you come on in here and we'll see what we
can do for you."
'In here' proved to be a small but comfortable set of rooms behind an
open-fronted stall at the edge of a market square. Tanta Gulu chuckled
contentedly to herself as she mothered her guest. Luke was bathed and
fed, his wound tended and his disordered hair trimmed and tidied. His
all but unrecognisable Jedi clothes were flung into the laundry and
replaced with a set of coveralls that were not new but were at least
clean, dry and reasonably well fitting. His thanks were cheerfully
waved aside as being unnecessary.
"It's my pleasure to help, Luke, so don't you worry about it. Now, you
rest a while- that's a nasty bump you took- and then we'll see about
getting you back home."
"I'm not going home," Luke said. "I'm not needed there any more."
"What a terrible thing to say!"
"No, only the truth. I've worked hard for them, Tanta. I've put my
life into building the place and passing on what I know, and I don't
think I've done it that badly. All there is for me to do now is to sit
back and watch my students hand down the knowledge I gave to them.
I've never been the sort to sit back and do nothing." It would do as
an explanation even if it wasn't the full truth.
"You poor dear!" This seemed to be the woman's response to most
things. He sensed her flicker of doubt, as she wondered if perhaps
this was the legendary Jedi Master, then her dismissal of the idea.
"But what will you do?"
"Oh, I don't think that will be too much of a problem." Luke had no
credits, no ID, and could apparently not rely on being recognised, but
he'd been in worse situations than that. "Do you know anyone who needs
a pilot?"
******
At first it was thought that the Old Master had merely taken himself
away to meditate in private after the death of his sister. He had done
so following the death of his wife. On this occasion he had
uncharacteristically neglected to leave any information on how he
could be contacted in an emergency, but the Old Master had other ways
of knowing when he was needed.
It was only after the days of absence turned into weeks, and then more
than a month, that the Jedi began to feel concerned. A search was
begun, and Master Anakin Solo excused himself from Council duties to
give the matter his personal supervision. The Old Master had taken the
'Millennium Falcon' from what had been intended as her final resting
place, in the parklands of New Alderaan overlooking the Organa-Solo
residence. He had filed no flight plan and left no indications of his
destination. There were no sightings of the ship on any of the planets
on which he had previously chosen to spend time in seclusion.
Another month slipped by, then a third, and all the Jedi could feel
sure of was that the Old Master was alive and in no grave danger. In
the sixth month the 'Falcon' was finally located, left at the edge of
a backwater spaceport. There was no message left in her databanks, and
the official who had spoken to her pilot could give little more than a
description of the old man. The same old man had bought a cheap
passage out towards the Republic border, and the ticket had been used,
but none at the other end could confirm his arrival.
At the end of the eighth month there was a short flurry of excitement
when the Old Master's personal credit chip turned up one of the border
worlds. Master Solo undertook the long trip out there himself, only to
find that the chip had changed hands too many times to trace it back
to its original owner. His hopes rose once again when he heard of a
man that had claimed he was Master Luke Skywalker, who had turned up
several months earlier. The alien woman who had cared for the man was
convinced that he had only been suffering delusions after a bump on
the head, but eventually she managed to locate the old man's clothing-
carefully washed, mended and stored away.
The Jedi tunic and cloak were proof enough for Master Solo that the
Old Master had been here. He learned also that the Master had been
injured, without any credits, and apparently without his lightsaber.
With growing concern he followed the trail of information to the
spaceport, where he learned of an old man who had been taken on as
crew by a tramp trader headed for the outer Rim. There, once again,
the trail disappeared. The old man was no longer on the ship's crew,
and nobody knew where he had gone.
After another month of fruitless search, Master Solo returned to
Coruscant. To all intents and purposes, Master Luke Skywalker had
vanished.
play with it when he's not looking.
All Our Scattered Leaves
*** *** ********* ******
Part Two:
Pain was nothing new. The old man had lived with it for most of his
life. Pain now told him that he was alive and awake. He lifted a
shaking hand to his head, feeling a matted, crusted mass where he had
been struck. He sat up slowly, noting with dull detachment how weak he
felt. He no longer commanded the same physical resilience that had
once allowed him to touch death and come back fighting.
Even so, the old man would once have made light of his weakness: once,
when his spirit was still young. Now he was the last of the old
heroes, the ones who had fought to create this bright new galaxy, and
each death had eaten a little more from his soul. The loss of his wife
had left an emptiness that even the Light could not fill. Now his
sister- his twin, the last of his blood- was also gone, and he was
alone.
Names ran through his head in a litany, people once famous throughout
the known worlds, friends who were also living, breathing legends. Now
they were merely records in the archives. The smell of blood, the
screams of the wounded, the confusion and terror of combat, the
stifling heat and bone-numbing chill of the battlefields on which
soldiers had fought: they were all nothing more now than a few lines
on a datascreen. The galaxy was looking towards the future, and it had
left him behind with the ghosts of the past.
Tiredly, the old man got to his feet. His three assailants had left
him lying at the end of the alley amongst the debris of the street,
and his clothing was now soaked and stinking. His tunic felt loose,
and when he felt at his waist he found his belt was missing. He had
been left without any ID, credits, or weapon. He was surprised at how
little he regretted their absence.
He did not know what time of day it was, only that it was daylight and
the cantina appeared to be closed. He leant on the wall at the
entrance to the alley, watching the few passers-by in the street
beyond and feeling a little light-headed. Most pedestrians who spotted
him seemed eager to avoid him. He supposed he wasn't much of a sight
to look at right then, an ageing figure with filthy clothes and matted
hair.
"Oh you poor man! What happened?"
It was a rotund, homely-looking alien who spoke, a female humanoid
with a kindly face and a worried expression.
"I was attacked," the old man replied. "Last night, when I was leaving
the cantina. I think it was last night."
The woman tut-tutted and peered at the wound on the old man's head.
"It's not safe around here after dark. Did they steal much?"
"Everything," the old man replied, somewhat muzzily. "I suppose I
should
feel grateful that they left me some clothes."
The woman wrinkled her nose, clearly not thinking much of the state of
those clothes. "You poor dear. You'd better come along with me, we'll
get you tidied up in no time." She took the old man's arm, and he did
not protest as she led him away from the alley. "I'm Mycuogulu, but
most folks call me Tanta Gulu."
"Skywalker. Master Luke Skywalker."
The woman did not give the slightest visible flicker of recognition,
although he picked up her aura of surprised and pity. She didn't
believe him, she thought he was delusional or suffering from that bump
on his head. Perhaps oddly, he found it something of a relief. Fame
had often proved a heavy burden to bear, and of late he had found
himself avoiding public appearances.
"Just call me Luke," he added on an impulse, and smiled wistfully. So
few had known him as 'just Luke'.
"Well then, Luke my dear, you come on in here and we'll see what we
can do for you."
'In here' proved to be a small but comfortable set of rooms behind an
open-fronted stall at the edge of a market square. Tanta Gulu chuckled
contentedly to herself as she mothered her guest. Luke was bathed and
fed, his wound tended and his disordered hair trimmed and tidied. His
all but unrecognisable Jedi clothes were flung into the laundry and
replaced with a set of coveralls that were not new but were at least
clean, dry and reasonably well fitting. His thanks were cheerfully
waved aside as being unnecessary.
"It's my pleasure to help, Luke, so don't you worry about it. Now, you
rest a while- that's a nasty bump you took- and then we'll see about
getting you back home."
"I'm not going home," Luke said. "I'm not needed there any more."
"What a terrible thing to say!"
"No, only the truth. I've worked hard for them, Tanta. I've put my
life into building the place and passing on what I know, and I don't
think I've done it that badly. All there is for me to do now is to sit
back and watch my students hand down the knowledge I gave to them.
I've never been the sort to sit back and do nothing." It would do as
an explanation even if it wasn't the full truth.
"You poor dear!" This seemed to be the woman's response to most
things. He sensed her flicker of doubt, as she wondered if perhaps
this was the legendary Jedi Master, then her dismissal of the idea.
"But what will you do?"
"Oh, I don't think that will be too much of a problem." Luke had no
credits, no ID, and could apparently not rely on being recognised, but
he'd been in worse situations than that. "Do you know anyone who needs
a pilot?"
******
At first it was thought that the Old Master had merely taken himself
away to meditate in private after the death of his sister. He had done
so following the death of his wife. On this occasion he had
uncharacteristically neglected to leave any information on how he
could be contacted in an emergency, but the Old Master had other ways
of knowing when he was needed.
It was only after the days of absence turned into weeks, and then more
than a month, that the Jedi began to feel concerned. A search was
begun, and Master Anakin Solo excused himself from Council duties to
give the matter his personal supervision. The Old Master had taken the
'Millennium Falcon' from what had been intended as her final resting
place, in the parklands of New Alderaan overlooking the Organa-Solo
residence. He had filed no flight plan and left no indications of his
destination. There were no sightings of the ship on any of the planets
on which he had previously chosen to spend time in seclusion.
Another month slipped by, then a third, and all the Jedi could feel
sure of was that the Old Master was alive and in no grave danger. In
the sixth month the 'Falcon' was finally located, left at the edge of
a backwater spaceport. There was no message left in her databanks, and
the official who had spoken to her pilot could give little more than a
description of the old man. The same old man had bought a cheap
passage out towards the Republic border, and the ticket had been used,
but none at the other end could confirm his arrival.
At the end of the eighth month there was a short flurry of excitement
when the Old Master's personal credit chip turned up one of the border
worlds. Master Solo undertook the long trip out there himself, only to
find that the chip had changed hands too many times to trace it back
to its original owner. His hopes rose once again when he heard of a
man that had claimed he was Master Luke Skywalker, who had turned up
several months earlier. The alien woman who had cared for the man was
convinced that he had only been suffering delusions after a bump on
the head, but eventually she managed to locate the old man's clothing-
carefully washed, mended and stored away.
The Jedi tunic and cloak were proof enough for Master Solo that the
Old Master had been here. He learned also that the Master had been
injured, without any credits, and apparently without his lightsaber.
With growing concern he followed the trail of information to the
spaceport, where he learned of an old man who had been taken on as
crew by a tramp trader headed for the outer Rim. There, once again,
the trail disappeared. The old man was no longer on the ship's crew,
and nobody knew where he had gone.
After another month of fruitless search, Master Solo returned to
Coruscant. To all intents and purposes, Master Luke Skywalker had
vanished.