ENNATHING, EVERATHING, NOTHING AND SAND
A story of two New England violinists in A Galaxy Far, Far Away
By Me
Author's Note: Profound thanks goes to Kyra, who is the same Kyra as in this story, and the enigmatic Anisa. They came up with a story called "Ennathing, Everathing, Nothing" about a violinist and a cellist, cheesy bread and our two favorite Episode 1 Jedi. It made me laugh hysterically and I, over the course of a few very bored years, came up with the sequel. So, to Kyra and Anisa, I dedicate this insanity.
CHAPTER 1
Cheesy Bread of Sorts
It was, of course, a bright and sunny day in Southern California. Millions of people other than Casa Espana in Van Nuys were swooning over Hayden and Ewan. They were weeping at John Williams music. They were quoting all the new Star Wars lines they'd learned from the second prequel movie.
They had every right to, of course. At midnight, Attack of the Clones had come out and I didn't doubt that it had been fabulous. After all, when you have Ewan McGregor and John Williams remotely in collaboration, things were bound to go brilliantly. Hayden was probably brilliant as well, but I wouldn't know that sort of thing.
After all, Hermana Doria wouldn't even let me speak English, so mentioning Star Wars would be verboten and, since we were both missionaries, all movies were equally off-limits. Thus, it was going to be a very long 15 months until I could see the newest Star Wars movie.
Either to cheer me up or to make me useful in my despair, she had commanded me to make lunch. Naturally, the day's food had consisted of brain tacos, too many enchiladas and a healthy dose of horchata, so I decided to go with something a little less exotic. Unfortunately, since my companion had forbidden me to speak English for the next three months, I could think of nothing to make other than quesadillas.
At least I had some mail today. Annemarie and my sister had both written, though Annemarie was more likely to be entertaining, since Diana usually wrote when she was extraordinarily bored during Chemistry class.
"You make the phone calls and I'll have lunch ready by the time you finish," I said.
Or so I thought. Since I'd only been speaking Spanish for a grand total of four months and six days by this point, I could have said something along the lines of "Your t-shirt is a purple radio," but she seemed to get the gist of it. I would never understand why a girl from Utah would not want to hear our first language on occasion.
"We need to leave in an hour," she replied, I thought.
I got the tortillas and cheddar out of the fridge, then set about preparing the rather unimaginative quesadillas while the pan heated. Doria was still muttering into the phone, punctuated as always by her ever-present "So entonces."
Finally, deciding we both needed a rest, I slapped the quesadillas onto two of our marginally-sanitary plates and shuffled them onto my left arm so I could wrench the bedroom door open.
"Ya esta lista la comi…"
This was definitely not my bedroom.
This was definitely not Van Nuys.
For one thing, this place had a long colonnade and air conditioning. There was not a single cockroach in sight and the disgusting carpet was replaced by the kind of gorgeous tile floor that you see either on Sepulveda Blvd. or the brothel in Pompeii.
I decided in that darned missionary sense of diplomacy not to mention that to whoever owned this masterpiece of architecture. It might hurt a few feelings.
"Oh, my god…"
That was definitely not me.
How the heck did Kyra get to Van Nuys?
I turned to stare at her in disbelief, but before I could decide to hug her (I hadn't seen her in a few months, ever since coming to her GBYSO concert at the Hatch Shell), my eyes locked onto what she was holding.
"Cheesy bread!" I exclaimed. "So this is all your fault!"
It only logically followed that any Bostonian violinist holding cheesy bread would cause a transportation to the Jedi Temple. Don't ask me how this logically follows, but it does. Take my mistranslated word for it!
She was staring at me in rather a state of bewilderment. I thought for a moment that she was wondering how I got here, but then remembered that, instinctively, I had said "Quesadillas! La culpa es tuya!"
If I were on Coruscant, I'd have to stop thinking in Spanish.
"How did you get here?" she demanded. "You haven't even seen Attack of the Clones!"
"Yeah," I moaned. "Don't remind me!"
"We've got to get you out of here," she said selflessly.
"Right," I scoffed. "I'll just find tortillas that Gungans have never heard of and teleport me back with the magical quesadilla of doom to Van Nuys. It's not that easy!"
"Why not?"
"BECAUSE I'VE READ EEN!" I bellowed. "Last time, it took you all manner of travezuras and dancing with cellos to get back home!"
"Well, we'll just find a planet that worships violists and get you home that way!" Kyra reasoned.
"Not likely," I said glumly. "I worked in Hell for 6 weeks and it still hasn't frozen over."
She was looking at me very strangely. "Really, Hell itself?"
"Well," I admitted, "actually, in California, they call it Palmdale."
That apparently merited an arched eyebrow. "Palm trees don't sound so bad," she said carefully.
"Yes, but there are only four palm trees," I explained, "and the only one that isn't at the church is at the mall."
A door hissed open to our left. "In the name of the Force, will you keep it DOWN?"
I turned to offer my apologies and promptly collapsed in shock.
No, I'm serious. It had something to do with my knees going weak and my entire body kind of slumping forward. It always happens when I see Ewan McGregor.
Only, it wasn't Ewan. It was Obi-Wan, which was even more of a swoon-worthy thing. I mean, a hot Irish guy is one thing, but a hot Irish-sounding guy with a lightsaber… Well, you get the idea.
Even better, he caught me quickly and the last thing I heard before everything went black was Kyra explaining, "You'll have to forgive her. You kinda have that effect on her."
I regained consciousness what must have been hours later. At least, the Coruscant skyline was now consisting of lots of little lights instead of buildings. The sheets were, admittedly, not very comfortable, but since I didn't think that the Jedi would care about 500-count Egyptian cotton, that wasn't unexpected. Almost terrified to explore the possibility, I took a tentative smell.
"YOU PUT ME IN OBI-WAN'S BED!"
You'll have to forgive the punctuation, but it's not wise to yell that loud on paper.
"Settle down, hurmunuh," Obi-wan said calmly. "I intend you no harm."
"What did you call me?"
He looked rather sheepishly at my nametag. "Hurmunuh," he repeated. "It's what you call yourself according to that."
How he knew how to read English instead of Aurabesh, I was too stunned to contemplate.
"I'm Kaki," I countered "Hermana Olsen is just what I'm called right now."
"You're undercover, then," he guessed.
There was no way to explain the idea of missionary work to him in my present state, so I just nodded stupidly.
"Well, if you'll permit me to call you Kaki…"
"You can call me anything you want," I blurted in an unexpectedly sultry voice.
Since I hadn't flirted with anyone, much less a 35-year-old Jedi Master, in a few months, it came out very strangely. He looked rather terrified and stood up quickly.
"I think I'll let our friend Kyra look in on you," he suggested hastily.
Kyra patted him reassuringly on the shoulder as she passed as if to console him that I'd be in my right mind…eventually.
"I don't get it," I confessed. "I didn't get to come with you and Anisa last time…."
"You didn't know us," she reminded.
"Yeah," I agreed, "but what brought me here?"
Through the open doorway, Anakin looked like he was thoroughly enjoying my quesadillas.
"Cheesy bread!" I squeaked.
"Yeah, I ordered some," she agreed.
"Yes," I sped on, "but I was making quesadillas, which are…"
"Cheesy bread," she finished. "It's all making sense now."
I gave her a look that could have curdled bantha milk.
"Well, not all of it," she admitted, "but at least we know what brings us here."
"Yes," I stammered, "but how are we going to get back?"
For that, she had no answer.