Desert Desert

Chronology: during TPM
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: every place, character, situation that exhibits the unmistakable SW trademark belongs to the 'venerable Flanelled One'. No rights infringment is intended. The story's main character belongs to itself instead, and to the… desert.
Note: that Qui-Gon had already been on Tatooine is mentioned by Terry Brooks in the TPM novelization (pag. 108, hardcover edition). As for the Tusken ambush against Darth Maul, he himself gives us an account of it in his Episode1 Journal (pag. 60-62).
A special thanks goes to my beta readers Eleia and Lys73 (wow, I've doubled my audience!).
I dedicate this story to the Sinai 'Sandpeople'. In a magic February night, beneath that starry roof that only the desert can show off, they made me understand the real meaning of the word: 'freedom'.
I dedicate it as well to Iain McCaig who contributed with his fantastic concepts to shape my dreams.

A rise parched by the cutting blows of the twin suns. Rocks with a bleeding chromatism. And sand. On the skin. Beneath. Deep to the bones.
Heavy strips of gauze shields a self-forgetful face from the inclemency of the weather. A pair of lenses, goggling like chameleon's eyes, protects the intent look of a vedette from the light's claws. A Tusken Raider. The incarnation of the desert spirit.
The flat patch of desert just in sight of Mos Espa gets scanned, indifferent to the feverish anxiety of the Raider. Here and there the rippling surface of mirages gives the air a liquid look.
An animal rests its bulk next to the Tusken. It snorts. The huge tapering horns on its head nervously swing.
I feel it too, my friend. Air is too still…
The Raider touches lightly the bantha's thick fur. A reassuring gesture. Then raises his head. Under the ominous mask eyes shut, giving way to the perceptions of the other senses.
Why don't you speak, desert wind? Why can't I hear you?
A silver flash cuts off the course of his thoughts. It's a starship. Her sinuous line glides down to the planet surface. Sand foam welcomes her. And wraps her.
The Tusken Raider's body tenses, his left hand chokes the gaffi stick with a durasteel grasp. Uttering a guttural sound, he calls off his faithful mate. He vaults onto its back: man and animal, two extensions of the same body. Slowly the grotesque centaur finds shelter behind some rock spires. Deep slits crack open all along the vertical surface of the odd formations. Ideal place for lurking.
The Raider is breathing with difficulty, tension perspires through his skin. But it is not the adrenaline storm of the predator who scents blood. Not this time. Old ghosts rise from the mist of the mind, like shadows from the words of a storyteller in a night of tales round the fire. Images, ferociously repressed. Dull sensations. The Tusken stops his ears. Shakes fiercely his head.
Shut up! I beg you…
But the desert wind has starded howling again.

"Be wary, Obi-Wan. I sense a disturbance in the Force".
Qui-Gon's voice is almost a whisper.
The look of the young Padawan crosses that of his mentor. A ultramarine shading intensity.
"I feel it also, Master. I will be careful".
Their exchange goes on beyond the words. A silence thick with signals. An instant, widened by the subtle vibrations that travel on the lines of their Jedi bond.
Qui-Gon gathers up the R2 unit and the Gungan that will go with him to the spaceport. Spare parts are urgently needed, the hyperdrive generator is shot.
The small group heads down the loading ramp. The warm welcome of the air sets their breath on fire. The sweat caress vaporizes. A few steps and sand is already master of their senses: it bites, blinds, furs up in their mouths.
The Jedi Master watches the hypnotic landscape of the barren land. His glance shifts about the desolate arc of his visual field. Thin tendrils brush against his awareness, like mirages fool his mind eye. They call him with a persuasive voice, to withdraw immediately afterwards.
Concentrate on the moment. Feel. Don't think. Use your istincts… If only this disturbance…
Physical impressions mix up with extrasensory perceptions. The Jedi tilts slightly his head, his look lost in the empty landscape. For a moment the voice of the Force and the wailing of the wind sing in unison.

Through the wounds of the rock the scene condenses. Assumes sharp and definite edges. The Tusken gets back his focus, gags his emotions. Silently, as silent his thought is, he watches the movements of the strangers.
An odd party leaves the starship. It's led by a tall, imposing humanoid, the unmistakable charism mark in his bearing. The heavy tails of his poncho dissimulates, but don't conceal from the expert eye of the Raider, the tense body of a warrior. He's graceful, at ease with the hostile sorroundings. Straight after him, the cylindrical shape of an astromech droid… what a piece for the Jawa's flea market… and an alien with a curious ambling gait. Some sort of amphibious, at a rough guess.
The suns will dry out your skin, pal. And then your soul.
Suddenly two new figures appear in the wasting wasteland. A man, a soldier judging by the uniform. And a tiny girl with a long, elaborate hairstyle and a determined expression. The Tusken observes her at lenght. For a while his memory retreats into itself: another time, another young woman. The same resolution, the same ability at hiding anxieties and deep fears… The two groups discuss, then the man with the uniform heads back to the ship, leaving the girl with the warrior in disguise.
The look of the Raider escorts the march of the small party till the moment the quivering of the thirsty land absorbs them into the illusion of its mirages.
I wasn't wrong, I couldn't be wrong… No. The breath of the desert never deceives its children.

§

For more than thirty hours the faithful bantha wanders through dunes and harsh cliffs. It escapes the sand storm that upsets the sleepy afternoon of the mesa. Warms up the cold embrace of the night. Shields from the red-hot slap of the new day. Tiredness doesn't slacken its pace. It does not ask for water. Nor food. But its patient rhythm doesn't manage to soothe the turmoil of its silent mate. Opposing forces clash in the Tusken's soul. So fiercely to tear it up.
What to do? What to… feel?
His balance begins to waver. That fragile balance achieved by listening to the extraordinary silences of the desert. By riding the freedom of the wide spaces. By getting aware of his own role in a society of equals. By gazing at that starry roof which gives shelter to dreams and dreamers.
What to do? What to feel?
For a moment the name of Sharad Hett floods with hope the arid agony of the young Raider. Hett, the red-eyed leader. The Tusken armed with a lightsabre.
He can help me! His wisdom, his advice can help me…
A short lasting hope. Source that quickly dries up. The loneliness of his emotions prevails once again. And pride as well. They shatter what he built through the years, like the storm wipes out the footprints in the sand. Loneliness and pride. An old curse. The same, as ever.

The twin suns glide down the horizon line leaving behind a bright trail of rust. Slowly the most blazing shades fade away. They dissolve into the dark nuances of the twilight and the pale tail of the sunset. Time to head back to the secret oasis, to take breath in the quietness of the familiar things. The fire, the tent, the fragrance of tea. The guttural sound of the accounts of the day. And of the tales.
Home.
The bantha sets off with a heavy pace. Just a few metres. The animal feels the sudden stiffening of the legs of the Tusken, the hold of his knees on its sides. The Raider's head turns in all directions. Over and over again.
There's something... Something.
A low growl urges the big herbivore to keep up. The reins push it towards a broad plateau which fans out of the rocky crests. The vision of a starship surfaces from the exhaust of a recent landing. It has got nothing in common with the commercial transports that jam the air traffic of the Mos Espa spaceport. The long sharp prow seems to be designed to pierce, penetrate, infiltrate. Beautiful and ominous. As ominous as her only occupant… A black robed humanoid appears at the hatchway. A wide hood hides his features. Though the gleam of his eyes filters through the shade wall. A feral gleam. Fixed in a timeless raving expression. The clang of his boots against the ramp rings in the Tusken's ears. It mingles with his pulse. The fresh evening air trembles as the stranger passes. Maybe it's the wind… The same wind that bends the Raider on his mount. It seeps into him. It freezes his blood. Icy wingbeat of a night predator.
The movements of the alien dilate like a scene in slow motion... Two gloved hands take a pair of low-light electrobinoculars to the eyes. They guide it to the scanning of the sorroundings: rocks embroidered by the erosion, sandy wastelands, a few settlements. A control panel strapped to the dark lord's forearm activates three spherical probe droids. They float out of the ship and buzzing, head to the plain. The fiery glance of the stranger follows them as far as their black lamina melts in the blackness of the night. Then, with the same ghostly essence the stranger showed at his first appearance, he vanishes, swallowed up by the yawning mouth of his starship.
Crouched on the back of his bantha, the Tusken has been taken by an uncontrollable shuddering. For the first time after many years, his shoulders give in to the shakes of weeping.

§

One hour goes by. And another one. The darkness fall halts the breath of the air and releases the one of the Raider and of the animal. They have been waiting for the night to cover their retreat and let down its sleep nets on the occupant of the starship. They cautiously set off. Silent like only the steps on the sand can be. They cover almost eight miles towards the 'reward well'. The huge herbivore has been worn out by two hard days'march. It wheezes, his snout contracted and dehydrated. The Tusken tries to make it drink from a dewback-hide bag. Then, with a wet cloth, he dumpens the chapping on its muzzle… What's a sand man without his mount? How can he be so reckless to risk its life?
He keeps still, standing next to the bantha, his forearms resting on the saddle, the head bent, defeated. His mind wanders away unable to resolve the inner conflict.
I can't stay here. I'm expected at the camp. I'm expexted by MY life, by my tent under the stars…
He slowly raises his head, gazes at those distant suns. Right, the stars…
I must go, my friend. I… must.
He ransacks two big bags hanging on either side of the saddle. Produces an old ragged cloack, wrapps himself up in it, hiding the gaffi stick in the inside. He lowers the hood over the goggles. He knows how to mingle with the sorroundings. How to dissimulate his presence. A skill born from necessity: years spent hunting, ambushing, dealing with trigger-happy farmers. And maybe from something else…
He reassures his bantha, stroking fondly under its chin and emitting a series of low, discordant sounds with the hypnotic quality of a lullaby. Then, hitting hard its back, he sends it away.
Go, get back to the oasis. Your return will warn the others. You KNOW where taking'em… I'll be waiting there.
He looks the docile animal departing, its big squashed snout turning around over and over again…
With the broken soul of a betrayer, he turns his back to the faithful mate and starts off, following tracks that only his senses seem to detect.

Mos Espa rests in the fresh torpor of the night truce. The streets empty of the passers-by and fill with their dreams. Just the canteens linger over the wake. Bars and taverns with their rites of lights and sounds. Their officiants: scoundrels, gamblers, smugglers. Their liturgies: laughs, curses, blaster shots. Acrid smell of alcohol and spices.
The Tusken's shadow glides on the buildings' walls, heedless of those sporadic life sparks. Silence matches his steps. And his stops. He keeps still in the darkness of some alley, keeping his ears cocked. A predator trait. A bunch of drunk humanoids crosses his way. They ignore him, likely incapable of recognizing their own image reflected in a mirror.
The street seems to yield to the dust in sight of the slave quarters. An intricate beehive crisscrossed by a labyrinth of dirt stairways. A few lights still pierce through the night curtain, sharpening the rarefied atmosphere of the complex. A sense of trepidation hammers relentlessly in the back of the Raider's mind. It becomes a pang in front a modest but decorous looking hovel.
No…
The house of the 'little wizard'.
The Sandpeople have got to know him by spying his traffics with the Jawas on the edge of the Jundland Wastes. By following him during his forays into the heart of the desert. By watching him racing in those awful pods that leave in their trail fire and sandstorms. Fast and nimble like the snake's spring at the prey.
To the point that some of our men have thought they've better practise target-shooting…
Exhausted, the Raider leans his back against the hovel's front door. He lets out the air held far too long in his lungs. The memory of his recent meeting with the infant prodigy resurfaces…
… A slide. The lacerating pain and noise of a bone breaking up. Debris submerging his body and consciousness. Darkness.
Then the awakening by the fire. A young human with hair and eyes reflecting the colour of the desert lands and skies. The 'little wizard'. He freed the Tusken from the vicelike grip of the rocks and brought first aid. There is no fear in his clear look. Nor bias. Curiosity, maybe. And… respect. Under the thick gauzes the Raider's mouth stifles a smile. A nearly forgotten act.
I can't! I mustn't…
That moment of weakness crystallizes and shatters in the embrace of dread. The child senses the turmoil of the wounded Tusken. It's clearly legible in his stare: focused, piercing. But probably he misunderstands the reasons of the sudden shift in the mood of the creature. Likely. And luckily…

Qui-Gon rests stretched out on the floor in the Skywalkers'hovel. Just his cloack relieving of its hardness. The vigilant sleeping of the Jedi steps easily over the waking treshold.
That disturbance again…
It's becoming a tidal wave. It assails his perceptions, dips them in a abyss of sadness.
Or is that nostalgia?
Then, nothing. Silence. Dead calm in the Force ocean…
The Master leaves his robe behind and rushes out, hugged by the wet smell of the night. His senses alerted, the impassive expression betrayed by a twitch of his jaw muscles. A movement draws his attention. An indistinct shape slips away in a narrow alley on the other side of the street. The powerful legs of the Jedi dash in pursuit. Faster than any considered decision. They get lost in the maze of lanes. They grow weak contrasting the momentum of such an impressive body.
For an instant the shade seems to hesitate. The light projected by a sign gives it a solid tridimensionality, transfiguring its dull flimsiness into the tails of a heavy cloack. There are just a few steps between it and its chaser.
Now we'll find out who you are…And what you want.
But the mysterious creature is just in wait. A calculated, intentional wait. As soon as the Master's pace slows down, just in sight of the finishing line, the flight starts again.
He's not running away. No… He knows where to go. And he's playing like a Togorian cat with its prey.
Qui-Gon's hand grips the hilt of his lightsabre, his forehead is running with sweat. He tries to probe the intentions of the fugitive but his sounding bounces off a rubber wall.
I've a bad feeling about this…
Buildings start to thin away, dusty roads give way to the first caravan routes. The Jedi's pheripheral awareness hardly records the crossing of the boundary between settlement and desert. His focus is elsewhere. In front of him. At the apex of the perspective line of his look…
The creature has stopped short. His shoulders slightly bent, as trying to recover from the wild chase. Qui-Gon halts his pace just a few metres off. He's also short of breath, his hands leaning heavily on the knees. He raises his head trying to guess the moves of his opponent by the faint star light. Watches him slowly turning… the pale reflection of a metal staff filters through the night screen.
A gaffi stick!
Responding to an automatic reflex, Qui-Gon ignites his Jedi weapon. In the blink of an eye he is on his guard, sabre up, to the right of his head. The double-handed hold merges the arms with their letal extension. Ominous features appears from the spectral light of the blade: Tusken features, no doubt. The Raider doesn't react. He just contracts rhythmically his left hand's fingers on the gaderffii handle. A casual gesture that implies far more menacing purposes. The Jedi Master feels he is pierced by a glare he can't see. One that does not escape his insight, though.
"Who are you?"
The Raider's silence seems to interrupt the flow of time. Qui-Gon's eyes half-close letting hardly through the liquid intensity of their contents. They focus on the figure standing opposite: the cloack, the hood, the left-handed grip, the disturbance in the Force… Suddenly a dismayed expression spreads over his iris circle. Dismay and realization.
"Amira!"…

To be continued

Feedback is welcome, but again, not too "wude", please: I'm from the outer rim and don't fully master basic ;)
Jinna@sabermail.com