Inheritance

26.

The bitter night-time wind here on Outer Gola – in the moderate equatorial regions, mind you – is sharp enough to wring moisture from my eyes. Through the blearing smears of color, I can make out a shadow skulking in the dark hollows between houses, a flitter of motion on the edge of sight. The Force tells me this is a curious outsider, one who has, like me, excused himself from the festivities early.

I head him off as he sneaks around the edge of the women's shelter, and block his entrance.

"Oh!" he exclaims, clutching his thermal jacket tight about his thin chest. It is the bacci-chewer – the fellow I encountered earlier. Tonight he has a thin pink cheroot gritted between his teeth, of the same variety Dex favors when the dinner rush is too much for his nerves. Vile, but not as filthy as chewing bacci. "You gave me a turn there. Thought you were the jabuur-weki, eh?"

"I might well have been," I point out. "It isn't safe to wander alone past dark."

One or two of the Feorian matrons poke their heads through the door as the fellow shuffles nervously on the spot. "So you Jedi think that's ..real, eh? I mean, you are aware it's nothing but a folk superstition?"

"Oh, lord Jedi! Come in, come in where it is warm!"

I smile at the hospitable offer, but my attention is focused on this stranger. He was looking for something, here in the village. "A folk superstition that attracts your scholarly interest?" I press.

He blows a thin stream of smoke through his nostrils. "Scholar, I don't know about that. I told you I'm an amateur expert. And believe me, all that nonsense tonight is just bosk-chissk made up for the tourists' benefit. None of that's the genuine article. You gotta ask these lovely ladies if you want the goods. Chieftain and those young hobos are both full of beans."

Scrawny arms are tugging at my sleeves now, their invitation transforming to an urgent command. The "amateur expert" flicks his cheroot's expired butt to the frozen earth and slips past the threshold, taking advantage of my … hesitation. I can hardly pummel these Feorian crones out of the way, now can I? There is nothing else to be done but to yield, and so I duck beneath the sagging lintel into the stuffy cloister where the circle of women waits.

The goods? What does he mean by that?

"Oh, Pada-Wan!" one of the Feorians addresses me, fawning. "We were hoping you might come. We would beg a boon of thee."

Oh dear. The scholar fellow has situated himself against the far wall, and is making a rather mercenary examination of the women's half-finished weavings and baskets. I wonder vaguely whether he has a monetary interest in the artifacts – expert can bear a wealth of meanings, as I have learned. "We come to serve," I answer my interlocutor, neutrally.

Another of the women, an ancient grandmotherly figure, wobbles forward. "No children have there been born to the Feorians since here we came. Outer Gola – not a fecund place is it. The jabuur-weki's curse, this may be, too. Help us, you can."

And I am suddenly and emphatically relieved – for the first time since Naboo – that Qui-Gon is not here by my side.

"Ah," I choke out. Somewhere in my training, there was a provision made for this situation, but for the life of me I cannot summon the requisite knowledge. The laughing smirk plastered on the expert's face does not help matters either, and I fear I may be on the brink of losing my proper Jedi composure. Thank the Force Anakin is not here, either, to see me reduced to blank speechlessness.

Two more of the Feorian women totter forward, bearing a small basket filled to the brim with handcrafted amulets, carven bits of hardwood attached to leathern cords. "These," one of them explains, "Will help our younger sisters. You have the Force, lord Jedi. Will you bless them for us? Give them great power!"

The hard knot beneath my ribs unclenches. Oh. Well. That's different, then.

"I'm sorry," I reply. "The Force is not magic, and I am not a magician. I cannot make your tokens bear special virtue. But I do wish your tribe well, and hope this … affliction… ends soon." I will not offer to do whatever is in my power, et cetera, according to the standard formulaic response. There are limits, as I have said, and I would rather avoid misunderstandings in this context.

The self-styled expert is still leering at me in open amusement.

Very well. A Jedi is always gracious. "Perhaps this fine gentleman, who is an amateur devotee of your culture and life-ways, might be of assistance where I cannot be," I suggest, with a small bow.

The Feorian elders scrutinize the fellow at length, their drooping faces seeming to dissect and analyze his potential to fulfill their wishes. He shifts about edgily, clearly caught off guard by this turn of events, some of the unwelcome smirk wiped off his face.

"No," the eldest of the women snorts dismissively. "He will never do, Pada-Wan. Thou would be much better." She sighs wistfully, causing a certain resurgence of my previous unease.

But my acquaintance's smug smile has most definitely been erased. He glowers at me with a sullen air of defeat, but then steps away from the wall in order to have a better look at the handicrafts in the basket.

"Oh ho," he says, dangling one of the necklaces between thumb and forefinger. "The genuine article. You see, the women are always the ones to preserve the real stuff. I … if you will forgive my asking so boldly – I would love to take one of these home for my missus, you know." He feigns deep melancholy. "I understand the sorrow you feel."

My brows rise, but the Feorian women cannot feel the deception in the Force as I can. They are happy to bequeath one of the magical pendants to their kind guest, even if they have not been granted special Jedi "blessing." The man pockets the primitive fertility charm and winks slyly at me as he sidles past, out the door.

Something tells me he will sell his newly acquired treasure for enormous profit. There are collectors – eccentrics with large fortunes – who would love to add such an artifact to their prize possessions. The galaxy is a strange place, and imperialism takes on many contorted forms. I watch him exit, marveling anew at the perfect conjunction which greed and conniving make. It is an enviable partnership.

"What ails, thee, Pada-Wan?" the Feorian women ask plaintively. "Are you sure you will not just touch some of these for us? Qui-Jinn was most happy to aid us, back all those years ago. He said it was his pleasure to help. All the children we had in the in-between place, the refugee shelters, those were from his blessing, we are sure."

Now I really must make some hasty excuse and beat a swift retreat before I do lose my composure.

And I wish fervently, not for the first time since Naboo, that Master "Qui-Jinn" was indeed with me, to hear what I might have to say at his expense. And Force forgive me if I indulge in a small smirk of my own as I continue on my way back to the guest-house.

There have been only a handful of Feorian infants born since they were freed. The old women's worry is well-founded, and their simple beliefs not so very offensive, in the end. Perhaps I should have granted their request, after all. What harm would there be in it, really, strict observance of the Code aside? ….And – since we are idly speculating - I do wonder how many new tribe members might result from such a fresh batch of amulets? Surely more than a handful.

There is nobody out here to overhear my chuckle.