Growing Pains
True Simplicity
Part 2
Obi-Wan's breath escaped in short, ephemeral clouds as he put his whole back into the downswing and clove the squat wooden chunk into two perfect halves. Such brute application of power was severely discouraged in the dojo except in the context of a Djem So kill-strike under close supervision; here, on the other hand, he was not only permitted but expected to thrash the living sap out of his opponent. The axe – a mere lumpen mass of iron affixed to a wooden handle polished smooth by years of honest work – he had initially found unwieldy in the hand, awkward and ill-balanced. But his offer to chop up enough fuel for a morning fire had been expanded by Qui-Gon into a mandate to spilt every log in the substantial supply stacked behind the guest house – and so, he had quickly learned the heft and feel of the thing, making of the dreary chore a simple kata, and imaginatively cleaving several scores of Togorian war-raiders into very precise halves. After an hour's steady work, he had honed the skill to a deadly accuracy and was now busily refining his technique, experimenting with a one-handed stroke and adding in a modified flourish before each neatly executed strike. There had been no explicit ban on use of the Force, frivolous or not, so he discreetly levitated the newly quartered logs into the growing tinderpile.
He had just set up another slavering and irredeemably wicked Togorian upon the chopping block and was on the point of cleaving it in twain along the exact center of the wood's concentric inner rings, when he sensed a pair of eyes resting upon him with shocked fascination. He turned, lowering the primitive implement, his breath condensing into another pale cloud in the chill morning air. There, wide eyed and seemingly rooted to the spot, stood a girl swathed in black robes, chin to heel. She blushed violently upon meeting his equally curious gaze, and scurried away between the scattered trees, clutching a bundle to her chest.
The young Jedi shrugged, sensing neither hostility nor importance in the encounter, and polished off the remainder of the dastardly Togorians with great aplomb.
"I do not think it is customary to chop wood here in the early morning," he informed Qui-Gon, when he triumphantly returned indoors.
"Why do you say that?"
"One of the locals was outside – a girl from the community. She seemed disturbed by my activities. I hope I did not cause offense, Master."
The tall man glanced up from his careful tea preparations. "Put your shirt back on," he advised, mouth quirking upward at the corners. "They have strict sartorial sensibilities here."
"I didn't want to soil it with perspiration… there aren't any decent 'cyclers here.. and we brought only one spare."
"Not to worry," the Jedi master assured him. "I do not think you caused offense, per se."
They knelt opposite one another for tea. A strident rapping at the door interrupted their quiet morning ritual before it was properly underway. Before any response could be made, the door swung open on primitive hinges to admit the Elder's wife, a matron of broad girth and narrow views.
"Master Jedi," she addressed Qui-Gon. "My daughter informs me that your apprentice was performing menial chores during the Hours of Observance."
The two culprits sprang to their feet, and offered the outraged goodwife a contrite bow.
"My apologies," the older man soothed her. "It will not happen again. We will, of course, conform to your practices during our stay here."
The woman harrumphed, and then unfolded a corner of her shawl to reveal a chunk of waxy cheese and a loaf of bread. "Here is your repast – the government people are coming any time now. Your words on our behalf will be appreciated."
"We come to serve." Qui-Gon mollified and dismissed their crotchety hostess with another deep bow. Her long robes brushed the dusty floorboards as she sailed majestically back over the threshold and into the frigid courtyard outside.
"What do you suppose they do during the Hours of Observance?" Obi-Wan inquired, as the Jedi slogged their way across the rough courtyard to the designated Meeting Hall.
"Read from their sacred scriptures and sing hymns, and so forth," Qui-Gon replied. "We can make use of the time to meditate, so as not to offend their sensibilities again."
His apprentice pulled his cloak closed against the frigid wind. "Perhaps we should institute such a custom in the Temple," he suggested. "No menial labor nor physical exertion shall be undertaken from the hour of sun-up until the third hour past, on pain of expulsion."
"Ah, Padawan…. an active imagination is said to be healthy in a boy your age."
"Hm." The young Jedi sent a small rock skittering across his mentor's path with a nudge of the Force. It reversed direction and rolled back between his boots, bouncing merrily, and then reversed direction again, frisking at Qui-Gon's cloak hem, and then stopped in mid air and shot to one side, skidding to a standstill some ten meters away.
The Jedi master lengthened his already ground-eating stride. "Come along."
The Meeting Hall was warmed by enormous hearthfires and lit by smoking oil lamps; the soporific heat of the first amenity beat steadily against Obi-Wan's back as he watched the dark coils rise to the stained rafters and meld into the black and ashen residue slowly accruing on the simple beam roof like the slow formation of stalactites.
"All we are asking," the impatient visitor from the planetary commission repeated, irritation simmering in his nasal voice, "Is that you allow an emergency triage and treatment station to be erected within bounds of the Preserve. The State will pay for its operation and supply all requiiste power and personnel, as well as manning the search and rescue parties and manging the comm relays. We need nothing more than a signature!"
But the Elder and his sober council would have none of it. "Our charter explicitly bans the use of technology within our borders. If we violate those terms now, for however seemingly noble a cause, we may as well renounce our principles."
The commissioner grunted, slamming a thick hand upon the slab table. "So you would prefer tourists lost in the Preserve suffer or die for lack of immediate medical attention?"
The Elder's lips thinned, bright eyes flashing with a combative light. "Expeditions into this terriroty are voluntary. Surely those who come are making an act of informed consent? There are risks; access to medical care such as you describe is limited here. We do not force this upon anyone… it is the State that now wishes to retract the terms of sovereignty granted us by the Republic two centuries ago!"
The planetary authority threw up his hands in disgust. "Master Jedi... please!"
Qui-Gon's mellow voice joined the coiling smoke – fluid, enchanting, moving with a stately incontrovertibility. Obi-Wan followed the argument closely, though he knew already the basic tenor of the dispute and the possible compromises. The local government wished to establish a medical outpost on Preserve land, in light of increasing recreational accidents in the mountains; the Omicron community pointed out rightly that this was a violation of their Galactic charter, a legality which overrode most local statutes.
"..Your own people seek out advanced medical aid on occasion," Qui-Gon continued.
"That is a matter of individual conscience over which I have no authority," the Elder retorted. "Not all of us do so; but you ask for a outright and public violation of our most dearly held tenet. That is a different matter. Surely you Jedi have certain unique customs inside your own Temple? It is said you do not permit families, and children are raised in common. And that you live without personal property. How would you feel were the Republic to impose upon you – demanding that a family of politicians live among you, with all their possessions and their familial structure and their sensuous entertainments and customs? You would wish them removed beyond your borders."
"But this is a matter of sentient life and death," Obi-Wan answered. "There is a good to be served here beyond merely a clash of cultures."
He was silenced by a burning look from the assembled council and Qui-Gons' firm hand on his shoulder. He dipped his head and subsided, releasing a long calming breath. It was hard to be seen and not heard when very little else was being heard at all – but he did not wish to render the situation more difficult for his master.
"There is nothing to negotiate," the Elder repeated, wit finality. "If you wish to protect the citizenry, advise them to seek recreation outside the Preserve. There is no true need for a medical center here; if Omicron is left in peace, we will care for our own, as we always have."
But the commissioner was ill-satisfied. "Tourist revenues fund this little museum playground of yours, Elder," he snarled. "And money talks. If you won't compromise, then the Senate will. Your charter can be revised… or revoked!"
The ensuing uproar lasted several minutes. It was only Qui-Gon's imposing presence that settled the outraged delegates into a sullen silence. "There is no question of the charter being revoked," the tall Jedi sternly amended the commissioner's threat. "And proposed revisions will be sent to subcommittee and be lost in the legislative machinery for at least a decade. There is no benefit to be had from such a fatuous course of action. You must reach an agreement here, if there is to be any resolution at all."
The politician stood to speak again, face reddening, but his tirade was lost in an almighty bellowing and the thunder of hooves outside. The assembly sparnag to its feet in alarm, the city-goers stricken dumb and the local council galvanized into fearful action.
"The nerfs! The pasture fences must be down! Quick- they will trample down anything in their path!"
Every able-bodied man leapt for the door, Qui-Gon at their head.
The village was in the throes of pandemonium, foam flecked beasts charging in all directions, women screaming and hustling panicked children to shelter, horns and hooves and dust jumbled into a single ubiquitous cloud.
A hand tugged at the padawan's sleeve. "Obi-Wan. The pasture fence." Through the chaos, the young Jedi could barely glimpse the wrecked span of wooden posts. A mangled speeder lay half on its side amid the ruins. "See if there are casualties."
"Yes, Master!" he shouted, choking on air heavy with musk and swirling grit.
Two huge leas and a sprint brought him out of harm's way, and to the corner of the pasture corral. He dashed along its perimeter to the overturned vehicle. Lubricant pooled beneath the cracked chassis, and toxic vapor leaked from beneath the hood.
There was somebody trapped in the covered cockpit. His hand reached automatically for his 'saber, but the weapon was still safely concealed beneath Qui-Gon's tunics.
"Blast." He found the cracked edge of the viewport, and gripped it with both hands. Arms straining, the Force rippling through him, roughly hammering at the adhesive seals, he wrenched the warped plexisteel free of its moorings.
"Get out of there!" he commanded the cringing figure inside.
It took more than his voice to effect an escape. He reached in, seized the occupant by both thin arms, and heaved the shrieking prisoner out of harm's way. They tumbled onto the trampled grass beside the fence and rolled apart.
"You tore that off with your bare hands!" the Elder's daughter gasped, long ebony hair falling free of its prim cap, black dress torn and dusty.
"Not exactly," the padawan curtly responded. "Let's go – the speeder fluids are toxic. It might even blow."
"Oh."
He grabed the dumbstruck girl by the elbow and dragged her back toward the Meeting Hall. The stampede meanwhile had been diverted; a stream of heaving backs and flashing horns now glinted in the sunlight along the opposite end of the valley. The Force shimmered faintly with Qui-Gon's presence, testimony to the tall man's subtle influence over the maddened livestock.
"I just wanted to see how it worked," the girl sniffled, vainly attempting to escape his precautionary grip. "Ow! Let me go."
They made it to the steps beneath the roof. Obi-Wan released her and folded both arms, scowling. "You tried to pilot a vehicle you've never seen before? You don't know the first thing about speeders!" It had been stupid of the commissioner and his staff to leave their transport sitting out in the village square – stupid and disrespectful, but the girl's conduct was inexcusable.
"You don't know the first thing about me!"came her hot reply. "Jedi boy."
The intended insult served as shapr reminder of duty. He straightened, projecting calm authority s Qui-Gon would have done. "Are you all right? No injuries?"
She shook her head at him mulishly, obviously favoring one leg.
"I'm sure the animals will be safely contained," Obi-Wan continued. "And the damage repaired. At least there were no serious casualties."
All of a sudden, the girl began to weep. "My father… he'll kill me. I'll be expelled! Oh please don't tell – I'm going home now, before they miss me –please. Please, please don't tell."
He blinked. Lie? To the Elder? To the planetary commission? To… his master? "I can't -"
But she was already gone, limping furiously away across the trampled square, her tattered dress hem bunched in two hands, revealing tightly laced boots beneath. Her trailing shawl whipped about in the freezing wind, a dark sail untethered and flailing helplessly in the storm of her conflicted emotions.
He watched her disappear, a frown of puzzlement contacting his brows, and then went to find Qui-Gon.