TITLE: In Memoriam, the way back to Caesarea…
SUMMARY: Kenobi/ original character. Situated between Ep. II and III
Ok, I suck at summaries…
Ten years after having to resign her commission as a Padawan, Noor Alrahan, a specialist of Eastern antiquity, is torn from her peaceful routine on Earth, brought back to the Temple and put back to training under the orders of Kenobi to fulfil a yet indefinite mission.
Here is her memoir…
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of this, Georges Lucas does, yadda, yadda, am just having momentarily my way with his characters, all the others are mine yadda, yadda, yadda...
NOTE: here are some clues to understand the chapter better.
Caesarea (Maritima) is an ancient roman city situated in the North of Israel. Built around 22 AD, it used to being the capital of Judea under the reign of the Caesars. The city was also the set of a play called Berenice, written by the 17th century French playwright Jean Racine telling the tragic love between the queen of Judea, Berenice and Titus who just took his late father's place as the leader of the Roman Empire. Although he loves her, the Roman customs forbid a marriage between an emperor and a queen. After a long conflict he has to yield in front of the people's will and send Berenice back to Caesarea and the Eastern desert, a fate worse than death.
Don't worry I am not writing a new Berenice here, am quite poor at writing versified classical tragedies anywayJ
*****
The wan daylight of January hardly pierced through the faded blue curtains drawn on the parlour's windows.
Dark gauze veiled the mirrors and on the cracked marble of the chimney, the bronze antic clock irremediably indicated half past ten.
The whole house lay quiet as the dead.
Abigail McGrath let out an utterly bored sigh thinking of all the entertaining or at least useful things she could do in London instead of being stuck in the middle of nowhere between a corpse and its maid--Ada, an unattractive toothless creature that dried up on foot in the service.
Quite honestly she had never been the family type. She had a successful career as an auctioneer, a busy independent life. But here she was in the middle of a domestic drama in the family estate, waiting for the improbable visit of the no less improbable local solicitor to settle everything now that her great aunt she barely knew was lying flat dead upstairs. She passed in review the detestable weather outside, the impeccably polished floor under her feet, the heavy smell of wax and condensed time floating in the room like a presence.
God, she hated the countryside on Sundays.
Willing her self to be patient, she got up from her armchair and started to stroll in the house. As she passed the hall, she heard the heavy step of Ada making the stairs moan. Abigail winced and retreated towards the study as discreetly as she could. So far she had managed to have as little contact with her as possible and intended to keep it this way until she could finally leave this place.
Waiting for the grunting maid to go away, the young woman surveyed her surroundings, letting her eyes wander aimlessly on the different pieces of furniture before focusing on the mahogany secretary.
'A nice piece', she thought with appreciation. 'Perfect condition. Mid Victorian era. Definitely feminine.'
She lightly brushed the polished wood warmed by dark red highlights shinning dimly in the dusky light of the room. On an impulse, she sat in front of it. The flap wasn't locked and opened with a creaking sound. It was very rude, she knew that, and disrespectful too, yes, yes … she couldn't decently give in the temptation to discover what that elegant desk concealed, now could she?
'Oops, too late!' she thought with a crooked smile her hand already exploring the drawers. Nothing thrilling, alas. It only contained her aunt's correspondence along with some administrative papers, bills, reports on her various lands and properties etc.
Reaching the bottom of the last drawer, her fingers grazed something metallic. A slow smile appeared on her lips as she probed for further details. This was indubitably a mechanism opening a hidden compartment. So blasted typical of that hopelessly romantic period. Inside was a flurry of old things which obviously hadn't seen daylight in a while: a yellowed lace trimmed handkerchief with a faded embroidery dating from the last century, a watch, a bunch of dried lavender, a strange tubular metallic thing, some unsavoury letters from some kin to her spouse gathered in several bundles. Putting away the metallic handle after examining it, Abigail glanced at the letters distractedly before pushing them away. If prying wasn't even awarded by some interesting discovery…
"IN MEMORIAM"Abigail froze her move. What was that? The script on the first page of this bundle was completely different. The stretched lines and curls of an elegant handwriting ran on a thick stack of pages sewed together. No name, no signature, just a title on the flyleaf.
"The way back to Caesarea…" read the subheading. How Racinian…
Caesarea, Caesarea… she whispered to herself, this word sounded terribly familiar. In a flash, she saw an ancient roman city lost in the Middle East, the harsh sky and the sea melting together beyond the rocky shore, the hard vertical lines of the dusty ruins that seemed to defy an inescapable sun. Yes, Caesarea Maritima, of course she knew this site…
This leaflet was probably a summary of useless archaeological ramblings written by one of the many Dr Alrahan among her kin. All were archaeology fanatics, all strangely obsessed with the same ancient city.
What an odd place to keep it though, why wasn't it put away in the library among the gloriously unread production of the family?
What an odd title too… "In memoriam"… a little too romantic for a scholar topic, or a little too morbid.
She laughed to herself thinking that it was the first time that she found an archaeological essay this intriguing. It would probably be the last anyway.
"Who are you, mysterious Berenice?" she muttered dryly as she briefly scanned the first page.
"I remember…
I remember the burning taste of mint…"
Maybe it was some notes about a voyage. No, the style was too personal and the typography was neatly arranged in an unusual way and gathered in fragments, almost like in prose poetry. Not really a diary either, a monograph perhaps? It looked more like a memoir, a long…
Abigail lost the thread of her analysis as she immersed herself in the reading and so the journey across time began…