(2)
I am dreaming again, and there is nothing I can do about it.
Predictably, in my dream I am back on Tatooine. It irritates me. Haven't I finally found passage off this Force-forsaken planet?
I thrash around, and whack one elbow painfully on the sloping wall that forms the back of the narrow slab of a bunk that I seem to be lying on. I rouse just enough to confirm that I am, indeed, in the tiny sleeping cabin of the PellMell. I am alone, for the moment – the other bunk is unoccupied. Cradling my throbbing elbow with my hand, I drift back into semi-sleep. The same dream is still there, where it has been lying in wait for me.
(Jedi don't dream)
I have long dreamed extensively and vividly, but since the Force-disruption brought about by Alderaan's screaming death, this one recurring dream has taken on such urgency, such… dimension… for lack of a better word, that it even tries to follow me into wakeful states. There, I usually can ignore it. In sleep, there is no escaping from it.
I've tried to tell myself that it it's not a dream; it is merely a persistent memory. Yet each time it returns, I re-live it with the same freshness, and the same power. And each time it changes slightly. Images are added. The shadows grow longer. My sense of urgency increases.
The dream always begins the same way. I'm back in the hot, dusty, crowded main street of that run-down town on that insignificant desert planet so far away in the Outer Rim that it barely even attracts an Imperial presence. It is market day in Mos Eisley, and I am there because I am desperate for some diversion after nearly three weeks spent in for what is, for all intents and purposes, indentured labor for the Hutt.
I have some small reputation as a healer. I suppose it's not surprising that I fell into that profession as a way of finding a place for myself in the Galaxy – such as it is. To a well-trained Force-adept, many of the illnesses and injuries that plague beings of all kinds and origins are fairly easily dealt with. I learned early on that the trick lay not in the healing itself, but in how successfully I disguised the ease with which I do it. In those terrible early years I learned, through the pain of persecution and several near-captures as a rogue Jedi, that open, honest use of the Force in the ways I had been trained was a death sentence. I learned to stay on the less-developed fringes of the Galaxy. And, little by little, I taught myself the lore of local medicines in the cultures I travel through, hiding my too-efficient ministrations behind the plant extracts and potions and incantations that my patients understand and trust.
Somehow, this skill brought me to the notice of the famed gangster clan of the Outer Rim. Three years ago they sent one of their agents to find me and bring me back to their base of operations on Tatooine. Apparently, their too eager toying with and testing of some new weapons had damaged an unacceptable number of their ranks, and they wanted the problem fixed. Although they paid me a substantial fee for my services, it was clear that I wasn't being given a choice about whether to take up their offer. So I went, expecting nothing.
(A calm mind holds no expectations.)
They worked me hard, and then finally, when the suffering minions of the gangster clan were beginning to show strong signs of recovery, they let me go.
Even in the dream the heat in this place is extraordinary, as is the light. It amazes me that there is any life here at all, much less the teeming crowds that had gathered in the scorching midday to jostle and trade and gossip and make trouble. The stench is there, too, from the animals that mix so freely with the people. Not for the first time, I wish that the dream didn't insist on being quite so vivid.
Thanks to the Hutt, I have money, but there is nothing I want to buy. I need nothing. I wander from stall to stall, pretending to look at the meager wares, but my real diversion is studying the crowds around me.
I watch people all the time. It's in my nature. Shy as a child, I've always been happier observing others than participating. During my Jedi training observation was the basis for all learning.Later, of course, it became necessary for my survival. But the real reason I observe people so closely is that in spite of myself, I never can stop looking for others like me. Jedi.
How is it possible that he could have destroyed us so completely? How is it possible that I am the only survivor? Me, of all people? Why was I still alive when all the others had died? I was the least of them all.
The shame never goes away.
For a while, when I still was young – when I still knew what it was to hope – I had persuaded myself not only that I might find others, but that that my survival served a purpose. That I had been spared for a reason. That burning hope kept me going through those dark early years, but over time, it did not survive the harsh truths of my existence. Still, the habit of observing, of searching, remains with me always.
Pickpockets are rampant in a place like this. In short order I have spotted them all, even the ones I can't yet see with my eyes. I know their movements, and I'm pretty sure that I know who their next marks will be. Time was, I would have tried to stop them. But there are to many of them, everywhere I go; too many petty criminals, too many rogues and criminals and evildoers; and I am alone. I mustn't draw attention to myself, and so I have learned to coexist side by side with them. Ordinary life is petty, and mean, and unfair everywhere I go. It seems to be the way of things, and I have learned to accept it.
To my amazement one of the pickpockets seems to have targeted me. My first thought is that he must truly be desperate; in my shabby, nondescript rust-colored tunic and leggings, with my heavily worn boots and simple rucksack I am no one's idea of a wealthy mark. But then I realize that, with my paler skin – sun like this is new to me – and off world clothing I am clearly identifiable as a traveler, and therefore, as good possibility for a quick score. It amuses me that for the first time in many years, I actually have something worth stealing.
I keep up my façade of clueless abstraction while I deliberately drift away from him. I don't want any trouble, because trouble means attention, and that is something I cannot allow. On the pretense of shifting my interest to the next vendor's wares I take stock of my surroundings.
The market stalls are arranged along two sides of the widest road that cuts through the heart of the town. Even so, in this old town with its twisting streets the distance between them is not great, and the road between the stalls is jammed with people and animals moving in untidy streams in all directions. Right now a drover is goading two of those big, smelly, lumbering beasts they call banthas right through the middle of the crowd, so it's not possible to cross over. Oh, well. I'll just have to have a chat with the fellow. A few compelling words from me, and he'll forget all about his plan.
As I turn to locate my pursuer I realize that I'm not the sole focus of his attention – there's someone else he's keeping an eye on. It seems he has an accomplice. Well, why not? Keeping the second man clearly in focus, I slip closer to the first pickpocket to put an end to this silent little drama once and for all.
Only something happens to me, something so astonishing that I completely lose my concentration. Inexplicably, it feels as though a soundless explosion has taken place in my mind. A growing, expanding, penetrating sense of brightness permeates every part of my awareness leaving me shocked and overwhelmed and completely lost. I stumble, and in that moment I feel a tug on my rucksack as someone relieves me of it. I react instinctively, grabbing at it, but the unprecedented invasion of that light into my consciousness has taken up all my focus, so I miss.
I can't believe it. I miss!
I hear someone shout, "Give it back!" and there is a kind of scuffle behind me. Someone runs away. I turn around in slow motion, the only speed of which I am capable.
I feel and act as though I've just gone blind, but I haven't; there is nothing wrong with my eyes and nothing around me has changed. Still, the sense of unbearable brightness persists, bringing a hard lump to my throat, and making me dizzy and slow. My head is full of a persistent voice, chanting …it can't be, it can't be, please, please, let it be true, let it be true… over and over again and I realize that it's me and that I'm praying like a hapless, helpless creature, the very furthest thing from a Jedi.
(A Jedi approaches the Force as a partner, not as a supplicant.)
Please, please, please… I'm still begging inside when a hand catches my forearm and keeps me from falling, while another hand holds my rucksack, offering it to me."Are you all right?" a concerned young voice asks. I look at the strong, square fingers on my sleeve and raise my eyes to the wrist, and arm and shoulder, and finally to the boy's face that floats above them in my wavering vision. Warm blue eyes are looking at me with concern. But it's not his features that mesmerize me; it's light that surrounds him. The pure, shining light of the Force, which clearly loves him as I have only ever seen it love one other.
"Yes," I whisper, staring. It can't be, it can't be, it can't be… he's only a boy…
"You have to be careful here. Those guys had you picked out a long time ago." My rescuer smiles, and my heart turns over. Every time in the dream it turns over exactly the same way. "No offense, but off worlders are prime targets." He pushes the dangling rucksack toward me. "Here. They didn't get away with it."
"Yes," I croak. "I should have known. I was… I was distracted." I grasp the rucksack with a not very steady hand and swallow, remembering my manners in the nick of time. "Thank you."
"No problem," he says cheerfully and lets go of my arm. "Good luck. And watch your back!" And then he turns to leave.
He is leaving. My world is about to go dark again.
"No!" I cry.
"What?" He turns back to me, puzzlement written all over his face.
"I mean… " I scramble to recover. "I mean, don't go so quickly. I… I haven't thanked you properly. I don't... I don't even know your name…"
The boy grins.
"That's all right. There's nothing to thank me for, really."
"Let me buy you a drink, at least. A cold drink…" Don't go. Please don't go.
"Thanks," he says nicely, but he's backing away from me already. "I can't. I have to go meet my Uncle…" He lifts a hand in a friendly wave. The last words he ever says to me are, "take care," and then he disappears into the crowd.
So effortlessly, so easily, so naturally this strange boy did for me what I long ago had stopped doing for others. He helped me without a thought for himself.
In the dream I cry on the inside, strangled by hot and harsh tears that refuse to fall, when the brightness the boy brought with him is suddenly dimmed and I realize that it has been blotted out by a black shadow that grows and grows and fills my vision until it is all I can see.
Vader.
I struggle to push him away; I don't want him. It's the boy I want to see again, to be near him; I want to thank him again and again for reminding me what hope feels like.
(A Jedi seeks only the light.)
I curse the dream for forcing me to re-live that glorious light over and over again, only to have it snatched away each time. Lately it's even worse. The dream doesn't stop there; it drags me more and more deeply into the shadowy despair that Vader brings …
"Wake up!" A rough hand shakes my shoulder. I rouse instantly and see my pilot bending over me, a grim look on his brown, creased face and a hard glint in his pale eyes. "We've got some trouble. I need yer help."
I could kiss his leathery face, stubble and all. Any trouble is better than facing the rest of that dream, especially now, when I am so close to facing Vader in reality. I jump lightly off the bunk and follow him into the tiny cockpit. My elbow still aches in irritating reminder of my torn sleep, and I ignore it pointedly.
"Fly or shoot?" the pilot barks over his shoulder.
"What?" I must still be sleepy. I don't understand.
"Do yer wanna fly the ship, or shoot? I can't do both."
"Fly," I say automatically. Piloting is not my greatest strength, but given a choice I'll always opt to dodge things rather than kill them. It's ingrained in me.
I slip into the pilot's seat and take stock. The vessel's controls are reasonably familiar. Unfortunately, so is our situation. It seems we've encountered an Imperial blockade, and my pilot intends to outrun it. The problem is, he's readying the weapons.
"You can't fire on Imperials," I insist, checking the flight computer and the grid maps. "There are five of them. Give it up."
"Sorry," he says. "Not possible. If we're caught, they'll take us fer Rebels fer sure." He's priming the Ion cannon and the two rapid-fire laser canons. I didn't know you could fit that much armament on a ship this size. "So yer'd better get us outta here."
"That's not so bad," I say, holding our course and hesitating. "It's easier to talk our way out of that one than to run an Imperial blockade." I'm actually quite good at talking my way out of things.
"Not now, it isn't," he says through gritted teeth. "Now move! Or yer won't be flyin' or shootin' – yer'll be the one gettin' shot."
Reluctantly I change course and loop away from the blockade's lead ship, which is a small, fast patrol ship. I know they're going to chase us now, which will just make things worse. I hope the PellMell lives up to her name. I have no idea about her capabilities.
"What's happened?"
"The Imps are closin' up every traffic lane lookin' fer Rebels. They've got orders ter shoot first an' ask questions later. I don't know why." The pilot is aiming at the ship that is hard behind us; I can feel his intentions mounting through the Force. He's panicking, and not thinking clearly. I don't know what's going on, but I do know that if he shoots, hit or miss, they'll finish us off.
I lift one hand from the controls and gesture briefly in his direction. "There is no need to fire."
He hesitates, but the intent is still there. I can feel it. He's a tough, strong-minded one.
"Don't," I demand, in my most compelling voice. "I can get us out of this." I can feel his intention subside, even though he looks at me sharply.
Hoping that he stands firm, I loop around again and head straight back toward the lead patrol ship, all the while turning my full focus onto the living beings inside of it. I latch onto the mind of one that seems to be in charge, and begin to feed him some new ideas. Sure enough, it's only moments until we are hailed.
"State your destination and business."
I glance at my pilot. "See? Now they're asking questions first. Talk to them."
He scowls at me. "Yer'd better know what yer doin'."
I shrug. You never know for sure how these things will turn out. The pilot transmits the details that he stated in the original flight plan while I continue to fly straight toward the lead patrol ship, trying not to look threatening. But I don't let my concentration on the beings inside it waver. The effort it takes is enormous; I can't remember the last time I tried something like this. I'm fairly pulsing with the Force; I've expanded my consciousness so far and wide that I feel stretched thin, transparent, ghostly. With such acutely heightened perceptions, the impressions from everywhere around our little ship bombard my awareness with all the delicacy of asteroids. I can sense everything that is going on in the cluster of ships beyond us.
All at once something changes. I sense the lead officer's attention being jerked away from me; it feels like a rip in my mind. Then I realize that we're about to be fired on and I snap our little ship into a sharp roll that flattens both of us into our seats. The fire from their laser canon arrives after we've moved, and misses us completely.
"Jedi reflexes, yer've got," my pilot observes from between clenched teeth.
"Survival instinct," I correct quickly. Too quickly, maybe. "Something I'm quite sure you're familiar with."
He stares at me appraisingly. "Mebbe. But yer still headin' toward 'em."
"It's our only hope," I say, because I suddenly know it to be true. The quality of the Force everywhere around me has changed completely. Another intelligence has taken over among the Imperials, and everything suddenly is falling into place. As long as we don't make a run for it, they won't fire on us again. For now.
"Prepare to stop and be boarded," the order comes over the COM, and I settle back and loosen my battle grip on the controls.
"This is my stop," I say.
"What're yer playin' at?" the PellMell's pilot snarls, but I ignore him.
It seems that I have what I wanted. Apparently, all I had to do was to be in the right place, and to reveal myself in the Force.
I have been found.
(more to come...)