Chapter 18: All Comes Down
It was in the market that Qui-Gon first believed that they could make this work, that they could form a true family from these completely disparate parts—a scientist, a wanderer, and a former Jedi. He watched Julune's delight as she ferried Obi-Wan through the vendors and stalls, the gentleness of her hand as it lay against the nape of the boy's neck, both protecting and guiding. Whether or not Dooku was correct in his assessment that Qui-Gon was already a good father, it could not be denied that Julune was already a marvelous mother to this twice-orphaned child.
It also amused Qui-Gon to witness Obi-Wan's shock and dawning horror when it became clear that Julune had brought him to the clothing vendor in order to buy "decent" clothes for him. A long argument ensued, which Julune won, mainly by appealing to Qui-Gon for support and promising that it would only be a couple of sturdy tunics, and perhaps a few stockings. Obi-Wan acquiesced with bad grace, and the Jinns got to see another new expression from their charge. He truly had very forbidding scowl, for such a soft-faced, sweet-voiced youngster.
But it didn't take long to tease Obi-Wan out of his ill humor, even though the "couple of tunics and a few stockings" turned to out to include trousers, undergarments, and a new belt. Simply walking away from the clothes vendor into the larger market was enough to turn the boy into little more than an open mouth and a pair of wide, sparkling eyes. And, remarkably, Qui-Gon also was able to see the market through fresh eyes, with Obi-Wan's wonder and timidity and hidden excitement glittering in a corner of his mind that was now well-traveled.
On other Bandor market days, Qui-Gon had seen only the shabbiness, the dull, fraying awnings and misshapen produce, the weary-eyed Meerians hurrying to complete their weekly shopping so they could escape the sodden gray sky. But Obi-Wan saw the array of colors, the strangeness and variety of the fruits and vegetables, the energy and bustle of the market-goers. Qui-Gon looked forward to taking the boy to better markets and fairs, on Thyferra, Corellia, Coruscant, Sylelius, Alderaan.
Almost Qui-Gon shook his head at that, at his own foolishness. Already he was making plans for future excursions with Obi-Wan, and he didn't even know yet . . . But he would not think of that. He chose to enjoy the moment.
Obi-Wan looked everywhere, trying to see everything at once, his head swiveling constantly to take it all in. He was a bit surprised and intimidated by the constant yelling of the vendors, though.
"Buy a pot! You need a pot! Everybody needs a pot!"
"Muja fruit! Snowberries! Nemana sweets!"
"Hot roasted velinuts! So delicious they melt on the tongue! Here, little one, you must want some nuts!"
A folded flimsy full of nuts was thrust toward Obi-Wan's face, and he jerked back and stepped closer to Qui-Gon, all but hiding behind his larger frame. The man sensed that he was dismayed by the use of Qui-Gon's special name for him by this pushy stranger. He placed a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder and smiled at the vendor.
"Not today. Fortune smile on you, friend."
The Meerian grinned back, not at all put off. Practically all the citizens of Bandomeer knew who Qui-Gon Jinn was by now, at least by reputation.
In the end, he just bought the flimsy of velinuts. It was the easiest way to get out of it. And Obi-Wan did enjoy them, mostly, once he figured out that the shells should be removed first. Julune simply rolled her eyes and sighed, by now accustomed to her husband's inability to turn down anyone—or anything—who looked up at him with big, hopeful eyes.
The best part of the entire trip, in Qui-Gon's opinion, was the walk back. By the time they left the market, Obi-Wan was already weaving on his feet, still weakened by his fever and his months of little food and less sleep. He was so tired, in fact, that it took very little arguing before he agreed to let Qui-Gon carry him pick-a-back. Julune gathered the bundles, and Qui-Gon hoisted the boy behind him, feeling the slender arms circle his neck from behind, the soft weight settling against his back and forearms.
Long before they reached their home street, Obi-Wan was asleep, his arms loose and relaxed, small face resting against the back of Qui-Gon's neck as gentle breaths tickled through his hair. It was this sensation, this bit of memory, that Qui-Gon cherished for weeks and months afterward, removing it from the box of his mind to turn it over in mental hands, enjoying every contour, watching it shine in the light. It was the way a widow would admire her jewelry on gray afternoons, remembering the one who gave it, living again the time when she was young and beautiful, and this necklace or that pendant adorned more than a dusty wooden chest.
X
"Is this right?"
Qui-Gon stepped away from the heating surface to inspect Obi-Wan's work. The boy had insisted on helping, but agreed to sit at the table while Qui-Gon worked in the rest of the kitchen. He at least seemed gratified that the man trusted him to use a knife.
The jili root in Obi-Wan's hand filled the air around them with its sharp, eye-opening scent. Qui-Gon bent down to inspect it, reflexively brushing his hand over the boy's head. He would need a haircut soon, but Qui-Gon rather liked having this much to run his fingers through, so he didn't mention it yet. Just as he didn't yet mention another matter.
"Very good, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, gently fingering the seasoning root, the thick skin the boy had peeled off it. "Cut just a bit deeper, though. See how fibrous the jili is just under the skin? It will jam the food chopper if it isn't cut off. Leave just the pale center of the root, so it looks like this." He ran a fingernail over a strip of whitish vegetable flesh, where the knife had cut to sufficient depth.
"All right." Obi-Wan flashed a quick, tiny smile, then bent again to his task. A time or two during their first few days Obi-Wan had used the word "sir," but Qui-Gon had quickly trained him out of that little habit.
Qui-Gon briskly ruffled his hair, leaving it in wild disarray, and stepped back to stir the white peppers sizzling in oil on the heating coil.
"Jili root smells really good," Obi-Wan said conversationally. "I bet it would make good tea."
"It does make good tea. Called marjili. Julune loves it—it's a little sweet for my taste, though." Qui-Gon paused. "Wait. You actually like tea? You didn't drink it earlier."
"When? With Master Shilbey and Nira?" Obi-Wan shrugged. "I still felt sick then. And it smelled much too strong for me."
"Hmm. I bet you'd like marjili with cinna."
"Cinna? As in cinna sweets? I love cinna!"
Qui-Gon chuckled to himself, very quietly so as not to offend. The boy has a sweet tooth. He sobered suddenly. Well, and why not? He's twelve years old. He's still a child.
And Qui-Gon was abruptly, inexplicably happy, all but overflowing with pure delight. Obi-Wan was still a child. His trust had been broken and his faith had been shaken, years had been taken from him with little or no return, and he had been thrust out of his home without protection and battered by the storms of the galaxy, but all was not lost. He was still a child. Qui-Gon and his wife still had a chance to give back a portion of what had been stolen from him.
"Next time we go to market, we'll buy some marjili with cinna tea," he promised.
There he went again, making plans for the future when it was still in question. But things should be decided soon, after all. They had gotten the comm from Heim Shilbey last night. He only needed three signatures now—his, Julune's, and Obi-Wan's. Qui-Gon just needed to find a way to say it to the boy . . . .
It shouldn't be so difficult. Qui-Gon had always been able to strike up conversations with sentients of any species, on any subject. But somehow he could not bring himself to broach this one topic to a twelve-year-old boy.
Obi-Wan had already given his life once—completely, trustingly, without question—and it had been thrown back in his face. How could Qui-Gon ask him to sign it away a second time?
Qui-Gon took the peeled jili root from the boy's hand as he finished and placed it in the food chopper, then went to the cooling box to fetch the nerf steaks. Obi-Wan watched in fascination—and something else—as the raw, red slabs struck the cutting board in front of him with a wet-sounding plop. "You mean it isn't cooked yet?"
"Well, no, Obi-Wan. That's what we're doing right now. Cooking one of Julune's favorite dinners."
"Oh." The boy's voice was very small and young.
"You were with us when we bought this in the market two days ago. Don't you remember?"
"I was almost asleep already by that time." The young voice was slightly defensive.
Qui-Gon hesitated. "Do the Jedi have rules about eating meat? Does it bother you?"
"No, no." Obi-Wan glanced up, affording him a glimpse of bright blue-green, and offered a sideways smile. "I've just never seen it while it was still so . . . red. And wet." He poked it with his paring knife. "And squishy."
Qui-Gon chuckled. "It gets worse. This is partly frozen, because it's easier to cut that way." He gently took the knife from Obi-Wan's hand and replaced it with a serrated one. "Cut the strips as thinly as you can. I'll get another knife and help you."
Before he could open the drawer, though, the chime for the front door began to sound. Qui-Gon stopped with his hand in midair, and shifted his momentum to turn down the heat under the peppers. Somehow he sensed that this was not going to be a short visit. He passed a reassuring hand over Obi-Wan's shoulder as he left the kitchen, but he could feel the boy's worried gaze follow him as he crossed the small common room to the front door.
He paused again with his hand reaching toward the door, his limb feeling suddenly weighted down with dread. Something disturbing was on the other side—not evil, not dangerous, perhaps, for the warning of the Force seemed chaotic and confused—but something that would disrupt the peace they had found. Qui-Gon didn't want to open the door. Let their visitor think that no one was home, and leave them alone.
But in the end, his natural hospitality started his hand moving again. He had never shut anyone out before. He could not deny a life of welcoming and openness.
The man at the door had a thick brown beard and calm eyes. Qui-Gon's eyes were immediately drawn to the cream-colored tunic and the brown robe, though, and then he saw the metal cylinder at his waist.
A Jedi.
Another Jedi had come to visit them.
Qui-Gon could not speak.
"Greetings, Qui-Gon Jinn." The Jedi's voice was smooth and calming. "I am Knight Andros Martin. I come on the behalf of a good friend of mine, who is occupied elsewhere. Otherwise he would be here to make his petition in person."
"Xanatos," Qui-Gon murmured.
Andros Martin tipped his head slightly, not in the least surprised. "Yes. He said that he sensed latent Force abilities in you. Perhaps you have already divined my purpose for coming to you?"
Qui-Gon swallowed thickly. The world seemed to reel. "I . . . I hope not."
"Knight Xanatos came to understand that he had made a mistake, and wishes to rectify it before it's too late. I've come to ask Obi-Wan Kenobi if he still desires to be a Padawan."