Healing

Chapter II

''

Owen and Beru held hands all morning when the fear of missing the first moments of Anakin's arrival - or worse - had prevented them all from leaving the house. Her presence had been as comforting to him then as it had been the night before but despite her words, Owen could not stop thinking that if the worst happened, he was responsible and no one else.

The roar of the engine had freed them all of their fears and very briefly, brought to them unexpected and unsought-for hope. Hope that had been dashed all the more brutally for having been given at all.

''

At Cliegg's insistence, Shmi was laid to rest on her own bed. Beru covered the mattress with the same thick muslin that she put as a screen in Anakin's room; Owen gathered stones from the rock garden and made the traditional arrangement at the foot of the bed; Padmé drew the curtains and lit the candles; Cliegg sat on his hoverchair in a corner of the now darkened room and tried to reconcile the profile of the anonymous mummy with the gentle features of his wife.

After he had reverently placed his mother's body on the bed, Anakin had stalked into a darkened corner and blended with the shadows. Owen remembered passing by him when he returned from outside. Other than that, no one except Padmé, who stood across the room from Anakin with her eyes ever fixed on his face, paid much attention to him. Everyone's attention was on the embalmed figure on the bed. Padmé was the only one who knew when Anakin slipped out of the room and left them. The burning candles had diminished considerably when Cliegg looked up from his wife's face and saw that her son was no longer with them.

As if on cue, the young people started drifting out then. Owen was the last to leave, his face almost alien with emotion as he passed his father. Then they were all gone and Cliegg Lars was left alone with his wife. He drew his chair to the bedside and finally decided that yes, the profile of this dead thing was indeed his wife's.

Twice widowed.

For long weeks now, the house had been trying to tell him that she was gone. He remembered the day he had finally had enough strength to leave his bed and his room and he had passed through the house and noticed the changes in the new way that books were stacked and the plates were placed to drain, the new solid meals that he was served and all the hundred little things that told him that it was a different woman from Shmi that did his housekeeping now. But somehow, even though the physical relics of her presence were being gradually erased from their home, he could not believe that she had completely left them. Her spirit was still very much with him, an almost tangible thing that he could almost reach and touch and there were times, early in the morning, between sleeping and waking when he felt that he need only roll over and his arm would fold around her.

When he woke up this morning, the illusion had left him. The air was thin and empty of any sense of her presence. His heart had jumped with pretended hope when the boy had returned; there was no real disappointment when he realized that the body Anakin lifted was lifeless. The old farmer had already felt his wife's passing sometime in the middle of the night when for the second time in his life, his heart had been broken into shards.

''

Cliegg went looking for the boy. He supposed that the girl - Padmé - would be the logical person to comfort Anakin but Cliegg suddenly felt greedy, desperate to have something of Shmi's to hold onto. Shmi had told him so much of her son that for the longest time, he had felt that he would know Anakin almost as much as Owen. But the person that turned up yesterday had not been a bright-eyed boy with a cheerful smile; neither had he been a stereotype Jedi with an imposing manner and wisdom beyond his years on his face. Anakin Skywalker was a strange young man with lines of unhappiness that had already marked his face before the news of his mother was broken to him. Yesterday, his face had been as transparent as plasti-glass as Cliegg broke the news, his eyes dark with pain and hopelessness as Cliegg recounted his mother's capture, his jaw straight with desperate resolve when he finally left. This morning, the man that returned with the prize that thirty men could not win was yet another stranger, one with a face that was no longer transparent but opaque beneath its mask of hatred and anger.

Anger and hatred directed at him, probably, thought Cliegg, sadly. Well, who could blame the boy? Perhaps, if his mother had been left as a slave to that Toydarian, she would be better off now. She would not be married to a man who was unable protect her from a fate worse than death.

Anakin was not in the house and a cursory glance around the farm yielded no sign of him. Cliegg wondered if he had gone off the farmstead. But the scoop was out back and the indoor monitors would indicate if the force field was breached from within. Cliegg began to ponderously examine the length and breadth of the farm silently, not calling because he already suspected that Anakin would not answer.

Half an hour later, Cliegg could feel the start of phantom pains in his leg, a sure sign that he was beginning to tire. He was also beginning to get worried. Where could Shmi's son be? Could he have used his Jedi powers to breach the force field without registering on the monitors?

Threepio was standing by the second vaporator, taking readings when Cliegg zoomed towards him.

"Master Cliegg!" the droid declared in its characteristic perpetually surprised manner. "I was not expecting to see you out at this hour! Mistress Beru would not be pleased," it added fretfully. It launched into a part-rebuking, part-devoted monologue on the importance of the physical limitations imposed on Cliegg by Mistress Beru and the medical droid that attended to him once a week.

Cliegg just let it rant on. During his convalescence, he had been surprised to realize that he actually missed the droid's irritating idiosyncrasies. Threepio had been turned out of the house after Shmi's capture; its constant monologue of dread and anxiety had not only been disturbing to the humans, but also to itself; the unusual level of anxiety threatened to permanently damage its personality motivator. A simple and cheap memory-wiping was the most logical solution but not even Owen had dared suggest that. Instead, Owen had come up with the next best alternative: Threepio was assigned duty outside the homestead, and out of the reach of people with whom it could interact. The isolation had enabled the droid's mechanical emotions to sort out themselves better than if they were a constant source of irritation to the humans. More practically, Threepio's contribution to the farm work was indispensable now that they could no longer afford hired hands.

Just one example of the string of innovations Owen had implemented during this crisis. Cliegg felt a sudden burst of pride as he thought of his son. The Lars' family was not the wealthiest in the farmlands but they had always been comfortable. Purchasing Shmi had punched a large hole through their finances. Cliegg never regretted it though. He rather considered himself lucky that he got her for what he did; he would have willingly paid that Toydarian a great deal more. The farm had been set back for years after that and it was estimated that they would be breaking even with next season's harvest.

Then Shmi was taken and a chain of events triggered that resulted in not only the loss of Cliegg's wife, but his friends, neighbours, and hired hands. There was the surgery on Anchorhead, his medical treatment, the second-hand hoverchair, the bills that he insisted on paying for the Kendall family… Cliegg had spent his weeks of convalescence close to mentally injuring himself with anxiety and guilt: Shmi, the farm, his son's inheritance… He had failed them all on so many levels.

The day Cliegg was finally well enough to move around the house, Owen gave him an up-to-date report of the farm's status. Cliegg just sat at the kitchen table and stared and stared at the datapads, unable to believe his eyes. He had pulled himself from his bed that morning expecting the worst. Instead, from Owen's reports, the farm, although still running below its average productivity levels, was far from the bankruptcy that Cliegg had dreaded. After that, Cliegg focused his energy on getting better and gave Owen free rein to manage the farm, partly because he was still too weak to be more than a hindrance, and partly because he knew that no one could do a better job. How Owen ran the farm with less than half of its usual labour and drastically diminished liquid resources was still beyond Cliegg. How Owen bore the burden of his responsibilities alongside his grief over Shmi and his lost friends with nothing more profound than the occasional lapse of memory shaking his dependability was a mystery to his father. But somehow, the boy - no, the man - was doing it. And no father could be more proud of his son than Cliegg was of Owen.

When was the last time I said "Good job" to Owen? Cliegg wondered suddenly. Have I ever said so to him since I got out of that bed? He did not think so. It was a dreadful mistake, one he intended to rectify as soon as possible. Life was too short. Life was too damn short. If he had never thought so before, the look on Anakin Skywalker's face as he carried his mother's body home was testament to the fact.

Cliegg broke out of his reverie and returned his attention to the droid.

Threepio was still talking.

"Where is Anakin, Threepio?" Cliegg asked, cutting off the droid's soliloquy.

"Master Ani in the garage, sir," replied the droid after a small miffed pause. "He asked me for the toolbox but I'm afraid Master Owen keeps it in a locked storage cabinet when he's not using it."

Cliegg was so surprised that he forgot to be irritated at Threepio. Whatever did Shmi's son need a toolbox for?

To the best of Cliegg's knowledge, the ship Anakin had come with was undamaged. What could he possibly need to repair? Or was there something else he needed tools for? Mentally, Cliegg ran through the inventory of instruments in the box: fasteners, cutters, borers… all standard hand tools, which needed careful handling otherwise they could cause severe personal damage…

A frightening possibility suddenly entered Cliegg's mind. Without another word Threepio, he pointed the hoverchair towards the garage and zoomed off.

''

Cliegg found the answers to his questions a few moments later. It was as far off the mark as it could possibly be from his wild speculations of self-inflicted violence and suicide. He felt distinctly foolish as he floated in his chair in the dusty doorway of the garage door.

Anakin stood at the work table, half bent over the myriad of broken machines and droid parts scattered in front of him. He worked methodically, using his bare hands and tools he must have had with him; a look of intense concentration had replaced the livid mask of emotion that had been on his face that morning.

"You're throwing away that filter? If my Anakin were here, he would have fixed it."

The memory came so quickly and unexpectedly that Cliegg actually turned, expecting to see her by his shoulder. He was acutely disappointed when his eyes met only empty air.

His eyes turned back to Shmi's son. The boy worked on steadily, giving no indication that he was aware of Cliegg's presence.

"You find anything worth repairing there, son?" Cliegg asked from the doorway.

Anakin ducked his head even lower. "A few things," he said tonelessly.

Cliegg nodded then he zoomed up to the high shelves. He unlocked the locker with his code and retrieved the old tool box. He zoomed back down and placed it on the table.

The boy bowed jerkily. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly. He laid aside the part he was working on and reached for the toolbox. Cliegg stared listlessly at the rusted machine part until he suddenly recognised it. It was an old chrono that Owen had won for Shmi a few seasons back during one of the Sand Fairs at Anchorhead. Yesterday, the girls had thrown it out as well as the rest of the junk in the storage room when they tidied up the room for Anakin to use.

The sound of metal clattering on the table drew Cliegg's attention back to Anakin. He was bent over something on the floor. One of the tools had slipped from his grip. It had broken through skin and red blood mingled with black grease on pale skin. Anakin straightened up and continued his work, completely ignoring the wound.

The action did not repulse Cliegg as much as it anguished him. The boy's pain was as closed off now as it had been vivid yesterday but it was all the more heartrending for that. And Cliegg was as powerless to reach out and comfort Shmi's son as he had been to his own son almost ten years ago.

His mind drifted to yesterday. He had watched the girls prepare the storage room for Anakin with the same impotent weariness. Cliegg could almost picture Shmi in Beru's shoes, older and happier as she prettied a room for her son to use. His wife had never said as much, but it was always understood that she was waiting for Anakin to finish his training and come and see her. Why Anakin was not allowed to see her before then was something she had never managed to explain sufficiently to Cliegg.

"His Master said it would conflict him," she had said. "He's young. He needs stability."

"What is unstable about a boy seeing his Mother?" Cliegg had retorted, genuinely puzzled. He had had half a mind to send a message to Coruscant about the matter. Seeing how dreadfully unhappy it made his wife, despite her attempts to hide it, had irked his short temper. It had taken Cliegg a long time to finally accept that it was her business and he had better leave well enough alone.

The girl had told them yesterday that Anakin was disobeying his Master by being here. Well, Cliegg might have been a simple moisture farmer but he could understand about rules, duty and blind obedience. His problem was not with obeying idiotic rules but making them in the first place. If, after his own stupidity and the Sand People's barbarism, Cliegg still had any anger to spare, it would probably be for the idiot Jedi that had prevented the boy from seeing his mother in the first place.

But as it stood, all of Cliegg's anger had burnt out during his weeks in this chair and what remained was the numbed acceptance of his own powerlessness.

Anakin continued his work, completely ignoring Cliegg. The old farmer felt at a complete loss. He had wanted to meet this boy, to talk to him, help him somehow…

…to ask his forgiveness…

but he had nothing to say now.

"If you need anything, son, I'll be in the house," Cliegg said.

"Yes, sir."

The colourless voice did not invite confidences. Cliegg gave the boy one last look, then he steered his chair out of the garage.

''

It was time for second meal; Beru busied herself in the kitchen preparing it. Owen sincerely doubted if anyone aside from Father, who would of course be bullied into it, would be able to muster up enough appetite to eat it. He helped her all the same, as usual finding respite in both her proximity and a familiar routine. Padmé found something to do that did not take her too far away from the north window where she watched as Father's hoverchair approached the house.

There was the familiar buzz of the repulsorlifts and Owen looked up just as his father entered the room.

"He was in the garage," Father said.

Padmé got up at once.

"Leave him be, lass," Father said gently. "He's fine, he's busy, working on some of that junk you lassies threw out yesterday. Give him time."

She nodded slowly and sat down again.

They were still giving him time hours later when evening was falling and Beru was back in the kitchen making third meal. This time, it was Owen's turn to watch from the north window as Padmé's small figure, food tray balanced in her arms, disappeared behind the garage outpost.

"You gave him tools to work with, Father Cliegg?" asked Beru suddenly. "That was kind of you."

Owen looked up in surprise. Father grunted and insisted that Anakin was probably saving them a small fortune by working on their stuff; providing him with tools was cheap remuneration.

Beru smiled a little as she placed his food in front of him. Father grimaced but he knew better than to argue and he started on it reluctantly.

"I missed a whole day's work today," Owen declared suddenly, staring down at his hands. There was no escaping the mundane facts of their existence even with the reopened wound of Mother Shmi's loss still fresh.

Beru reached over and took one of his hands. Father grunted again.

"You need a break, Owen," he said firmly. "I go over the schedule every morning. You and Beru have been doing the work of four men for close to a month and we've barely fallen behind last year's produce since harvest season started. That doesn't seem natural to me. You're doing a fine job, and don't you forget it."

Beru gasped. Owen's jaw dropped. Direct compliments from the taciturn Cliegg Lars were few and far between. Each one was treasured and buried in Owen's memory like a precious stone. He could feel his face turning red and an embarrassed lump rose up in his throat.

Father carefully placed his tray on his lap and propelled his chair from the table.

"Father Cliegg?" asked Beru in surprise.

"I'm going to my room," he said gruffly before the hoverchair zoomed out of the room. Beru looked after him, concern written all over her face.

Owen swallowed hard and tried to distract her. "Are they still there?" he asked, referring to Anakin and Padmé.

"I guess so," Beru shifted her gaze from the door Father had passed through, to the North window, "they would be here if they weren't."

"I need to go to the Dorrs tomorrow and get our shovels back." - She winced. - "And... I have to get to town early to take advantage of the early market."

Beru nodded. She looked at him and managed a smile. "It isn't nightfall yet, Owen. Let's see what we can do before it gets dark."

They held hands as they left the table and did not separate their link until they reached the first vaporator. Even then, the connection between them remained a tangible thing as they worked in tandem under the setting suns.

tbc