Circa 42BBY, Old Republic Era
Tatooine System, the Galactic Republic
"Face it, Shmi, you're pregnant."
She grabs for the discarded test stick to inspect the latest results for herself. "That's not possible," she breathes out her stubborn disbelief even as she stares at the clearly positive reading.
Oma gives her a sympathetic look. "It's always possible even with precautions . . . you know that . . . nothing is foolproof . . . "
Maybe so, but not in this case. "It's not possible!"
"That was the third positive test," her friend points out. "But if you want to get a fancy scan, there's a free clinic in Mos Espa." Oma's face softens now as she perceives her distress. "Ah, don't cry. I'll go with you-"
"It's impossible!" she exclaims again, giving way to a rare bout of tears. Never in her wildest dreams would she have thought to find herself in this predicament. She has done her best to recall anything that might have resulted in pregnancy and come up with a blank. So unless someone drugged her and managed to hide it very well, there is no explanation.
"Shmi," her friend begins tentatively, "this place can be rough, I know . . . especially on party nights. You probably wouldn't be the first woman who was . . . uh . . . victimized . . ." Oma chooses her words carefully and refuses to meet her eyes.
But no, that's not it. "It's impossible!" she wails again, shaking her head in refusal to accept the truth. "Nothing happened!"
Oma doesn't debate the point. She just urges, "Get a scan. That way, you'll be sure. Then, you can make some decisions."
"Decisions?" She looks across to her friend blankly.
The pretty Twi'lek lowers her voice to a whisper. "Shmi, they won't let you keep it. They'll sell you."
She's right. Shmi sniffs, but then wonders aloud, "Would that be so bad?"
"It might," Oma warns. "Look, who's going to buy a pregnant slave? The new owner won't get much work out of you for months and they'll know it. Plus, there will be medical costs and a baby to feed and clothe. Shmi, you might sell cheap and you know what that means . . ."
Yes, she does. Slaves are bought cheap by owners who don't plan on keeping them. By owners who are looking for disposable people to work dangerous jobs or to mistreat. By owners who don't want to throw away good credits investing on droid labor when they can buy an inexpensive human instead. Shmi gulps hard. She feels her eyes well up yet again.
"Ah, don't cry . . . we'll take care of it . . ."
"This must be a mistake! It has to be a mistake!" she wails.
"Look, we'll go to the clinic this week. Tomorrow," her friend suggests. "You can get a scan and then they will give you the shot and it will all be over in a few days. You'll see . . . "
She picks up the latest test again to squint at it. Then she does the same with the previous two tests. She shakes her head as she casts them aside. "I can't believe this. It makes no sense."
"Do you . . . uh . . . need to . . . uh . . . talk to someone first?" Oma ventures awkwardly.
"What?" She's not following.
Her friend spells it out: "The father."
"What father?"
"The baby's father."
"There is no father."
Oma nods along. "It's fine. Shmi, you don't have to tell me—"
"There is no father." That's the confusing part.
"Oh. Okay." Oma looks completely unconvinced. "Well, then . . . we can go tomorrow without delay," she says a little too brightly. "We'll get it taken care of and there will be nothing to worry about."
Shmi looks her friend squarely in the eyes now. "Oma, there was no man."
"Huh?"
"There is no father. I haven't been with a man."
"Then how is it possible—"
"I can't explain it! I don't understand it. But there is no father." She hasn't slept with anyone in over two years. Not since that spacer guy who ran spice to the Core stopped coming by the Palace.
Oma looks like she wants to believe her, but doesn't. She just nods and keeps trying to be supportive. "It's okay. It's not my business. But let me help you. Shmi, I want to help you."
She nods and wipes at her eyes.
"Tomorrow morning, okay? I'm dancing the party tonight. Everyone will be hungover and no one will notice when we slip away. We'll be there and back in two hours, I promise. Now, don't cry. It will all be fine. In a few days, it will be like it never happened."
"I hope you're right," Shmi whispers.
"Of course, I'm right. I've done it myself once. There's nothing to worry about."
"Okay . . . " She tries to be positive.
The next morning, Oma's plan works perfectly. The Palace is quiet as all the powers-that-be sleep off the prior night's excess. There's no one to object when they commandeer one of the speeders for a run into town. Truthfully, Jabba's overseer is a fairly lax taskmaster. Nothing at the Palace runs as efficiently as it should. That's very typical of the Hutts.
The Mos Espa clinic confirms what the three cheap tests revealed: she is indeed pregnant.
Shmi peers at the scan results, looking at the blinking light that is the tiny heartbeat of her unwanted child.
She's a slave, so technically the baby is the property of her master. Consent is required by law to destroy that property. But this is Tatooine where laws and rules are bent regularly. And luckily, the sympathetic medic is understanding. He forges the requisite signature and a droid gives her a shot. The shot will stimulate her body to reject the child. The medic tells her she will cramp and bleed a bit over the course of a few days and then everything will go back to normal.
"Well, that's that," Oma declares victory as she hustles her back to the speeder. And truthfully, Shmi would be lying if she said she weren't enormously relieved. They make it back to the Palace undetected and no one is the wiser.
But later that day, she can't seem to get her mind off the inexplicable surprise baby she has terminated. "Forgive me," Shmi thinks as her hand involuntarily finds her flat stomach. She swallows the confusion and guilt she struggles to repress. She tells herself that she made the right decision. That she is ill prepared to be a single mother. She has no resources and few choices. What sort of life would that be for a child? She's not a religious person, so she isn't worried about eternal damnation from the Force or some other supreme being. But she is a good person and she doesn't take these sorts of decisions lightly.
But surely, she of all people can be forgiven this act given the circumstances. If she were a free woman in a relationship with a good man and they had a stable life, then pregnancy news might be greeted with joy. But instead, she is a slave and if she birthed this child, they would be a slave too. Born into a life of degradation and bondage. No one wants that. So Shmi tells herself that shot was an act of mercy, not of convenience. It's certainly not murder, like some people might accuse her of.
But she remains uneasy. Later that night when her work is done and she is alone in bed, Shmi is still restless. Her body is tired but her mind is wide awake. She just can't get the riddle of her pregnancy out of her mind. How did it happen? Could it happen again? None of it makes sense. And so, while the problem is solved, she is still very troubled. She drifts and dozes while she obsesses. And that's when she first hears the voice.
Hail lady, full of grace.
She bolts upright in bed. "Is someone there?" She turns on the light expecting to see a man. But there's no one there. It's just her in the repurposed storage closet that she calls her bedroom. But to be certain, she kicks off her covers and checks the lock on the door. Satisfied that it is secure, she climbs back into bed and tries again to rest.
Hail lady, full of grace. The Force is with you.
There it is again. "Who's there?" she calls out.
Do not be afraid. You have found favor with the Force.
"Who's there?" There's no one there, Shmi realizes. The voice is in her mind, not in her ears. She wipes at her eyes and settles back down. She must be dreaming. But still . . . that had sounded so real . . . like a man's intimate, husky whisper. He had sounded pleased.
Unto you, a child is given. He is the son of god, the king of kings, a prince of the Force, sent to rule the galaxy.
Yes, she is definitely dreaming. This must be the voice of her conscience bubbling up. Here is her self-recrimination manifesting itself in her unconscious mind. She's guilty even though she has no reason to feel guilty. That guilt is pricking at her and keeping her awake.
Frustrated, she grabs her pillow and stuffs it over her head, trying to block out the sound she isn't actually hearing. For how could she even be pregnant in the first place? She wasn't with a man. There was no way she could have conceived. She tries again to sleep. There will be lots of work in the morning.
Her determination to rest succeeds. The unseen, unheard voice is the last thing she remembers until she awakes in the morning.
All things are possible in the Force.
She runs into Oma at breakfast the next day. "Are you bleeding yet?" her friend whispers.
"Not yet," she whispers back.
She doesn't bleed at all that day. It's a little worrisome. She tries to put it out of her mind, but when she is alone at night in bed, she stresses over it. Should she get another shot? What if it didn't work? Maybe she was never even pregnant in the first place, she theorizes, and the scan was a mistake.
Unto you, a child is given.
There's that voice again. Angrily, Shmi speaks out loud into the darkened room. "There is no child! The child is dead! I killed it! I killed my own baby!" She killed her unwanted baby and she's becoming a bit indignant about it. Because why should she feel guilty about making a good decision for herself?
Take heart, dear lady. Let the Force give you strength. The Force will save the son of its handmaid.
Irritated, she snarls, "Who are you? Are you the Force?" Is she talking to god?
There is no answer. Of course, there is no answer. There is no answer because there is no voice. She's overtired and hallucinating. Too worried and stressed to think straight. Is this a dream or a nightmare? Maybe it's both.
The Force will protect the son of its handmaid.
"Go away!" she hisses. "Leave me alone!" She doesn't want to hear any more about the baby she killed. She just wants to put the whole matter behind her and move on. Now, if she will just start bleeding, she will be sure.
But she doesn't start bleeding the next day. Or the next day after that. When a full week passes, she and Oma head back to the Mos Espa clinic. Sometimes it takes a second shot, the kindly medic explains when a second scan again reveals a baby with a beating heart. Some of them just seem to want to hang on, he says with a shrug. Guess this one's a fighter. The droid gives her another shot and the medic assures her all will be fine.
But all isn't fine. The second shot doesn't work. By the next week, Shmi is tired, nauseous, and bloated feeling. A few days later, she starts vomiting.
"You're still pregnant," Oma deduces what Shmi fears most. It's a problem. A big problem. Because now it's past time to take another shot. At this point, she will have to use a different means and it's not free. As a slave, she has no credits of her own. She has to beg them from the overseer. That means she has to confess her predicament.
The overseer listens to her tale. It's clear he doesn't believe her. Not her tale of a miraculous pregnancy nor her story of going twice to Mos Espa to take care of it. He doesn't give her the credits for the procedure. Instead, he informs her that he had already decided to sell her. Let her new owner pay for the abortion, he shrugs. It's not his problem anymore.
So Shmi stays pregnant and miserable until a month later she is sold by Jabba to his Hutt cousin Gardulla. Shmi moves from one Hutt palace on Tatooine to another. Not much about her life changes except she leaves behind her good friend and confidante Oma.
As she attempts to process the meaning of her plight, Shmi is angry. For what fresh indignity is this? She has so little control over anything in life. Not even her own body, it seems. It is so discouraging. She has been made to be accepting by her life circumstances. But still . . . this pregnancy is a lot to swallow. She alternates between seething anger and true terror. But no one around her is the wiser. She knows that no one likes a high-strung servant. So, she has learned to keep a placid veneer even when inside she is quaking or boiling. Best to look unobtrusive and be forgettable, even if your heart is breaking.
Does the new overseer know she's pregnant? Shmi isn't certain. And it would be just like Jabba to cheat his cousin in a slave trade, to be honest. Should she speak up? She isn't sure. By the time she works up the nerve to broach the topic with her new overseer, she's nearly three months along.
This time, she omits the part about the miraculous conception. She just says she's pregnant. The overseer surprises her when he doesn't seem to care. He just tells her to get back to work. It's not at all the reaction she expects. And now, she is very worried that she will need to carry this unwanted child to term.
Upset, she cries herself to sleep that night. While muffling her sobs, she tries to ignore the voice she has heard intermittently most nights for months now. The voice always tells her the same things. That she has been chosen by the Force to bear a son. That the Force will protect her. That she should trust in the Force. It's a lot of ridiculous sentiment in solemn, archaic sounding language. Is it meant to comfort her? Because if so, it's not working. But somehow, as her pregnancy persists and progresses, the voice becomes stronger.
"Go away," she grumbles as she turns over and tries to block out the voice. But tonight, it seems he has something new to say.
What is your name? Help me to help you.
"Go away."
Tell me your name. Tell me where you are. I will find you.
"Go away."
Is she going psychotic? Are these hallucinations a sign of a mental break? Could her increasing desperation and fear truly be driving her crazy? She feels so fragile and afraid at times. She's all alone in a new setting with no one to trust. So, Shmi keeps her secrets to herself and hopes the overseer remembers their conversation. He's drunk and incoherent a lot, so who knows?
To make herself feel better, she reads up on how vivid dreams are common in pregnancy. How hormonal changes plus natural fears can combine for sleepless nights. And that all sounds very plausible in her case. But still . . . the voice seems so real. As the weeks slip by, the whole experience starts to feel increasingly real. The whispering voice in the back of her mind becomes a calm soothing baritone in her ear. She swears she actually hears it now.
When she's in her fifth month, Gardulla fires her overseer and hires a new one. The replacement is a woman who is capriciously rude and soon discovered to be vindictive. One day, she summons Shmi to her office.
"You're getting fat," the new overseer accuses.
"Yes," Shmi agrees.
"You're only fat in your stomach. Are you pregnant?"
"Yes."
"How come I don't know about that?"
"I told your predecessor."
"And he let you keep it?"
"Yes. He was fine with it."
"Probably because he was drunk," the woman sniffs. "Who are you sleeping with?"
"No one."
"Oh, come on—who did you sleep with? Who's the father?"
Shmi says nothing.
"Go on, tell me. I'm going to have a conversation with him. He owes me credits for his kid."
Shmi still says nothing.
It angers the new overseer. Wary of how things could escalate, Shmi now confesses the truth. "There is no father."
The skeptical woman crosses her arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"This baby wasn't conceived naturally. I can't explain it . . . I'm not sure how it happened . . ."
"Yeah, right."
"It's true," Shmi protests softly as her eyes fill with tears.
"It happened the usual way, I assume," the woman sneers. "Well, whatever. When is this kid due?"
"Early next season."
The woman grunts. "I guess that means it's getting late to get rid of it."
"I tried to get rid of it. I went to the clinic at Mos Espa and took the shot twice. It didn't work," Shmi laments.
"Well, that's a problem," the woman huffs. "Get back to work and I'll figure out something."
Naturally, the tale of that interaction gets around Gardulla's Palace. No one believes her story of a magical conception. They all think she's lying to hide an affair or a rape. Many seem to pity her for the situation. But others view her askance. As if she might dissolve into tears and erupt into violence at the slightest provocation. It makes her new co-workers distance from her. As a result, Shmi is more and more alone. Its just her, the unborn baby she can't seem to get rid of, and the voice in her head in the night.
In the bleary-eyed mornings, she worries over the meaning of the unseen man. But in the night, she begins to welcome his unflagging support. Has she invented him as a stand-in for the male partner missing in her life? Other women have husbands and boyfriends to help them through a pregnancy. She has no one.
The nightly visitations grow more distinct with time. They become less like fuzzy impressions and hazy, half-recalled memories and more like true interactions. It's frightening. She's going crazy, Shmi fears. Her mind is truly unhinged, like everyone suspects. For as the months pass and her belly grows, she begins to sense the voice physically.
It starts with the softest kiss on her cheek. Then a steady hand that brushes hair back from her face. The invisible touch is unnerving at the outset, but it fast becomes comforting. For as her unwanted, befuddling pregnancy progresses, Shmi desperately needs a hug. When everyone around her is cold and distant, the unseen man is warm and welcoming. He says fantastical things that sound so appealing that she wants to believe them. He is her only friend and her sole source of support through an ordeal she can neither understand nor control. And somehow, her imaginary man seems to know that. For he becomes her constant cheerleader.
Trust in the Force. Have faith. The Force will not forsake its handmaidT.
She has no idea what that really means, but it sounds so good. So, she wants to believe it.
Do not fear for I am with you. The Force is with you.
She wants to believe it too when the voice says that her unborn child has the Force. That as the child grows within her, that power grows within her temporarily.
Life creates the Force and makes it grow. Feel his heartbeat. Sense the child full of Force sent to save us all. Rejoice in his power reflected in you.
"I do," she answers back fervently. But the voice doesn't acknowledge her response. Can he hear her?
It takes a few more of these exchanges before she realizes that they are not exchanges. This is not a conversation. The voice says something and she reacts. That's all.
Still, the voice presses from its end for answers. For as much as she seeks to communicate, he does as well.
Tell me your name. Tell me where you are. I will find you. Let me help you.
But no matter how many times she says her name, the voice never seems to hear her. He repeats quiet requests into the night, begging for a response she cannot seem to give. Each night, they have two one-sided conversations. The only way they seem to reciprocate is through touch.
Tell me your name. Tell me where you are. I will find you. Let me help you.
Those are whispered words between torrid, open-mouthed kisses. For they progress fast past the initial salute on the cheek and tepid, chaste touches. She's full of hormones and craving comfort. He's covetous of her ripening body and the Force-strong child it shelters.
Mine.
The word lingers in her mind as his phantom lips kiss her burgeoning belly. His touch is so languid, so worshipful. For a woman mostly used to scorn, the implicit respect is beguiling. She can't see this man or speak to him, but she's half in love with him already.
Mine. One day, I will claim you both. He will be my only begotten son and you will be my holy lady of the Force. I will build you a pedestal and adore you.
"Yes!" Come take her away from this mostly hopeless life of slavery. Come give her the improbable happy ending she longs for with the prince charming she never expected. The life where she has the love and commitment of a good man. The life where she is a free woman who can decide her own future. The life in which no one can sell her or sell her son.
Tell me where to find you and I will claim you. I will be husband to you and foster-father to the boy.
In the night, it all feels so possible. But in the cold light of day, Shmi knows her fantasies of a rescue are cruel self-delusion. For there is no romantic lover at midnight. This baby probably doesn't have the Force. And there will be no one to protect them going forward. But for now, this pleasant company is all she has. So tired Shmi looks forward to the evening when unseen arms envelope her eagerly. She cries on the shoulder of the phantom man who strokes her hair and tells her to have faith and trust in the Force . . . that things will be alright. She relishes the feel of his hands and lips that roam freely. She yields her body completely and glories in the physical surrender.
Maybe it's pathetic fantasy, but it's all she has. And with the uncertain life she leads, this may be all she ever gets. So whether he's real or not is beside the point. Whoever this man is, he's getting her through the most difficult time of her already difficult life. For slowly, Shmi is resigning herself to becoming a mother. Somedays, she's even warming to the idea.
Name him Anakin.
She doesn't know that name. She's never heard that name.
It is an old name from an old language that fell out of use a thousand generations ago. It means 'Force with us.'
That sounds nice. She says the name out loud, "Anakin," even though he cannot hear her.
Anakin will be the Force incarnate, the living Force among us. He will be a boy like any other boy and yet like no other. He will grow into a marvelous man, a microcosm of the universe walking with us, tempted in every way to Light and to Darkness. And one day, he will bring us balance.
She doesn't understand those words, but she likes them. "Anakin," she says again.
I cannot wait to meet him. I will teach him everything I know. You must teach him too. Shelter him in your Light and I will temper him with Darkness. He will be the best of both of us. You shall see. It is his destiny.
The voice always speaks like that—with grandiose promises of family life. Like they are husband and wife awaiting the birth of a much-wanted child. But the voice is probably a figment of her imagination and she's a slave woman about to bring a fatherless child into a life of slavery. None of these pretty scenarios will ever come to pass. But they are like a lovely daydream—comforting escapism from the rigors of real life. More importantly, they are an expression of hope. And maybe it's futile hope, but it's hope all the same. And from hope, comes strength.
There are many people who misunderstand strength. They perceive strength mostly in the context of conflict. Because strong people are fighters who stand up for themselves and their ideas. They speak directly, often loudly, to demand what they want. And if they encounter opposition, they keep demanding. Because strong people make things happen and they don't compromise.
Shmi knows she is none of those things. She is a slave who cannot make demands. She avoids conflict whenever possible because she knows she will lose. Her life is a series of compromises and lowered expectations. She has no autonomy. Things happen to her, she doesn't make things happen. Add in her soft-spoken, don't-notice-me demeanor, and she is widely perceived to be meek. But, in truth, she's not meek. She just lives a life of severe limitations she cannot change. Coping with those circumstances makes her strong. But because of her obvious vulnerabilities, no one can see it. No one, that is, except the voice in her head in the night. He is her tireless cheerleader.
The Force chose you, and the Force does not make mistakes. You can do this. Now concentrate and tell me who you are. Tell me where you are. I will find you and help you.
"I'm Shmi Skywalker. I am a slave to Gardulla the Hutt on Tattooine." She tries yet again to communicate. But, as always, the voice cannot seem to hear her. It's probably proof that he's a hallucination, she has concluded. But she tries again anyway. She might as well.
Tell me who you are. Tell me where you are. I will find you. Time is running out. You must be in your ninth month now. Concentrate, for your Force is at its strongest now.
"I'm Shmi Skywalker. I am a slave to Gardulla the Hutt in Tattooine. Please, come buy me and buy my baby!" At least buy the boy. Save him from slavery. Give him a future—any future will do. It doesn't have to be as grand as he promises.
But her efforts are to no avail. She never manages to identify herself.
Her baby comes into the world with a full head of dark blondish hair. The medic droids assess his vital signs, declare him healthy, and then promptly inject his neck with an explosive chip. It marks him as a slave and it matches the one in her own neck. It will explode if she attempts escape.
How is this the fate of the boy who is the Force incarnate? Why does this befall the prince sent to rule the galaxy? Who could ever believe that the humble newborn birthed by a slave woman on a dead-end world is the hope for the future? Well, no one. Shmi takes it as proof that all those promises were false. It never occurs to her that her child's obscurity is intentional . . . that anonymity protects him . . .
But she gets her happy ending after all. She takes one look at the pink, squalling boy child wrapped in swaddling clothes and falls in love. She hadn't wanted this child, she had tried to avoid birthing him, but here he is. And he's perfect. She is relieved to love him, for she feared that she might resent him.
She names him Anakin, like the voice in the night suggested. It's a rare name for a special child.
She never hears the voice again. For with her baby's birth, she loses whatever connection she had to the unseen man. If he even ever existed, that is. Maybe he was just in her mind all along, a crutch to help herself through hard times. She'll never know. She stops worrying about it. In time, she comes to remember him as something like a guardian angel. He stepped in for a fleeting time to shepherd her though great trauma. For that she will be forever grateful.
Eventually her boy grows old enough to ask about his father. She takes refuge in convenient non-answers for several years. But when Anakin reaches age nine, she decides that he is old enough to understand about his circumstances. Shmi tells her son the truth: that he has no father. The boy is still too young to comprehend sex, but he gets the gist: he is special. So special, in fact, that an angel told her of his arrival.
"But I'm not special. I'm a slave," young Anakin protests.
"The angel told me you were special, and I believe him. I believe in you," she answers.
Not long after that, two Jedi Knights pass through town. They leave with young Anakin and her blessing. For as hard as it is to part with her beloved son, she always hoped this day would come. And truthfully, she would surrender her child to anyone who will lead him out of bondage. She will not let her love for Anakin stand in the way of his future.
The Jedi tell her that her son has the magical Force. It's confirmation of what the angel told her long ago and what she has since observed for herself. She doesn't tell the Jedi about the angel's promises that young Anakin will save them all. She just tells the two men what she firmly believes: that he can help them . . . that he was meant to help them. For she still hopes that the angel's words will someday come true.
She gives up Anakin without knowing that the angel will find her eventually. He arrives belatedly because he is delayed when his Apprentice takes a sword to him. Too late he comes to claim the boy whose advent he once heralded. But the Jedi have stolen a march on him when they pounced upon young Anakin. The boy is now a very promising Padawan. And by this time, Shmi has been sold yet again. She now belongs to a lonely widower moisture farmer.
The angel in the black hooded cloak sees he has missed his chance. Had this been years previous, he would have taken care of Shmi and raised the boy as promised. For the angel knows what his usurping Apprentice knows: that he who controls the Chosen One controls the Force. But it's too late for the Skywalkers to be a happy family. And since the Jedi forbid attachments, poor Shmi is of no further use going forward.
Still, the angel is magnanimous. He waves a spindly hand before Shmi's new moisture farmer slave master. The angel intones his commands softly: you will free this woman, you will marry this woman, you will make her happy. It's a small thing, but it means everything to the anonymous woman who births Darth Vader. And now, the angel—the very Dark, fearsome angel—withdraws. He once watched over the mother, but now he will watch over the son from afar. And one day, he plots, he will claim the boy. For everything he told the mother long ago was true. The child is the Force made flesh sent to rule the galaxy. And most importantly, that child is his.