Tranquility
Scene 3
Shafting light transubstantiates appearance into meaning, symbol into hidden truth. Dust motes flutter hypnotically upon the striating columns of gold, settling upon leaf and stem, swirling delicately in mid-air. Warm radiance spills onto the Jedi master's quiet form, picking out silver threads in his long mane, glinting on worn patches and a tiny torn seam in his cloak's hem. Eyes closed, hands open and relaxed upon his knees, he presents the picture of perfect tranquility – the Jedi ideal.
His young padawan suppresses a bright pang of envy. He will never be a Jedi like Qui-Gon… never achieve such effortless communion with the Force.
His stomach chooses this moment to growl insistently, and he blushes.
"Relax," the tall man advises, without opening his eyes.
Yes. Relax. Obi-Wan breaths in, out. A ten count, then a twenty. Thirty. Eyes closed. Reach out – not with the senses, not with thought, nor the conscious self… light filters inward, breaching invisible barriers, uniting world and self. Better…. Almost there….
A soft mental nudge, as though a broad hand has tipped him over the precipice of some luminous abyss; he falls upward with the rising steam, the ascending columns of light, expanding to the very buttresses overhead, rooted firmly in the soil beneath his crossed legs.
A seedling slowly unfurls in the shadow of a mighty sequoo, in the midst of a primordial forest. He is a newcomer to this grove, the last generation to push tentatively out of the earth's womb, up into nourishing light. His forbears rise in silent colonnades about him, a cathedral fretted with fire where swaying branches span the distant sky. His very nature is stillness, the slow ache of vegetable growth, inhalation without cease, the very light an undying repast, a libation poured through his very body, soaked into his blood without mediation. A deep tone resonates up from the deep places beneath him, where he is anchored, bound to the stretching roots of his ancestors, sustained and protected by them, fed by the same bounty.
The fragile young tree's stomach growls again, pleading for real food – hot and toothsome, savory and very very abundant –
"Padawan."
The great sequoo speaks, in a mellow but authoritative tone. Its sapling bends in the gusting breeze of its rebuke, and digs into the earth, fidgeting as though to ground himself in that sure foundation –
"Obi-Wan."
Felled with one startling chop, he nearly topples over on his side. Only Jedi reflexes save him. "I – Master?" His belly is twisting with hunger. It is far past midday and he ate lightly at firstmeal. His growing body demands sustenance, heedless of consequence.
"I'm sorry, Master. I… will do better." With a spurt of vexation, he notes that his clean trousers are now soiled and stained by the damp soil beneath his knees. Now he is not only famished, he is filthy - and frustrated. And worst of all, Qui-Gon is laughing at him. Not aloud, of course – but the tall man's grey eyes are crinkling at the corners, betraying secret mirth.
"I rescind my previous injunction," the Jedi master declares. "We will eat."
Relief floods through his hapless protégé. There is hope after all; he might survive this day's training. "Yes, Master." The words tumble out with a trifle more enthusiasm than is consonant with Jedi dignity, and he hastens to stand up, tucking hands into opposite sleeves, lifting his chin bravely.
His teacher smiles, amusement scudding over his face like clouds over clear water, and tweaks his infantile padawan braid. "Don't fret. We will find a way."