Tranquility
Scene 8
"Oh," Obi-Wan murmurs when they arrive at their destination. The small frown upon his face leaks through into his slightly crestfallen tone. "…The Serenity Garden."
"Yes," his teacher retorts, a repressive undercurrent in his own voice. "A fine example of meditation in movement." Thumbs hooked placidly through his belt, he surveys the scene with great satisfaction, grey eyes tracing meaning - or perhaps even beauty – where his apprentice sees only sand and rock.
Qui-Gon Jinn is a famed devotee of the Living Force, and an avid pilgrim to gardens of all kinds – free form and rigidly groomed, ornamental herbariums, working orchards, hydroponic enclosures, wild meadows. And, apparently, even rock gardens, his disgruntled protégé privately observes. The man is incorrigible.
He is also, occasionally, incomprehensible. "There isn't a superfluity of motion here, Master," the padawan cannot help pointing out.
"A deficit soon to be amended." The Jedi master rummages in the small storage shed conveniently located at the Serenity Garden's perimeter, and emerges triumphantly wielding a single wrought metal rake. "Here. Don't forget to remove your boots."
Releasing his pique on a long exhalation, Obi-Wan divests himself of boots and stockings, and tentatively curls his toes in the sand's edge. When the rake is pressed into his hand, he accepts the implement with a distinctly martyred air.
"Though I would move the stones first, were I you," Qui-Gon advises, happily taking up an observation post at the far end. He waves a hand, magnanimously granting permission to commence the exercise.
His padawan blinks once, then succumbs to his fate with a half-hearted show of good grace. "Yes, Master."
After ten minutes, Obi-Wan has neatly arranged the various mineral elements into symmetrical rows, and is somewhat truculently raking the sand into perfect parallel lines.
"No," the tall man decides. "Do not impose order; feel their natural balance. Let the rocks tell you where to put them."
Obi-Wan's mutinous glare is fleeting, but highly expressive. Lancing bright across their fledgling bond is the distinct if unspoken assurance that the young Jedi can tell his master exactly where to put said rocks. A sharply raised brow and the slightest gesture with one hand bring him up short. He sighs – noisily – and begins rearranging the offending chunks of stone in a more organic pattern.
However, at the term of a second ten minute interval, Qui-Gon is looking at not an embodiment of harmony, but a cleverly stacked tower, a precarious citadel positioned in the very center of its sandy moat. Lines are being scribed round this imposing bastion, precise circles encompassing the one center.
"Padawan."
The industrious laborer halts his raking, and looks up. Insurrection is brewing behind the polite façade. There is a tightness in his posture and a very stubborn set to his chin that betray his mounting frustration. "Yes, Master."
"Do not pretend that is where the stones told you to put them."
Impertinence and black humor grapple for dominance and end up producing a kind of bastard offspring. "Well," the boy drawls, "Maybe it was a negotiated compromise."
When Qui-Gon stands, he visibly winces, alarm flaring in the Force about him. Qui-Gon lets him stew in it for along minute – such insouciance must be bridled, eventually - then strides forward with no more punishing intention than that of fixing a blindfold in place.
Obi-Wan relaxes, perceiving that he has not , after all, violated the sacred boundary between jest and disrespect.
"Now, my smart-mouthed young friend, you can start again without benefit of sight – or speech. Remember: like holding water. Open and still. And quiet."
A rueful shrug expresses apology and playful acquiescence to the mock-penalty. And with these preliminary skirmishes complete, the mood shifts to one more focused. They are ready to begin in earnest now.
The Jedi master takes up his sentinel position again and watches the moving meditation unfold.