LIVING HISTORY
by ardavenport
= = = Part 5
Obi-Wan went back to Qui-Gon, still slowly eating the meal before him.
"Did Healer Mwassil warn you that you might get sick with the virus?"
"Yes, Master." He nodded. "She treated me so I would not be contagious, but she said that there wasn't any reliable test to see if I was infected or any way to prevent my being ill if I was. It will be three days before we know for sure."
Qui-Gon sighed. "Then you must be mindful of that. We must carry on as well as we can. Get dressed, Obi-Wan," he instructed.
"Do you need anything?"
"I need nothing. But you must represent us today with Director Tykon."
Obi-Wan made a face. "He was very agitated about our delay."
Qui-Gon looked surprised. "You have met him?"
He nodded. "When I went to get a healer for you. He is very. . . . opinionated."
"Then you must find a way to placate him for now."
"Am I to represent you on the Play's Committee?" As senior visiting Venerate, Qui-Gon was to have a position on a guidance Committee for the History Play. The Jedi Council had told the Maarzim that it was not necessary, but the appointment was an unavoidable tradition.
Qui-Gon shook his head. "No. Since the Committee directs the Play's Mystery itself, only I am allowed to participate. In the meantime, one of us must participate in the preparations. I should be able to join you tomorrow. Get dressed."
Obi-Wan nodded, picked up his lightsaber and went back to his own sleeping area. He fastened his over-tunic closed, put the tabbards on and wrapped his obi over that. He put on his belt, attached his lightsaber, and then he sat down, picking up his boots. There was a large mirror hanging between two wooden pillars and he scrutinized his appearance carefully. Turning to the side, he tied and checked the curl of his Padawan's lock on the back of his head. He shrugged on his robe and then noticed the scattered dirty clothes from the day before. He dropped them off onto the clothes cleaning unit in the fresher and then went to Qui-Gon's sleeping area.
"Leave them," Qui-Gon said as Obi-Wan bent to pick up the discarded clothes on the floor. He had finished his food, put aside the tray stand and had been lying with his eyes closed. They opened now, dark blue gaze serious. "They can be done when you return. Or I will clean them if I'm feeling better. You should not delay any further."
"Yes, Master," he replied, embarrassed. He put the clothes aside on the bench at the end of sleeping platform.
"I do not recall you being so reluctant on a mission, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon commented.
He took a breath before answering. "I was. . . . disturbed by your illness."
"I have been injured before."
"Yes, but . . . . you were always yourself those times."
"Ahhhh."
Obi-Wan detected a note of understanding in that last utterance.
"There will be times, when you will have to lead when I am incapacitated. Or worse. You do understand this?"
"I understand it better. Now."
"Experience is a difficult teacher," Qui-Gon said softly. "Please get me the com from my pouch."
Surprised by the change of subject, Obi-Wan looked around for Qui-Gon's things, found the belt under the pack and retrieved the Jedi com uit. Walking around the sleeping platform, he held it out.
"Put it on the stand please."
He did so.
"Now, if you need my advice, I will answer your call."
Obi-Wan smiled.
"Thank-you, Master."
"Go."
He bowed and without a backward glance, left the apartment.
%% ]]]-x-[[[ === ]]]-x-[[[ %% ]]]-x-[[[ === ]]]-x-[[[ %%
Qui-Gon settled back onto the pillows after watching Obi-Wan disappear down the lift.
His young apprentice had much to learn.
And his old Master had much to teach.
He closed his eyes, but that did not shut out the vertigo. He quieted his mind, relaxed his body. The Force flowed strong all around him, through him. But that persistent sense of dizziness remained at the back of his consciousness. He could compensate for it, find his balance with the Force, but the disorientation would not go away. It remained, a hazy boundary around his reality.
Perhaps he was getting old, he supposed. Or perhaps the virus just had a stronger focus than he did. The effects of it had lessened considerably from the evening before. And he felt slightly improved from when he had woken up that morning, a little less light-headed and weak. But Qui-Gon did not trust his own intuition on his condition, a rare occurrence for him. He wanted to be well and strong again too much.
And he still had little energy for getting up. Not just his weakened body, but his will and interest in rising were gone, drained away by the virus. That seemed to be the most crippling effect of the disease of all. . . . . .
%% ]]]-x-[[[ === ]]]-x-[[[ %% ]]]-x-[[[ === ]]]-x-[[[ %%
Obi-Wan heard the crowd voices long before he reached the main hall of the Castle.
When he arrived at the gallery below the tower, he paused to look down at the enormous main hall below. On one end under a huge carved stone arch were stacks of large crates and dozens of gray square and rectangular sheets, some as big a two stories tall. A team of people in loose pale clothes and lifter droids had some of the crates open. On the other end of the hall, under tha gallery, a crowd of people, all dressed in pale blue, were held captive by Director Tykon, pacing and lecturing before them. The artist's speech had cleared a wide circle around him on the stone floor below.
"This is not a leisure day drama or some three-credit holo," Tykon shouted as Obi-Wan walked to the wide staircase and down to the main level. "This is your History. A revelation. You live the immortality of your ancestors and your own with this Play. And I expect you all to appreciate the honor you have been given." He paused to stare them down for a moment.
"You were all selected from the best and I expect nothing less. More importantly YOU will expect nothing less from yourselves. You will work and you will work as hard as you have ever had to in your lives because this IS your life. This may be the only shining moment you have in your entire careers because no matter what you make of yourselves after this, I will make you into the best for this Play."
Unnoticed, Obi-Wan stepped down into the back of the crowd. He could see the top of Tykon's blond hair above the others he lectured; he was taller than most of them. Obi-wan moved around the edges of the group, looking for a better view.
"This is your first audition. The auditions that will decide your places in 'The Tragedy of Darth Yarr'. When you are performing out there, it will be for History. This is your Art. And as soon as those sssats Jedi drag themselves down here - - - "
"Uh, here!" Obi-Wan raised his hand. Everyone turned around to look at him and immediately a clear path to Director Tykon opened. Obi-Wan walked forward, feeling the eyes of the others on him for every step.
"Finally!" Tykon exclaimed. He waited until Obi-Wan stood before him. Today, the Director wore flat shoes, skin tight black pants and a long, sleeveless white shirt plus a white sash tied around his forehead, his blond hair held flat under it.
"Where's Jinn?" he demanded.
"Venerate Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi!" someone in the crowd shouted. After some sounds of grunting and pushing, the Head Castle Custodian who had the same name as the Director emerged, though Obi-Wan seriously doubted that they were related. "Director Tykon, you have been given special permission to dress," she paused to look up and down at his outfit, "completely inappropriately for the Living History Lands, but I insist that you treat our guests with the proper respect," the white-haired woman scolded. He glared down at her contemptuously, then at Obi-Wan.
"And where is Venerate Jedi Master Jinn?" he demanded in precise, clipped words.
"He is still feeling unwell," Obi-Wan said.
Tykon stepped forward, standing over him.
"Then I suppose that you will have to do," he pronounced. He whirled around. "Places!"
The crowd suddenly scattered outward and the people in blue reformed into five rows. They were dressed identically in loose blue tunics with long narrow cloth stoles over their necks that hung down to their knees. These were belted at the waist. They also wore dark blue pants and brown boots. And though their outfits were the same, they had various colors of hair and skin tones for Humans and they ranged in height from short to as tall as Tykon. Both males and females. All of them respectfully kept their eyes on the Director.
Others dressed in different colored shirts and veils, all in pale hues, took up positions with various equipment. Three holo-recorder droids hummed above them. At the far end of the great hall a team of people ignored the activity as they worked on an elaborate stage. The room sometimes echoed with their various distant construction noises and voices.
"Now, Venerate Jedi Apprentice Kenobi, you will grace us with your History," Tykon's lip curled a little, "and demonstrate your use of the lightsaber to our performers before they compete for their positions in this Play." Tykon waved toward the lightsaber hilt on Obi-Wan's belt.
"Uh, what did you want me to do?" he asked.
"Pecku!" Tykon called out, "bring me one of those props!"
The Director's assistant, the thin man Obi-Wan remembered from the day before, ran forward and gave the Director a silver and gold cylinder. Pecku wore clothes in the style of the Living History Lands, loose pants and long tunic. Apparently only Tykon was allowed the privilege of violating that rule.
Tykon hefted the cylinder that fit easily in his palm and Pecku stepped back. When he snapped his arm outward a blue, glowing mechanical stick shot out of one end. He swung it up, down and ended with a twirl and a lunge forward that completely exposed his body to an attacker.
"Show me that. Or however you Jedi do it," he demanded.
Obi-Wan unclipped his lightsaber. With a backward sweep of his arm, he ignited it and took a defensive posture.
"Falgan!" Tykon shouted, startling Obi-Wan.
"I'll get him!" Pecku called out. Obi-Wan heard running feet. Standing again, he let his saber go out.
"No! You keep that on!" Tykon pointed at him.
"I don't keep it activated if I'm not using it," Obi-Wan said, stating the most elementary lesson of Jedi training.
"You're using it right now!"
To satisfy him, Obi-Wan activated his blade again. Tykon angrily looked at it and then at his lighted stick, disdainfully holding it up before him.
No one could ever mistake the pole device for a lightsaber, though it was obviously meant to stand in for the Jedi weapon in the History Play. While it was bright enough to be seen in daylight, it was obviously just a lit clear-plas stick, nothing like the real thing. And the device was completely silent. Qui-Gon had told him that the Maarzim had asked for real lightsabers for their Play. The Jedi Council had firmly rejected the request.
A moment more of Tykon's pacing later, a stout man in loose and grubby tan clothes returned with Pecku.
"Falgan, look at this!"
"You didn't complain about them two days ago," he said gruffly.
Tykon pointed at Obi-Wan. "Look at that!"
Falgan looked where the Director pointed and flinched when he saw Obi-Wan's lightsaber blade, safely angled downward at his side.
"Oh. I guess that is a problem," he admitted, his face now worried.
"Didn't you look at those holos?" Tykon demanded.
"Yes, but those things never get the brightness right," he muttered, now intently studying Obi-Wan's blade, his expression calculating.
"Well, fix it!" Tykon threw down his lightstick on the stone floor. It bounced a few times and rolled away. But the display made no impression on Falgan, who had his eyes on the real lightsaber.
"Could you hold that straight up, please," he asked.
Obi-Wan did so.
Falgan looked at it carefully, but did not approach. Tykon grabbed another lightstick from a woman in an pale orange veil and threw it across the room. The sound of it clattering on the floor echoed in the great hall.
"Lower it slowly," Falgan requested. Obi-Wan did so.
"Thesps! Line up by height!" Tykon yelled, stomping off.
For the next several minutes, Obi-Wan moved his lightsaber up and down, swung the blade while Falgan watched. He collected some recording equipment and then asked Obi-Wan to do everything over again.
Away from them, Tykon badgered, threatened and exhorted his performers through some exercises. Along with the dance steps, Tykon demanded singing. A keyboard player accompanied them. Obi-Wan watched as one person sang:
We have a mission
A Jedi mission – destroy the Sith Lord!
Destroy the Sith in their lair!
And a second responded:
We have a mission,
A Jedi mission
And we have come to end
The evil Sith Lord's nightmare!
Obi-Wan had not imagined that 'The Tragedy of Darth Yarr' would involve this kind of singing and dancing. History Plays were supposed to be a near sacred rite on this world. He had just assumed that this one would be more like a solemn ritual and less like a popular holo-drama on Coruscant with perky music sung by smiling, twirling performers.
When they finished multiple repetitions of the song snippet there was a break during which the crowd of people watching rushed out among among the performers, checking costumes and shoes, touching up hair and making quick minor repairs. After yelling toward the stage end of the hall for sound suppressors (the work crew did not respond), Tykon moved on to part of another scene. While the others watched, he singled out different trios to recite their lines.
"What are you doing?" The first person demanded, pulling on a second person's arm.
"Me? Nothing. She can help us."
"Help us do what?"
"She works in the Castle. She'll let us in."
"I can," a third person said, slowly walking toward the first two, "For you."
The third person took the first person's arm and they walked off with the second one following.
Obi-Wan had no idea who these people were playing, or what the Play characters were doing, except for the bit of song about a Jedi mission. That seemed self-explanatory. All the parts were sung by both males and females of varying ages and sizes. And every one of the singers had excellent and well-trained voices.
Falgan finally finished his recordings and sent his assistants off with their equipment.
"I'll have the new props ready by afternoon repast!" he shouted, interrupting Tykon's berating of three performers
"Afternoon?" Tykon shouted back, obviously not happy. But Falgan just marched off, not impressed.
= = = End Part 5