LIVING HISTORY
by ardavenport
= = = Part 6
"You!" Tykon pointed at Obi-Wan. "Get over here!" Clipping his saber on his belt, the young Jedi jogged over to the group of performers.
"Take this." The Director thrust an extended lightstick at him. "And defend yourself when they come at you. Form a line!" The performers in blue tunics hurried to obey. Their Director signaled for one to come forward. She was a tall red-haired woman with a large bust, wide hips and a narrow waist.
"Now try to cut his head off," Tykon instructed, his hands on his hips.
The woman came at Obi-Wan, swinging for his neck. His stick blocked hers. She swung downward for his head. He dodged to the side and blocked that, too.
"Watch how he moves!" Tykon commanded as he paced. "Legs bent! Arms up! I better see these moves in your auditions!"
Already, the people in the line imitated his stance.
"Next!" Tykon shouted.
Each performer took their turn swinging their sticks at Obi-Wan while Tykon yelled out criticism and the occasional encouragement. Very quickly he saw that they were all interested in the best looking attack, not in one that would actually succeed. They took wide stances and extravagantly swung their sticks. And if they didn't, their Director corrected them.
When everyone (Obi-Wan counted fifty-one of them) had their turn, Tykon told him to attack each performers next.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked uncertainly.
"Cut their heads off!" Tykon answered as if this should have been obvious.
The first performer stepped forward, the red-haired woman again. She took a wide stance and tightly gripped the hilt of her lightstick. Obi-Wan carefully positioned himself out of arm's reach of his opponent. One foot forward, one back. Knees bent. He swung the lightstick at her neck.
Half speed.
If the Director was unhappy with that, Obi-wan was prepared to accept being yelled at. He was not cutting anyone's head off.
Tykon said nothing to him. He saved all his ire for his performers, exhorting them to wave their arms wider, move more crisply and shouting that no one would see any tiny little gestures. Ocassionally he shouted 'Yes! Yes! Like that!' when he saw something he liked, but that was usually followed by a sharp correction or complaint tha the others hadn't done what he wanted. They came on one by one. They were all excellent athletes, nimble and fast learners. Obi-Wan could have gone faster; they were quick enough. But he kept his pace. They were not fighters; they were not fighting. They were dancing.
In the middle of the seventh dancer's turn, Tykon suddenly yelled, "Stop!" He marched right up to him, towering over the slight young man dressed as Jedi Knight Keth. Obi-Wan stepped back, lowering the lightstick. Tykon had inserted himself between him and the performer.
"What is that?! what is that?!"
Eyes fearful and looking trapped, the Keth gaped back, not knowing what his Director wanted.
"That! That!" Tykon furiously waved around an imaginary lightsaber and hopped back and forth in abbreviated lunges.
The Keth repeated his routine, but only got through a few paces before Tykon's hand came chopping down so hard that the prop clattered to the floor, rolling away, the blade still glowing blue. One of Falgan's assistants scurried to collect it.
"No!" He waved his arms frantically, rolling his eyes, openly mocking the other's moves. "Get back to the end of the line and watch what the others are doing and get it right when it's your turn again! Next!"
The performer slunk off while the next one took his place, her face set and eyes on Obi-Wan. She raised her prop.
"Begin!" Tykon commanded.
The routine continued with only the usual amount of criticism and rare praise from the Director. This Keth never took her eyes off Obi-Wan while she lunged and waved her lightstick. When her turn was done, Obi-Wan spotted the last Keth huddled with a couple others, while the rest of the group ignored them as if they were pretending the incident hadn't happened.
Halfway through the line, Tykon singled out another Keth for abuse though Obi-Wan could not see any significant difference in her performance from the others. He mocked her with a jerky imitation, elbows and knees and sent her to the back of the line. Two more got the same treatment; Tykon threw another lightstick across the room.
It was midday meal by the time they all completed one turn, except for another one who was singled out for abuse; he was the last to have his full turn with Obi-Wan again. Teams of Castle servants in blue came in with long tables and huge vats of food. The new noise and smells ate away at the order of all the work going on in the hall long before Tykon yelled, 'Break!'
The lightsticks were tossed into a big box, presumably to be replaced by new props from Falgan later in the day. People formed a long line for their food, the blue tunics of the performers mixed with the tans, grays and yellows of the other workers and technicians. Obi-Wan turned away from the scene.
"Aren't you going to eat?"
Obi-Wan looked down at one of the female performers. She was a head shorter than he, but broad shouldered for her height, with a prominent bust and small waist, dark skin and golden highlights in her brown hair.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Venerate Jedi Obi-Wan," she hastily corrected herself, her large brown eyes worried. He remembered that she moved a lot when she used the lightstick, forward and back.
"I need to check on my Master. He's still not feeling well," he explained.
"I am Yana Twarn, Venerate Jedi Obi-Wan," she answered shyly. He smiled back, accepting her introduction.
"I will return soon. If Director Tykon yells for me - - -"
"'If' he yells for you?" she asked with a grin.
He almost laughed at her observation.
"I will return soon." He crossed the hall, but when he climbed the main staircase and glanced back, he saw that she had not moved and she waved back at him before he turned away again.
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Snip. Snip. Snip.
There was someone else in the apartment. Qui-Gon had awoken to the gentle sound of the lift. Soft footsteps crossed the floor before slipping outside, rustling in the plants. He felt the change in the air from an open door. It refreshed him as if it diluted and washed away the declining virus in him. But he remained motionless. And watchful. His illness had not gone away.
Snip. Snip. Rustle. Rustle. Rustle. Snip. Scrape.
Whoever maintained the balcony garden went about their business, pruning and arranging and collecting things. The quiet movements blended in with the sounds of the breeze, buzzing insects and distant activities outside. The morning slowly grew warmer in the rising sunlight, lessening shadows. . . .
The footsteps returned. Very close. . . . . . . closer . . . . . .
Qui-Gon's hand shot straight up, his other hand pulling the blanket back in the same motion.
"Aaaahhh!" a feminine voice cried out.
He looked carefully at the small hand that had been about to touch his head. His own large hand easily captured the wrist and arm and part of a rough faded yellow sleeve. His eyes looked to his right. He saw fear in the Human woman's brown eyes. She seemed to be in her late-middle years, her slightly sagging medium brown skin beginning to wrinkle around the eyes and mouth; she had a small pointy chin, her face getting jowly with age. Her graying, dark brown hair was pulled back.
"Have we met before?" he inquired, his grip still firm.
"No," she said. "I apologize for the intrusion."
He released her. She pulled her arm back and held it close to her body, rubbing it with her other hand.
He pushed himself up to sit. Carefully. Though he did not lose his orientation of up and down, the dizziness annoyingly came back. But he kept his eyes on her, waiting.
"I am Sebo, Master Jedi," she introduced herself, nodding toward him, "the Lady Venerate of this tower. The plants should be tended every day. I did not come the day before yesterday when you were expected to arrive. Or yesterday when you did arrive and became ill. I did not wish to leave them untended for any longer," she finished and stopped rubbing her arm. She wore shades of faded yellow. A long sunny yellow shirt, pastel yellow pants and a matching swath of fabric around her neck and shoulders. And plain, simple sandals on her feet.
"I hope your garden has not suffered too badly from your absence."
She shook her head. "It is fine. Some of the fruit had over-ripened and the creepers were getting into the other pots, but nothing serious." She gestured toward the food prep area. "I have picked some of its produce, if you would like something," she offered. Qui-Gon saw a basket with colored rounds and oblongs in it. He shook his head.
"Perhaps later." He looked at her carefully again; her wrinkling skin was nearly the same tan as the wood of the apartment. He sensed worry. . . . . that he might see something in her? "I was unaware that there was a Venerate lodged in this tower. Or that we were displacing you."
"You are our honored guests," she said, a smile touching her lips. "And this is a special occasion. I am the embodiment of the Lady of the Tower. I occupy this place, her life, her History, just as she did thousands of years ago. It will be my Mystery revealed in the Play."
The lift hummed. They both turned and saw Obi-Wan Kenobi rising up into the room. With an expression of surprise he jumped off the lift and ran toward them.
"This is Venerate Sebo of this tower," he told his apprentice when he approached. Obi-Wan bowed to her.
"You do not need to address me with my title," she corrected. "As Venerates yourselves you have the right to address me only by my name."
"Then," Qui-Gon responded. "You should address me as Qui-Gon and my Padawan here is Obi-Wan."
She nodded.
"Sebo has come to tend the garden. And she has picked some of its bounty for us." He pointed and Obi-Wan saw the basket. "How are the preparations for the History Play going?"
"They've had an equipment delay and won't begin their first audition until later in the afternoon. They've stopping for second meal. I came to see how were doing."
"Better," Qui-Gon assured him. While he still felt the dizziness at the edge of his perception, it did not threaten to overwhelm him. "I should be able to join you tomorrow."
"Can I get you anything?" Obi-Wan offered.
"If you and Sebo prepare a meal, I would be pleased to have some."
"I will show you what I have brought in from the garden," Sebo told him. They went together to the food prep area.
Settling back into the pillows, Qui-Gon looked about. The shadows in the apartment told him that it was much later the he had thought. He watched the two of them, Sebo showing Obi-Wan what she had picked, then showing him the heating and cooling units. They were apparently new, added for the convenience of the Jedi guests, like the fresher unit. They opened up enclosures and storage units and she talked about the contents and meals and cleaning.
She was the Venerate of the Tower, living the part of the dowager mother of Cloras the First, the leader who later, after her mother's death, ended a generation of chaos after the fall of Darth Yarr. This was the era maintained in this part of the Living History Lands, the times and after-times of the Sith Lord. And Sebo had lived her part for more than thirty years, since she was a young woman.
Qui-Gon listened carefully. Though his young apprentice did not notice, he sensed that this was an intentionally abbreviated version of the story.
As they prepared a meal, Obi-Wan told Sebo about the Jedi on Coruscant. She had never been to the Galactic Republic. She had never been off her home world at all.
Finally, Obi-Wan approached with a tray. Qui-Gon pushed himself up straighter. There was food for both of them. Sebo exited with her own tray through a door outside.
"She prefers to eat in the garden," Obi-Wan explained, setting the tray before him. Qui-Gon took up an eating spear and sampled a cube of cut fruit. Fresh from the garden, the juices filled his mouth with a pleasing mix of sweet and tart. Sitting on a stool next to the sleeping platform, Obi-Wan took a stack of leafy vegetables and filling with starchy rounds on top and bottom and took a big bite.
= = = End Part 6