LIVING HISTORY
by ardavenport
= = = Part 7
"How did this morning's activities go?" Qui-Gon asked after they had eaten in silence for a bit.
"They had problems with the props they are using for lightsabers. Otherwise the Director had me rehearse with the performers."
Qui-Gon chewed a bite. The berries were a little sour, but firm and very fresh.
"You find this disturbing?"
Sitting on a padded stool next to the sleeping platform, the tray of food between them, Obi-Wan grimaced, uncomfortable that his Master had read his feelings so clearly. Qui-Gon smiled. Obi-Wan was old enough to want to be independent, but still too young to really know how much he had to learn.
"It does not seem necessary for either of us to be here for these preparations, Master. Any one of Director Tykon's assitants could rehearse with the performers, who seem to be very familiar with their parts already."
"None of them are Jedi."
"Master, they do not need Jedi at all for this Play."
"This is not just a Play, Obi-Wan. It is a celebration of Maarzim History. The Maarzim connections to their past are sacred. They believe that it bestows a form of immortality, to themselves and to the people and events they celebrate. And they do it with performance. There are many other productions being prepared in other parts of the Living History Lands, with dignitaries from other parts of the galaxy to share the celebrations. This one commemorates the site of the defeat of Darth Yarr and for that, the Maarzim wanted real Jedi to help them celebrate their new Chancellor's investiture. Our participation in the preparations and attendance at the performance are considered a meaningful blessing for the event since the hertiage of the Jedi is unbroken since the time of Darth Yarr." Qui-Gon took a bite of leafy vegetable.
"Yes, Master," he acknowledged what they both knew from the mission briefing, "but I do not understand. This Play does not feel . . . sacred." Obi-Wan picked up a small pressed grain-round.
Qui-Gon chuckled. "It does not have to feel sacred to either of us. We only need to accept that it is to them. Be mindful of that, my young apprentice."
Crunching his morsel thoughtfully, Obi-Wan nodded, but still seemed uneasy.
"There is more?" Qui-Gon prompted after he finished the round and reached for another.
"Director Tykon is . . . . very demanding. And vocal about what he wishes."
Qui-Gon shrugged. "He is well regarded in his art. Many artists demand much from those they lead."
"Yes, Master. But he is very . . . . emotional. And angry when he doesn't get what he wants. Excessively so. It seems unnecessary. All of the performers are eager to follow his direction, but he is harsh and rarely acknowledges their skill."
"Aaaaaaaah," Qui-Gon nodded, understanding. "When Master Custrozhu instructed you and the other Padawans at the Temple recently, was he not harsh with all of you?"
"But that is training for battle, Master. Master Custrozhu needs to drive us to our best, because a real adversary would show us no mercy. And Master Custrozhu does not use anger to drive us."
"No, a Jedi would not. But a performer at Director Tykon's level uses all emotions, and for him the stage is a battlefield to be commanded and won; his performers are his army. A real audience will show them no mercy, either."
"Were the performers in the holo that you participated in at Director Tykon's level?"
Qui-Gon frowned at the mention of that long ago assignment. Master Piel had mentioned it in their mission briefing and Obi-Wan had naturally asked about it later.
"I did not 'participate' in the holo-drama; I merely advised. At the direction of the Council." Qui-Gon picked up a slice of fruit; there were only scraps left of their meal on the tray, leftover cubes and wedges, berries and nuts and a few smears of sauce on the plates.
Jedi were legendary in the Galactic Republic. So, naturally the writers and producers of holo-dramas ocassionally used Jedi. It was impossible (and against the Jedi Code) for the Council to stop it, though obviously some of the senior Masters in the Order would love to find a way. The Jedi Temple had denials for every possible inquiry about interviews, tours and personal details that were not in the histories and references approved by the Jedi Order. But sometimes, when an artist of sufficient credibility and a reputation for honest historical depiction sent in a request, the Jedi Council would deem it 'in the interests of the Jedi Order' to be properly represented to the citizens of the Republic that they defended. Qui-Gon had his turn providing guidance for a holo-drama when he was a much younger Knight.
"But you advised the Director of that holo-drama. Did she use anger to push her performers?"
"She did," he nodded, recalling that trivial mission from his past. It had been an adventure story for two lovers on Coruscant; the father of one of them had asked an old friend, a Jedi Master, to assist them. "She also used tragedy, humor, fear, envy, joy, surprise and anything else that worked to extract the emotions she wanted from her performers." The director and writer of the drama had been a small, bossy Twi'lek woman name Lela Ruturno. She knew exactly what she wanted and would settle for nothing less. She had been similar to Director Tykon, but she could intimidate her subordinates just as well with a simple glare than with a shout. She was intelligent and had done proper research; the story's Jedi, Master Brak'cha was as accurate a fictional representative of the Order as the Council could want.
Qui-Gon's assignment had been no more taxing than attending a diplomatic event at one of the thousands of the planetary embassies on Coruscant and he had spent most of his time with the elderly performer who portrayed Brak'cha, Roetee Zhazem. With a planet-sized ego and talent to matche it, she had been the martriarch of the whole cast who treated her with awe and reverence. When she wasn't entertaining her fellow dramatists with songs and tales of her past exploits, she could turn the character of Brak'cha off and on like a switch. Director Lela Ruturno had no reason to glare in Zhazem's direction. Roetee Zhazem was widely memorialized when she died a few years later and even the Jedi Council had acknowledge her with a terse 'talented artist who has now joined the Force' comment for her portrayal of Master Brak'cha; high praise indeed.
His apprentice made a sour face that had nothing to do with the last berry he had eaten.
"Director Tykon is an artist," Qui-Gon explained. "He is driven by emotion because that is how he will win his battle. We will have to be diplomatic with him.
"The participation of a Venerate is always required for any History drama. And the Council has sent us to fulfill that role, in return for the remains of Darth Yarr's holocron; we will assist in their preparations and officiate at the performance. It is not our place to question their methods. Be mindful of that, my young Padawan."
"Yes, Master."
They finished their meal and Obi-Wan told him more about the problem with the simulated lightsabers, Tykon's reaction to them and the exercises with the performers. And the dancing and singing.
"Interesting," Qui-Gon noted. They only knew that the Play was about the defeat of Darth Yarr. The specific contents of it were to be kept secret until the performance, to enhance its mystique. Only the Creative Committee knew all the details. It included Director Tykon and three other artists, along with Sebo, the keeper of the Mystery to be revealed, and Custodian Tykon, the senior Venerate of Naardin Castle. As senior Jedi Venerate, Qui-Gon was to be a visiting member on the Committee as well; his status was special since the Jedi Order had a continuous history back to and far beyond the time of Darth Yarr. It was a great prize for the incoming Chancellor to have convinced he Jedi Council to send them.
He had expected to meet with the Creative Committee when they arrived, but lateness and illness intervened. The Jedi Council's only interest was in the remains of Yarr's holocron and Qui-Gon planned to cede any authority over the Play to the others. The contents of it did not matter to him, though he could not imagine how singing could be involved in a conflict with a Sith. He sympathized with Obi-Wan's confusion about that.
"You should go back now," he instructed as Obi-Wan took the empty tray.
He paused. "Will you need anything else?"
"I will be fine here. You should attend to our mission."
Obi-Wan hesitated, his eyes going toward an outer wall, and the balcony garden beyond.
"I will tell Sebo that you have left. Now go."
Nodding, Obi-Wan turned away. He went back to the eating area and put the tray on the table. Then he went to the lift and with one last look of farewell, descended and left.
Qui-Gon settled back into the pillows.
He still felt the dizziness, like an annoying insect buzzing beyond his reach. During the meal he had ignored it, an illusion that it had finally passed, but now alone, by himself, he knew that this had been self-deception. He closed his eyes.
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Eyes on the two fighters, Director Tykon stalked up and down the lines of performers. While the others watched, Obi-Wan was paired with one of them. Tykon shouted for them to repeat the routine with the improved lightsticks.
A Jedi would never mistake them for real lightsabers, but they were about the right length and blue color, nearly as bright and made humming sounds that squealed in the right way when two of them connected.
Whack! Eee-Fwack! Whack! Eee-Fwack! Whack! Eee-Fwack! Whack! Eee-Fwack!
Obi-Wan paced the floor with the performer he currently worked with, a swift and skinny youth with dark hair. He had no trouble pacing or anticipating his opponent, but. . . . .
. . . . he had never sparred to music before.
Dah dah, DAH, dah-dah, DOO-dee-dah dee-dee.
Doo-doo, DAH-dee-dum DAH-dee doo-dee-DAH.
It wasn't sparring, really. It was dancing with lightsticks. Obi-Wan had memorized the short length of song, he had heard it so many times.
He strode up and down the floor with each performer while Tykon circled predatorily, only pausing to mutter closely held comments to his assistant. The terror of their Director's judgment kept all the performers intensely focused.
This was the audition for the part of Jedi Keth in the Play. Everyone participated. That was why they all wore the Keth costume. Tall, short, broad, thin, male, female. No physical attribute seemed to disqualify anyone for the part of Keth, only performance.
The short stretch of music, played by the keyboard musician, ended. Obi-Wan's partner sighed expansively and then his eyes went to Director Tykon who did not look up as he conferred with Pecku.
The next performer stepped up to take her turn while the other walked off. It was Yana Twarn, the woman who had spoken to him when he left to check on Qui-Gon. She had greeted him when he returned and offered to show him around the Castle later.
Now she stood breathing deeply, eyes closed, an exercise that all the performers used to calm their nervousness. The terror of failure in them never went away, but they controlled it. Most of the time. A couple had missed their steps and their Director's angry, derisive criticism had only compounded their fears. One had run away in tears.
Dah dah, DAH, dah-dah, DOO-dee-dah dee-dee.
Yana swung her saberstick back.
Whack! Eee-Fwack! Whack! Eee-Fwack! Whack! Eee-Fwack! Whack! Eee-Fwack!
Yana twirled and lunged.
Doo-doo, DAH-dee-dum DAH-dee doo-dee-DAH.
Whack! Eee-Fwack! Whack! Eee-Fwack! Whack! Eee-Fwack! Whack! Eee-Fwack!
She backed up to his advance, lunged back, her arm behind her for balance, and made side-by-side circles with the tip of her lightstick before the loop of music replayed. They repeated the routine before Yana stopped and sighed. She had finished without Tykon interrupting. Apparently, interruptions were bad and a sign that you were not likely to win the part of Jedi Keth in the Play. But there were already more than twenty people who had done as well, so Yana's chances for winning the part were still not good.
Giving him a wink and a wave, she left and the next performer stepped up. The remaining performers did their lightstick dance with no errors, including the last one, who had missed his steps and been shouted back to the end of the line. The one who had left crying had not returned.
"Break! That's all for today! Same time tomorrow morning! All parts will be announced together after all auditions!" Pecku shouted. The tension broke, leaving behind tired bodies and the smell of sweat in the air. The performers broke ranks and wandered off to chairs and benches by the walls. A few just sat down in place. Many of them cast hopeful glances toward their Director, but a tight-lipped Tykon ignored them and huddled with Pecku and another assistant over a portable data screen on a side table. The three holo recorders descended from where they had been circling for the audition.
Obi-Wan followed some of the other dancers, took his lightstick and put it into the standing box that Falgan had brought them out in. They were still working on the mechanism for retracting the blades. A squat, tan supply droid scanned each one and beeped.
Yana put her lightstick in the box after his. "Do you think it went well?"
"I don't really know," he answered truthfully. "I don't know anything about Plays or auditioning."
"I hope I did. I may not be the type they want for Keth, but it always helps to do well in all the auditions if you want to get a good part."
Two other performers, both a little taller than Obi-Wan, and much bigger than Yana, put their lightsticks in the box.
"Vererate Jedi Kenobi, this is Jutwa Eris." Yana touched the arm of a male with short blonde hair, pale skin and a square jaw, "and Timoz Wemi." She touched a woman with thick black hair, cut off at the shoulders and curved around her head. She had dark, tanned skin, though not as dark as Yana's.
"Hello." Obi-Wan bowed his head to each of them.
"We were all at the Mweweer Academy together," Yana explained, her arm around Jutwa's waist. Obi-Wan did not know what that was, so a pause opened up in the conversation. Timoz dove into it.
"You dance very well. Is that part of your training as a Jedi?"
"Um, not directly." Obi-Wan tried to think of any equivalence. "Some of the senior Masters have said that the training for fighting and dancing are similar, but I've never compared them myself. My Master said that the stage was a battlefield for you."
Timoz suddenly went stiff. "Yes! Dancing is a war to be won! You are fighting for more than your careers!" He raised his arm in mock triumph. "More than your lives! You are acting for your art! Your art IS your life! The immortality of your ancestors is depending on YOU!" This impromptu imitation of Director Tykon brought on a quick burst of giggles from the three friends, then sudden hushing as they looked over their shoulders. But the Director was striding off toward an exit with his assistants.
"Oooh, I hate the waiting," Yana complained. "That's almost as bad as not getting a good part."
"Well, you at least have a chance," Jutwa grumbled. "I already know that Mwemas doesn't like me for this part from the singing and acting auditions."
"There were other auditions?" That surprised Obi-Wan since the Maarzim had been so adamant about needing Jedi participating in the auditions. Why were they not need them for the earlier ones?
"Oh yes!" Yana looked equally surprised that he didn't already know. "Those were the elimination auditions. There were over five thousand of us at the beginning of those. But we're already in the Play. These are where we compete for which parts we'll have."
"And these are the first auditions where we're doing it in for Tykon." Timoz put equal parts of awe and horror in the Director's name.
"The auditions aren't over until Tykon, Mwemas and the others on the Creative Committee have their big meeting about all the Play roles," Yana assured him. "And they still want to know how well we understand the whole Play. That will count a lot for the parts we get."
"The History Play is a world unto itself, with all the parts touching and intertwining with all the other parts," Timoz said with elongated words and his lips puckered, followed by another round of giggles with the others. Obi-Wan supposed that this was perhaps an imitation of Mwemas or one of the other Play writers.
BLAM!
= = = End Part 7