Inheritance
5.
There are times when the pressures of the present moment outweigh the burden of the past and the nebulous threats of the future, when the Force burns with such singular clarity that doubt and longing are reduced to ephemeral ash, and even the impossible promise seems easy to fulfill, illumined from within by overwhelming Light.
Such times come rarely for me any more, even deep in meditation, and more often than not they come in the dojo. Since Naboo.
I don't know why.
But this is one of those times. Seven remote training droids, stun cannon set on highest power, all inhibiting programs disabled, are no match for the Force. This blade is not mine; it is the blade of the heart, a 'saber wielded by Light. It was once my master's weapon, and as he is now one with the Force itself, this blade now sings in unison with the universal energy. It is a weapon which vanquished a deadly foe, and saved the vanquisher from a far worse fate than mere death; its emerald fire is purer by far than the heart of he who bears it now, the Force itself wielding the hand that wields the blade.
The droids attack simultaneously. I cannot think what would happen should even two stun bolts find their target, but I do not need to think of it. The Force is armor and shield, liquid blazing fire, a perfect defensive sphere repelling all assault. At the center of this furious storm resides absolute peace, utter stillness, the fulcrum of existence. Without: passion, violence, chaos. Within: serenity, wisdom, harmony. There is no motion, no opposition, no danger. There is only the Force.
This is Soresu. In this storm's eye, I can rest in the present moment.
Qui Gon did not live to see it, to see his admonition obeyed, his teachings realized. I pray that somehow, within the Force, his spirit can know that he did not fail, that he was a good master, a wise man, a great Jedi, and that his last and unworthy student did at last learn this one simple lesson at his feet. There is only the present moment and that which indwells it.
The droids fall, clattering like hailstones to the floor as their own disarming shots are rebounded into them. They crash, they roll, they spin and bounce off the walls. The assault ceases; the storm ceases; and I am alone, blood thrumming in my veins in chorus with the blade's deep and resonating growl, self and Light now two things, luminous spirit and gross matter congealed into an uneasy alliance, the very air in my lungs sharp and sweet with the scent of ozone, of scorched plastoid. Destruction lies at my feet, but it has not touched my heart.
Not like it did on Naboo.
This is balance, and if I could but cling to this moment, to the insight of this precious and already fleeting present, then surely I could keep my word and fulfill my promise. I have sworn to train the Chosen One; I have given my oath that I will show this child how to bring balance to the Force. And one cannot teach that which one does not understand oneself. I have much to learn – an infinity of yet-undiscovered truths, a terrifying abyss of wisdom to encompass. If not for the Light, I would cower in the face of it. But here, now, there can be no doubt. There is only the Force.
And yet, the certainty fades, for it was never mine to begin with. It was the Force's, and lent to me for only the briefest of time. It would be folly to think that even this seeming apotheosis could last. It is forbidden to grasp, to be attached, to anything, even those gifts the Force bestows.
Qui Gon's blade disappears, just as his spirit did, back upon the brink of hell, in Naboo.
And now, my mind unfurling from the Light's obliterating embrace, I am once again aware of here and there, and when and where, and the fact that this practice session was observed, by an unexpected guest. I bow, because Mace Windu is a Jedi Master, and a peerless swordsman, and a Councilor.
He is not here to discuss Anakin. I can sense this much. But this leaves me wondering why he is here. For I can feel his regard settle upon me as solemnly as Qui Gon's hand used to settle upon my shoulder, the one no longer brushed by a learner's braid.
"What have you named that saber form?" he asks.
I blink; admittedly, not the most articulate response. But Master Windu of all people should be familiar with the traditional disciplines, and he does not often speak in riddles.
"It is Soresu, master." What reply besides the bare truth does he expect? Have I transgressed, again, without being aware of it? Was there something Dark in my actions, some hidden seed of corruption unperceived by me but lurking still, apparent to the keen observer?
"That was not Soresu, son."
Humiliation is a gift from the Force, as much as anything else. I let this one sink in. "I am still learning…I used to practice Ataru, master, before… recent events. I have just applied myself to this new form. I would welcome any correction."
"You misunderstand," he says, in his resonant voice. A smile lights his eyes and then disappears again, veiled by the depths of his gaze. "That was not pure Soresu. That was a new variant, one I've not seen before."
"I – it is merely Soresu, master."
He does not agree; and yet he does not press the argument. "Obi-Wan. Would you walk with me in the gardens for a while? There is something I wish to discuss with you."
Oh, Force. But of course one does not simply decline such an invitation, any more than would refuse Master Yoda's offer of tea. It is unthinkable- and better to face whatever lies ahead than to defer its unpleasant revelations to a later date. I bow. "Of course."
He nods, and I retreat to the shower rooms, without the faintest notion what this is all about. Because, apparently, Anakin is not the only one in my life bent on catching me off guard at every available opportunity.
