Inheritance
15.
This journey isn't turning out as I had expected. And therein lies a lesson: expect nothing. I had hoped to spend some time quietly absorbing the Feorians' life-ways, perhaps sparring, meditating, exploring the tundra here. I envisioned a rare opportunity to relax, and more importantly, to observe Kenobi and Skywalker at leisure.
That will have to wait. We've been here less than one planetary rotation, yet our plans have been disrupted already. We were, it seems, preceded by another guest – a most unwelcome one. I do not believe in avenging spirits - and I have seen enough of the galaxy and the mysterious ways of the Force to know that skepticism is a fool's avocation. But there is something too craven and cringing about our hosts' description of this monster. I sense an elaborate hoax.
But played upon whom, and by whom? And to what end?
"Skywalker," I bark. The boy's attention wanders easily, like all children his age. He jolts out of his reverie and trots to catch up with me. That's all to be expected, nothing worrisome. Half the initiates in the clan dormitories are just as skittish, especially the boys; there are good reasons we don't apprentice some of them until they've outgrown such distractibility. A lapse in attention can be deadly to master and Padawan alike.
I decided to take Skywalker with me tonight; I'd like to know him better. Obi-Wan looked alarmed by the prospect but acquiesced with proper deference and respect. I wonder what catastrophe he anticipates. After all, I've dealt with my own Padawans before, and much worse. He should have more confidence in my abilities, I think.
The village perimeter is marked in white stones, nothing more. They glimmer faintly under the diffuse moonlight, picking out an irregular circle about the confines of the Feorians' rude dwelling-place. All the land for many klicks about is marked off on the maps as a Reservation – yes, every lifeless clump of frozen soil in sight, and all the bracken and thorny native plants thereon. A generous gift of the Galactic Senate and the Outer Golian Presidency.
Now the boy is dogging my footsteps diligently, the Force gently puckered with his concentration. I have to admit, there are depths and depths of potential there. When the Council examined him for the first time, I was astounded by his performance on the standard tests of perception. And the way Anakin Skywalker leaves his stamp on the Force is impressive. This child imprints his signature in the plenum without effort; here, at such proximity to this youngster, I barely feel Obi-Wan's presence on the opposite side of the outskirts, as though it is almost drowned out by the greater luminary.
Or perhaps I should say veiled; the humble fixed stars shine steadily, though their presence is seemingly eclipsed by gaudy terrestrial light, or by a sudden yet fleeting supernova. I don't know what to make of this vergence, as Qui Gon had the audacity to name the boy. And the Force itself is silent, as the though Skywalker is its last word, the fait accompli with which we must come to grips.
"Um, Master Windu?" this prodigy inquires of me.
I've been in his company long enough to know that his favorite complaint is that of cold; and it is certainly close to freezing point out here. Our boots crunch on gritty ice as we patrol the lonely expanse. At least there is little wind tonight, and the skies are clear, providing good visibility.
But it isn't the cold which has him so disturbed. "Um," he repeats, shifting nervously foot to foot. "I'm really sorry, but we've been out here a long time and, um…" There is something vaguely familiar about his mincing dance.
Fierfek! I mustn't laugh aloud. A quick scan of our surroundings reveals no convenient rock or tree. I sweep a hand over the empty plains. "Pick a spot, Padawan." There's no need to be fastidious, and I'm unaware of any taboo prohibitions on the Feorians' part.
He still doesn't make a move, the very picture of mortified hesitancy, and I wonder at the strange conjunction of faces that swims before my inner eye. Surely, surely, at some time Qui-Gon had this exact conversation with a much younger Kenobi?… some things are cyclical events, recurrent and predictable as the seasons. Yes - even for Jedi.
"Well?" That doesn't mean I'm going to stand for such unnecessary fuss.
Sullenly, he turns his back and does his business, leaving another soon-to-be-frozen puddle on the stony ground.
"Let's get moving," I suggest, firmly. A few more years' training, and he'll be better able to defer such mundane urges. In the meantime, it's murder out here. Cold as Hoth.
"What are we looking for, exactly?" he inquires between chattering teeth, as we tramp onward.
"This jabuur-weki," I tell him. "Or whomever is posing as such a thing."
"I bet it's raiders," Skywalker offers. "On Tatooine, the Tuskens would make night-time attacks on farmsteads. They're real quiet and you can't track them 'cause they know the desert better than anybody.. But people blamed a lot of the murders on Black Ben, you know 'cause he's a wizard who can go invisible and kill people by making a doovoo image, and stuff. But really it was just the Sand People. Or sometimes it was bounty hunters working for the Hutts. If you don't pay your protection money, it's all over. I don't think Jedi ever came to Tatooine before – not until Master Qui-Gon showed up."
His thoughts are jumbled knot of associations and memories, but there is much truth in what he says. I nod in approval. A healthy dose of dubiety in regard to local legend never harmed anyone.
"Whoa!" the boy hisses, stopping dead in his tracks. "What's that?"
The Force is alight with warning, the air rigid with an electric tension; and then I see it – or almost see it: the ripple of some invisible power, shuddering flickers of light just beyond the visible spectrum, the snap of ionized air, the lingering scent of lightning.
Skywalker is running toward the source of danger before I can issue a command.
"Padawan, wait!" I order, but his feet have carried him across the frosted earth to a misshapen lump, a bundle of homespun garments and elongated limbs sprawled inelegantly across a ragged tussock. I sense Kenobi sprinting toward us, too, his circuit of the village perimeter having brought him nearly round to our location again. We all come to a simultaneous halt at the site of the disaster.
A young Feorian lies inert at our feet. Kenobi is already crouched beside him, hands seeking a pulse, some sign of life.
"He's not dead… but I can't feel his presence at all."
I drop to one knee, meeting his perplexed gaze. The Force seems to have abandoned the victim entirely; where there should be a thrumming nexus of life, there is a hollow void, a small empty place in the universal currents. Skywalker stands just behind his master, one small hand fisted in Obi-Wan's cloak hood, his childish features stricken with horror.
The sightlessly staring Feorian's eyes are twin pools reflecting the moons, gutted yellow orbs shining in the ghoulish light. Tiny puffs of condensed air congeal above his slackened jaws, in rhythm with our own gentle exhalations, but that is all. I reach out, across the endless waste, into village, all around us…. But there is nothing and nobody at all.
The jabuur-weki has struck again, and it would seem that it is indeed an avenging spirit.
